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by Edward Lee

  A muffled scream seemed to explode from inside the motor-home.

  Highball! Case Piece realized. “Bros, man, what’s—”

  “Goin’ on?” Cristo said with a smirk.

  Argi looked stone-faced as he flicked an ash. “Them rednecks hit us again, harder than last time. Paulie ain’t happy.”

  “On a fuckin’ rampage again so he’s ventin’ his frustrations on your whore.”

  “Shit, man!” Case Piece dashed into the Winnebago, just in time to see a red-faced and insane-eyed Paulie stuffing Highball’s head once more into Melda’s vaginal morass.

  “Those fuckin’ guys! GodDAMN it, Doc! They piss me off SO MUCH!”

  Dr. Prouty sat hunched to the side before the open laptop. He raised his brows at Case Piece, as if to say, Things aren’t going so well today.

  Highball, as usual, had been stripped naked, and now, with her head completely swallowed, her bare legs flailed, her heels drumming the floor.

  “Paulie, holy shit, man! It ain’t right to keep stickin’ Highball’s head in there just ‘cuz you’re whilin’!”

  Melda giggled. She was eating Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pies as Highball’s terrified head churned deep in her loins.

  “I’m afraid there’s no allaying Mr. Vinchetti’s rage,” Prouty said quietly. “He’s beyond consolation and reasoning…”

  “What happened this time?”

  Paulie glanced maniacally over his shoulder as he shoved with all his might, hands hooked under the prostitute’s armpits so to insert her head as far as it could possibly go. “What happened? I’ll tell ya what happened! Those fuckin’ rednecks, you know what they did? They dug up my dead baby, cut off its head, drilled holes in it, and were all fuckin’ the head at the same time! That’s what happened!”

  Highball’s visible body shuddered like electrocution, her belly sucking in and out as she began to smother.

  “I gotta find those fuckin’ guys!”

  Case Piece rushed over. “Paulie, take Highball’s head out’a there! See, we just saw these dudes!”

  Paulie flinched. “What?”

  “Me and Sung. We just saw the rednecks down the street. They were askin’ about you, man! Couple rednecks in a big piece-of-shit black truck!”

  Paulie froze, staring. “When?”

  “Just now, man! Right down the street that goes to the Hess station! Paulie, you strap heat right now and go after ’em, you could catch the dudes doin’ all this head-fuckin’!”

  Paulie sprang up. “Doc! Start up the Winnie!” He turned to Case Piece who’d grabbed Highball’s ankles, pulled, and—PLOP!—disengaged her head from Melda’s netherworldly vaginal barrel. “Get the whore out of here and tell Argi and Cristo to come in,” the don directed.

  Paulie dragged Highball out of the Winnebago by her ankles. She convulsed; her bare buttocks slammed down the mini-steps and smacked the pavement. The instructions were communicated, and in moments, the big motor-home sped away.

  “Fuck, man,” Case Piece said. “Them dudes are psycho.”

  “Shrit, yeah, Crase!”

  They carried the convulsant Highball into the warehouse. Margarine and vaginal slime slicked her hair down over her face as though an octopus were sitting atop her head. One blazing wide eye stared unblinking between two wet tendrils. When she regained some facsimile of her senses, she screamed at the top of her lungs and ran madly down a rear hall.

  “She all fucked up,” Case Piece said. “Guess ya can only get your head stuck in a giant cunt so many times ‘fore ya go insane.”

  “Shrit, man! This sure some frucked up Kuh-wiss-muss Eve!”

  Case Piece got a grape drink from the fridge. He rubbed his crotch…

  For no apparent reason.

  “What ree do now, Clase?”

  “Fuck, don’t know. Shit just don’t feel right all of a sudden”—he flinched. “You feel that chill, man?”

  “Trill?”

  Case Piece gazed off. “Like what my grandma always told me back in South East. Someone just bop over my grave…”

  A door slammed, and flip-flops snapped aggressively down the hall. Wild-eyed, Highball stormed in, a plastic bag of her few belongings on one hand, hair wet from a much-needed shower. She buttoned up her overcoat. “Fuck this shit, man!”

  “Highball, what’re you—”

  “I’m out’a here. This fuckin’ place is a chamber of fuckin’ horrors!”

  “Chill, babe, chill. Here, have a grape drink—”

  “I don’t want no fuckin’ grape drink. I’m leaving!”

