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The other end of the tube is connected to a plastic bag filled with discolored urine; the bag is displayed momentarily for camera’s sake, then rises off-screen. The scene holds on the woman’s flinching face as the tube fills with dark urine.

“Fill ‘er up,” announced a different Jersey accent.

We don’t have to see what’s happening, we simply know. The urine bag is being squeezed, displacing its contents into the old woman’s stomach.

“That’s it, that’s it. A nice cool drink…” but the voice pauses. “Hey, Doc? Why’s the old bitch’s piss so dark? Looks like fuckin’
tea.
”

“More than likely a catastrophically high creatinine level, that or Hepatitis A. I suspect the former, however. Severe degradation of kidney function is common amongst sedentary senior citizens.”

“Fuck up kidneys, huh? How do you like that?”

Then—

ziiiiiiiiiiiiiip!

—the tubing is yanked out.

The old woman gags, wheezing. But when she recovers, she snaps another glare right into the camera. “What a bunch’s
big men
you all is—ha! Stealin’ a crippled old woman out a nursin’ home’n makin’ her drink her own pee. I
know
who you is. You’re the devil’s-dick-suckin’ evil varmits who up’n kill my great-grandson—a 9-year-old! Yeah, give yerselfs a pat on the back fer killin’ a
little boy.
Now…my son Helton—there’s a
real
man.”

“Oh, yeah, he sure is, ya old cunt,” the off-screen voice says. “He fucked my mother in the head—”

“Ha! God bless him!”

“—so we figured we’d do somethin’ worse to
his
mother. And that head-fuckin’ shit he does? That ain’t
nothin’
compared to what we got in store for you.”

The old woman laughs. “Do your worst! See if I care one toodly! ’cos when my son get his hands on you, you’ll think you gots the
wrath of GOD
comin’ down on ya!”

Off-screen chuckles flitter like bats. More footsteps scuff. Then: “Cristo, lube her up, then get over here.”

“Right away, boss.”

The old woman makes a face when the hands reappear and spread margarine all over her head. We can see the tub: I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S NOT BUTTER!

“What the hail is
that
fer, son?” she cracks, frowning.

“Let’s just say you’re gonna need it to try on your new hat.”

“New
hat?
Boy, what in tarnations you talkin ’bout?”

The hands slather the margarine heavy, then pull away. “You’ll see, grandma…”

We hear more off-screen talk. “Doc, you and Argi get on that side, Me and Cristo got this side.”

“Of…course, sir.”

“I’ve always liked this way the best. Who we do this to, Argi? It was up in Newark wasn’t it? Kline?”

“Naw, boss, I think it was Ringerman, you know? That runt we had runnin’ numbers for us.”

“Oh, yeah—Ringerman! That fuck. He had balls, didn’t he? Shit, that guy went way back to my grandfather’s time—”

“Vinch the Eye—”

“God rest his soul…”

“Shit, we had that guy on our payroll for decades, and then we find out he’d been stealin’ from us half that time.”

“Well, he got his.”

“Best part was makin’ his wife watch.”

“Yeah! That was sweet, wasn’t it?” A pause. “You ready, Melda?”

“I sure am, Paulie!” exclaimed a ludicrous woman’s voice.

“On the count of three. One…two…three!”

A salvo of grunts.

“Good, yeah, but—shit, Melda. No offense but you’ve gained some weight!”

“Well, I can’t help it, Paulie. Can’t walk, can’t do nothin’ but sit—er, sit, and smother people in my pussy and eat.”

Laughter.

A peculiar shadow hovers over the old woman’s head, then something indescribable seems to edge the top of the frame…

“Push that big pussy open now, huh, Melda?”

“It’s open, Paulie!”

“One…two…three…
down!
”

In a split second, the old woman’s head disappears as it is completely engulfed by a frame-filling morass of pallid flesh. A mammoth sack for a belly is observed, as well as a severely stretched wedge of pubic hair. Whatever it is,
it
has swallowed the entirety of the old woman’s head.

“Give it a few seconds.”

A few seconds tick by, then, “Now, boss?”

“Naw. A few more…”

“We don’t want her croakin’, do we?”

“All right, now. One, two, three—up!”

shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-LUCK!

The morass is lifted off as though it has defied gravity to disgorge the woman’s head, which now looks like a perversely glistening wax mask, only semi-human. The head shudders, old gray hair slicked down. The eyelids struggle but eventually open.

“Great! She didn’t kick. Kind of thought she would, old as she is.”

“Proof of the resiliency of the human biological unit…”

The old woman’s face, quite surprisingly, laughs. “Ha! That all you silly boys can do? Just wait till my son
Helton
gets ya! He’n his kin’re gonna fuck all yer brains ta puddin’!”

