by Edward Lee
“My God!” she hacked. “You-you-you evil hillbillies!”
Helton’s bushy brow rose. “There ya go with yer down-talkin’ again. Hon, a good rule’a thumb is don’t talk down ta folks who ain’t talked down to you first.”
“You going to kill me, I know it!” her accent wailed.
“We ain’t gonna kill ya, and we ain’t even gonna fuck ya. Ya’d deserve a fuckin’, a’course, but, see, we’se savin’ up our peckersnot fer somethin’ far more important than you.”
Drenched, she looked incredulous at him.
“But we will be teachin’ ya a lesson, ’cos you got a right foul mouth on ya.”
“I-I-I…I’m sorry!”
“Too late fer that,” Helton assured her. “Apollergees is one thing, but they ain’t worth shit if they ain’t from the heart,” and then Helton’s big hand landed on top of her head. She squealed when he grabbed a handful of wet hair and lifted her to her feet.
Dumar looked aggravated. “Shit, Paw. I’se understand that we cain’t fuck her on account the punishment gotta fit the crime, but—holy sheeeeeeee-IT!—cain’t we’se at least see her nekit?”
Eyes fixed on the breasts beneath the wet t-shirt, Helton gave the query some consideration. “Don’t see no harm in that,” he said. Then, to the girl, “All right, missy. Get them clothes off.”
Dripping, Kasha could only look back at him.
At the same time, Dumar passed his father a rather large revolver—in specificity, a British-made and century-old Webley .455 whose uniqueness existed in the fact that it was a rare automatic revolver. The antique weapon had once belonged to a lowdown, wife-beating local creeker, Archerd Conner, who’d died wretched in the early ‘90s. Conner’s son, Tritt Conner, whose nickname was “Balls,” had then properly inherited the weapon but he’d died a while back amid some controversy in the woods near a closed hospice for priests with terminal illnesses. Dumar had lucked upon the relic for chump-change at a Crick City pawn shop.
But be all that as it may, Helton took the impressive gun and pointed it right at the girl. “Get ’em right off.”
Wobbly-kneed, and sobbing, Kasha took off her clothes.
The three men’s jaws dropped.
“Holy FUCK,” Micky-Mack said.
“That is some body, ain’t it?” Dumar posed.
Helton remained essentially speechless.
The nude woman gleamed in the sun; the previous urinary void left her hair hanging like oiled strings and the dark pubic tuft a nest of glistening jewels. Wet skin radiated keen as a flash of sunlight on a lake. Just then she could’ve been some Siren of the New Dark Age, the Gleaming Goddess of Piss and Shining Desire.
Her breasts stood out in utter, incontestable preeminence.
Micky-Mack and Dumar winced at the marveling sight. “Gawd dang, Paw. Her bod’s even finer than Veronnerka’s. This is tough!”
“I don’t think I ever seed a body that hot in my life,” Micky-Mack groaned and began to stroke his now fully erect member. Dumar did the same, and it should be mentioned now that after gustily emptying their bladders, neither man had zipped back up.
Helton had no choice but to rub his crotch and perhaps mumble a frustrated curse under his breath. “I know it’s tough, boys, but that’s what separates good men from crackers. We ain’t crackers. Crackers got none’a what they call morality. We bust our nuts in this bad-tempered bitch’s box just fer talkin’ down ta us, then we ain’t no better’n Thibald Caudill hisself. So you boys just git them peters back in yer pants where they belong.” He winked. “You’ll be needin ’em later.”
With reluctance and more than a small amount of muttering, Micky-Mack and Dumar obeyed their elder.
“But now that leaves you, missy.” Helton tapped the gun barrel against his palm.
Kasha shivered where she stood, the cool air not only causing the shiver but also fascinatingly puckering the stupendous nipples as the urine began to dry. “What-what-what,” came the accented stutter, “you going to do?”
Another squeal as Helton roughly shoved her toward the cow.
“Hot damn!” Micky-Mack wailed. “Unc’s gonna up’n make her suck that cow’s dick!”
WHAP!
Helton’s big booted foot to Micky-Mack’s behind sent the boy straight to the ground.
“Gawd DANG, Unc Helton!”
“When you was peein’ on this splittail ya must’a peed yer brains out with it!” Helton roared. “You see a dick on that cow? For land’s sake, boy! A cow don’t have a dick! Only bulls have dicks!”
