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Micky-Mack shrugged. “Just as I been gettin’ older, the more I shoot, the fartherer.”

“Damn, boy,” Helton reiterated but then finally the more serious question arrived…

“And who’s that skinny gal there with the puckered nips stickin’ out, and why’s she…lying there lookin’ like she’s out cold?”

“Don’t know the bitch’s name, Unc, but I seed her around a bunch. I think she’s shorely one’a Hall Sladder’s corn-mash whores and, see, Unc, I was fixin’ to fuck her but once I got her li’l whory shorts pult off I’se took a close peek and see she got warts all over her cooter’n stuff hangin’ out, so’s I just said hail with it’n beat off on her.”

Not a man to chronologically integrate proper questions with observations, Helton peered through his confoundment, then stooped his hulking frame to examine the girl’s privates. Sure enough, the agape, hair-rimmed parcel that was her labia majora appeared pocked with bumps and blisters the size of tree-frogs; and within there seemed to be a fleshy and inflamed
disgorgement
of afflicted tissue. “Fuckin’-A, boy, you’se right,” and he pronounced “right” as
rat.
“This gal’s cunt is packed up with disease the same way a turkey’s packed up with stuffin’. Was wise’a ya not to be stickin’ yer bone in
that
 mess,” but then, like a quick
snap!
of someone’s fingers, a thought of higher priority
snapped!
in his brain. “Wait a minute now. What the fuck’s wrong with her? Looks like there’s…blood on her head. You find her like this, passed out in the woods? And—fuck!—wait a minute! I heard you fire off a shot from yer sling!”

“Well, shore, Unc Helton. I weren’t huntin’ squirrel as you might’a thunk. See…it was
her
I hit. And she ain’t passed out, no sir. This fester-pussied bitch is
dead.
”

Rage stood Helton right back up, and he had to struggle not to raise a beefy hand and strike his nephew right across the kisser—something he
was
known to do on occasion. Helton’s
vocal
anger, however, was not so restrained. “Boy! Yer Daddy’n me always taught ya—never put a ruckin’ on a gal less’n she deserves it, and
never,
and I mean
NEVER
kill no one that ain’t done you a serious peck of harm first! It’s unethical!” and he pronounced “unethical” as
unether-krull.

“Un…
huh?
”

“It’s
wrong!
 This hillgirl you just come all over were
innocent!
Which means you up’n
murdered
her!”

The younger man cowered in the midst of his uncle’s displeasure, though even shivering he stood his ground. “Sorry yer dander’s so up, Uncle, but way I seed it, there ain’t nothin’ innocent ’bout her. First of all, she were trespassin’—”

“Aw, shit, boy! Yer grabbin’ fer
shit!
Just tryin’ to juster-fy what ya done!” Helton bellowed.

“And second of all, like I said, she’s one’a Hall Sladder’s corn-mash whores, and ever-body knows how bad Hall wants to find yer stash so’s he can snatch it. So’s I figure it were shorely Hall who sent this whore’a his to scout our property and try and find yer stash.”

Helton frowned at the excuse, suspecting it was just more of the boy’s fear forcing him to rationalize a sociopathic act and very poor error in judgment, but before he could give voice to this notion, a few of his mental cogs slowed down.

My…stash…,
he reflected. That’s what he’d been out here to check on in the first place.

“Come on, boy. Help me check the stash,” Helton ordered, and off they tromped through the woods, and within a few minutes they’d come upon the camouflaged outcropping of hillock beneath which existed the egress leading to Helton’s corn-liquor stockpile. He produced a flashlight, then threw back the O.D.-green tarp covered with stitched-on branches and dead vines.

Helton awkwardly fitted himself in, followed by Micky-Mack, but only one sweep of the flash transfigured his rage to sadness.

Helton had had at least a hundred gallons of grade-A white lightning hidden here, but now? The entire storage space stretched before them, empty.

“Holy shee-it, Uncle Helton!” cried Micky-Mack.

But what good was rage now? Dolefully, Helton said in the dark, “You was right, boy, and I’se truly apollergize fer nearly raisin’ my hand. Shorely, it was indeed that skinny whore who helped Sladder rip-off my stash. Why else would one’a
his
whores be on
my
land?”

“Dang, Unc Helton. That shore does suck. I only wish I’d gotten myself out here earlier so’s maybe I would’a caught ’em in the act.”

“You’re a fine boy, Micky-Mack, and you got balls, which shore as shit makes me and yer Daddy proud,” Helton commiserated, “but that cut-throat cracker Hall Sladder ain’t one to fuck with all’s by yerself. We’ll get him back proper in due time.”

“She were probably comin’ back, hopin’ they’d over-looked a jug or two, fixin’ to take ’em fer herself.”

Helton nodded with the boy’s simple logic but it was a similar logic that trudged them back to the final resting place of Sladder’s confidante. Revenge must be enacted but in this case only revenge of the
post-mortal
variety was feasible. Belabored exposition need not be made, only that the slim corpse was flipped over and an orifice other than the poxed vagina was utilized for purposes of angst-assuagement, after which Helton declared, “Wish ya’d got her alive, boy, ’cos it would’a just tickled me pink to put one holy
hail
of a ruckin’ on the tramp, but I’se guess it’s good enough to leave the whore to rot with a buttful’a our cum,” and then they headed for home.

Though Helton could hardly have been aware of it, he’d taken precisely thirteen steps back toward his shack when the outrage of this treacherous theft would be reduced to insignificance. It was then that his 35-year-old son Dumar called out from afar, “Paw! Come on back the house! We’se just got a package been delivered!”

Helton’s squint found a similar squint on Micky-Mack’s face.

