New Title 1 (19 page)

“They
fucked
their evil Yankee brains, and I’se mean they fucked ’em
hard,
and they each got theirself a
nut,
boys!” Helton was reeling. “Then they done the same to all’a Hildreth’s housemaids’n servants, snatchin’ ’em two at a time and humpin’ their heads!”—the frenzy rose, veins bulging in Helton’s forehead, eyes wide and gleaming in vengeful delirium—“then they snatched Hildreth’s children—his
children!—
and they fucked
their
heads, and then they done the same to his
wife!
And then, then, they snatched Hildreth himself and they fucked his head ta kingdom come! They fucked that head
three times apiece,
boys, comin’ each time’n blowin’ their load right inta the middle’a Hildreth’s twisted brain, they did, till his head was full
up
with their cum, and
that,
boys”—Helton stomped the ground—“
that…
is what’cha call a
header!
”

««—»»

The chill, quiet night stretched on, and as the fire diminished to eerie, phosphoric embers, Helton—in calmer voice now—told the rest of the story to Dumar and Micky-Mack. Helton ate his squirrel with gusto, but the younger men scarcely picked at theirs, their appetite hindered partly from the revulsion of what had just been related to them, but mostly from the distraction of what could only be called macabre fascination. Helton’s commanding finger wagged at them. “I want you boys to
eat,
ya hear me, even if yer bellies don’t feel like they need a fillin’. For what’s comin’ up? We all gonna need our strength’n stamina.”

Dumar’s voice was a feeble etching. “A header’s what you mean, huh, Paw?”

“We’se gonna have
ourselfs
a header, ain’t we, Unc Helton?”

“That we is—”

“On this Paulie man,” Dumar finished the speculation.

Helton shook his shaggy head. “It’ll be his head we hump
last,
son, ’cos, see, the full effect of a header come from fuckin’ the brains’a your enemy’s
kin
first. With God’s help’n a little luck, we’ll be able to do it.”

Dumar couldn’t have appeared more uncomprehending. “But why, Paw? Why this man Paulie do that horrible thing ta my son?”

Helton’s voice clicked. “I’ll tell ya,” and his stained teeth stripped the tender meat off the roasted squirrel’s ribs. “Micky-Mack, you’se too young, but Dumar, you probably ‘member my brother Tuff—”

“Aw, yeah, Paw, I ‘member Uncle Tuff, shore.”

“And ya both likely ‘member Jake Martin who ever-body called
Grandpap
Martin.”

Nods from both of the younger men. Micky-Mack said, “Oh, shore, Unc, I ‘member him—he was a great old guy. He made me a pair’a
fine
boots when I were a tike.”

“Me, too,” Dumar said.

Helton raised a big booted foot. “Made these fer me
twennie-five years ago,
and to this day they ain’t busted a stitch
.
See, Grandpap Martin were the best cobbler in the county—”

“Yeah,” Dumar recollected, “and it were weird on account’a him not havin’ no feet.”

“A shoemaker,” Micky-Mack pondered, “with no feet…”

Helton sucked some warm marrow. “It was some disease he got, so’s a doctor in Pulaski cut his feet off,” Helton said, “but that didn’t keep ole Grandpap’s spirit down, no sir. A fine, fine man he was, and, see, Grandpap’s only daughter was
Joycie
Martin, and she married my brother Tuff, and what they done is, they had theirselfs a son named
Travis Tuckton.
”

Dumar and Micky-Mack traded grave glances.

“I heard’a Travis Tuckton,” Micky-Mack said diffusely.

“Me, too,” Dumar said, “though I don’t recall meetin’ him.”

“Travis were a good boy mostly but just couldn’t keep out’a trouble when ya get right down to it,” Helton informed. “Got a 5-year jolt in the county detent but wound up doin’
twelve
’cos he wouldn’t take no shit from the cons. But I ain’t surprised that ya both
heard
’a him ’cos he’s got kind of a…repper-tay-shun ’round these parts.”

