by Edward Lee
“A’course, boy,” Eamon assured. “Cain’t let these low-lifes off easy. They need time ta think on what they done a’fore we send ’em on ta meet their Maker.”
Gut’s eyes lit up. “Want me ta raw-ball the bastard, sir?”
And Horace suggested, “Or’se how ’bout I run the rifle barrel brush down his pecker hole like we done ta that fella from Pulaski? Never heard a man scream like that, no sir!”
Eamon contemplated options, stroking his chin as if he had a Van Dyke. “Naw, don’t seem to me that that’s festive enough.”
“Festive?” Tucker questioned.
“I want this fella jumpin’. Don’t like his face, I guess.” Eamon turned to Gut. “You got anything in the traps?
“Yeah I do, Mayor. Caught a possum couple days ago. Was savin’ him fer kabobin’ on the grill.”
“So it ain’t et in a couple days?”
“No sir. Wanted ta git some fat off it so’s the meat ain’t too marbled. You know how greasy that possum fat can be.”
Eamon nodded, and said with finality, “Fetch the critter.”
Horace grinned. “Box job, Mayor?”
“Yep. Get it. It’s time we done kicked this night up a notch.”
Gut and Horace departed, to return moments later with Gut hefting a large cage trap of the type animal-control crews used to catch creatures the size of, say, large raccoons.
This trap, however, contained a fat, saw-toothed, two-foot-long possum. The animal did not look happy.
Horace brought in a big metal box with a sliding screen on top.
Tucker elucidated, “Dandy idea, Mayor. Box jobs always been one’a my favorites. Ask me? It’s kind’a, well, distincteriv.”
“That it is,” Eamon agreed. “And festive.” Then he pinched the cheek of Dutch, who remained shivering and gagged on the table. “Know what a box job is, boy?” Eamon waited for effect, even though the drug dealer could by no means answer the question. “No? Thought not. Well, be patient an’ we will enlighten ya…”
As if hosting a seminar, Horace held the box up, looking through the screen, then he angled the box over Dutch’s face so that he, too, could look through the screen. At the bottom of the metal box was a hole, roughly four inches in diameter. Horace was grinning into that hole in order that Dutch get a foreboding glimpse of Horace’s face.
“Peek-a-boo, I see you!” Horace enthused.
Dutch mewled through his gag.
Naturally, the question foremost on Dutch’s mind would be this: What’s that hole there for?
Eamon clapped his hands several times, the way a basketball coach might, to offer confidence to his team. “Git to it, boys. I just know yawl’ll make a dandy job of it. Let’s git this ’un done early so’s we can have us a few more beers.”
“You got it, Mayor!” one of the brothers said.
First, Tucker unbuckled Dutch’s jeans and pulled them down, and then pulled down Dutch’s briefs (which, interestingly enough, had prints of Sponge Bob on them). After this, Horace placed the metal box over Dutch’s groin.
And after this?
Both men reached into the box and began the task of pulling Dutch’s horror-shriveled genitals through the hole at the bottom of the box.
“Dick and nuts, boys. Dick and nuts,” Eamon urged.
Dutch’s eyes raged over the gag as Horace and Tucker continued to manipulate his genitals. Horace gave the shrinking penis a good stretch, to afford some length. Tucker caged both testicles in his fingers and pulled as if they were two persimmons in a small rubber bag. Both grinned at their duties, and neither batted an eye at handling another man’s genitals. Clearly, they had done this more than a few times in the past.
Eventually they both withdrew their hands.
Meanwhile, in the cage, the captive possum waddled desperate circles, hissing, and bearing its formidable sawblade-like teeth.
“In ya go, fella!” Gut said, and slid the wire door open, tilted the cage, and—
plop!
When the possum slid from the cage into the metal box, Clyde quickly slid the screen closed.
Somewhere a clock could be heard ticking faintly.
“The critter eatin’ yet?” Eamon asked
Tucker, Gut, Horace, and Clyde all glanced inquisitively into the box.
“Naw, Mayor,” Tucker answered. “He just snufflin’ around fer now.”
The possum’s feet were heard clicking on the box’s metal floor. The tempo and tenor of this sound was quite interesting, and slow, not frantic. It seemed, in some introspective sense, to denote speculation on the part of the enclosed animal. And then—
Dutch’s body bucked against his bonds, and his face twisted into a rictus of unspeakable, incomprehensible, and unfathomable agony. His shrieks through the gag sounded like a big dog trying to bark through a muzzle. Then Dutch’s bucking gravitated to outright convulsions.
