by Edward Lee
“Yeah, boss. Headers are a primo whack; like nothin’ we ever done before,” Argi contributed. “Perfect way to replace Melda.”
“Fuck yeah, didn’t even think of that!” Paulie walked over and put his hand on Helton’s shoulder. “Lemme ask you somethin’, Helton. We been makin’ hardcore flicks for years, but ya know, that camera you guys use? It’s dynamite. Resolution’s so much better than ours I almost shit my pants! What kind of camera is it? We’re gonna have to buy one for ourselves.”
“No need to,” Helton said. Then he went into the truck but reappeared a moment later—with the Sony HVR-S27. “Here ya go, Paulie. Take it. We shore as shit don’t need it no more.”
“Well, thanks, Helton!” Paulie said in genuine gratitude. “Lemme give ya some money for it.”
“Wouldn’t think’a takin’ money from a friend. This here fancy camera? Consider it our Christmas present to ya.”
“What a great guy,” Argi said.
“Well, fellas,” Helton said next. “It’s Christmas now, so’s I guess we best all be off ta our respecterive families ta have a proper holiday. But next time yawl are back down our way, stop by fer some barbeque. Just gimme a call”—he winked—“‘cos it ain’t like ya don’t have my number!”
They all laughed uproariously, re-bid each other a final “Merry Christmas!” and departed to their vehicles. When the big white Winnebago pulled away, Argi tooted, then headed off, but then stopped again several blocks down the dark street. The motor-home’s back door opened and—
SLAP!
—Melda’s revolting corpse hit the pavement. Then the wheelchair was pushed out and the waste bucket flung. After that, they were off.
Helton and Dumar, both wearing smiles of contentment and holiday joy, got back in the big truck.
“Well, Paw. I cain’t say this were the best Christmas we ever had but it’s dang shore the most interestin’.”
“That it is, son. And now that Maw’s moved on, we can up’n move right into her house. Ever-thang she left—the house, the money, the land—it all go ta me.”
“God bless her.”
Both men ignored the decapitated body of Menduez, which still sat tied up in the fold-down metal chair, while the head itself—abused perhaps more than any head in history—lay face down in a cardboard box. In the rear of the truck, however, something overlooked seized the attentions of Helton and Dumar…
Veronica.
She sat limp in the corner, staring at nothing.
Helton scratched his head. “Dang. We’se plumb fergot all about her.”
“Shit, Paw. What we gonna do? Cain’t just kick her out, not after all she done fer us.”
Helton snapped his big fingers before her blank face. “Veronnerka? Hon?”
Very slowly she looked up at him.
“Well this here is more fucked up than a tube’a crickets, son. Veronerka still ain’t got her senses back after the shock’a all that gone on.”
“But, Paw,” Dumar said, “why’n’t we do what’cha suggestered before? Maybe somethin’ familiar’ll snap her out of it.”
“Right. That big store she work at, and her car.” Helton climbed behind the wheel and roared off.
After the fact, it should be recounted that during the previous “quadruple-header,” Veronica had indeed been present, silently staring at this veritable jubilee of psycho-sexual revenge. (And, yes, she’d orally “tweaked” all participants without so much as a flinch.) But several questions remained: had her current and hopefully temporary vegetative mental state prevented her eyes from registering the macabre scene? Would she ever be normal again? And would the searing sounds of hole-saws, power drills, and wet schlucking cranial coitus haunt her dreams for the rest of her life?
Hmmm…
Christmas lights twinkled up ahead. Once the clattering truck emerged from the dark residential streets, Helton spotted, of all people, Kasha, the Russian, walking away from the Hess station, evidently having just been relieved of her shift. She was frowning, so Helton rolled down his window, waved, shouted, “Hey, there, missy!” cleared his throat quite noisily, and—
Kurrrrrr-HOCK!
—expectorated in grand backwoods style. The dense, kiwi-sized wad of phlegm traveled straight as an arrow and caught the girl right over the mouth.
SPLAT!
“There’s some Christmas custard fer ya, hon! Merry Christmas!”
Shortly thereafter, the truck rumbled around the Best Buy and turned into the rear parking lot.
