Header 2

by Edward Lee

  “Not bad looking—not bad at all,” Archie regarded.

  “Yeah, but for a package like me, not bad means not good enough,” Mike replied. “Chicks have to take a number to go out with me, and most of them are tens. Veronica’s maybe a six.”

  “Six? Oh, come on. That bod’s way better than a six, you cruel motherfucker!” Archie laughed.

  “All right, let’s break it down. I’d give her tits a solid nine, maybe even nine-point-five—hands down, it’s a killer rack. And, damn it, I’d be lying if I didn’t give her ass a nine to go along with the tits. Serious.”

  “What about the hoonanny?”

  Mike crossed his arms. “Gotta give that a nine, too. Perfectly formed, you know, none of that turkey skin shit hanging down. And she’s got this ass-kicking racing stripe, man. It’s the same color as her hair—that real, real light brunet.” Mike shrugged. “Her pussy rocks too. Can’t complain about any of it.”

  Archie pursed his lips. “Then how come she’s a six overall?”

  “Well, I’d have to give that mousy face a six, and the thick glasses don’t add to the party.”

  “Your math’s all wrong, man. Average three nines and one six and you’ve got eight-point-five.”

  Mike shook his head. “Tangential circumstances. That’s why I’m dumping her.”

  The revelation came as a surprise to Archie. “But she’ll be heartbroken. She’s nuts about you.”

  Mike smirked. “Archie, I hate to tell you this, but all girls are nuts about me. And not just nuts but I mean goo-goo-ga-ga, mushy, gushy crazy-in-love nuts.”

  “It’s your modesty that attracts them, I’m sure.”

  “Seriously, Veronica was just a booty call,” Mike went on, “and there wasn’t even any booty.”

  A canted look from Archie.

  Mike continued, “What good’s a pussy that ranks a nine if you can’t fuck it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean? I mean she doesn’t fuck. She’s a virgin; she’s got this weird virgin-thing—won’t fuck till she’s married.”

  “I didn’t think they made girls like that,” Archie commented. “Especially in Virginia.”

  “She’ll suck my dick day and night but won’t fuck. The only way my battleship gets into that port is with knock-out drops.” Mike looked suddenly irked. “And she won’t let me ass-fuck her, either.”

  Archie flipped a hand. ‘Well, I’m not into the ass stuff myself. I don’t want to get some chick’s shit packed up my peehole. I mean, think about it. Say you buy a girl dinner on Saturday night, then on Sunday you fuck her in the ass. The shit that gets packed up your peehole and caked around the rim is from the same food you bought her the night before. It’s fucked up.”

  Mike frowned at his friend. “Whatever. And the tit-fucking gets old fast, even with a class rack like hers.”

  Archie stole a glance to Veronica, then seemed to imagine the possibilities. “At least she lets you do it. Some girls are fussy about that. Don’t know why.”

  “It’s almost like a consolation prize, like she’s doing me a favor letting me tit-fuck her. I mean, you can only do it so many times before it becomes monotonous. Fuck, I slop all over those tits. They look like rum buns by the time I’m done.”

  “But if she sucks your dick day and night? Sounds all right to keep on the side, even without the pussy.”

  Mike appraised his Guccis, having already written poor Veronica off in his mind. “With every girl, you get the good with the bad. Veronica’s worth money—”

  Archie’s attention snapped to. “Money? Like, how much?”

  “One of her uncles won the Michigan Lottery, bagged, like, a hundred and twenty million, but set 20 million aside for Veronica on two conditions. One, she has to get a college degree and, two, she’s gotta be married by age thirty. That’s when she gets the dough if she meets the conditions.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “And how’s her college smarts?”

  Mike’ brow tittered. “She already graduated with honors from VT, got her degree in Plasma Physics.”

  “Fuck. Smart chick. With a degree like that, she can write her own ticket once this fuckin’ recession’s over.”

  “Yeah, and that’s what she wants to do even though she gets all that money when she hits the Big Three Oh.”

  “If,” Archie reminded, “she’s married.”

  “Right. And she’s already told me to my face: the only guy she ever wants to marry is me.”

  Several moments of silence followed, Archie cogitating. “Twenty million? Man…you’d never have to work again.”

  “You think I haven’t thought about that?”

  “And, shit, if you’re married, then she’ll fuck you.”