And from the box, now, wet, deliberate eating sounds could be heard.
Tucker, Gut, Horace, and Clyde all howled in glee as Dutch’s body agonized on the table, his back arching, his heels and fists thumping, and all the while, of course, he continued to communicate his experience through soul-upheaving screams through the gag.
“That’s the spirit, son,” Eamon said, patting the drug dealer on the shoulder. “Bet that puts some spark in yer day, huh?”
“Hungry li’l bugger, I’ll say that,” Gut observed.
“He went fer the nuts first, Mayor!” exclaimed Horace.
Eamon nodded. “They usually do, boys, they usually do.”
The grim cornucopia of sight and sounds in that barn (the yellowish glow of dim, overhead bulbs; the four identical-looking brothers grinning delightedly down into the box; the bound, gagged, and convulsive Dutch on the table; and then simply the box itself) might best be described as maniacal or even satanic; and all of this was effectively augmented by the grating, machine-like eruptions from the captive’s throat.
“Atta boy, Mr. Possum!” Clyde cheered. “Eat up all’a his junk! Boner appetite!”
And Tucker: “’Tis a tad funny the way his nuts crunched whiles they’se were being et.”
“Dang straight!” said Horace. “And lookit how the critter’s teeth is goin’ through the fella’s dick like it’s a blammed hot dog!”
“Yeah, brother!” Gut added, “but a real little hot dog!” and then all four brothers exploded into laughter so raucous it completely obfuscated the drug-dealer’s lurching screams.
“Come on over’n take a look, Mayor,” Tucker invited. “You’re missin’ all the fun!”
“Naw, boys,” Eamon declined the offer. “I’se seen my share’a dicks get et. Believe you me.”
Finally, after an excruciating stretch of moments, Dutch’s screams ebbed away, and his body went limp.
“Looks like this drug-dealin’ trash either up’n died or passed out cold,” Tucker ventured.
“But we shore made his day!” Gut celebrated.
No more noises came from the box.
“The critter done yet?” Eamon asked.
Tucker nodded through a big grin. “He just lappin’ up blood now, Mayor.”
“No more meat left ta eat!” said Horace.
And Clyde: “I say he made short work’a this fella’s peter!”
“’Twas short work ta begin with!” Horace had to add, and then came more uproarious laughter.
When Gut finally took the box away, a ragged, bright-scarlet flesh-crater occupied the area of space that had formerly hosted Dutch’s genitals. Were one to glimpse the possum, however, the animal would be seen as sated, content, and with a very bloated belly.
“Get him back in the cage,” Eamon instructed. “Give him a couple days ta shit it all back out ’fore we get ’im on the grill. I don’t much take ta the idea of eatin’ possum meat that been nourished on a drug-dealer’s cock and balls.”
“Dang straight, Mayor,” Gut observed. “L’il fella’s breadbasket is full up.”
&
nbsp; Gut carried the box out of the main sector of the barn. Tucker, meanwhile, rummaged through wooden shelves laden with tools. In no time, he grasped the well-used power drill fitted with a 3-inch hole-saw.
“Now, Mayor?”
Eamon thumbed his suspender straps. “Yeah, I reckon there ain’t no better time than the present.”
With nonchalance, Tucker revved the hole-saw, mashed his big hand down on Dutch’s face, and applied the saw to the middle of the top of the man’s head.
“There ya go!” Horace celebrated.
“Yeah, Tuck!” Clyde urged. “Open that piece’a shit’s coconut right up!”
“Remember,” Eamon instructed. “Don’t muscle it, son. Let the saw do the work, then ya get yerself a much finer cut.”
Amid the cataclysmic grinding sound, it was actually with finesse that Tucker let the saw-bit sink a millimeter at a time into the top of the captive’s skull. Some foul-smelling smoke rose from the action as the sound of steel sawteeth cutting through bone held steady. Eventually the revving sped up and changed pitch; Tucker released the drill’s trigger and pulled the bit out.
“Dead solid perfect,” Eamon approved.
When Tucker had removed the saw-bit, a perfect disc of scalp and bone came out with it. “That’s the ticket,” he said and gave his crotch a squeeze. “My dick’s dancin’, it is.”