Dumar honked laughter.
“Aw, shit, Unc,” Micky-Mack complained through his embarrassment. He got up and rubbed his rear. “Cows, bulls, how the hail do I know?”
“Ya don’t know much, I’ll’se tell ya that. Now just you shut up’n watch me administer proper punishment to this here uppity bitch.” Helton’s fist in Kasha’s hair dropped her to her knees. He urged her face very, very close to the face of the subdued cow.
Most prominent were the ropes of repugnant mucus hanging off the animal’s lips…
“See all that snot’n slime’n such hangin’ there?” he asked of Kasha.
Kasha stared in mute horror, so Helton pinched her cheek hard.
“Do ya?”
“Yes, yes!” she sobbed.
“You’re gonna eat it. You’re gonna eat it all.” Helton paused for effect. “Then we’ll let’cha go.”
Kasha screamed.
“And if’n ya don’t eat it…” He put the gun to her head.
“Holy moly, Paw. That shore is some punishment!”
“Hot damn!” Micky-Mack approved.
Helton, of course, wouldn’t really kill her if she refused, but that possibility became moot when, hitching sobs, Kasha leaned shudderingly forward and—
“Aw, jiminee!”
—began to suck all those snot-ropes off the cow’s lips. Helton’s hand in her hair assisted in guidance. “Ya missed some, hon—and, ooo—right there, don’t ferget that ‘un hangin’ out the nostril,” and as the instructions drew on, Kasha completed the dismal task.
“Good, good,” Helton approved.
Dumar and Micky-Mack applauded.
Cross-eyed, Kasha straightened up on her knees. It was apparent, however, that during the brow-raising process, she’d merely kept the mucilaginous residue in her mouth, as her cheeks appeared stuffed.
“Shame on you! There ain’t no spittin’ out here. Ya do a job, ya do it right. Ya gots ta swallow…”
The girl’s eyes could’ve launched from her head at this conveyance of information. The end of the pistol barrel was re-introduced to Kasha’s head, then—
gulp
She swallowed.
More applause from Micky-Mack and Dumar.
Reeling, she looked up. “There! I do this dirty thing! So you let me go now, right? Like you promise?”
“Well, no, hon, that weren’t the deal,” and then Helton turned in a slow circle and he counted aloud, “Let’s see, one, two, three, four, five. You still got five more cows waitin’ on ya.”
Kasha shrieked as Helton’s big fist in her head dragged her a ways to the next cow. On her knees, she visibly convulsed as she sucked off the snot and slime, reeled with a hand to her belly, and swallowed. The third cow went similarly but during transport to the fourth—
urrrrrrrrrrrp!
—she vomited.
“Don’t worry ’bout that none, missy,” Helton assured. “We’ll git’cha filt right back up,” and then came the fourth cow.
The fifth.
And the sixth.
“Now that’s doin’ the job right. And I hope ya done learnt yer lesson.” Helton wagged his finger. “Treat others like you’d want ’em ta treat you.”
Kasha’s face had turned bleach-white. She continued to shudder in the aftermath of this most diverse late-morning snack. “Now I go, right? Right?”
“Why, shore, missy.”
But after she got
up, she froze, looking off. And then?
She released a rejoicing, whistle-high squeal.
“Look! Look! You darty farks! You piece of shit redneck garbage creek people! Here come a man to save me! A man with a gun!”
Helton, Dumar, and Micky-Mack all took simultaneous and very concerned glances in the direction that the girl indicated.
Indeed, a man with a gun—with a long rifle—seemed to be jogging toward them, a dog following close behind.
“Over here! Help! Help!” the girl jumped and bellowed. “These men do horrible thing to me! Kill them!” and she pronounced “Kill” as keel.
Helton cracked a big smile. “Oh, that there’s Charlie Fuchson—”
“And his egg-suck dog, Droop!” Dumar finished.
“Well, hey there, Charlie!”
“Helton, boys, good ta se ya!” The flop-hatted and overalled 60ish man strode up with a big grin. He gestured the ancient dog at his heels. “I were just takin’ Droop here out fer a walk but when I saw’s ya were puttin’ a razz on a bitch, I run over ta catch some’a the fun.”