  “Sure, but she wants to have kids. I got no desire to raise kids.”

  “Then get a nanny! With twenty fuckin’ mil, you’ll be able to afford it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, but see, I gotta a gut feeling that once Veronica starts fucking me, she’ll be a lousy lay.”

  Archie looked astonished. “So what? You just said she sucks your dick day and night. If she sucks your dick day and night and has twenty million…big fuckin’ deal if she’s a lousy lay!”

  Mike shook his head. “Archie, you’re not getting it. The good with the bad? Sure, she’s into sucking dick—my dick. Doesn’t want to suck anybody else’s dick, just mine. She’ll blow me any time, anywhere. I snap my fingers, she blows me. If I’m sitting on the couch watching football and ignoring her and I pull my dick out, I don’t even have to ask—she blows me. Serious. If I’m sitting on the fuckin’ toilet taking a shit and I say, ‘Veronica, come in her and blow me,’ she’ll be on her knees sucking my dick while I got turds falling out of my ass. And it’s not like she’s just some dime-a-dozen head queen—she’s all into the love thing. You know, if there were no customers in the store and I walked over there and told her to blow me behind the counter”—Mike shrugged—“she’d do it, guaranteed.”

  Archie’s jaw dropped. “Then what the hell’s wrong with you? You can’t dump a girl like that whose gonna be worth twenty million!”

  Mike snidely shook his head. “Here’s what I haven’t told you. Sure, she loves to give me head, but you know what? It’s bad head. I mean awful head. You know that old saying ‘there’s no such thing as lousy head?’ Bullshit. Veronica gives the worse head I’ve ever had. No rhythm, no build up, she rakes her teeth, and the finish is all wrong.”

  “Really?” Archie said, surprised. “That bad, huh?”

  “Worse. It’s so bad, it’s infuriating. It’s so bad, twenty million or not…I’d rather punch her in the fucking face and jerk off.”

  “Wow.”

  Mike looked at his friend. “So what would you do? Dump it or keep it?”“For twenty million dollars? Fuck, man. I’d keep it.”

  Mike shrugged. “Yeah, well that’s because you have different standards. Me, I’m first class. A first-class guy like me needs a chick with first-class looks, who’s a first-class lay, and can suck first-class dick. If she can’t do that, then it’s three strikes, she’s out. My self-image is worth more than twenty million bucks—”

  “Oh is it, now?”

  “When a chick wants to go out with me, I’m not going to demean myself by settling for less than I deserve.” He looked at Archie, granite-faced. “I’m not a whore, Archie. I’m hot property.”

  Archie laughed out loud.

  Mike continued, “In general, a girl who can’t suck good dick pretty much has no right to exist.”

  Archie continued to laugh. “Okay, but since you’re not a whore, let’s just say that Veronica gave great head. What would you do?”

  Mike made a sound like a horse sputtering. “I’d marry her in a fuckin’ heartbeat. With all that money? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  Shortly after this conversational exercise in out-right misogyny detailing the relegation of women as soull
ess arrangements of sexual parts, Veronica rang up the purchase for her customer. The customer paused to take yet another none-too-covert glance at her body, then left the store. Veronica turned, smiled, stood up on her tiptoes, and waved at Mike.

  Mike waved speciously back, offering a just-as-specious smile.

  Then Veronica blew him a kiss and mouthed I love you!

  “Fuck you,” Mike muttered under his breath.

  (III)

  Not fifteen minutes after Micky-Mack had pressed the PLAY button on the mysterious portable DVD unit, utter and incomprehensible calamity had descended upon Helton Tuckton and his kin. Dumar, after the “movie’s” completion, had collapsed into a swoon. Micky-Mack was still vomiting into one of the pails they used when the roof leaked. And Helton…

  Great Gawd Almighty… Just what kind’a evil is it we got here?

  Helton sat upright, wide-eyed, paralyzed in his chair, his hands gripping the chair’s arms so tightly, he trembled.

  Micky-Mack looked up from the pail with a tear-streaked face. “Uncle Helton—holy shit! Who could’a done such a thing ta poor l’il Crory? Who?”

  “Evil men, that’s who,” Helton croaked. His stare remained fixed on the DVD player’s small and now blank LCD screen. “Men eviler than anything we’se can reckon, son.”

