by Edward Lee
“‘S’awright by me.”
Dicky Caudill didn’t even know who Mother Ter-ay-shah was, but he weren’t genrally one ta turn down any inver-tay-shun ta eat, bein’ as he wore about a waist forty-four, an’ had a big gut on him, an’ tits like a gal, only his had hair on ’em. But as he undertook the task’a drivin’ inta town, he thought again ’bout Balls. Yeah, a devilish dude, we were; problee done stuff, ’n’fact, that the devil’d be proud’a. Yes, sir, Dicky thought, what I gots sittin’ right next ta me is problee the son’a Lucifer.
At least it were unique company…
Yeah, they done some ruckin’ in their time. Bad shit, it were, but it were fun, even Dicky hadda admit. But then he got ta thinkin’ what he were thinkin’ ’bout awhiles back, ’bout how one day they’se might pick the wrong folks ta fuck with…
Dicky shrugged, an’ let the speck-er-lay-shun pass. Not much point thinkin’ ’bout that, now were there?
Music twanged on the radio, good foot-stompin’ music. The singer were singin’: “I’m gonna buy me a gun just as long as my arm, kill everyone who ever done me harm…”
“Shee-it!” Balls howled. “Now that’s some lyrics, ain’t they? I likes that, I do!” Then Balls Conner burst out laughter. “Only thing is, Dicky, any folks we run into don’t live long enough ta do us harm!”
“That’s a fact, Balls,” Dicky agreet, an’ it were pretty much true. Like that one time they was in some roadhouse bar up’n Lockwood. They was just about ta leave, both takin’ a piss in the john, an’ Balls finished pissin’ an’ he starts ta walk away fom the toll-et, an’ some big redneck dude says, “Hey, man, was ya brought up inna barn? Flush that toll-et when’s ya finished pissin’ in it. I’se shore don’t wanna hafta lookit yer piss.”
“Well, ya ain’t gotta look at it, brother,” Balls proclaimed, with that devil look’n his eyes. At the same times, what he done was he whipped out his buck an’, lickety-split, had the blade ta that redneck’s throat, he did, an’ were bendin’ him over with his dick still out. “No sir, ya ain’t gotta look at it, but what’cha do gotta do is drink it, huh?”
And damn if that there redneck didn’t drink outa that toll-et like a thirsty hound dog!After which Balls cut his throat anys way. Filled that toll-et right up with that fella’s blood, he did. Then’s there were that time, shee-it, coupla years ago? Some white trash chick they’d picked up thumbin’ the Route. She’s kicked Balls a good one in the rocks, so’s Balls’d smacked her a better one in the noogin with his hickory pick handle. When she woked up, her feet was tied to’s a tree, an’ her hands was tied to the back bumper, an’ Dicky popped the clutch. Arms popped right out her shoulders, but Tritt Balls? Naw, he weren’t quite satis-er-fied with that. “Dicky,” he hollered. “Git the hacksaw out the toolbox,” whereupons Balls per-seeded ta saw offs her legs too. Then he humped her hard in the dirt, he did, jibin’, “Hail Dicky! I’se bet I’se the first fella in town ta fuck a torso!” They chucked the arms’n legs in the woods when he were through. Then there were this other time last spring, they’d pulled of the Route so’s Balls could hang hisself a moonshine piss, an’ he spied a jeep, one’a them fancy Jap 4 runners, ands down a ways there were a tent an’ campsite an’ such. Past the ridge a piece, a fella an’ his squeeze was fishin’ fer bass off Kohl’s Point, they was. City folk, they looked like. The dude had one’a them snort city-queer haircuts with no sideburns, and were wearin’ shorts anna button shirt, fer God’s sake, an’ loafers with no socks, which was about the queerest thing Tritt Balls ever did see. Nice milkers on the chick, though. Plump, they was, an’ about the size’a the honeydews at Wally Eberhart’s stand, an’ Balls could plain see she wore no bra ’neath that pussified Shephard’s College t-shirt she wore. “Looks like a coupla happy campers ta me, huh, Dicky?” “Whys yeah, Balls,” Dicky agreet. The dude spun at once, droppin’ a perfectly good Zebco Lancer with brass works right smack dab inta the water. “Look, guys,” he stammered. “We don’t want any trouble.” Now, Balls, he was a big boy, he was tall’n strong, an’ he could put some serious ooompah-pah behind that fine vennered hickory pick handle of his. Ka-CRACK! came the sound as the business end swooshed a greaat arc upside that yuppie, city-queer head. “How’s that fer some trouble, City?” Balls politely inquired. The dude lay smack dab flat on his back an’ got ta twitchin’ real bizarre, half his city-queer head caved in, and City’s squeeze got ta screamin’ right