“Here we is, Veronnerka,” Dumar said loudly. He gave Veronica several gentle nudges.
“Hon?” Helton nudged her as well after he lumbered into the back. “Why don’t’cha git up now so’s you can go home? We cain’t thank ya enough fer helpin’ us like ya did. You’s’re a little shook up now but I reckon you’ll come out’a it a’fore long. Here”—he helped her get up, but as he did so, she could only stare blankly outward, her mouth hanging open.
“You’ll be fit as a fiddle in a jiffy, I’se just know it,” he tried to sound hopeful. He paused, leaned over, and pulled a band of cash from his ruck sack. “And take this, hon. I’se promised I’d pay ya fer the time ya missed at work, so’s I want ya ta go git yerself somethin’ nice, okay?”
Veronica nodded.
Both men helped her down to the pavement and approached her car.
“This here’s yer car, Veronnerka. Ya remember it?”
Veronica only continued to stare.
“Shit, Paw. She’s just standin’ there like she don’t know nothin’, like she don’t even know who she is…”
Helton shook his head. “Ain’t nothin’ we can do, son, but pray that God see fit ta give Veronnerka back her senses.”
“Yeah.”
“‘Bye, Veronnerka! Merry Christmas!”
Veronica’s only response was a mute glance.
Helton and Dumar, whispering prayers, mind you, got back into the truck and drove away. Dumar cracked open a soda for himself and his father; however, Helton had paused at the exit, idling. Had something that slipped his mind suddenly occurred to him?
“Dang, much as I’d like ta git us back wheres we belong, we still got one more stop ta make.”
Dumar looked up, chin pointing. “Oh, yeah—” but before further discourse could take place, a rapid snapping sound approached.
In the dim headlights, a figure seemed to be trotting toward them.
“Who’s this here?” Dumar asked. “Looks like a gal.”
“Yeah, son, shore is…”
“Ya reckon she helps some help?”
It was a woman, yes, oddly dressed. Out of breath she stopped just below Helton’s window. In spite of the cool night, her legs were bare from mid-thigh down, and she wore flip-flops. She also wore a tacky overcoat riddled with buttons of some sort. Off-blond hair rose in a trace breeze.
Helton sipped his soda, then lowered his window. “Well, hey there, missy. Are you’s in any kind’a distress?”
Wrinkles lined the woman’s face such that her age was impossible to discern, but in a raspy yet high-timbered voice, she replied, “Man, you guys got the trick-time boo-ya all goin’ on! I ain’t never peel-eyed killin’, spillin’, and thrillin’ like that. Fuck, man, I hated those creeps—I was lookin’ for a way to flunk ’em but now I don’t have to! Bunch of poo-putt loser smack-slingers, small-time actin’ big-time.” She winced, deepening her facial wrinkles. “They treated me like shit, man, and I’m talkin’ disrespezzy like you never dreamed.”
Helton made a face of utter incomprehension. “Uh, what’s that, hon?”
A prodigious cleavage became momentarily visible at her neckline when she leaned forward to continue. “I saw it all, man! I was watchin’ through the windows the trunk-poppin’ you and the Wops pulled on the NSG-3! Man, that shit was top as a crown! I didn’t like the Wops, either, but you guys? You guys are Ace Players!”
Helton stalled. “Uh, what’s that, hon?”
Dumar lean
ed over. “What’cha mean by… trick-time boo-ya?”
“And…lemme see,” Helton reflected. “Peel-eyed?”
“Aw, shit, I guess you guys aren’t phat to street jaw,” the girl assumed, vibrant in some undisclosed excitement. “I see shit like that happenin’ to scumbags? Fuck, man, my pwizzle gets to drizzle, ya know? Makes my cunt beat like my heart!”
Well, at least Helton and Dumar knew what cunt meant, but that was about it. “Missy, we up’n had a dang differ-kult couple’a days, so’s now we’se just hankerin’ ta git on back ta our homestead and have Christmas proper. But, see, we, we, we—”
“We don’t know what the hail yer talkin’ ’bout,” Dumar accentuated.
“Lemme be in your gang!” she pleaded and hopped up and down.
“Gang?” Helton said. “We don’t know no gang.”