“One, two, three—
down!
”

The horrific mass re-lowers, yet again engulfing the head.

“I’m tempted to just kill her now. I
hate
that old cunt.”

“Sure, boss, but that’s the reason we
shouldn’t
kill her.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Okay, guys! One, two, three—
up!
”

The head is re-exposed, looking a bit more weary than the first time.

The off-screen voice directs. “Back in the chair now”—grunting—“yeah, there. Cristo, get Melda back in the Winnie.”

“Right away, boss.”

“Thanks, Melda.”

“Oh, any time, Paulie! I
love
the feel of a head in my pussy!”

“She still alive, Doc?”

A manicured finger angles into the frame and touches the old woman’s slick throat. “Wait—wait, why…yes!”

“Perfect!”

The head lolls now, muck-shellacked and wheezing for breath, but eventually the old woman summons the last of her strength and looks right back at the camera. “Helton, my dear son! Don’t ya mind none what these Satan-worshipin’ bastards are a-doin’ ta me. I’se old and it’s way past my time, and I’se had me a
wonnerful
life. Just you take care, son, like I knows ya will! I knows you’ll git these fellas’n show ’em what fer! Hunt ’em down and
fuck
their evil heads like heads ain’t never been fucked b’fore! The Tuckton’s ain’t
never
lost a feud! Make the family proud like ya
always
done—” but then her speech is drowned out by the most shockingly vicious sound: not quite that of a chainsaw, not quite that of a lawn mower.

The frame seems to collapse as the Alpine stump-grinder lowers. It lowers slowly, ever so slowly, first just nicking the top of the woman’s skull, coming back up, then lowering some more. The screech of metal to bone is unmentionable. Blood, brain, and bone-bits fly like goulash out of a lidless blender.

Down and down, then, the stump-grinder lowers, and when it’s done it’s pulled away, leaving only a meaty neck-stump.

The motor-sound cuts off. Eery silence ensues.

“How you like
them
cookies, huh,
Helton?
” the off-screen voice inquires, and then comes a staccato of laughter…

««—»»

Veronica had collapsed even before the “film’s” finish. She lay now on the floor, in a shuddering fetal position. Helton, Dumar, and Micky-Mack, on the other hand, remained standing. Staring. Wide-eyed and tearing up. What they’d just witnessed on the computer screen—in spite of the presence of morning light—somehow turned the air smoke-dark.

No one spoke for quite some time.

Helton passed around a bottle of some citified liquor called AsomBroso 100% Blue Agave Tequila that he’d pinched from Marshie’s mansion. They each took hearty slugs.

“Paw?”Dumar was the first to speak. “Grandma Petunia was up’n the finest ole gal there ever was, and I—”

Helton severed the condolence with a wave of hand. “Ain’t no words necessary, boys. Our work’s cut out fer us…”

Tears ran freely down Micky-Mack’s face. “Unc Helton. We’se gotta get ’em back worse’n
ever,
we’se gotta—”

Helton’s silencing hand rose again. “Like I done tolt ya’s before, there
is
one rellertive’a Paulie’s not too far from here, not too far at all—”

Micky-Mack’s fist banged the table. “Then let’s go! Now!”

Helton’s face looked as dark as the air. “We’se’ll go, all right. But we gots ta wait till
tonight.
In the meantime, we needs ta go back ta that big store, that one calt the
Home Depot…
”

— | — | —

Chapter 15

(I)

It wasn’t quite a vegetative state that plagued Veronica for the coming hours. It was some sort of temporary semi-catatonia that left her staring at the truck’s metal walls with virtually no thoughts crossing her mind. The men seemed to be driving through a town, not the backwoods, and every so often, Veronica peered up and out the windshield, she saw but barely noticed garlands of Christmas lights. Then:
Christmas,
the single word occurred to her.

She didn’t know what it meant.

Veronica rocked comfortably back and forth as the truck shifted gears. Were they parking? An errant shift of gaze showed her something familiar: golden…arches? But why would
that
seem familiar? As they turned and pulled around, something else caught her gaze, a large yellow sign with black letters: BEST BUY. Veronica stirred.

The truck stopped.

Another section of a sign could be seen: HOME DEPOT.

Veronica whimpered.

“Micky-Mack? See that place over yonder. With them yeller rainbow-type things?”

“Yeah, Unc.”

“That there’s a
restaurant,
and it’s a
famous
one. Ain’t never et there myself but I’se know folks who have—it’s calt the
Mack-
Donald’s. Just you go on over’n pick us up a bunch’a viddles. I’m sick’a beans’n spaghetti’n fancy tater chips. Plus, Veronica might perk up if’n she got some
citified
grub in her breadbasket. Here’s some money—”

“Oh, I
got
me some money, Unc. Let me contri-bit—”