Kasha went cross-eyed again, screamed, and passed out cold.
“Aw, shit, Charlie, but we’se just finished.” Helton looked around. “Too bad ya ain’t got no more cows,” and then they all laughed and shook hands. Charlie glanced down at the unconscious woman, then tilted her face toward him with the end of his rifle. “Oh, this here’s that bitch works up the Hess station, huh?”
“Um-hmm.”
“Always frownin’,” Charlie related. “Grimacin’ at folks, real hateful-like.”
“Bet she were frownin’ the minute she come out her mama’s pussy, and I bet her mama was frownin’ too. Like mama like daughter.”
“Yeah,” Dumar said, “but considerin’ what her belly’s full of, I’d say she’s really got somethin’ ta frown about now.”
“You got that right, son.”
“Ya know,” Charlie said, “I went in that Hess station once ta buy me some jerky and this prickly cuss starts yellin’ at me and bad-mouthin’ America, and then she said”—and Charlie mimicked Kasha’s accent as best he could—“‘You redneeks all darty sheet people! You take your redneek jarky and get out my store ’cos I hate all you smelly darty redneeks,’ she shore as shit did.”
“Oh yeah,” Helton agreed. “Talked all that to us’n worse. Got a body on her, though.”
“That she does but it don’t matter a hoot how purdy a gal is on the outside if’n she’s ugly on the inside.”
Helton wagged a finger at Micky-Mack. “You listen ta Charlie here, son, ’cos what he says is right.”
“And my mama always teached that the best way ta cure a foul mouth is ta fill it with somethin’ fouler.”
“Amen ta that.”
Charlie’s eyes bloomed upon Micky-Mack. “Well, shit, Micky-Mack. I say that’s just about the mother of all boners you’re sportin’ there, huh?”
Micky-Mack leaned backwards to display his pelvis. The obvious ten-inch erection angled across his thigh to the left; it could’ve been a piece of pipe stuck in his jeans. “Hail, Mr. Fuchson, what kin I say?” Micky-Mack, ever the one for pomposity, flexed the erection beneath the denim. “Sumpin’ ’bout watchin’ a buck nekit gal eat cow snot’s got my dick ready to bust.”
Dumar chuckled. “Paw, I say that boy just ain’t quite right in the head.”
Helton smiled to Charlie. “Kids these days, huh, Charlie?”
“Yessir,” Charlie replied. “Ever generation’s got it’s own thing, I reckon. A’course, when we was kids we’d fuck boxes’a bullfrogs.”
“That we did, that we did…”
Momentarily, the men looked at Droop, the mange-clumped and nearly 20-year-old basset hound. It snuffled about Kasha’s inert form, sniffed an armpit, then gave the woman’s crotch a lick.
“Bet her hair-pie tastes like borsh,” Charlie said.
Helton raised a brow. “Borsh?”
“Some cold soup they eat in Russia. Made from mushed up beets.”
“Yuck!” Micky-Mack said.
Charlie appraised the unconscious woman, rifle lying across his forearm. “But I say, Helton. What ya done here today is…ya done her a favor.”
“Let’s just hope she’s a good learner, and hope still that that belly full’a cow snot’ll have her thinkin’ twice ‘fore she starts talkin’ down ta folks she don’t even know.”
“The cuss throw it up?”Charlie asked.
“Yeah, after the third cow, she couldn’t keep it down, but then the rest’a the cows turned out ta be a perfectly fine second-helpin’.”
“And ya know,” Charlie postulated further, “I’ll bet silver dollars ta grasshoppers that this big-tit bitch don’t never bad-mouth no one ever again.”
“I bet she don’t, Charlie, I bet she don’t.”
“Look, Mr. Fuchson!” Micky-Mack exclaimed, pointing. “Ole Droop’s helpin’ hisself to a piece’a ass!”
The men looked on in bemusement. See, Kasha’s collapse had caused her to land quite compromisingly spread-eagled, and now the archaic egg-suck dog had mounted her and was listlessly copulating.
“You want me ta break it up, Charlie?” Helton offered. “I’se mean, a low-down bitch like that’s liable ta have a pussy chock full’a European diseases’n such.”