Dumar nodded. “Folk kind’a
whisper
’bout him, like he’s some kind’a backwoods hero but, ya know? They never say
why…
”

“Ain’t surprisin’. Travis were a hero, all right, along with Grandpap Martin, and now…I’ll’se tell ya all ’bout it ’cos it’s time ya learnt.” Helton took a breath, like a long-winded character in a novel that insists on propelling backstory in passive, static scenes like this. “Nineteen, twennie years ago it was, my brother Tuff owned some shit-land ’round Luntville, hunnert acres or so. Weren’t worth a bucket’a mule puke so’s he just kind’a forgot about it. Then one day this cracker come along sayin’ he wants to buy it’n he offer Tuff a hunnert dollars a acre. So’s Tuff said, shore, and he even
tolt
him that the land weren’t nothin’ but scrub but he tell Tuff he wants it anyway, so a’course, Tuff sold it to him fair’n square…or so he thought. But, see, this fella, what he done is he found out that land had valuable
stuff
on it—”

“What kind’a stuff, Paw?”

“Natural gas, deep down underground,” and Helton pronounced “natural” as
natch-rull.
“S’what city folks use fer heat’n ‘lecktricity, and it turnt out there was so much natural gas on that land, it made the fella that bought it a
millionaire
overnight—”

“What a kick in the ass for Uncle Tuff!” Micky-Mack commiserated.

“Oh, yeah. The fella that bought it
knew
’bout all that natural gas but, a’course, didn’t tell Tuff, instead payin’ him shit money and gettin’ hisself rich.” Helton eyed both Dumar and Micky-Mack. “That fella’s name was Thibald Caudill.”

Dumar and Micky-Mack’s faces showed no recognition.

“After Caudill rip Tuff off, he bought hisself a big, fancy mansion in Pulaski, and he come back to our neck’a the woods ever so often—drivin’ a fuckin’
Rolls Royce—
just to laugh at us all over the screw-job he pulled on Tuff. Liked ta rub our faces in the fact we was poor and he weren’t. So what we do is we all pitched in some money and give it to Tuff, and he hired hisself a citified
lawyer,
and what that lawyer tolt him was there was laws now—some law ’bout
sales made in bad faith—
that might make it so Tuff could sue Caudill fer what he stolt from him…”

“Then Uncle Tuff’d be a millionaire,” Dumar deduced.

“Um-hmm, but that never happened…”

“So how come that fancy lawyer didn’t sue Thibald Caudill?” Micky-Mack asked.

“On account Tuff and his wife Joycie up’n
died.
”

Dumar nodded at the dim memory. “Car accident, weren’t it?

“Weren’t no accident, son. It was
murder.
Once Caudill got wind that Tuff was fixin’ ta sue, one night he’n his two boys, they
followed
Tuff’n Joycie back from that lawyer’s office”—Helton made an angry fist—“and they up’n run ’em off the road—”

“No!” Micky-Mack and Dumar exclaimed.

“—and they crashed in a gully. Poor Tuff, he shoot right through the windshield’n died instantly…”

“What about Aunt Joycie?” Dumar asked. “She go through the windshield too?”

“No,” Helton said very resolutely. “She didn’t. See, Joycie was wearin’ her seatbelt, so’s she lived—”

“But you just said—” Micky-Mack blurted.

“Joycie weren’t kilt in the
wreck,
no.” Helton ground his teeth. “But what Caudill’n his two boys do is they pulled poor Joycie out the car”—he had to pause—“and they tore off alls her clothes”—another pause, his face reddening—“and they dragged her up on the hood”—Helton began to simmer—“and they pult their dirty dicks out and they got theirselfs a ball-peen and they cracked up the top’a Joycie’s skull”—and he flew into another rage, shuddering—“and they HAD THEIRSELFS A
HEADER!
”

Dumar covered his face with his hands while Micky-Mack brought his arms ’round his belly and just moaned.

“
Weren’t enough,
” Helton’s voice cracked and boomed, “fer Caudill to steal the millions that was rightfully Tuff’s, and it
weren’t enough
to kill him ta boot! No! Caudill, he hadda have
more!
He hadda fuck Tuff’s poor wife in the
head!
”

“No, no, no,” Micky-Mack moaned.