  Case Piece cocked a funky glance. “Leavin’? As in skyin’ up?”

  “Yeah!” and she yelled the response with such fervor that her magnificent breasts bounced behind the overcoat. “I’m skyin’ fuckin’ up, all right!”

  “Why you wanna do that?”

  Highball stared at him agog, thought back upon the evening’s entails, and screamed.

  She stormed toward out of the warehouse and slammed the door.

  Case Piece sat down on the busted couch. “There go the best piece’a trim thugs ever fuckin’ had, man.”

  “Shrit, Clase!”

  “Looks like we gotta baggie our skaggie ourselves now.”

  “Frucked up, but…cran’t say I brame her…”

  “Yeah…”

  The two loser drug-dealers foundered then, much like a pair of supplemental characters in a novel that the narrative no longer had use for.

  (IV)

  Mike gazed through the store’s plate glass window, marveling at the shimmering Christmas lights garlanding the parking lot lamps. It was 11:30 at night. Did he tap his foot as if awaiting something? Meanwhile, the Muzak speakers crooned, “Walkin’ in a winter wonderland…”

  Archie walked up to the main check-out. “Looks like Christmas rush is over.”

  The store stood empty now, but they’d done good business most of the day. Recession be damned! Mike nodded slowly.

  “Any word from Veronica?” Archie asked.

  Mike winced. “Who?” He kept staring out the window, seemingly distracted.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Honestly? The Greeter’s cooze. When I’m putting the blocks to her real fast, it makes a noise like a window squeegee.”

  Archie’s brow rose.

  “I don’t like going down on her though. She takes a lot of B-Complex and ginko. Tastes…weird. Chalky on the tongue.”

  “Terrific. Look, how about if I leave early?”

  “Look. How about…fuck no?” Mike scowled.

  “But the store’s empty!”

  “It’s Christmas Eve, we’re open till midnight,” Mike reminded. “We have to assume our responsibilities. This isn’t the federal government, man; it’s free-enterprise. Ever heard of loyalty for the place that employs you?” Mike looked at his watch, then spotted something beyond the glass. A small car was pulling up. He grabbed his coat. “Gotta go.”

  Archie sputtered, “Oh, that’s fair! Loyalty? You can leave early but I can’t?”

  “Right, ’cos I’m the boss. Sucks, doesn’t it? Besides, my ride’s here.”

  Archie smirked out the glass. It was the Greeter’s car.

  Mike jabbed him in the shoulder. “I’m gonna make it so my dick’s up her butt at the stroke of midnight. Cool, huh?”

  “Cool?”

  “It’s symbolic, you know? When Christmas Eve becomes Christmas Day..my dick’s in her butt.”

  “Yeah, that’s real symbolic.”

  “Have a merry Christmas, man, and if you close early even by one minute, you’re fuckin’ fired.”

  “Merry Christmas to you, too,” Archie hissed. When the doors sucked shut, he muttered, “That scumbag, egotistical, contradictory prick…” His frown encircled the empty store. I gotta stand here for another half-hour and I know fucking well no one’s coming in this late, but even before the thought finished, he looked up at a flash of lights and stout motor noise.

 
; A great big white Winnebago was parking in the lot.

  (V)

  The Winnebago had cruised Pulaski for hours in search of the mysterious black truck, all to no avail. This circumstance did not improve Paulie’s disposition, which only frayed the nerves of his confederates further. “This is fucked up!” the don yelled from the passenger seat. “How can we drive around all motherfucking night and miss a big piece-of-shit black truck!”

  “If they’re still in town, we’ll find ’em, boss,” Argi offered the consolation.

  “They dug up my kid and fucked it in the head!”

  “We’ll find ’em and make ’em pay.”

  “Yeah,” Cristo said. “Enough of this sendin’ movies back and forth. I want to get my hands on those guys now. I’ll cut ’em up like pork ends—”

  “Yeah,” Paulie added, “but only after we stump-grind ’em!”

  Cristo had taken over the driving responsibilities. He stopped at the traffic light deeper in the residential streets. The streetlamps had all been shot out, leaving the block dark save for periodic Christmas lights blinking in windows covered by bars.

  “When’s this damn light gonna change?” Cristo griped.

