New Title 1 (6 page)

“Melda, meet our pal Case Piece,” Paulie announced.

“Hi, Case Piece!” came a high-spirited female voice with a Jersey accent.

Case Piece remained unable to speak.

What he viewed was, indeed, a human being, a
naked
human being, and one who had to weigh over 300 pounds. She—Melda—sat on a broad bench, elephantine legs parted, while beneath the bench sat a bucket for the manifest purposes of elimination. An extra-wide wheelchair had been folded up and set aside; Case Piece easily deduced that that’s what was used to wheel her in here, and the handicapped elevator was the mode by which she was actually admitted into the motor home. Rolls of pallid fat seemed stacked upon more and more rolls where her lap should be, but half-covered by two flat slabs of
still more
fat which were, of course, breasts. Each horrendous slab was the size of a ten-pound flour sack but with nipples akin to bologna slices; and from the nipples sprouted veins like some organic Van de Graaf Generator.

The woman was, in all, a human
hulk,
pale as mashed potatoes, cellulite-riddled: a female Jabba the Hut with bunned brown hair and a sprawling pubic wedge the size of a third of a pizza. The bench that this unfortunate person sat upon…bowed slightly against the mammoth weight, and the previously noted smell which wafted off the pile of flesh was, at best, becoming unspeakable. Ankles swollen by acute diabetes-related edema were connected to big, strangely curved feet whose skin seemed off-pink and pin-prick tight. Toenails, inches long, resembled corroded bamboo shoots. No navel was visible, for the fat-rolls, while her bulbous, multi-chinned face looked like a relief pressed into a massive white pile of baker’s dough.

Unnoticed when juxtaposed with this living spectacle was a digital video camera on a tripod, several lights, and sundry other equipment.

“See her legs?” Paulie said.

Case Piece looked, still speechless. Melda’s shins and thigh-bones seemed slightly
curved,
and there was something about her hips that appeared oddly and quite abnormally splayed.

“Melda ain’t never walked in her life,” Paulie said. “Some off-the-wall bone disease or some shit. But it’s that same disease that makes her special.”

What’s so special ’bout a giant, fat, honkie ghetto cow?
Case Piece thought, queasy just looking at her.

Now Paulie’s grin seemed bright as a tensor lamp. “Ready for the cool part? Huh, Case Piece? You ready?”

“I—”

“Melda, show Case Piece what makes you special,” came the order.

“Oh, sure, Paulie!” the catastrophic woman piped. She reached under her knees and, with some effort, pulled up and spread her massive legs.

“That some fuckin’ poo-putt groaty motherfuckin’
shit,
Paulie!” Case Piece wailed without conscious forethought because, see, the unruly pink seam of Melda’s vagina was, like, almost a foot long. “This scary bitch got the giantest fuckin’ pussy in the world!”

“Aw, shit, Case Piece. You ain’t seen
nothin’,
” and then Paulie directed, “Okay, Melda. Open wide…”

Melda released a deep, sub-octave groan while simultaneously pushing her stomach muscles out. As the gargantuan belly very slowly expanded…the gargantuan vagina very slowly
opened…

It opened to an aperture the circumference of a common cereal bowl.

“Ain’t that somethin’, Case Piece?”

Case Piece now had his hands over his face; he was trembling. “Paulie! That woman got a motherfuckin’
impossible
fuckin’ pussy, man! That the scariest shit I ever seen! Shit, man! You could put a fuckin’
bowling ball
in there!”

“Not quite. We tried. See, we don’t just make snuff flicks, we make all kinds of gross-out flicks for the underground perv market. You name it, we do it,” Paulie boasted. “Wet-flicks, nek-flicks, scat-flicks, torture-flicks, kp, farm animals, shit like that. And giant pussy flicks.”

Cristo added his two cents. ‘Believe it or not, there’s guys out there who get turned on seein’ gross-out stuff, and they
pay
to watch flicks of women gettin’ things stuck up their cunts.”

“We shoved
all kinds
of shit up there,” Argi added. “Greased coconuts, cantaloupes, jars of fuckin’ mayonnaise, loaf of pumpernickel…”

Cristo recollected, “Oh, yeah, and that head of napa, head of cabbage, head of iceberg lettuce—”

‘Fuck yeah!” Paulie’s memory kicked in. “And, like, that time Bam Bam Jr. stuck
four
rolls of polenta up there, oh, and then that big ball of Edam cheese. And, fuck, I swear I remember us packin’ a beef brisket in her once, too.”

“Naw,” Argi said, “I think it was a rump roast, boss.”

Paulie reflected with a nod. “Yeah, you’re right. It
was
a rump roast, and I also think we stuffed up a seven-pound fall squash.”

Cristo clapped and blurted, “And, shit, that time when Argi didn’t like the rotisserie chicken he got at Boston Market ’cos it wasn’t brown enough!”

The three mobsters howled laughter.

“Anyway,” Paulie calmed down. “That’s the kind of dudes there are out there; they pay to see gals with giant pussies get stuff stuffed up ’em.” He put an arm about Case Piece’s shoulder. “Now, I want you to look
hard
at that pussy and think about what
else
might fit up there.”

Case Piece, now nearly in tears, looked paralyzed at Paulie. “Not a…not a…huh-huh-huh…”

“A human
head?
” Paulie cracked his hands together. “Bingo!”

“But-but-but-but…that’s fuckin’
impossible!”

Paulie shrugged. “Doc, tell Case Piece why it ain’t impossible.”