“And his boys did it too, all standin’ ’round cacklin’ and hee-hawwin’ like the devils they was. They each put a nut in Joycie’s brain, they did, but Caudill even bragged later up the Crossroads that his youngest boy Crow, he knew the story ’bout how Clyde Martin and Lem Tuckton done fucked General Hildreth’s head three times, so’s he said, ‘Anythin’ a low-down Martin or Tuckton can do,
I’se
kin do better!’ and then he fucked
Joycie’s
head
four
times—just ta one up the family!”

“It’s horrible, horrible, Paw!” Dumar wailed.

Helton calmed back down, thumbing a tear or two from his eyes. “Horrible is right, but at least there’s a happy endin’ to
this
story. See, Tuff’s son
Travis
Tuckton, he were in the county slam when all this happened, and all Grandpap Martin ever told him was that his folks got kilt in a tragic car wreck; Travis didn’t need ta know the truth, not in stir, ’cos the boy, shee-it—he had it bad enough. But when they let him out, Grandpap tolt him what
really
 happened, and Travis flew inta such a swivet, he swore on his Maw’n Paw’s
graves
that he would avenge ’em, and
that
is when Grandpap tolt Travis the in’s and out’s of havin’ a header.” Helton reached behind him and produced the King Edward cigar box that Micky-Mack had fetched for him earlier. “See, there’s better ways’a havin’ a header now, boys. Bashin’ in the top’a the skull’s fine but, see, sometimes ya can git bone-slivers stuck in the brain and then ya stick yer pecker in and—
YOW!
—next thing ya know, that bone-sliver’s stickin’ in yer
dick!
”

“Holy
fuck!
” Dumar recoiled at the image.

Micky-Mack protectively covered his crotch. “Dang, Unc! Cain’t think’a
any
thing that could hurt more’n
that!
”

Helton nodded grimly. “Happened to a fella once, Sisal Conner, who done got wronged one way or another by Jeremiah Croll, so’s Sisal, he snatched one’a Croll’s kids and threw a header on him. He busted a hole in the kid’s head, but the second he slipped his stiffer up inta the brain-meat, he up’n scream bloody murder. See, he weren’t careful enough with the ball-peen’n he wind up catchin’ a bone-sliver right in his dick-knob, he did. Pult his pecker out’a there and it squirted blood halfways across the room!” Helton opened the cigar box. “But, see, long time ago, like in the ‘50s, I reckon, Grandpap Martin came up with a safer way. Instead’a usin’ the ball-peen, ya use one’a
these,
” and from the box he withdrew several old, rusty hole-saw blades. “All ya’s do is lock down one’a these in the chuck of a power drill and ya
saw
a hole in the skull’a the person yer fixin’ ta head-hump.”

“Wow!” Micky-Mack exclaimed.

“Pretty dang smart fer thinkin’a that,” Dumar observed.

“Cuts a perfect hole ever time,” Helton went on, and he passed the cylindrical blades around for the younger men to see.

Dumar deduced, “So’s…did Travis ‘ventually throw a header on Caudill?”

“Yeah, he shore did—”

“And it were one’a these here
hole-saws
that Travis Tuckton used?”

“Naw, the actual one used on Caudill disser-peered. Word is it was took by a poe-leece man—”

“The
poe-leece!
” Micky-Mack shrilled.

Helton wagged his finger. “Lemme finish tellin’ the
story,
boy… Now, it were Grandpap who not only told Travis the truth ’bout what happened to his folks, it was him who taught Travis how to have a header, and what they did then—God bless ’em—well, they kind’a went on a header
rampage,
havin’ headers on the kin’a dang near anyone whoever’d wronged the Tucktons or the Martins in the past. It was kind’a like…practice, see? But by the time they was ready, they was
experts
in the art of throwin’ a header.” Helton smiled and whispered. “And then one day, they gots their chance. They got their hands on Thibald Caudill hisself, and they hole-sawed that cracker’s skull and they
humped the shit
out’a his head. Travis, he was so twisted up inside with hatred, he fucked Caudill’s brain ta
porridge,
and the outrage that had been done ta his fine parents was finally avenged.”