by Edward Lee
"Oh, I heard me'a that road," Dicky said, kindled. "Used ta drink beer on the bridge'n throw the bottles off."
"Well that kicks ass, Dicky, that you know where the road is and, see, this guy Crafter? He's like a collector of ‘spensive stuff, like antiques'n old paintin's'n jewelry but, like, real old jewelry that we could fence in Pulaski or Roanoke. Big, big money in this house, Dicky."
Dicky hadn't been terribly enthused in the first place, but now he just frowned. "Some score, Balls. A fuckin' B&E? You'll git yourself caught, you will, or worse blowed away. Ever-body's got guns in this county, man."
Balls' eyes were glittering he was so torqued up. "No, man, 'cos, see, the guy won't be home, and he's got no wife or kids or anyone else in the house. Beginnin' of every September, he goes out'a town fer a coupla weeks—Spain, he goes to, wherever that is. So's the house is empty. All we gots to do is knock the place over'n fence the haul ‘fore he can git back ta report it missin'."
Dicky gave a strained expression. "I don't know, Balls. Ya could still git caught a mite easy. If this guy Crafter tolt ya he goes out'a town ever September, then he'll know it's you who done the job."
Balls was nearly giddy in excitation. "That's the best part, Dicky. I don't know the guy from Adam. Never met him, never talked to him."
"Then how you know so much 'bout him?"
"This guy tolt me, see?"
"This guy?"
Balls nodded. "'Bout a year ago this newbie con named Bud Tooler got dropped on our cellblock. Biggest, dumbest cracker you ever saw, and the poor rube got sent up twennie-five years on a rapo. Raped some gal in the back of a Good Humor truck, he did, after knockin' her out'n takin' the cash box, and the big cracker wouldn't'a even got caught ‘cept you know what he did? He went back to the truck a few minutes later and stole a box'a Tastee Pops."
"Shee-it!"
"The splittail were still unconscious but someone seed him takin' the fuckin' ice cream!"
"Fuckin'-A, man! That's dumber'n dogshit!"
"Yeah, man, fuckin' Bud Tooler, biggest dumbest rube you could ever meet'n yer life. Fucker's got dick fer brains."
Dicky joined Balls in some laughter, but then calmed down and squinted at a thought. "Hey, Balls? What's this rube Bud Tooler got to do with this old Crafter guy?"
"I'se tellin' ya, Dicky. See, Tooler had a job fer years, cuttin' this guy Crafter's lawn'n doin' his hedges'n shit, so's that's how he knowed that the guy goes away first week'a every September. And one time Crafter's sink got stopped up so's he let Tooler into the house ta fix it. Only time in all them years Tooler ever got asked in the house were that one time, but one were enough. He got a gander at all kinds'a ‘spensive shit in there. So's after that Tooler got ta thinkin' he'd knock the place over himself when Crafter went on his next trip but then he got busted on that Good Humor rapo last week'a July," and, of course, Balls pronounced July as "Joo-lie."
"Hmm," Dicky murmured.
"Yeah. Hmm, brother."
"Crafter, you say his name is?"
"Yeah, man. Crafter. Ephriam Crafter and he's got a million bucks'a shit in his house just waitin' ta be cleaned out. If'n we don't pull this job, we'd be dumber than Tooler fer goin' back fer that box'a Tastee-Pops, am I right?"
Dicky's mental gears spun as best they could. "Ya know, Balls? Just you might be right 'bout that."
"So's it's settled, partner. Tomorrow you git'cher new trannie. Then till the first week'a September we'se rake in some cash runnin' shine. And after that—" Balls raised his beer mug again—"we' git pig-shit rich when we knock over Ephriam Crafter's house on Governor's Bridge Road."
"I'se'll drink ta that!" Dicky celebrated and clinked mugs.
They split another pitcher as the tavern's din rose. All the pool tables were full, and there wasn't an empty seat in the house. Doreen was seen slipping out of the men's room—deftly replacing her dentures and wiping her mouth—and then a second later a man came out as well. Meanwhile, Cora Neller had seen fit to get up on a table and dance, but when she pulled up her top—showing death-camp breasts—she got booed down.
Balls remained excited about his new business propositions, especially Crafter's house, which he knew in his heart was a done deal. But something else, on the periphery of his psyche, was bothering him.