“Oh, naw. Ole Droop, he ain’t hadda piece’a ass in a hoot owl’s age, and I don’t reckon a human bitch’s cunt-germs’d be compatter-bull. Best ta let the critter have a good time. Lord knows he won’t likely be with me much longer.”
“Ain’t like her pussy’s busy right now anyway,” Helton said, and, yes, they all laughed.
“Go, Droop! Go!” Micky-Mack rooted.
“Been a spell since I seen a dog fuck a gal,” Dumar observed. “Kind’a…interestin’.”
“All gals like ta fuck a dog on occasion, son,” Charlie said in assurance, “and any gal who say she don’t…is a liar.”
Helton nodded. “I hear that.”
The dog humped exertedly, gave evidence of climax, then snuffled away.
“There ya go, Droop! Good dog!” Micky-Mack said.
“Get’cha a good nut, ole boy?” Dumar asked.
“Belly full’a cow snot, pussy full’a dog-cum,” Helton remarked. “That’s what I call takin’ a gal ta school.”
“And ya know,” Charlie tendered more wisdom, “my mama always taught me a little dog-nut up a ornery gal’s snatch never fails ta make ’em humble.”
“‘Tis true, ‘tis true.”
“Best that folks just be nice to one another,” Dumar observed. “Don’t make no sense not ta be. If’n someone start somethin’, a man got no choice but ta finish it.” He glanced errantly at the unconscious girl. “But if folks didn’t start nothin’ in the first place, then ever-one’d git along, like, all the world over.”
“Well dag blam, Dumar!” Fuchson cracked. “All’s we need ta do is git you in the United Nations, and I say there wouldn’t be no problems anywhere!”
“Hail, yeah, Mr. Fuchson!”
More hillbilly laughter, then after a bit more banter, adieus were bid and Charlie and his faithful—and now rather content—dog were on their way. But as Helton and his kin made their way back to the truck, Micky-Mack picked up Kasha’s clothes.
“Ya reckon we should give her her duds back, Unc?”
Helton took them. “Well, a’course, we will, Micky-Mack. Only a bunch’a rat bastards’d let her walk all the back ta her gasoline station buck nekit,” and then Helton dropped the girl’s clothes right smack-dab atop a particularly large deposit of cow manure. He put his foot down in the middle, broke the excrement’s crust, and traversed his bootsole, and though it was purely by accident, it will be mentioned that the first garment to fall onto the pile was the Vladimir Putin t-shirt, front side down.
Helton dropped the befouled garments onto the unconscious woman’s abdomen and led his son and nephew back to the truck.
“So what’cha think, bo
ys? We ready ta go ta New York City?”
“Like a mare in heat’s ready for a big ole horse dick, Paw!” Dumar assured.
Micky-Mack hauled back and did a magnificent Rebel Yell.
(IV)
Mike nearly shot out of his shoes at the sudden jolt of music from the hi-fi department. The entire store seemed to shake; speakers boomed a cacophonous rap song: “Aye-unky, a bunky cunky!—aye, bee, cee—dunky, Ee-unky, funky!—dee, eee, eff—gunky, a hunky eye-unky!—gee, ayche, eye—”
Hair nearly on end, Mike snapped off the Phillips/Bose surround-sound. Yeah, every now and then some street person would slip into the store, bust open a CD, and play it on one of their demo systems, and this seemed to be the case now.
“Jesus!” he yelled at the suspicious “customer.” “You can’t just come back here and play a CD!”
A woman in an overcoat riddled with Hip Hop buttons looked querulously at the objection. Straggly, off-blond hair with snow-white roots; street-worn flip-flops; and chipped, clover-green fingernails were her most visible signatures. Dark smudges like half-bruises ringed her eyes, and a face as street-worn as the flip-flops beseeched him. “Oh, sorry. I just wanted to hear it first”—she held up the CD case: an African-American with a Lincoln-style top-hat grinned below the letters: UN-lissen-ABULL - JACK DOWN ALFA-BIT!
Great. More of that Hip Hop. But the stuff did sell. Mike was into the Beatles himself. “Octopuses Garden in the Shade,” now there was a song. But Mike’s anger twisted him into a knot. “Come on, lady! You broke open the CD! You’re gonna have to buy it now or I gotta call the cops!”
“Oh, I wanna buy it,” she said in a husky and more than likely meth-roughed voice. “I want to buy it for my man.”