“A
package?
” the youth questioned.

Indeed.

For Helton and most of his kin were what the Census Department would label “documentation elopement cases”; in other words, they’d fallen off the People Radar long ago. Tax records inactive for decades, no Social Security trail, no utility records. Though they lived on land properly owned by Helton’s mother, Petunia Tuckton, they were essentially squatting there, and this status included Dumar and Dumar’s wife, their missing son Crory, and Micky-Mack. Hence, with no official address, how could any “package” be “delivered?” None of them had seen a mailman in years; and, that said, it must be abstracted now that though Helton could have no idea of what the very near future would reveal, the unmitigated outrage of his “stash” being stolen would just as quickly be reduced to utter unimportance…

Because, thirteen days after the dread and inexplicable fact, the mystery of young Crory Tuckton’s disappearance was about to be disclosed.

— | — | —

Chapter 2

(I)

PULASKI, VIRGINIA

“…and now on to the local news,” issued the monotonic voice of the radio newscaster. This voice issued from the speakers of a commonplace redneck pickup truck as it clattered down the quaint and rather dull Main Street of the small town of Pulaski, Virginia, famous for the Pulaski Mariners semi-pro baseball team. The driver of the commonplace redneck pickup truck was a fugitive and former Alcohol, Tobacco, & Firearms agent whose long hair, scrappy attire, and unkempt beard proved his desire to
appear
as commonplace a redneck as one who might own such a truck. His name and details, however, are unrelated to this narrative. It was not the
driver,
nor the
truck
that bore relevance, but instead the radio news broadcast that issued
from
the truck.

“…another incident was reported early this morning by Pulaksi authorities, regarding the recent spate of animal mutilations. For the past several months, some sick, sick person has been kidnaping dogs—puppies, in most cases—and subjecting the harmless animals to heinous acts of torture, including evisceration, boiling and burning, and dismemberment.” Here, the newscaster croaked something like a sob. “The body parts of these animals are then left in areas that police believe to be havens and/or drug districts in the surrounding tri-city area. The dog killer’s gruesome signature seems to always involve the
decapitation
of the dog, the attaching of the dog’s head to a stick, and the planting of the stick on or near property thought to be occupied by random drug rivals. Deputy Chief Dood Malone, of the County Sheriff’s Department and commander of the Pulaski Regional Station, had this to say,” and then a far less monotonic voice, tinged by indigenous dialect, continued, “What we got here, in this fine, upstandin’ town of ours, is a criminal of the lowest-down sort, and I mean lower’n snake shit,” the expletive, properly assumed, was BLEEPED out by technicians in an electronic delay. “Aw, folks, now I’se sorry ’cos I reckon I cain’t
say
snake shit over the radio waves, but I think the
seriousness
of these crimes will be understood by all the good, church-goin’ folks out there listenin’. Over a dozen dogs—usually cute li’l puppy dogs—has been snatched, tortured’n murdered these past several months, and the experts have tolt me the evidence inder-kates that the
levels
of torture ‘fore this sick motherfu…mother
fooler
cut off their heads is stuff like what’d make the Devil hisself heave-ho. I’se mean, innocent little
dogs!
Now, since we’se always on top’a thangs here in Pulaski County, we immediately contacted none other than the FBI and the DEA to ask for a profile of this piece of shhhhhh…piece of
shoot,
low-down scumbag, and what they done tolt us is that more’n likely this despicable person is a
heroin dealer
serving the local areas and maybe—er, proberlee—a illegal immergrint from
Venezuela
on account of it bein’ known that Venezuela heroin dealers reg-larly mark their turf by torturin’ poor, innocent dogs and then choppin’ off their heads’n puttin’ ’em in the yards of their enemies. It’s a sad, sad day when evil stuff like this slides its way inta the midst of fine, law-abidin’ folks like us, ‘sppecially so close ta Christmas. What I gotta impress upon’ yawl, now, is that the Fido Alert we’ve had goin’ fer months is still gonna be in effect, so—please, hear me, folks. Keep yer dogs
inside.
Walkin’ ’em’s fine on a leash but don’t under any circumstancers let ’em out in the yard—even if ya got a fence—less’n you’re with em. If any’a ya out there know
anything
about this
sick piece’a shhhh
…er, piece’a shucks, then you call up the county sheriff’s department and you ask fer me personally, ’cos when I catch this-this-this
person
, it’ll be
his
head gettin’ cut off’n put on a stick, and I’ll be the one doin’ the cuttin’!” A brief disclaimer announcement followed, the county executive wearisomely assuring listeners that when the perpetrator was apprehended, his head would in fact
not
be cut off, and that he would be granted his day in court.

The driver of the redneck pickup truck raised a brow at the spew of gruesome information.
Torturing puppies, cutting off their heads?
he reflected.
Man, this is one SICK world…

Now, it just so happened that at the same moment the pickup truck was idling past the Martins Pharmacy on Main Street, a pedestrian heading down the sidewalk
overheard
the entire newscast. This pedestrian’s name was Menduez, late-‘20s, dark complected, and possessed of an arrogant gait. He spoke and understood English now fairly well—yet had an accent more Cuban than Venezuelan, to the degree that he was often accused of deliberately mimicking
Scarface—
since arriving quite illegally in the United States from his home town of Caracas, Venezuela; and, yes, he was indeed the perpetrator of these hideous crimes against local pet dogs. Hearing the newscast brought a smile to his face, and he thought,
Ah, so dat fat gringo sheriff piece’a
chit
theenk he gonna catch me? ME? He need a fockin’ ARMY ta catch me. Gude lock, fat gringo moth-ur FOCKer piece’a CHIT.