  “Yeah,” Paulie said. “We ain’t got till Christmas,” and then he paused and everyone laughed. As they did so, however, squealing tires could be heard, and a great rattling…

  “What the fuck is—”

  A large black piece-of-shit-looking delivery truck had pulled out behind them, lights off, then swerved around to cut in front of the motor-home. “Eeeeeee-Haa!” they heard, then—

  BAM!

  —a bullet hit the windshield, and—

  “Holy shit! It’s them!”

  Cristo’s head exploded at the wheel.

  Brain-matter fanned out in both directions, slapping Dr. Prouty and Argi.

  “The rednecks just capped Cristo!” Paulie yelled. “Follow ’em!”

  Argi bulled forward, popped the driver’s door, and shoved Cristo’s corpse into the street. Meanwhile, the black truck had made a mad right-hand turn onto the bisecting and even darker road.

  “Go! Go!” Paulie yelled and then shoved his silenced .380 auto out the window. He squeezed off several shots.

  “I think we can catch ’em, boss,” Argi said and gunned the motor-home. “The Winnie’s gotta be faster than that old piece of shit!”

  “For three hundred grand it damn well better be!” Paulie looked behind him. “Doc, you all right?”

  Smirking, the doctor scooped brains out of his eyes with curled index fingers. “I’ve…been better…”

  Up ahead, the cumbersome black truck belched sooty smoke into their faces. The Winnebago gained quickly on the truck, engine racing.

  Both Paulie and Argi leaned their pistols out the windows to release a hail of small-caliber gunfire. The bullets tinked! against the truck’s steel hide but most just bounced off.

  “Get ’em, Argi!” Pauluie yelled, snapping in another magazine. “Ram ’em if ya got to!”

  Agri pushed the gas all the way to the floor, but—

  clank!

  —just ahead of them, the rear doors of the truck flew open. One grinning long-haired redneck—

  BAM!

  —discharged a large revolver, and—

  plup-plup-plup-plup!

  —blew out a front tire, while a younger blond-headed redneck simultaneously released what appeared to be a slingshot.

  clink!

  Another hole appeared in the windshield. The steel bearing nicked Paulie’s ear—“OWWWWW!”— and continued into the rear of the motor-home’s interior. But as Argi tried to give further chase, the flattened tire buckled around the rim and the Winnebago was rendered undriveable.

  “We gotta fix this flat!” Argi barked.

  “Now we’re fucked!” Paulie yelled and jumped out. “They’re gonna get away!”

  Argi followed him out; both men drew their pistols.

  “Is that them?” Argi asked, squinting.

  Halfway down the street a bulk shape seemed to sit there, hulk-like.

  “Can’t tell. They got their lights off—”

  sheeeeeeeeeeeesh…SWACK!

  Argi bellowed, leaning over.

  “How you like that, city boy!” a voice cracked.

  Argi was on his knees, hands to groin. “The kid with the slingshot hit me in the nut!”

  BAM!

  Another bullet slammed into the Winnebago.

  From the darkness, the voice of Helton Tuckton boomed: “Catch us if’n ya can, Paulie!” and then tiny red tail lights flicked on at the bulk-shape’s form, and an engine revved.

  A thin figure darted across the street, stopped, and poised itself.

  It was the blond kid, pulling back on the slingshot. “Ain’t no citified dick-lickers can fuck with us!”

  sheeeeeeeeeeeesh…SWACK!

  Another bearing sailed out of the dark, exploding one of the motor-home’s headlights.

  Argi, gritting in his agony, managed to squeeze off a half a dozen rounds.

  The blond kid fell.

  “Ya got him!” Paulie celebrated.

  In an instant, the kid’s silhouetted body was dragged into the truck—presumably by the pistol-wielder—then the truck sped off in a gust of smoke.

  “Holy fuck, boss! Look at my nut!” Argi had extracted his scrotum, isolating a ruptured testicle. “It’s just a bunch of mush!”

  “Fuck your nut, Argi. We gotta get this tire changed. “Doc! Get your ass out here!”

  Helton Tuckton’s truck was long gone.

  Changing a Winnebago tire entailed quite a bit more than changing a regular tire; nevertheless, the men toiled arduously, and within a half-hour, their clothes were besmirched, their palms blackened, yet the spare tire was on, and they were off.