"Hey, Dicky. ‘Member when we was kids'n every so often we'd go over ta Mrs. Houser's house'n look in her winder'n watch her brush her hair nekit?"
"Aw, yeah!" Dicky recalled, a bit tipsy now. "And then she'd do jumpin' jacks and bendin'-over exercises whiles we was watchin'!"
"Yeah, and ‘member how we'se always had the idea she knew we was watchin' but she never did nothin'."
"Yer right, yer right! And then we'd beat off whiles we was watchin'!"
Balls nodded. "Yeah, yeah, and we'se were all pissed off 'cos we was too young ta squirt."
"Aw, yeah, man, we couldn't wait fer our peters ta start kickin' out juice like the older boys—"
"And like in them old porno mags we found in that ravine behind the old Dart Drug." Balls peered intently at Dicky. "We knew that jism came out'a peckers when we saw that. ‘Member?"
Dicky searched his not-very-elaborate memory. "Yeah! They was in a old suitcase! So's we'se crawled down that ravine thinkin' it was full'a money from a bank robbery or somethin' and thens we busted it open'n it was stuffed with old porno, and each page had some fella squirtin' a big ole load in some skanky chick's face or tits."
"Um-hmm, and that one mag had pregnant chicks that guys was fuckin' and comin' on, and we couldn't believe that shit—"
"Oh, yeah!" Dicky's memory began to chug.
"—and then that other mag with mostly black fellas with cocks on 'em like chunks'a radiator hose and they'se was cornholin' all these little skinny white junkies, and fer the life'a us we couldn't figure how somethin' that big could go into somethin' that small—"
"Man, I'se forgot all about that, Balls!"
Balls lowered his voice. "And do ya remember that last mag in the suitcase, Dicky? That one we figgured must'a been from the '50s on account it were black'n white?"
Dicky's yap fell open as he searched his mind...
"‘Member that? It were these big brawny guys fuckin' the stuffin' out a bunch more junkie girls, and these fellas was spittin' in the gals' mouths'n blowin' their noses on 'em, and all kinds'a groaty stuff, and then one guy had his fist up a splittail's snatch coupla inches past the wrist, and then another fella stuck his whole foot in a girl... "
Dicky suddenly blanched at the recollections of pornographic imagery. "Aw, yeah, now I ‘member. The mags with guys fuckin' girls and gittin' blowed were fine but that last one like ta turn my stomach. Made me fuckin' sick, it did... "
Balls seemed focused on some inner impulse. "But'cher forgettin' the last page, Dicky. ‘Member the last page'a that black'n white mag?"
Dicky stared, then gulped.
"Had that fella with, like, a Beatles haircut stickin' a pistol barrel right up that girl's beaver, and theres was some blood comin' out her."
"Aw, man. That were some disgustin' shit, man. Didn't turn me on none, that's fer shore. It even killed my hankerin' ta beat off."
"Well that's just it, Dicky. Average person's probably of a mind that that sorta porn ain't fer no one but folks sick in the head."
Dicky gulped again, nauseated. "Fella'd have to be sick in the head ta git boned up lookin' at shit like that. A gun stickin' up a gal's bloody pussy? Shee-it."
"And, fuck, Dicky, we weren't no more'n ten years old when we'se found that old suitcase. But ya knows what? When I gots home that day... I did beat off, and I did on account of that last picture. Sick as the shit was, I had a boner somethin' fierce, I did, and once I got ta thinkin' 'bout that pistol in the gal's cooze, I beat off like there were no tomorrow, and even now, after all them years, I still got that picture locked in my head, and if'n I think about it, I get wood."
Dicky stared at him.
"So's I'm startin' ta thi
nk there's somethin' wrong with me, ya know? That I'm the one sick in the head."
This was getting too deep for Dicky. He scoffed, "Aw, shee-it, Balls, ferget it. Ain't nothin' but a picture of a bunch'a fucked up junkies."
Balls nodded with some contemplation. "Maybe, but gettin' back to what I was sayin' first? 'Bout Mrs. Houser?"
Dicky smiled, for this image was much more appealing than the previous. "She had tits on her bigger'n our blammed heads. And ‘member that hair-pie she had?"