Clyde gave his own crotch a similar squeeze. “Ya know, much as I like ganderin’ a nekit gal, I gotta say there’s sumpthin’ about watchin’ a head get hole-sawed that make me even hornier.”
“I hear ya,” Horace concurred. “I’se feel I could run at a heap’a cinderblocks with my dick out and bust plumb through!”
“Amen to that,” Eamon said.
“And lookit!” Gut exclaimed in a manner that was like rejoicing.
All the other men looked wide-eyed at Dutch’s body. The arms and legs minutely shivered. The man was not quite dead.
“Hot dog!” Horace enthused. “The drug-dealin’ little shit is still kickin’.”
“’Tis a rare treat,” Eamon intoned. “Don’t happen often but when it does, it’s like a blessin’. I think the word is tenacious.”
“What’s that, Mayor?” Clyde asked.
Tucker scratched his head. “Yeah, sir, I cain’t say I knows that fancy word.”
“Tenacious, boys. This fella here be proof as ta how tenacious the human body can be. One time I read how some fella workin’ construction fall off a four-story building and gots hisself impaled on a piece’a rebar. Mind you, it go in his asshole, cross his body, and come out his shoulder, and that motherfucker lived. Was fine’n dandy in a week, ‘n’fact. Same thing here, boys.” He patted the shivering man on the shoulder. “This fella done got his dick et off, then he get a hole cut out’a his skull, and he’s still alive. Yes, sir. That’s what we call tenacious.”
Tucker fell into thoughtful reminiscence. “Oh, yeah, Mayor. Couple years ago, when you was out on yer deer hunt, me’n Clyde was drivin’ back from Crick City and see this colored gal on the road with a flat tire. You ‘member this, Clyde?”
Clyde paused to take his mind back, and started at the recollection. “Yeah, yeah, that colored gal from Warshington Dee Cee with that fancy li’l foreign car. And tits?” He whistled. “Tits for miles.”
“Hail, yeah. A big-titter and a half this one was, Mayor,” Tucker went on with his tale. “Tits stickin’ out’a her fancy dress like to knock down a fuckin’ brick wall. But anyways we pull over an’ offer to help change her tire, and dang if’n it weren’t the strangest thing. Instead of sayin’ thank you, this feisty bitch pull a gun on us—”
“A gun you say?” Eamon asked, surprised.
“Yes, sir, a big ass revolver she pull, and then she start talkin’ real nasty and mouthin’ off ’bout how she heard all about us backwoods crackers’n how all we do is drink moonshine and rape women’n beat ’em up and whatnot, and sayin’ if we try any’a that with her she’ll show us what fer.”
Eamon’s brow furrowed. “Well I hope you boys didn’t call her no racial slurs. I know I teached ya better’n that. All folks is equal, whether they from the hills or the cities, or white or black or Injun or Chinaman.”
Tucker seemed aghast. “Aw, no way, Mayor, you know we ain’t like that one bit. Only folks we look down on are drug-dealers, theefs, and dumb blondes.”
“Good boys,” Eamon said. “So’s what happened then?”
“Like I was sayin’, she were waving that gun ’round, sayin’ she was gonna give us what fer—called us rednecks, too, if that don’t beat all—and yellin’ ’bout how she gonna fill us full’a holes. So’s we just shrug and tell her that ain’t no way to talk ta two fellas offerin’ ta help but if that be the way she feels, we’ll just be on our way, so me’n Clyde we just mosey on back to the truck.”
Clyde was getting riled (and squeezed his crotch a few times). “Yeah, Mayor, we done just like ya told us, don’t start nothin’ and there won’t be nothin’, and just ’cos she talk shitty ta us don’t mean we’se justerfied in pullin’ a ruckin’ on her. Ain’t nothin’ but words, ya know?”
“That’s right, boys. Punishment need ta fit the crime,” Eamon said.
“Yes, sir, that’s just what we was thinkin’,” Tucker went on, “but ‘fore we can even get back to the truck and leave, she start mouthin’ off again.”
Eamon chuckled. “Just like a city gal. Think they’re all superior-like just ’cos they’se from the city and hill folk ain’t nothin’ but a bunch’a bumpkins. High-falutin’ a lot of ’em is.”
“Well, this gal I’se talkin’ ’bout was high-falutin’, all right, and her talk get downright mean when we was walkin’ away, sayin’ we’se just a bunch’a fat dirty rubes probably cain’t count ta three, and how we ain’t fit ta pick the…Clyde? What she say?”
