by Edward Lee
Beneath that was one more word: HEADER.
Brice’s eyes went wide as he stared at the bizarre ink-crafted effigy. He blinked, then—
Augie grabbed his arm. “Brice! Come on!”
“Hey, Augie, did you see the tattoo on—”
Augie glared. “What are you talking about? Come on! Clark’s down here.”
Next trailer down, Clark seemed to be negotiating with a bearded old hayseed in a straw hat. “That’s right, son. Roulette, poker, black jack, craps.”
“I could go for some poker,” Clark enthused.
But Augie seemed disgruntled. “Where’s the dog-fighting, pops?”
“Sorry, son. Saturdays only.”
“How about the cock-fights?”
The old man shook his head. “’Tis over, ya up’n missed it by a ‘our,” and then he winked and pointed to a metal drum with a roaring fire in it. Plucked chickens roasted in baskets over the flame. “Them’s the losers.”
“Damn,” Augie muttered.
The old man flapped a hand. “But we’se got better’n cock-fights and pits. Say, I’ll bet you’re them city fellas I’se been hearin’ about.”
“How could you possibly tell?” Brice remarked.
The oldster laughed hoarsely and slapped Brice on the back. “I like you, son! You’se just et up with a case of the smart-ass! But if’n ya want somethin’ ya likely ain’t seen never before—”
“Yeah, man!” Augie bulled in. “That’s exactly what we want!”
“Hock Party’s ‘round back,” the man said and jerked his thumb behind him. “Ten buck ante.”
Clark looked perplexed. “A what party?”
“Hock Party, son, Hock Party.”
“Presumably not an intellectual pursuit,” Brice said with a smirk.
But Augie was riled. “Oh, cool! A good ole fashioned spitting contest! Let’s go!”
Brice was outraged. “You’re not serious!”
Augie and Clark both dashed around the trailer. Brice, now at a total loss, turned to the bearded old man. “Is that really what this is, sir? A spitting contest?”
The old man cracked a laugh. “Ya just might say that, son, ya just might.”
“No offense to your culture, but I just can’t believe a spitting contest is anybody’s idea of fun.”
The man winked again. “Just you go take a look-see. If’n you got this in the city, I’ll eat my hat.”
For shit’s sake, Brice thought. He walked glumly, shaking his head, around to the rear of the trailer.
The scene that greeted him was nearly medieval. Kerosene torches lit the clearing behind the trailer; beyond that were dim woods. Over twenty men congregated on the left, all rednecks, all guffawing, high-fiving, swilling beers. In all of their eyes shone a gleam of anticipation that seemed somehow taboo.
On the right, on weedy grass, were two folding lawn chairs.
What are the chairs for? Brice wondered. Spectators? Judges?
One of the men impatiently shouted, “Hey, Tex! Let’s git this show on the road! I got me some spit ready!”
A taller redneck with a bobbing Adam’s apple was collecting ten-dollar bills from even more late arrivals. “Hold your horses, Donny Boy. Gotta collect. ‘Sides, the girls ain’t here yet.”
Girls? Brice wondered. Please tell me there aren’t spit groupies or I’m turning around and driving home right now.
He, Augie, and Clark finally moved up the line. “Ten spot each ta play, fellas,” the tall man, Tex, said.
Augie looked to Brice and Clark. “Let’s do it, guys! Hell, when I was a kid, I could out-spit anyone!”
“Kind of makes Valedictorian look like a pinch of shit, huh?” Brice said.
“I’m in,” Clark said and followed Augie in shelling out ten dollars. “And…did you say something about girls?”
Before Tex could answer, Augie shoved Brice. “Come on! Don’t wuss out!”
Brice paid and said, “I can’t believe I just entered a spitting contest. Dad’s turning over in his grave.”
Augie grinned. “Only if we lose. Besides, he’s probably been spinning since we pulled into town.”
The sea of murmuring and idle chat came to a sudden halt as two shadows approached the chairs. “Here they is!” someone shouted, and then came an upsurge of applause and whistles.
Brice watched wide-eyed at the alien spectacle. The two shadows belonged to two women: one, an obese lady in her ’60s, with disheveled gray hair sticking up, jowls, and fire in her eye; the other, a shapely 20-ish girl with lank brown hair, a lot of turquoise jewelry, in cut-off jeans, a dingy white halter, and ratty flipflops. She was not wearing the happiest of faces.
“What’s this all about?” Brice asked Tex, who was pocketing the roll of ante money.
“Aw, there ain’t much to it,” the man said. “Just watch the festivities. The old ’un’s Dora; she’s won more times than anyone, over a dozen I’d say. The splittail with the tits is Carly Ann, and she ain’t no slouch neither. Eight times it be that she won. Both of ’em got up over a hunnert in the past, and they’re both hot to win ’cos they need the money. Winner gets half the pot.”
“This isn’t a spitting contest, is it?” Brice asked.