"Yeah, yeah, I know, but here's somethin' I never tolt ya," Balls went on, serious. "It was after me'n you dropped out'a that shit-hole junior high they bussed us to in Clintwood. Me'n you didn't see each other much after that 'cos we'se was workin' fer our Daddys, but, see, I kept goin' back ta Mrs. Houser's place at night ta jerk off whiles lookin' at her nekit, see?"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I were thirteen, fourteen years old by then, and lemme tells ya, my dick was kickin' out some cum by that age... "
"Yeah, me too," Dicky hastily added. "I was shootin' it five, six feet at least."
Balls frowned. "Yeah, yeah, but, see, I went up there one night'n I was all boned up to begin with 'cos I'd been thinkin' about that picture'a the gal with the gun up her snatch, and then I get to Mrs. Houser's winder figgurin' I'll have me a good ole yank watchin' her doin' them bend-over exercises, but'cha know what?"
Dicky stared back. "What?"
"I look in that winder—"
"Was she nekit? Was she?" Dicky prodded.
"Oh, she was nekit, all right, and so was the fella in there with her, but, see, Mrs. Houser, she was tied up, her ankles'n wrists was tied ta each corner of the bed, and she hadda gag in her mouth... "
Dicky's drunken eyes bloomed from the intrigue.
"And it was a big black fella in there with her, and this fella hadda cock on him like a tennis-ball can painted black is how big it was."
"Fuck," Dicky whispered.
"And he was layin' a right hard hand on Mrs. Houser, punchin' her in the breadbasket'n bitin' her belly'n tits, and he were slappin' his open hand across her pussy so hard it sounded like a horsewhip."
"Yer shittin' me!"
"Naw, not a bit, Dicky, and then he got ta slappin' her across the face, too, then he'd punch her up some more and then put a piller ‘cross her face'n press down fer, like, a long time, man, and then he'd take it off'n slap her awake again, and in between all this rough-housin', he'd fuck her a whiles with that giant cock'a his, then he'd stop'n bite her tits'n belly'n crack his hand to her pussy, like that, startin' the whole deal alls over. So's I'm thinkin' this fella busted inta her house ta rip her off but figgured he might as well rape the livin' shit out'a her ta boot."
"Fuck, yeah. Must'a been what he was doin', I'd say."
"Uh-hmm, so's this voice in my head tells me ta run back to the house'n call the poe-leece'n tell 'em Mrs. Houser's bein' raped."
"Did the cops catch the black fella?" Dicky asked.
Balls paused, ruminating. "Naw, 'cos, see, I never called 'em. Just as I were about to run home, this other voice in my head tolt me ta stay... "
"Shee-it, Balls!"
"I know, man. That's low-down, but that's what I did. I stayed at that winder'n watched this guy fuck Mrs. Houser all up, and after a bit more fuckin' with that giant cock'a his, he sat on her belly'n wrapped a belt ‘round her neck'n started chokin' her. She started flip-floppin' on the bed'n her face started turnin' pink, and this black fella's tightenin' up that belt with one hand'n strokin' his pole with the other, so then finally he gits his nut'n squirts it all over her face, and I swear, Dicky, it looked like an ant-eater pukin' Elmer's Glue, it did, and it was right then when I had me my own nut, and it's like the best nut'a my life, Dicky, watchin' this bad shit happenin' to Mrs. Houser. I cummed all over that winder."
Some silence stretched by, then Dicky blinked through something like dread and asked, "Balls, what happened next? Did that big player kill her?"
"Nope, but that's what I thought shore were gonna happen next. But ya know what he did instead? Shee-it. He untied her'n took off the gag, and then she gives him a big sloppy kiss'n says, ‘Oh, baby, that was great! I love you so much!'"
"Well I'se'll just shake the shit out my drawers!" Dicky honked laughter. "So's she were one'a them kinky splittails who likes rough fuckin'."
"Guess so," Balls assumed. "The whole time, the joke was on me. Shee-it, I thought he was killin' Mrs. Houser, but ya know what? Just as soon as I kin see that they'se just playing around, I squeeze the rest'a the snot out my dick'n and start ta zip up when I look back in the winder, and there ain't no one there. I figgure they both went to the kitchen're somethin', after all that hard hobknobbin'."
