New Title 1 (36 page)

But she didn’t
like
this wondering; it
unsettled
her. She didn’t
like
the forbidden whispers her own psyche seemed to bleed like a nicked vein.

They were…
ghastly
whispers.

After a half an hour, the whooping commotion behind the curtain seemed to retard. Had someone exclaimed, “That there was a
dandy
nut!”? But Veronica knew they had Adele Vinchetti back there—that is, Adele Vinchetti’s
dead body
—so wouldn’t now be the time to dispose of the corpse? At night? Beneath this secluded bridge?

Helton came back up front and removed Veronica’s earplugs. “Well, Veronnerka, we’se done.” He handed her the laptop. “Now how’s ’bout you get on yer magic machine’n git us directions back to Pulaski?”

Veronica, in stifled silence, did so. “Don’t you want me in back now?” she asked when Helton started the truck and pulled away.

“Uh, no, hon. See, there’s somethin’ back there it’s best ya not be lookin’ at.”

“Adele Vinchetti’s corpse,” Veronica said without thinking first.

A long pause. “Well…yeah, hon. Best just ya not concern yerself with it.”

“Aren’t you…going to…dump the body?”

Helton looked at her and sighed. “Well, I’se guess ya got a inklin’ of a idea what’s going on, but what ya gotta understand is that we’se only gettin’ our revenge against Paulie for him murderin’ Dumar’s little son Crory.”

Veronica looked at him.

“And there’s a reason that we ain’t dumpin’ the body just yet. See, we
need
the body—we’se ain’t done with it. We gots ta film another
scene
with the fancy camera ya solt us.”

Another…scene…

“We’ll be back in Pulaski by sun up, I reckon, then we make one quick stop, film the last scene,
then
we’se’ll dump the body.”

One stop quick as we can,
she recited. “What…stop?”

“Gots ta see a friend’a mine, fine old fella named we up’n talked to just yesterday, s’matter’a fact. Fella the name of Charlie Fuchson…”

(II)

Yes, for those curious, that same night, Helton, Dumar, and the youngster Micky-Mack had indeed partaken in what was known amongst select hillfolk as a
“double-
header,” something that reportedly hadn’t been done in quite a few decades. At least in Helton’s understanding, it had been Bustin Kucker who’d first thought it up, back in ‘74, and Helton had been invited to the gathering, along with Grandpap Martin, Helton’s brother Tuff, and about ten other upstanding yokels. See, Bustin needed to get the task over with before his wife Darcy got home from the sewing shop in Russelville, so he figured that sawing
two
holes in the victim’s skull—and hence permitting the insertion of
two
penises at a time—would speed things up. Bustin had had a feud going with Melmo Faft for a long time, and when the ‘74 Recession hit, it had been Bustin, not Melmo, who’d been fired from his job in the farm co-op. Word had been going around that, due to the economic duress of the times, several would have to be let go, and Melmo hated Bustin
so much
that he’d stolen Bustin’s buck knife out of his truck, slashed the project manager’s tires, and left the knife in proximity. The knife, of course, had been engraved with the name KUCKER. But Bustin had six mouths to feed, so such a deed was deemed grievous enough to warrant the ultimate punishment.

Melmo’s busty and well-bottomed daughter Bliss had been expeditiously absconded with, removed to Bustin’s shack in the Luntville woods; and, instead of being tied down to a table, she’d been tied to a chair. The hole-saw shrieked as not one but two holes were cut into her head: the first, in the forehead; the second directly in the rear of the skull. Two at a time, then, the attendees had stepped up, one in the front and one from behind, and then the double-header had commenced. Much sperm was pumped into Bliss Faft’s attractive head that night, and much satisfaction felt.

Helton recalled this fond memory the night they’d snatched Adele Vinchetti. Helton had gone first—executing a more traditional
single-
header, because he wanted the initial camera footage to allow for a front-on closeup of Adele’s face, and it must be said that that face had still shown minute signs of life when Helton slid his dirty erection into the back of her head. Dumar had been holding the camera for the shot, and, upon initial penetration, he’d exclaimed, “Hot damn, Paw! The bitch’s eyes went
wide open
the second ya got yer pecker in her brain!” The information brought gladness to Helton’s heart, as did his forthcoming climax. After this, Helton manned the big Sony, yet with the skill of a Mario Bava—er, well, maybe not quite that much skill—he’d changed camera angles, shooting now from the
side
with Madam Vinchetti’s ear center-of-frame.

Dumar fucked the woman’s head from behind while Micky-Mack fucked it from the front, in a “push-me, pull-you” fashion. Helton’s clever positioning of the camera allowed for a maximum visual effect.

It must be mentioned—however belatedly—that the quality of cosmetic surgery enjoyed by the upper-class had left Adele Vinchetti’s physical body in
quite
a provocative state, even for a woman of her years. So fascinated by her implants Micky-Mack was that even after his climax, the desirous zeal of his youth left him with no choice but to fondle those pert implants with much appreciation. The young man was erect again in no time, and then he had a second “go” at Adele’s “coconut,” this time from behind.

So long as it was amongst kin and for a stalwart purpose, “sloppy seconds” in an evil head were perfectly acceptable and, in fact, smiled upon.