“Well, son, it is inna way.” Tex chuckled. “Just you watch and see, and ya can go get in line too, if’n ya like. Don’t know why ya wouldn’t.” Then the man walked toward the seated women, and at the same time most of the other men present all formed two even lines behind each chair. The young woman, Carly Ann, seated herself in the left chair. Dora sat in the right, and she clapped her hands together once, loud, and grated to Carly Ann, “Save yerself the trouble, bitch! I’m going home with the money, and you ain’t goin home with nothin’ but a belly full’a spit!”
If looks could kill, Carly Ann’s glare could be a deadly weapon. “Shut your wrinkled face, ya old drunk cunt! I ain’t just gonna win that money but I’m gonna beat your old fat ass ta boot!”
Dora cracked a laugh. “I’m gonna love it when you lose, then you’ll have ta suck dick the rest’a the night just ta make your trailer rent! Only thing you do right is suck dick’s’what I heard. ’T’was yer useless pappy who taught ya.”
“Don’t you talk about my dear departed pa, ya fuckin’ fat mummy!”
Dora gruffed a laugh. “Shee-it, your pa’s roastin’ in hell right now and got the devil’s dick up his ass…and he likes it! And ever-one know your first rug-rat come from his peckersnot!”
“I’ll kill ya, ya old bat!” but just as Carly Ann rose from her chair, Tex grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back down.
“None of that, Carly,” Tex calmly told her. “’Tis against the rules ta get out the chair. You two gals wanna scrap, ya do it after the party.”
Brice stood, agape. The cogs of his mind were turning, and so were Augie and Clark’s. Hock Party, he thought. Both of ’em got up over a hunnert in the past.
And the clincher: Belly full’a spit…
“Are you guys thinking what I’m thinking?” Augie asked.
“It-it just can’t be?” Clark said. “Can it?”
Tex whistled. “Listen up, ever-one! A’fore we start, let’s welcome our three guests from the city!” and then he opened a hand toward Brice, Augie, and Clark, who all remained speechless at their introductions.
Everyone in the yard applauded and whistled.
“Now, let’s show these city lads how to do things right!” Tex finished, and as if on cue, the first man in Carly’s line stepped right up behind her chair, and the first man in the right line stepped right up behind Dora.
Carly Ann and Dora each tilted their heads back.
Then they opened their mouths wide.
The two men were clearing their throats, wet and raucous buzz saw noises.
Tex raised a hand like a flagman at a race, then he dropped it and shouted “One!”
The two men behind the chairs, nearly simultaneously, each let a wad of phlegm fall from their m
ouths and into the gaping mouths of Carly and Dora, upon which both recipients swallowed.
The next two men stepped up, cleared their throats and—
“Two!” shouted Tex.
—deposited their sputum into Carly and Dora’s mouths.
Then:
“Three!”
“Four!”
“Five!”
Like that.
When the original lines had cycled completely—at the count of sixteen—Tex called time out, and inquired of the participants, “How ya feelin’, ladies? Ya ready for more?”
“Lots more, Tex!” snapped Carly. “We ain’t even broke fifty yet and tonight I’m breakin’ one fifty! Day that withered old cow eats more loogies than me is the day I croak!”
“Well then, croak, ya cum-filled tramp!” Dora whipped back, “and I’ll dig the fuckin’ hole ta bury yer pussy-stinkin’ self in, ’cos what we just done ain’t even a appetizer far as I’m concerned, and hear this, head queen: you is goin’ down!” and this latter part of Dora’s exclamation was accented by several sharp jabs of her finger.
And then…the cycle began anew.
Kurrrr-HOCK!
“Seventeen!”
Kurrrr-HOCK!
“Eighteen!”
And so forth.
Brice felt buzzed in the stupefaction of witnessing this absolute human disgrace in the flickering lamplight. Some of the men in line were actually rubbing their crotches in the sheer arousal of watching these two women willingly debase themselves. Carly’s nipples were erect, poking through the thin material of her halter top, as if she was aroused by the debasement as well. I can’t believe I’m seeing this, came the numbest of all thoughts. I can’t believe something like this could ever happen…
When he turned to Augie and Clark, to insist they all leave—
Where the—
—they weren’t there anymore. But seeing where they went required only a tilt of his head.
They were both in line.
“Twenty-five”
Kurrrr-HOCK!
“Twenty-six!”
Kurrrr-HOCK!
Brice ran over to where Augie stood, in Carly’s line.
“Augie. Please tell me you’re not going to do this,” he said like an automaton. “Please. Tell me you’re not going to spit into a woman’s mouth.”
Augie looked at him askance. “What? What’s the big deal? It’s all part of the fun. Look at them. They’re totally into it. We might be offending them by not joining in. Did you ever think about that?”
Brice wanted to grab his brother by the neck. “Spitting in girls’ mouths? It’s a disgrace! It’s the worst exploitation I’ve ever seen. You’re degrading them in the worst way possible!”
“Who are you, Anderson Fuckin’ Cooper?” Augie said, wincing at Brice’s objection. “Shit, in New York, they got kiddie porn rings, human trafficking, and gangs running around beating people half to death just so they can film it on their cell phones and put it on the internet. This is nothing. “
Brice was boggled. He glanced at Clark in Dora’s line. “Not you too, Clark! You’re a Manhattan physician! You’re gonna spit in that woman’s mouth just for kicks?”