“Make me hip to your crib!” Her bloodshot eyes beamed. “You won’t regret it. I wanna be your gal!”
Helton traded a cruxed glance with his son.
“I think she wanna go home with us, Paw.”
“Yeah, I reckon.” Helton’s bushy brows jiggled. He lowered his voice. “But don’t she look kind’a old?”
“Yeah, Paw. She’s all wored out judgin’ by her face.”
“Wait a minute!” she interjected. “What guy really cares about the face, huh? I’ll, like, do shit for ya, serious! I’ll chill ya out.”
Helton swigged his soda, then explained, “Well, girlie. You’re a citified type, we’se backwoods rednecks. You eat at the Mack-Donald’s, we eat gopher we cook on a woodstove.. You’d likely not take to hill life.”
“Aw, shit, man!” she enthused. “I’ll chop wood, cook gophers, wash the shit stains out of your overalls in a fuckin’ metal tub and I’ll fuck and suck you both, like all the time. Let me be your hillbilly bitch!” and with that, the woman rose on her tiptoes and opened her overcoat.
Helton and Dumar both simultaneously spat out mouthfuls of soda.
“Holy sheee-IT, Paw!” Dumar hacked.
Helton chuckled, addressing the woman. “Well, dang, girl! Hop on in! I’d say you just found yourself a home!”
Once their passenger was safely inside, the truck clattered off into the night…
(II)
In the distance, strings of Christmas lights blinked, and even more distantly she heard a chorus singing, “God rest ye merry gentlemen…,” but Veronica’s traumatized mind remained incognizant. She merely stood, looking at the small sedan that men she didn’t know said was hers…
Where am I? her most feeble thoughts ticked. WHO am I?
Lights swept behind her, then came the sound of tires swiftly turning a tight corner. A car engine droned.
“Veronica? Jesus, that is you!” a voice seemed to crack at her…and there was something…just something hauntingly familiar about it.
Footsteps, then hands grabbed her and turned her around. The face of a man—a very handsome man—loomed before her.
“What are you doing here? We’ve been worried sick about you! And where have you been?”
Veronica blinked at this person, and in a sensation akin to a nail being extracted from old wood, her mind extracted something as well. “I,” she mumbled, “I…don’t know…”
The hands shook her by the shoulders. “Don’t you recognize me? It’s Mike!”
Mike, the word dropped in her head like a single bell-toll.
“Mike,” she grated.
“Shit, Archie was right. Something happened to you—you’re out of it. Come on, I’ll drive you home,” and then he whisked her into his pretentious two-seat Japanese sports car.
Heat engulfed her; the door sucked shut. Then this person—Mike—sat next to her.
“Veronica!” he blared. “You’re not on drugs, are you? You’ve been missing for days. Don’t you remember what happened to you?”
Her dazed stare slowly turned to him. “A…a truck, maybe? Some…men? A…table in the truck, I think, and-and-and…a noise like, like a power drill…” Her lower lip trembled. “And…a camera…”
“You’re not making sense.” He rummaged through her knapsack and withdrew a band of $100 bills. “Holy shit! Where’d you get all this money? This is like…ten grand!”
Circumstance continued to drag more nails out of Veronica’s beclouded spirit.
“Mike,” she said.
“Yeah, Mike!”
And then all at once, something did snap in her head, something monumental, and this snap resounded not at all like a pencil but instead a baseball bat cracking.
“Mike!” she shrieked and then awareness seemed to fall into a virtual vat instantaneous awareness, like, for instance, the scene in the Three Stooges where Curly lands in a vat of plaster (for those who even remember the Three Stooges.) “Oh, Mike, Mike! I’m so confused!” and then she hugged him with all her might.
“You remember now—good. Where have you been? Archie thought you might’ve been abducted. You weren’t abducted, were you?”
She shivered in his embrace. “All I remember…is leaving the store one night after Archie said you’d already left. I was so jealous. I had it in my head that you were cheating on me with the Greeter…”
Mike drew on a difficult pause. “But you disappeared days ago.”
“What day is today?”
“It’s Christmas, Veronica.”
Veronica’s brain churned now, like a gearbox. “My God. This had to be the 21st or 22nd…” Her gaze snapped to his face. “Are you getting it on with the Greeter—and…what is her name, by the way?”