  “We gotta find those fuckin’ guys,” Paulie grated. He looked to his lieutenant. “Argi, you all right?”

  “Fuck, no, boss! My nut’s popped, and it hurts like a motherfucker!”

  “Yeah but at least you waxed one of the rednecks.”

  “I was aimin’ for his crotch, the fuck!”

  Dr. Prouty, still winded from the exertion of changing a huge tire, leaned forward to examine Argi’s exposed scrotal sack. “Hmm, yes—oh, dear, that’s an acute testicular rupture, all right, definite impact-related orchitis and sequent inflammation coinciding with a complete breech of the tunica albuginea…”

  “That don’t sound so good, Doc!”

  “And I’m afraid you’ll experience some troublesome yet temporary edema.”

  “Edema?” Paulie asked. “The fuck’s that, Doc?”

  “Swelling. But there’s good news, Mr. Argi. Your testicle will heal in time, and you may even continue to produce motile and quite normal sperm cells with it.”

  “Ya hear that, Argi?” Paulie said. “You’ll still be able to knock chicks up!”

  Argi rolled his eyes, struggling to drive and manage the undeterminable pain at the same time. They cruised the town, hunting for Helton’s conspicuous vehicle.

  Meanwhile, Dr. Prouty repaired momentarily to the back of the vehicle, but when he returned…

  “Mr. Vinchetti, sir, I’m afraid I have bad news…”

  “What?” Paulie snapped.

  “It’s…Melda—”

  “What about her? She croak on that last box of donuts?”

  Prouty cleared his throat. “It seems one of the gunshots that struck the vehicle…hit Melda in the head…”

  Paulie jumped out of the passenger seat, rushed to the rear room—

  And stared.

  The massive formation of pallid flesh that was Melda sat half-sidled over on the bench. Her horrendous, rubber-boned legs lolled, her unspeakable bare feet curled inward. Her head hung back as her mouth gawped; her tongue jutted. The bullethole in her forehead was more than apparent.

  “Poor Melda,” the doctor mourned.

  “Poor Melda? Fuck that,” Paulie griped. “Poor me. W
here else am I gonna find a woman with a pussy as big as hers?” He stalked back toward the front of the vehicle. “Shit on this! This just keeps gettin’ worse—these rednecks are ruining my vibe! They fuck my step-kid in the head, they fuck my mother in the head, they fuck my dead baby in the head, then they kill Cristo and now this! Fuck it! We ain’t playin’ hide’n seek no more.” He whipped out his cellphone.

  “You callin’ Jersey for reinforcements, boss?” Argi asked.

  “Fuck, no, I’m callin’ them. I’m gonna challenge ’em.”

  “Challenge ’em, boss?”

  “It’s them two against us two. I’ll dare ’em to meet us someplace, neutral ground. Then we’ll fight it out between the four of us.”

  “A good ole-fashioned brawl, huh?”

  “Fuck, yeah,” Paulie said, but then grimaced at the cellphone. “You gotta be shitting me! The battery’s drained!”

  “Use mine,” Argi offered.

  “The number for the phone we sent Tuckton is only on this phone!” Paulie percolated in more rage. He gave the cellphone to Dr. Prouty. “Doc! Plug it into the charger!”

  “Of course, sir,” and the doctor went to do just that. In only moments, though, more bad news was related. “How utterly inconceivable,” Prouty muttered.

  Paulie jerked his gaze back. “What’s that, Doc?”

  Prouty held up pieces of the charger in one hand and a ball bearing in the other. “It seems, Mr. Vinchetti, that the slingshot projectile which penetrated the windshield collided with the phone charger itself.”

  Paulie howled. “That’s fuckin’ impossible!”

  Impossible? Or merely convenient for the author?

  Paulie gestured to pull his own hair out. “This is just so fucked up! Where are we gonna find a phone charger at 11:30 at night on Christmas Eve?”

  Just down the road, a great yellow and black sign glowed.

  “Hey, boss?” Argi chuckled even in the midst of his discomfort. “Check it out.”

  The sign read BEST BUY, and a banner on the store’s front window told them: OPEN TILL MIDNIGHT ON CHRISTMAS EVE.

  (VI)

  Once Helton found a wooded clearing to hide in, he rushed to the back. Dumar had Micky-Mack up on the table, and it was a solemn glance indeed that he relayed to his father.