Afterwards, though—all men now being spent—it was Dumar who’d seemed disconsolate. “Well, dang, son,” Helton questioned. “We just done put four loads in this bitch’s head. Ya oughts ta be happy, so’s how come ya ain’t?”

Dumar jigged a scoffing hand. “Shee-it, Paw. It just…ain’t enough, ya know? I mean, it was this gal’s devil-lovin’ son who kilt my boy so horrible-like.”

“Yeah, and ya just done
fucked her in the head.
Fittin’n proper. Ya cain’t tell me ya didn’t get no satisfaction from
that.
”

Dumar rubbed his face, perhaps hiding tears. “It just ain’t enough…”

Micky-Mack sat lackadaisically on a milk crate, his penis still out as he played with the seated and very limp woman’s neatly electrolysized pubis. “I think I’se knows what he means, Unc Helton.”

“We needs ta do somethin’
more,
” Dumar insisted. “When Paulie see this movie, we need him ta be more pissed than he
ever
been. Ain’t
enough
just ta fuck his Maw in the head.”

Semen drooled out the hole in Adele Vinchetti’s skull.

“Somethin’ more, huh?” Helton reflected, opening a bottle of soda. He guzzled, thinking.

But it was Micky-Mack who’d gotten the idea: “Unc! ‘Member yesterday when Charlie Fuchson’s egg-suck dog fucked that foul-mouthed Russian gal?”

Helton’s eyes seemed to light up, and he grinned and very slowly nodded. “Well, shit my drawers, Micky-Mack. Just when I’se convinced you’re all dick and no brain, you come up with a
dandy
idea!” The elder man chuckled. “It’ll be bad enough fer Paulie to watch three fellas fill his Maw’s head with cum, but just think how riled he’ll be ta also see it filled with
dog-
nut! Double-headers’ve been done before, yessir, but there ain’t
never been
a dog header before. And me’n Charlie go back a
long way,
we do. I’m
shore
he wouldn’t mind…”

Hence, this 899-word spiel to accentuate our next scene. Veronica’s navigatory expertise did indeed return them to the Pulaski area by sunrise.

And Charlie Fuchson was all too happy to loan his egg-suck dog Droop out for such a noble purpose…

(III)

“God-DAMN!”

BANG!

“MotherFUCKers!”

BANG!

“They fucked my mother—”

BANG!

“In the HEAD!”

BANG!

Each
BANG!
ringing out between the tirade-fragments were the result of the impact of Paulie’s fist to the Winnebago’s interior walls. This occurred at about ten in the morning, immediately after Argi had downloaded the next email attachment. Paulie, needless to say, was left out-of-sorts after watching this latest digital video file.

By this time, they weren’t even in the Pulaski area anymore, having supposed that Helton had thrown in the towel. Boy, were they wrong. Cristo was driving the “Winnie,” nearing the Jersey Turnpike, when the unfortunate attachment had been received.

“How could they do that?” Paulie yelled, red in the face and spittle flying, and—

BANG!

—he rammed his fist again into the wall.

“What’s all that bangin’ out there?” Melda inquired from her cubbie of horrors in back.

Cristo looked worriedly over his shoulder. “Wow, boss. Ya know, ya might not want to keep bangin’ the wall like that.”

Dr. Prouty stammered, while raising his brow at the dents in the wall, “Your confederate is quite right, Mr. Vinchetti. Your infuriation is quite understandable given these grim circumstances but, really, what benefit will there be in breaking your hand?”

“
They fucked my mother in the head!
” Paulie wailed, “and then they let a DOG fuck my mother in the head!” but this time when the don hauled his fist back, Argi caught it.

“Yeah, boss. Better idea is for ya to calm down—”

“Argi!” Paulie bellowed. “If three rednecks and a
dog
fucked
your
mother in the head, wouldn’t you be pissed?”

“Well, yeah, boss, sure. But if ya bust your hand from bein’ pissed off, then don’t that give Helton the last laugh?”

Paulie’s brain simmered in contemplation, and eventually he loosened up. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, clearing his head. “I can’t give that hayseed fuck the last laugh… I gotta find some way to, some way to”—he snapped his fingers. “Doc, what am I tryin’ to say?”

Dr. Prouty, still pale himself from witnessing the video, paused, then replied, “I believe, sir, that you mean you need to find a way to re-process this very regrettable catalyst into a mode of energy that can be utilized to your advantage. Rather than expending energy via rage, it would be better to
convert
that energy into
transitive action.
”

“Yeah.
That’s
what I was tryin’ to say.” Paulie sat down on the padded bench seat. “Fact of the matter is…I never even
liked
my mother. She bad-mouthed my dad and treated me like shit when I was a kid. But
still.
I’m
Italian,
and it’s my
mother.
Pow-Wow time, guys. What do we do?”

“We know he was in Manhattan last night,” Argi offered, “so maybe he’s still there. Maybe he’s lookin’ to find more of your relatives to—”

“To fuck in the head, yeah.”

“So I’m thinkin’ maybe we should go to Manhattan ourselves. Shit, boss, were not that far. We could try to find him. Air him out once and for all.”

“Sounds like a good idea, boss,” Cristo affirmed from the driver’s seat.

Argi: “He found your mother easy enough. Maybe he’ll go after more of your relatives now.”