New Title 1 (29 page)

slap, slap, slap, slap, slap

“Pussy’s cold but—fuck—I think I’m gonna be able ta—”

The copulation intensifies.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’…”

“Bitch is gettin’ her Christmas present early!”

The hairy buttocks slows, then stops, then withdraws. During the withdrawal, a string of semen dangles from the stout, limpening penis.

“Argi the man!”

A rough cut, then another penis is quickly sliding in and out of the cleavage between the woman’s pressed-together breasts. Upon the moment of climax, the erection rises, throbbing, then releases splotches of sperm across the corpse’s face.

“Not a bad nut. You want a go, boss?”

“Naw, I’ll leave the corpse-fucking to the pros.”

More laughter.

“All right, let’s fill the bitch up now. I
love
this idea of Argi’s…”

A rough cut, or more like what a screenwriter would call a smash-cut: an off-angle close-up of the dead woman’s face. Her lips, like her nipples, are faintly blue. Fingers peel open her eyelids, then open her mouth to a gape.

“I’m goin’ first,” the voice that seems to be the ringleader’s says, then, quite abruptly, yet with some finesse, a spread male buttocks carefully squats over the corpse’s face, adjusting in hitches, until the rectum has been positioned tightly over the dead mouth.

Sounds of flatulence issue; the buttocks flexes.

“Damn. Feels like I’m shittin’ a foot-long turd!”

Eventually the buttocks lifts off, and the camera slowly zooms to show that the woman’s mouth has been filled with fresh feces. With no prelude, a small rubber drain-plunger is affixed. The fingers of one hand keep the plunger’s rubber cup sealed over the lips. The other hand deftly and with force—

shhhhhlush

—pushes the handle down once hard, then removes the plunger altogether to show that the woman’s mouth is now empty.

“Now
that’s
what I call flushin’ the toilet!”

Howling laughter.

A slimmer and more sparsely haired buttocks is next perched over the woman’s mouth. There’s a grunt, then a wet, splattering sound—

“I got the runs again! Fuckin’-A. Seems like every other damn day I got diarrhea…”

“What did ya eat last night?”

“Calamari and Marinara.”

“Shit, that’s
all
Cristo eats.”

“Hell, I love the stuff, but, like, over the last year it’s been givin’ me the runs. Never had a problem with it before.”

More grunts and more wet splattering…

“Why’s that, Doc?”

“More than likely the encroachment of an acid-intolerance. Such intolerances are often experienced by men and women nearing middle age. You see, it’s not the calamari itself, it’s the higher acid-levels of the tomato base in the Marinara sauce. The result, as we’re observing now, is a recurrence of loose bowel-movements…”

During the verbal account, the camera sways off its mark, to show the tips of someone’s shoes.

“Hey, Doc! Come on! It’s great ya know all the answers but
keep the camera steady!
”

“Yes, sir. My apologies, sir.”

Wet excrement like chunky chili can now be seen in the woman’s mouth. A moment later, the drain-plunger reappears, and said excrement is promptly pumped in the corpse’s stomach.

“Argi’s turn! Step right up!”

The broader buttocks plants itself over the opened mouth. After a series of longer, louder grunts, the mouth is filled and then flushed with the plunger.

shhhhhlush

But the buttocks reappears a second time, repeats its defecation, then—

shhhhhlush

—and even a
third
time…

shhhhhlush

“That’s it. Pump it all down.”

“Holy smokes, Argi. You’re shittin’ up a storm.”

“Can’t think of a better place to do it than this dead bitch’s mouth.”

“Ya know? I must’ve ate two fuckin’ pounds of lasagna last night, and now it’s all comin’ out.”

After a fourth void, the camera holds on the dead mouth filled past the lips with firm stools, and then—

shhhhhlush

—it’s all pumped down with the plunger.

“Good job, guys!”

“Yeah, we filled her up, all right…”

Fuck! Look at hr belly! It’s stickin’ out like Jiffy Pop!”

Hyena-like laughter.

Another rough cut, then a wide shot shows all three masked men urinating on the pale corpse. Now, however, the corpse’s mid-section is distended.

“Wait’ll Helton and his crew of Gomer Pyle backwoods retards get a load of
this,
” says the one in the Nixon mask.

“What now, boss?” asks Lincoln.

Then Spock, “Yeah, boss. You want that we just leave the bitch here for the possums ta eat?”