"Must'a been," Dicky concluded.
Balls shook his head. "I turn around to go back home but that big black fella's standin' right behind me, and Mrs. Houser too, both nekit as jaybirds."
"What'cha... what'cha do, Balls?"
"Tried ta run, a'course, but that guy's hand landed in my hair and yanked me back like I was on a tow-line. He chicken wings me, see, holdin' me a dang foot off the ground, I'se swear, and he says, ‘Just you watch, white boy,' so's I look and I see Mrs. Houser on her knees at the winder, and ya know what she's doin'? She's lickin' my fresh nut right off the shingles beneath the sill."
"Aw, man! That's some groaty shit!"
"Shore is, and once she's done eatin' all my load, she come over all grinnin' and she pulls down my drawers'n starts playin' with my peter whiles she's sayin' ‘This little shit'n his friend've been beatin' their little-boy dicks at my window for a coupla years, they have, the dirty little fuckers,' and then she starts suckin' my peter, boy, and by now the black fella's got one hand 'round my neck, and whiles Mrs. Houser's suckin' my tool ta kingdom come, he whispers in my ear: ‘I'm a-gonna snap yer little white neck right when you come, kid, and then I'm gonna whup your dead white ass till there ain't nothin' left but a mud hole,' and when he said that Mrs. Houser starts suckin' harder'n faster and, see, I'm more shit-scairt than I ever been in my life—"
"Bet'cha were, Balls... "
"—I'm all cryin' and shakin' and fuckin' terrified, but ya know what? And it's the strangest part of all, but even in spite'a bein' scairt shitless, my fourteen-year-old peter's rock hard."
"Shee-it, man, ya'd think it'd be limp as a dead man's dick—"
"Yeah, that's what ya'd think, but I still had me the hardest boner ever. Anyways, in another second, I have me another nut'n this one goes right down Mrs. Houser's throat'n then she just starts gigglin' and lickin' her chops like a mutt with a bone."
"And-and... what 'bout that black fella?" Dicky asked. "Did he snap yer neck?"
Balls frowned. "No, ya A-hole! If he'd snapped my neck, I wouldn't be sittin' here tellin' ya the story, would I?"
"Uh, oh. No," Dicky said.
"The black fella lets me go'n starts laughin', sayin' ‘Git on outa here, kid. You've had yer fun for the night. Don't be peepin' in folks windows no more. You're liable ta get shot.' I beat feet out'a there so fast I think I must'a run a mile in ten seconds, I did, but damn near every step'a the way I could hear them laughin' at me... "
Dicky stared through the next pause. "Shee-it, Balls. That's some story."
"Yeah, a fucked up story... and the mores I think about it," Balls cerebrated, "the more it tells me that I'm fucked up. That there's somethin' wrong with me."
Dicky's dim eyes fluttered. "You? Sounds ta me like the one there's somethin' wrong with is Mrs. Houser." Then he gave a nitwit chuckle. "Wantin' ta get beat up by black fellas'n eatin' jism off a wall don't sound exactly normal ta me."
"Naw, naw, Dicky," Balls complained with some aggravation. "You ain't gettin' what I'm sayin'. It ain't about her—all women eat cum off the wall'n like ta get beat'n fucked by black fellas with giant dicks, just 'cos they'se all low-down dirty whores. I'm talkin' 'bout me. When I thunk she was really gettin' murdered... I stayed at the winder ta jerk off!
And even now, most times when I'se havin' a wank... I'se still think about that picture of the guy with the Beatles haircut jamming that gun up the gal's bloody pussy. If'n I look at Playboy—shee-it. That don't turn me on none at all. I think about the girl with the gun up her snatch. I don't think about regular stuff, I think about fuckin' girls up, and ya knows what? I don't care! If someone really was murderin' Mrs. Houser, I still wouldn't call the poe-leece. I'd be standin' at that winder beatin' my meat anyways."
Dicky's eyes rolled in the fat face. "Dang, Balls. You're one fucked up piece'a work," then he slapped Balls' back and laughed.
Balls smirked over his beer. "Beats the shit out'a me why I'se always think about shit that makes ever-one else sick."
Dicky's simple gray matter couldn't handle these subjectivities. "Aw, man, you's're just drunk—forget 'bout all that."