off, watchin’ her fellas twitch like that. Tritt Balls smiled like a great big Hallerween pumpkin, he did, ’cos, see, there were just somethin’ about hearin’ a gal scream that got him hotter than woodstove at full tilt, and when Balls got a stiffer, he’d turn right imaginative. So’s his shucked his big buck ands showed it to the gal, grinnin’. “You git right on down there, sugar plum,” he said nicely to the gal. “We wants ta see you do the mouth job on City Boy here.” “Feller-ay-shee-oh’s what they’se call it in the city, I’se think,” Dicky offered up some wisdom. Now this college gal had some really fine blond hair cut perfectly striaght ’bout ear-level, an’ bangs, which were kinda cute inna queerified city kinda way, an’ if there were one thing about Balls, it were that he really liked blondies, an’ neithers of ’em could quit ganderin’ that fine plump pair’a milkers on her. “But-but-but…he’s dying!” she protested through insane hitching sobs. “Ain’t no matter ’bout that, li’l lady. Just you git on down there an’ do it.” Dicky pulled down City’s yuppie-jocko-homo sports shorts ta his knees, an’ the kid kept twitchin’ away real fierce like, blood squirtin’ out his cracked head. “That’s right, git right on down there ’cos, see, if ya do a good job then we’se might let ya live,” Balls artick-er-lated, waving that big buck. It were amazing the things folks’d do at knifepoint if they’se thought it’d save their lives. “And git that ’dickerlous queer-ass commie college t-shirt off so’s we can gander yer tittes whiles yer doin’ it.” The blond girl obliged, she did, and then, shore enough, she began to assume Balls’ demented request, mouth-loving away a country mile a minute like a reg-lar trooper as City’s entire body continued to vigorously convulse via the massive nerve damage and cou-counter-cou subderal hematoma inflicted by that big hickory pick handle. Now, this were a sight, all right, City twitchin’ whiles his big-titties commie-college girlfriend did the suckjob on his limp pecker. Balls an’ Dicky laughed it up real good, they did, right up until City bled out an’ died. Somehow, it weren’t fun no more, what with the cessation of City’s head-trauma convultions. Dicky whipped out his bone an’ began ta wank, ganderin’ the gal’s milkers, while Balls dropped trow an’ did her dogstyle in the dirt, eventually spoogin’ all over that big beautiful commie-college-gal backside’a hers. She gots ta screamin’ again real fierce once they started ta work on her with their bucks. “I’se said we might let ya live,” Balls explained the newfound discrepency to her screaminng-blubbering-shuddering face as he sliced long deep purdy lines down her belly. Then, guffawing, he got ta carving on her girlyworks, and that really put some jump in her, and thens he scalped her. “Aw, what the hail?” he remarked next an’ began laughing like ta wake all the dead outa Bell Cemetery. Dicky’d finished wanking and were now pulling a good long pee inta City Boy’s dead face whiles Balls sliced those big titties right off the college gal. He placed her scalp atop City’s head and stuffed them big severed titties up under that queer-ass city-faggot Christian Dior button shirt’a his, wailin’, “‘Magine the look on the poor fucker’s face who finds ’em, Dicky! A gal’s hairdo an’ titties an’ a pecker hangin’!” Yes sir, Tritt Balls Conner were on a roll that day! Before headin’ back on up ta the ’Mino, he dropped a good-sized healthy farmboy meat’n potato bowel movement on what remained’a the gal an’, a’corse, wiped his crack with that commie-college shirt’a hers. Yes sir, big fun it was they had that day. Big fun.
So’s now they was both sittin’ in Chuck’s Diner, still bored shee-it-less, havin’ thereselfs big plates’a hash’n eggs, wonderin’ what they’se was gonna do all da
y, ’cos it were still mornin’ right now, it were. Chuck’s were Luntville’s greasy spoon, good grub fer a good price, but there weren’t hardly no one here now, just some ol’ duff havin’ coffee’n donuts up the counter, ands this big fat cracker chick with ratty hair, in flip-flops, shorts, anna t-shirt big enough fer Dumbo the Elephant. She were eatin’ her second plate’a hash’n eggs herself, a reg-lar machine, she were, but Balls’n Dicky didn’t pay her much mind on account’a she were so fat, like her buttcheeks was hangin’ over each side’a her stool like a seed bag sittin’ there, an’ she hadda gut on her likes a cow. Insteads, Balls ignort her, reflecterin’ ta hisself. “Hail, no shine runs, no ones ta mess with, shee-it. What we gonna do today, Dicky?”