The scene pauses for a beat. “No. Put her back in the hole and cover her over.” The man wearing the face of the country’s 37th president seems contemplative. “I don’t know. I just like the idea…”

“The
idea,
boss?”

“Yeah. I like the
idea
of the bitch layin’ underground with our shit in her gut. I mean, over the summer, she’ll rot, but when she does… our
shit
’ll rot with her.”

“Righteous.”

The next cut shows the nude corpse pushed back into the grave. Shovels re-bury her. Wing-tipped shoes tamp the earth down.

“All in a night’s work.”

The three men are waving again at the camera. Nixon offers his middle finger, then says, “Let’s see ya beat
that,
Gomer Pyle…”

The screen fades to black.

— | — | —

Chapter 10

(I)

Mike rushed into the store at 9:15, looking rather disarrayed yet inwardly content.

“You’re late,” Archie said.

Mike scoffed. “So what? I’m the boss.” Christmas muzak issued about the store. “Say, was Veronica pissed last night?”

“I didn’t think so; I convinced her you were busy with that bogus paper work.”

Up front, the ultra slim, lemon-breasted Greeter winked at Mike and made what can only be described as a “blowjob” gesture.

“You
didn’t,
” Archie whispered.

“I did. Couple times.” Mike smiled. “She blew me right in the office last night—pretty good head, I can tell you that, not that toothy nightmare Veronica gives.” He winked back at the Greeter. “Then I took her for pizza and she blew me in the men’s room! After that she jerked me off under the table, and
then
…I fucked her in the car. She’s got a pussy that should be in the Olympics.”

“But she’s
sixteen!
”

Mike shrugged. “Gotta get rid of Veronica, though,” but then he caught himself and glanced guiltily over his shoulder. “Better keep my voice down.”

“Why?” Archie said. “She’s late too.”

Mike paused. “But…I saw her car in the parking lot.”

“I know. But I think it’s been there all night.” Now it was Archie’s turn to smile, and a sardonic smile it was. “Maybe she got tired of your selfish super-snob bullshit and went home with another guy. You know… A
nice
guy.”

Mike crossed his fingers, looking dreamy. “God, I hope so. That would solve all my problems…”

Archie smirked. “Yeah, but what if she
didn’t
go home with another guy?”

Mike was staring at the Greeter as she perkily said, “Welcome to Best Buy!” to some customers coming in.

“What?”

“Well, if her car’s been in the lot all night? Aren’t you a little concerned?”

Mike didn’t seemed to comprehend. “Why should I be concerned?”

Archie signed. “In
this
day and age? Shit, maybe she got abducted.”

Mike considered the grim possibility…for about half a second. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not like her to be late. She’s
never
late.”

Mike chuckled under his breath. “Man, if someone
did
abduct her, I feel sorry for the dude. Between her motor-mouth and the fact that she gives the
worst
head in the world?
Good luck, pal. You picked the
wrong
girl to abduct.”

“Man,” Archie said and winced. “You really are a prick.”

“So?”

“Aren’t you even going to call her, see if she’s all right?”

Mike took out his cellphone, looked at it, then put it back in his pocket. “No. If I’m lucky, she got wise to me and the Greeter, so she quit. Then she’ll be out of my hair forever.”

“Time Magazine Man Of The Year.”

“Um-hmm.”

Archie took a look at the Greeter’s trim waist and commendable buttocks. “Shit, I forgot, but…what’s the Greeter’s name?”

Mike frowned. “I don’t fuckin’ know.”

(II)

What on EARTH?
Veronica thought when it became apparent that the digital video file Paulie had sent was over. She’d watched the three men as
they
watched the video—she’d watched their
faces
go from troubled, to aghast, to appalled. She’d watched big rugged grown men
cry.
What is it?
What is ON that video?
All any of them had said during the viewing was this:

Micky-Mack: “Holy fuck, Unc! Is that… Is that…”

Helton: “Yeah, boy. That’s
our
 house a’burnin’…”

Then, moments later:

Helton: “Awwwww, Lord. Awwwww, no…”

Veronica thought she heard some unintelligible squawking from the voice track. Did someone with a Jersey accent say “There’s our bitch. Good job, guys”?

Now all three men stared at the laptop screen as if staring at a hundred-foot tidal wave.

“They’re diggin’ her up!” Dumar wailed. “Oh, my God! They’re diggin’ her up!”