  Micky-Mack wailed. “Why they do that? Why they do that to li’l Crory? Crory ain’t done them no harm! He just a inner-sint li’l kid! How could they—how could they—”

  Dumar roused just then, his face paper-white from all the blood that the horror had drained from it. He looked shock-eyed to his father. “Paw! Tell me that were all just a nightmare we seen on that machine! Tell me, Paw!”

  The screen glowed blue and there blinked a small square that read REPLAY and another that read EJECT.

  Micky-Mack returned to his vomiting, and Dumar howled like a sick dog.

  For those wondering exactly what the movie entailed, consider yourselves duly scolded for diminutive powers of imagination; however, the first three minutes of this fifteen-minute cinematic venture will be communicated via an inappropriate and admittedly indulgent stylistic break…in screenplay format…

  FADE IN:

  INT. ROOM

  We see a bare white metal wall in the b.g. and what appears to be a small, curtained window, like a window, perhaps, in a motor-home. The curtain is a curious deep-burgundy color, with white dots.

  MALE VOICE #1 (O.S.)

  (gruff Jersey accent)

  We’re rollin’, boss.

  MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)

  (snappy Jersey accent)

  How’re the lights? You check the lights?

  MALE VOICE #1 (O.S.)

  Meter’s readin’ right on.

  MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)

  Bring the kid in…

  MALE VOICE #3 (O.S.)

  (higher-pitched Jersey accent)

  Comin’ right up.

  The scene HOLDS. We hear brief CLATTER O.S.

  SUDDENLY—

  A Small Boy (CRORY Tuckton) is moved INTO FRAME. A Man in a Suit moves behind Crory, but we do not see his face. He appears to non-verbally direct the Boy to sit on what must be a stool, for we see no chair-back. We PUSH IN on young Crory’s Face…

  He’s SOBBING, his face smudged and tear-trailed. His longish, butterscotch hair is disarrayed.

  The Man in the Suit moves OUT OF FRAME.

  MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)

  Go on kid, talk to your daddy.

  CRORY

  (distraught)

  Daddy? Uncle Helton? These-these men, they done took me when I were droppin’ crayfish traps at Hog Neck Lake like I’se do ever mornin’, and-and…they brung me ta this big motor-home thing that smells real bad, and-and there’s this big fat lady here, and-and—

  Crory’s tears flow; he continues to SOB and SNIFFLE. We hear a MALE CHUCKLE O.S.

  CRORY (CON’T)

  Daddy? These men tolt me they’se talked to ya ’bout gettin’ me back to Uncle Helton’s house but said you didn’t want me no more, and they tolt me Uncle Helton say the same—

  BREAK

  At this, the already stifled Dumar lunged from his rickety seat, bellowing. “You hear that, Paw! These men snatched that my boy tolt him we didn’t want him no more!” and then Dumar made the coarsest vociferation of rage intertwined with despair. He slammed his fists into the wall, even the first adrenalin-accelerated impact splitting the planks like balsa wood. Helton bear-hugged him, muscling him back down to his seat.

  “Get a grip, son! Don’t go bustin’ yourself up! We gots to find out what this is all about!”

  Cock-eyed, Dumar summoned all of his self-restraint to keep himself seated. Meanwhile, the movie continued…

  BACK TO:

  INT. ROOM

  We remain CLOSE on Crory’s disoriented and terrified face.

  CRORY (CON’T)

  Please, daddy! Tell these men ya want me back! They’se bad men. I’se sorry I stolt them quarters out yer pants that time’n lied ’bout pullin’ Kelli Jean Rooder’s pants down—I’ll never do stuff like that again, I’se promise, but, daddy, please tell these men ya want me back!

  MALE VOICE #1 (O.S.)

  Melda, open them big log legs of yours and show the kid the goods.

  Male Hands grab Crory’s head and turn it to the right.

  MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)

  Take a good look, kid—

  Crory is looking at something OUT OF FRAME. He SCREAMS high and whistle-like, like a little girl. We hear Male CHUCKLING O.S.

  Crory’s head is roughly re-positioned to look back at the CAMERA but now the whites of his eyes have filled with Red Blots.

  MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)

  Damn, Doc. Why’s that always happen?

  MALE VOICE #4/DOC (O.S.)