“Dunno,” Dicky replied, his mouth steady fulla hash’n eggs. Chuck’s Diner, they shore made some great hash’n eggs.
“I’se mean, I hates bein’ bored, Dicky. We’se lively young fellas, we is, yet we ain’t got nothin’ ta do on such a fine mornin’ as this.”
Dicky nodded in agreement, shoveling another fork’a hash in his yap.
Balls leaned forward, “An’ I’se kin tell ya, Dicky, I’se so fuckin’ horny! My dog’s been hard since I git up. Shee-it. I’se swear, I could fuck this plate’a hash’n eggs.”
Aw, don’t do that! Dicky Caudill thought. There weren’t no putting nothin’ past Tritt Balls Conner.
“Hail, I coulds even diddle that fat gal sittintg up the counter.”
Dicky’s eyes swelled. “Her? You gots ta be shittin’ me, man! She’s as big as a house!”
Balls crimped his nose at the suggestion. “So’s what. What we’ll do is we’ll wait tills she’s done etin’, then I’ll’se sweet-talk her inta the ’Mino!”
Shee-it, Dicky thought. We don’ts need this shit this early in the mornin’.
But wait they did, ’cos the gal ordered another plate’a hash’n eggs!
Took her awhiles ta et it all, it did, but when she were done, she hopped off that stool like a pallet’a mason blocks, she did, an’ thens she started ta walk out.
“Hey there’s purdy lady!” ,Balls exclaimed. “Looks like yous leavin’ the same time we is! How’s ’bout we give ya a ride ta where yas going?”
Her fat blubber face smiled, as though she were real complimentered by Balls referrin’ ta her as “purdy,” an’ she just said “Whys shore, boys!”
That were all it took. No sonner than ten minutes’d passed, Dicky were pullin’ up the El Camino inta another dell, right by the river. Balls had already smaced the fat gal out with his homemade jack, an’ they’se lugged her outa the ’Mino, they did. “Hail, Dicky!” Balls pointed out. “She plumb weighs more’n yer bigblock 427!”
“That she does,” Dicky agreet, haulin her acrost the dell. What they done then was Dicky stood her up, an’ Balls tied her upright ta a tree. He tooks a quick pee onner feet an ’structed Dicky, “Git my hickory pick handle, Dicky!”
Dicky did so, an’ passed said hickory pick handle ta Balls, who stood there chucklin’, waitin’ fer the fat gal ta come fully to. “Hail, Dicky! As much as she et at the diner, I’ll’se bet she got enough inner gut ta fill a hog trough!”
“Bet she problee does, Balls,” Dicky hesitantly agreet.
An’ when she came fully to, Balls reeled the pick handle back way far and—
whap!
—socked her reals hard in the belly. Made a sound like slappin’ a hefer, it did! Once he did it, an’ twice an’ then a third time, an’ on that third time, her fat face turnt white, an’ she lurched forwart as far’s her ropes’d permit her, an’ she just cut loose, she did, throwin’ up like a reg-lar gusher rights there in the dell. Out all them viddles came up bigtime, they did, blowin’ ’least three foot out her yap acrost the leafs. An’ it were a lotta food!!
“Hail, Dicky! ’Chew see all that puke she blowed!”
“That I did, Balls,” Dicky, none too pleased, accented.
“Hail! Lookit all them hash’n eggs she blowed out her mouth! Cain’t quite believe it! She done et herself enough fer ten fellas!”
“That she did, Balls,” Dicky repeated.
Balls rapped her in the belly one more time, an’ that erped out the last’a it. Her puke—shee-it!—it flew out her mouth four er five feet this time, an’ landed with a wet whap! in the dirt.
“A fuckin’ elephant, she is! Got enough space inner belly ta hold a whole load’a hootch fer Clyde Nale, she does. A fuckin’ fat cracker volcano, she is! But…” Balls chuckled dark. “I feels kinda bad, dee-privin’ her’a all them good viddles she paid fer. Guess we’se better let her et it all back up, huh?”
Balls, then, cut her down with his buck an’ pushed her face down ta that big plume’a puke, just like that whore he’d made eat her own shit, holdin’ the knifepoint to her eye. “Et up all that puke, honey, et it up an’ swaller. Ain’t nothin’ but hash’n eggs. Problee tastes better second time around!”
She ate it up, gaggin’, she did, and it were a lot of hash’n eggs. “Ses what we done, ya hog?” Balls said. “We done let ya et the same meal twice!”