“She say we ain’t fit ta pick the pebbles out’a her tires,” the brother replied, “and we’se so dirty we could kill flies on a shit-pile by our stink.”
“Yeah, Mayor, and then—then she yell back at us just as we’re gettin’ in the truck, ‘Yeah, just like a cracker to run away, you pussies ain’t nothin’ but a bunch’a white trash hillbilly cowards!’ she say and then—then—”
“Then,” Clyde eagerly stepped in, “she up’n take the cake when she throw her head back’n laugh and say how our daddy must’a beat off in our mouth ever day when we was tots ’cuz he were so poor he couldn’t afford baby food, and then—then—”
Tucker’s expression darkened. “Then, sir, she say our mama suck dog dicks.”
“Boys, ya showed great restraint tryin’ to walk away from that,” Eamon said, arms crossed, “but when they start talkin’ ’bout your mama… All bets is off.”
“Yes, sir, after I start up the truck, I’se pop it in reverse and back right over that dirty mouth cooze.”
“I’ll bet that put a damper on her bad talk,” Eamon said with a rare smile.
“That it did, Mayor. Broke both her legs, it did. We throwed her in the back, then hook her fancy car up to the hitch and haul it to Drucky Dehenzel’s shop, then—ta make a long story short—we take her screamin’ to high Heaven into Drucky’s garage, and I don’t gotta tell ya that we three had ourselves one hell of a header, we did.”
“Yes sir!” Clyde hooted.
“We fuck that big-tit bitch’s head twice each, and then we’se have a few beers and spend the rest’a the day takin’ that car apart so’s Drucky can sell the pieces to his people in Huntington. And ya know what, Mayor?”
“Tell me, son.”
“At night fall we’re fixin’n ta bury the bitch’s body but—no! No, lie, Mayor. She were still alive. Runned over, legs broke, and head humped hell for leather by three horny fellas, and she was still twitchin’!”
“Tenacious,” Eamon said, impressed. “Gals often is even more so than dudes.”
Clyde was nearly out of control in the lusty recollection, rubbing his crotch now with vigor. “But that ain�
��t the hole story, Mayor. See, just as we’se marvelin’ ’bout how this city gal was still kickin’, the back door open and who walks in but Spud Kline.”
“Oh yeah,” Eamon acknowledged. “Tater Kline’s boy. Poor Tater, he die’a dick cancer years back when yawls were little, but ole Tater? Had the biggest dick in town, twelve inches and then some. That poor fucker could entertain the whole bar all night long with his dick. He’d git it hard and flip a quarter clear across the room, could flip beer mugs too, or pop a peanut in his mouth. Hell, he’d lay out on the damn bar with that foot-long boner stickin’ up straight as a flag pole, and all the gals’d play ring toss with funnel cakes. ’Course, them funnel cakes wasn’t et afterward.”
“Yeah, well, see, sir, his son, Spud Kline got a pecker on him probably longer—”
“’Tis fourteen inches,” Tucker informed. “They’re measurin’ it all the time. One time they’se held up a pipe wrench side by side and Spud’s was a head longer.”
Eamon whistled. “Now that’s a dick that means business.”
“It shore is, Mayor,” Clyde went on, “and he meant some business that night he walk in to Drucky’s. He look over’n see we been havin’ a header and just the sight of it make his giant dick hard as a rock. Could see it growin’ in his pants—”
“Thought it would bust out!” Tucker remarked.
“Damn near did, I say. So we tell him, ‘Go ahead’n tear yourself off a piece, Spud. She still alive,’ and Spud, he don’t say nothin’, he just drop his pants, grabs those big titties, and sinks his wood right in. Hail, even when he hit rock bottom, it look like his dick weren’t but halfway in. And he pound away on that city tramp and each time it go in, her feet kick up and her hands fly in the air, and Spud, even once he had his nut, she were still jerkin’ ‘round on the table.”
“’N’fact,” Tucker added, she didn’t up’n die till he pull his dick all the way out—”
“And, and!” Clyde couldn’t say fast enough, “I swear when he done so, it sound like a cork poppin, and then all that nut pour out’a her head like milk out a pitcher, yes, sir!”
“And the moral of the story, boys,” Eamon added a finish of wisdom, “ain’t only that our God-given bodies are tenacious but also that sometimes the most just way ta teach someone the error of their ways is?”