  (distressed, no accent)

  A hypertensive spike causes the certain ocular blood vessels to hemorrhage…

  (beat)

  …the effect of sheer, unbridled terror…

  We remain CLOSE on Crory’s face as…

  SUDDENLY—

  Male Hands seal a piece of Duct Tape across Crory’s lips. Crory HEAVES, while only MEWLS are now heard through the tape.

  NEXT—

  Another set of Male Hands begin to smear some odd, white-yellow muck over Crory’s head. A WET, SLOPPING sound accompanies the action. In moments, Crory’s head is slathered in this substance.

  MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)

  All right, cut it now. Let’s get a nice, juicy close-up…

  CUT TO:

  We see the FRAME FULL of pallid, cellulite-dimpled fat: a Morbidly Obese Woman spreading her legs. Her Vaginal Ingress GAPES, an Organic Hole the circumference of a cereal bowl…

  In the b.g., we hear Crory’s horrified MEWLS O.S.

  END OF TRANSITION

  As previously implied, no further details of the movie’s contents will be rendered; and in an aggravating instance of a narrative proceeding out of chronological order, we return to the point where Micky-Mack has recommenced to vomiting in the pail and Dumar is baying quite dog-like in despair.

  Helton palmed his temples, thinking, Evil, evil, evil…

  “Who were them men kilt my boy in that fat woman’s pussy, Paw!” came more bellowing from Dumar.

  Wincing, and still vomiting, Micky-Mack looked up at Helton. “I guess I’se just too young ta understant, Uncle Helton! Why they do that ta poor li’l Crory?”

  Dumar began banging! his head against the floor. “Who’re them men!”—BANG!—“Who’re them men!”—BANG!—“Holy fuckin’ SHEE-IT, Paw! We gotta find them men”—BANG!

  Helton pulled his son off the floor. “Cain’t be bashin’ your head in, son! Yer gonna need yer wits about ya—we all is…”

  “My poor li’l baby boy died thinkin’ I didn’t want him, Paw! They’se told him I didn’t want him!”

  “I know. I know, son…” Helton ran stout fingers through the tumult of long, wavy hair. “Paulie—someone named
Paulie. Jesus ta pete, who is this Paulie?”

  “Maybe he lied ’bout his name, Unc!” wailed Micky-Mack. “Maybe it were really Hall Sladder!”

  “Naw, naw, boy, you’re not thinkin’. Sladder don’t wear no citified suit’a clothes, and he shore as hail don’t drive no big, fancy motor-home. Fuck, he drives a ‘55 Chevy 235, and there ain’t no way the thievin’ cracker has the know-how to run a complerkated movin’-picture camera like what that must’a been.”

  “Paw’s right, Micky-Mack,” Dumar moaned. “And Hall Sladder, he don’t know from these VDV machines any more’n we do…”

  Helton paced the room in an excoriating psychical stew of regret, despair, and unsurceasing outrage. He could feel the blood beating at his temples, while that same blood felt oddly gritty and loose as if it were not blood at all, and something not a part of his physical being. Paulie, Paulie, Paulie, came the hectoring name. Dumar and Micky-Mack sobbed outright now that the full weight of the horror had set in, and Helton may have sobbed himself as he thunked shudderingly to his knees, his hands clasped in desperate prayer…

  “Lord God—holy shit, I’se know I ain’t been the best’a servants to Ya, but the way I see it, I ain’t been the worst, neither, and since You know all things, I ain’t even gotta say that I never did no wrong to no one who didn’t have it comin’…” Genuine tears squeezed from Helton’s closed eyes. “I do believe in Ya, God, so in return fer me believin’ in Ya, is I way out’a line askin’ fer a favor? These evil fellas done kilt my poor li’l grandson in the awfulest way, and I’se also know it says in Your Book, ‘an eye fer a blammed eye,’ so, God, I figure I’d be livin’ more in Your ways by followin’ that. Please, Lord, I’se beggin’ ya. If I ain’t worthy’a Yer favor, then strike me down right here’n now ’cos I don’t deserve Yer attention fer these prayers’a mine. But if’n maybe I am in line fer a favor…holy shit, could Ya please help me find this evil Paulie fella so’s I can properly revenge my grandson’s murder like’n it say in Yer Book? Please, God! Gimme a sign! I beseech Ya, help me get my proper revenge ‘gainst this Paulie fella for this devil-lovin’, des-picker-bul crime,” and Helton pronounced “crime” as cram.