Forlorn at the prospect, and fairly gagging at the smell, the good Doctor Prouty began, “Melda suffers from two regrettable maladies, one congenital and one post-surgical. We’ll start with the latter: Melda is approximately 40 years old now, and in spite of her, shall we say,
uncomely
physical appearance and the obvious vaginal abnormality, there have been men in the past who’ve actually had the fortitude to partake in
intercourse
with her—”

“Some guys’ll do
anything
for a nut, huh, guys?” Paulie said, then he, Argi, and Cristo laughed.

“Indeed. And just as women in ghetto-environments are wont to do, she’s had
many
children, all in the interest of advancing her food voucher allowance and subsidized housing credits. However, immediately after the birth of her first child, some 20 years ago, complications demanded a surgical procedure known as an
episiotomy:
the bottom of the vaginal fissure was cut just enough to allow the newborn head to pass. Afterward, the incision was stitched up but pressure from subsequent births caused the episiotomy to tear open again. One can only re-stitch episiotomy incisions so many times before they begin to…gape. The result is a vaginal pass considerably larger than that of women so unafflicted, a condition called
enlarged aggravated introitus
.” Prouty had to steady himself, deliberately averting his eyes from what Melda continued to display. “The second condition, a
congenital
one, is a very rare and unfortunate maladaptation of the bones known as Anberg Syndrome, identified by the famous Latvian physician and medical researcher, Dr. Nora Anberg. Anberg Syndrome affects only one in
one hundred million
women; hence, the rarity. A corrupt gene mechanism arrests the proper ossification process of infantile bone development—exclusively, the bones of the legs and pelvis. In other words, Melda’s legs and hips aren’t fully calcified, they’re more the consistency of cartilage and therefore
flexible.
This of course precludes Melda’s ability to walk but it also affords her a ‘variable pelvic spread.’” Prouty now took a wizened breath. “So, given the combination of Anberg Syndrome and the enlarged aggravated introitus, the endeavor to insert an entire human adult head into Melda’s vaginal barrel is quite easily achieved…”

Case Piece heard very little of the clinical explanation, the visual horror before him all too corrupting. “So-so-so…so
that’s
what you do? You stick a dude’s
head
in her
cooch?
”

“Dude, chick, whatever we want,” Paulie bragged. “Like I said, we use her for the sick-flicks, but also for hardcore vendetta. Say a judge steps hard on one of my crew. We ask him politely to lay off, and if he don’t?” Paulie chuckled. “Then we ask him
not
so politely. And say this judge has a 5-year-old kid. We snatch some
other
5-year-old kid out of the ghetto, pack the kid’s head in Melda’s pussy and smother him to death. Then we send the video to the judge with a note that says, ‘Stop stepping on my guy or next time it’ll be
your
kid who gets the action.’ Works every time. One time this RICO agent killed one of my lieutenants, then bragged about it in the paper. We nabbed his 19-year-old princess daughter right off the campus at NYU. Tied her up, taped her mouth so she can’t bite, then plugged the bitch’s head right into Melda’s slot. And while she’s smotherin’ in there, Argi and Cristo are takin’ turns fuckin’ her. We’d plug her head in, fuck her some, then right before she’s about to croak, we pull her out. Did that shit for like a half-hour. In, out, in, out. Finally we left the bitch in and she suffocated, then we haul her out and Cristo fucks her dead body one more time for…what’s the word, Doc?” He snapped his fingers. “Prosperity?”

“
Posterity,
sir.”

“Right. Then we Priority-Mailed the video to the fed. Fuck him. But he sure as shit learned his lesson.” Paulie nodded. “Shit, I’ll bet we’ve snuffed a dozen folks in Melda’s pussy, right Melda?”

Melda—evidently possessed of some enduring vaginal muscles, more than likely through sheer
practice
—remained with her massive legs pulled up, still displaying the enlarged orifice of horror. “Oh, no, Paulie, more like fifteen, sixteen.”

“And, boss,” Argi urged. “Don’t forget to tell Case Piece about the Parsall job.”

Paulie gave the thumbs up. “Oh, yeah, that was beautiful. Brand-new police chief got elected in Oneida County couple of years ago, cocky fuck named Parsall, and the fucker had the balls to put all our pictures in the paper and a headline sayin’ some shit like ‘It’s All Out War Against the Mob.’ Guy starts bustin’ our numbers nets, fucks with our casinos, turns half our fuckin’ street dealers into informants, even sends
DEA
all our profiles, like that. Well, I didn’t dig it, so… Shit, Argi, it was your work so you get the honors.”

Argi bragged, “The chief, see, his wife just had a baby, so like a day after, me and my crew dress up like doctors and sneak into the maternity ward and we
snatch
the one-day-old kid.” Argi winked. “Get it?”

Case Piece stared. His mouth fell open.

“We packed the
whole baby
right up Melda’s cunt and smothered it to death—”

“—then sent the video to the chief,” Paulie finished. “Melda makes for the best vendetta ever, I’m tellin’ ya. We found her in the Newark slums, had a brother-in-law who ran markers for us. What a find, huh, Case Piece?”

Case Piece could make no response.

“All right,” Paulie announced. “It’s party time.”

The muffled screams that exploded within Highball’s taped-shut mouth sounded more like bad brakes. Cristo, in the meantime, opened up a tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, scooped out a handful, and slathered it all over Highball’s head, after which he and his confederate picked the ill-fortuned woman up, held her parallel to the floor in the fashion of a battering ram, then—

The muffled screams shot round and round the room.

—eased her head into the gaping abysm of flesh that was Melda’s vagina.

Highball’s restrained body, quite reasonably, vibrated. Her screams were now barely audible yet the sound was somehow
more
disturbing. She shuddered and quaked, flipped and flopped, quivered and shivered.