Mike flapped a hand of disregard. “Shit, I don’t know—”
“But you hired her. How can you not know her name?”
Mike hemmed and hawwed but could summon no reply.
“You are getting it on with her, aren’t you?” she demanded.
Mike sighed. “Yes, Veronica. I was going to tell you after Christmas. You and me? We just weren’t clicking the way I need things to click.”
All at once, and as quickly as her awareness had returned, Veronica’s world collapsed. “But-but…I love you! I want to marry you!”
“No can do, baby. Look, let me take you home—”
“No!” and then her hand soared to his crotch. “Let me suck your dick!”
Mike winced. “Veronica, please…”
“Get it out! Let me suck it!”
“You don’t want to suck my dick—trust me.”
“Yes, I do!”
“No you don’t. And I won’t even tell you why…”
“Why!”
Mike shrugged. “All right, you asked for it. An hour ago I was at the Greeters apartment…fucking her in the ass. There. Now you have it.”
She squeezed his crotch with urgency and adoration. “Let me suck it! Then you’ll love me!”
Mike stifled a chuckle. “Veronica, do you really want to suck a dick that’s been up another girl’s ass only an hour ago?”
“Yes!” and she began to unbuckle his pants.
Mike squirmed. “But I haven’t taken a shower yet! My dick smells like butt!”
“I don’t care! Take it out!”
“And the truth is,” he continued with even more reluctance, “you give lousy head.”
Veronica froze.
“Hey, sorry, but I’m just telling you like it is,” he explained. “I never told you because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Lousy…”
“Not just lousy, Veronica, but terrible.” He looked right into her eyes. “In fact, you give the worst head in the world.”
Veronica locked up for a moment as if encased in cement, but after this momentary self-reflection, an angst like she’d never known consumed her.
“Oh, yeah!” she snapped. “We’ll see about that!” and then she opened his pants, yanked them down, and began to fellate him. The fact that his penis still reeked from another woman’s bowel did not circumvent her resolve in any way, shape, or form.
Mike
sat back, eyes wide in shock. “Oh-oh…wow, Veronica. Mmm, oh, holy shit… That’s-that’s-that’s…great!”
“Um-hmm,” she moaned as her mouth moved.
He was panting, breathing heavy, hips tensing. “Where did you…pick up this…new technique?”
Veronica didn’t answer, for two reasons. One, she didn’t know, and two, her vocal abilities were currently preoccupied.
In only moments, Mike’s face twisted up like Shemp’s (for those who even remember Shemp) and then he experienced—at the expense of Veronica’s mouth…
The best orgasm of his life.
“Holy motherfuckin’ shit, Veronica,” he wheezed after the fact. He stared at her. He took her hand. Then he said, “Marry me!”
And this Veronica consented to do quite expeditiously, and to make the conclusion of a long subplot short, she and Mike would get married, Veronica would indeed inherit all that money from her uncle, she would have children and become the great mother she knew she was destined to be, and, due to a mental affliction known as “temporal-lobe retrograde amnesia,” she would never remember anything that had happened during the days of her disappearance.
Indubitably, she and Mike would live…happily ever after…
— | — | —
Epilogue
Chief Malone awoke in his dilapidated bed at precisely six in the morning, via his radio alarm which blared, “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way! Oh what fun it is to…”
Fuck, he thought and snapped the alarm off. He rose, groaning, and into his mouth he immediately packed a good-sized wad of Red Man. He scratched his burgeoning belly through the holey t-shirt, scratched his buttocks through the just as holey boxer shorts, and lumbered muttering to the unkempt kitchen to start a pot of coffee.
No messages blinked on his answering machine.
The most fucked up Christmas of my whole dang life…
A pounding at the door caused him to scowl quite Scrooge-like. “Who the fuck’s poundin’ on my dang door on Christmas!” he grated. “It better not be no folks singing Christmas carols ’cos I just ain’t in the fuckin’ mood fer no Christmas carols.” He considered something. “Why the hail they call ’em carols anyway? Some gal named Carol invent ’em?” He hobbled toward the front door, one-hundred-percent bereft of Christmas spirit.