When this fat gal was done eatin’ up her puke, Balls whipped his dick out. He held it rights up ta her face ands said, “Suck it now, slim. Sucks it good!”
She had some fiest left inner, Dicky hadda give her that. After pukin’ up a storm an’ takin’ five er six whaps in the belly from Balls’ pick handle? Ands then bein’ forced to eat her own puke? It were a women of resilence who coulds say, after alls that, “You stick that dirty cracker dick in my mouth, an’ I swears I’ll bite if off!”
Guess she were a feminist. Tritt Balls, well, he didn’t like no fat splittail sayin’ such ugly things ta him, no sir! Not one bit. “Dicky!” he wailed. “Git the pliers out the toolbox!”
Graonin’, Dicky did so.
Balls, then, pulled out all her teeth with them Sears Craftsman pliers, he did.
“There, ya fat cow!” Balls celebrated. “Nows ya cain’t bite nothin’!”
He tunrt her over in the dirt, an’ brownholed her right there, humpin’ her backside hard till he shot’a load’a peckersnot right up her tail. Then, what he did was this, he flipped her right back over an’ wiped his shit-smellin’ dog right in her face.
Then he gots ta wittlin’.
Yes sir. Tritt Balls whipped out his buck again an’ got ta whittlin’ on this fat gal fierce. She were screamin’ she were, whiles Balls whittled off all the skin off her fingers, like they was carrots! Then he whittled alls the skin offer arms, an’ off it came like sheets’a wallpaper. Then he sloughed off all the skin offer back an’ legs, he did, which made even bigger sheets, an’ she were screamin’ the whole time like a cat throwed into a combine, she was, as all that fat white skin fell ta the ground, a fat cracker blood-red mess she were! ’Ventually, he got ta whittlin’ the skin offer toes’n feet. “Hail, Dicky,” he commented. “Lookit these feet, wills ya! Bet she wears a size 12, I’ll’se bet! Thems the biggest feet I ever did seen onna gal!” She finally died once he got ta cuttin’ on her more. Clipped off her big pale nipples, he did, then he sliced off those big-as-a-baby’s-head hooters, an’ held ’em up in his hands an’ squeezed the blood out ’em like they was big warm wobbly sponges. Dug her eyeballs out her head too, just fer fun, an’ popped ’em in his hands like they was big white grapes.
“Come ons, man,” Dicky complained. By now, even his stomach were feelin’ sick wacthin’ this. “She dead, Balls. Let’s git on outa here.”
“Git outa here, hail!” Balls responded. “My dog’s hard again, ands I’ll’se be damned if I’se gonna waste it! Gots me a load’a spunk in theres somewhere, an’ I’se gonna pop it!”
Tritts Balls, then, began to fornicate with the fat, eyeless, and thoroughly flensed corpse, humpin’ her dead girlworks a right fierce, he did, an thens he pulled out’n spooged right inta her agape yap, dead as she were.
Balls, sees, he were’t very par-tick-ah-ler ’bout the kinda gal he made whoopee with.
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NINE
(I)
Morning seemed to blossom into afternoon, akin to the thousands of flowers in the back yard. Charity elected not to join Jerrica and Father Alexander on the trip to the general store; lazing around the house seemed more appealing, and sorting her thoughts and contemplations.
There were many…
For one, the yard itself. It was beautiful, meticulously trimmed and weeded, and tracked by fine fieldstone walkways which must’ve cost quite a bit. A sub-planted sprinkler system, a luxurious kiosk, and an open shed full of groundskeeping equipment: a tiller, a power edger, a hedge trimmer, and a stout rider mower. Aunt Annie was poor. Where did she get the money for all this? And where did she get the money for the boarding house’s exorbitant renovations? She even had a hired hand now…
“Hi, there, Ms. Charity!” Goop Gooder, of all people, greeted, coming round the side of the house. He was trundling a wheelbarrow full of pine bark mulch. “I’se say, you’re lookin’ mighty fine today.”
“Thank you, Goop,” Charity replied. “That’s nice of you to say.” But she wondered. Was it really true, or was he just being polite? The paranoia deepened. If she was attractive, what could explain her ceaseless misfires with men? And there was always the image of Jerrica—more paranoia. The image nagged at her: Jerrica could be a model in Swimsuit Illustrated. What could I be? Charity glumly asked herself now.
And Goop standing there made it even worse. The broad chest and back, the muscled arms, the long hair. An emblem of fresh, vibrant lust. The caricatured “farmboy,” country youth and virility. Jerrica had sex with him last night, she reminded herself, still mildly shocked at the thought. Was she jealous about that too? Would I want to have sex with…Goop? She didn’t think so.