Clark shrugged with a grin. “Why not? Everyone else is. It’ll give us something to tell the guys next time we go for drinks at Harry’s Bar. It’s perfectly safe…for those of us in line, at least.” Then he cleared his throat.
“For God’s sake, Clark!” Brice wailed. “Don’t!”
Augie dropped his spit-wad right into Carly jacked-open mouth. She swallowed it immediately. “Fuck yeah! That’s some fine phlegmin’, city boy.”
Tex put his hand on Brice’s shoulder. “Step away, son. You’se holdin’ up the show.”
“Yeah, cutie,” Dora said to him. “If ya ain’t gonna spit, git!”
Tex clapped, egging Clark on. “Come on, City! Give Dora here one’a them big New York-style chest oysters!”
Clark bent over, waited for Dora to reposition herself, then—
plop!
—made a considerable deposit into the old woman’s mouth.
“Thirty-three!”
“Mmmmm-ummmmm.” Dora licked her chops. “Not bad at all for some city fuckers! That was better’n boxed wine.”
Brice had stepped aside, and simply stared further at the appalling spectacle. To heighten his despair, he saw Augie and Clark had gotten back in line. They were grinning at each other like they were waiting their turn in one of those ridiculous gang bang videos. They high-fived across lines.
The counting went on.
“Forty-eight!”
“Forty-nine!” Several men seemed to have bad chest colds, and were gleeful at the extra-large portions of phlegm they were able to supply to the party. Brice was amazed they didn’t need respirators with all the gunk they had blocking up their respiratory tracts. Tex went on counting, and in between would accent the more notable contributions, such as, “Let ’er rip, Croaker! Give her some’a that down-home lung-pudding!” and next, to a man who looked like Robert Plant in 1970, “Here come Jimmy-Job! Ain’t no one hacks up the custard like him!” He was followed by an old timer in a porkpie hat with watery eyes and a hunched back, who cocked his head to the left and honked like a goose as he summoned more throat sludge for the deluge. “That’s it, Ollie, drop ‘at dime right in her craw, old boy.”
And on and on through the cast of disgusting, despicable, and shameless characters, immune to Brice’s sharp glares of disapproval (and grimaces of revulsion).
After several more counts, a fat wizen-faced man trudged up; harnessed under his arm was an oxygen bottle, and he wore a nose-piece connected to a tube. Tex addressed Brice directly: “Gander this, son. This here’s Milton Waller. He never miss a hock party. Usually he gotta come in his wheelchair but I guess he’s feeling pretty chipper today. See, Milton worked the coal mines at Bethel for years, and got the black lung awful bad.” Then he shouted, “Get ready for a gritty one, Carly Ann!” and then to the old man, “Come on, Milt! Drag up a pretty one fer the lady!”
Brice looked away one second too late, to see a thick black rope of phlegm dangle first from the man’s lips, then fall smack-dab into Carly’s mouth. At this she winced, hesitated for several moments, holding it in her mouth, then squeezed her eyes shut and—
gulp
—swallowed it all.
Brice watched in more numb despair as Augie and Clark came round for another cycle, high-fiving again after they’d done the deed. Next, Brice noticed a woman in line, a trampy blonde in the universal attire of cut-offs and halter. She spat a large one into Carly’s mouth and said, “How’s that taste, bitch!” Carly swallowed, then her face became enraged: “Hey, that warn’t hock!”
“You’re right, ya twat,” said the blond, and chuckled. “That’s yer boyfriend’s cum, who I just blowed. It’s what’cha git for fuckin’ my husband!” and then she smacked Carly on the side of the head.
“I’m killin’ ya, so help me!” Carly shrieked. “I’m gonna so fuckin’ kill you!”
Again, she was about to get up, but Tex reminded her, “Uh-uh, Carly. You git up, you forfeit. T’would be a shame to’ve swallered all that spit fer nothin’, now wouldn’t it?” “FUCK! Your ass is good as dead when I can get up from this, you gutterslut!” Carly yelled. She jacked her head back with a vengeance. “Bring it on! Can’t you guys spit no faster? I never seen such a bunch’a spitless fairies in all my life!”
Carly would’ve been wiser not to make this last exclamation, for all it did was incite those in her line to clear their throats harder and with more conviction. Several men, too, instead of expectorating, put a thumb over one nostril and blew pure mucus from the other, right into poor Carly’s mouth. After swallowing several, she snapped to Tex, “Hey, that ain’t fair! It’ gotta be hock!”
“Quit-cher whinin’, girl,” Tex scolded her. “Hock, snot, ‘tis all the same. I’se surprised you’re takin’ this opportunity fer granted. Not ever
y gal git the chance ta make easy money like this. If’n ya don’t like it—” Tex shrugged—”then yer free ta throw in the towel’n let Dora take the winnin’s.”
“Yeah, quit, ya little baby-blower!” Dora hacked a laugh. “Quit like ya quit ever thing in yer piss-poor, booger-eatin’, cracker-tramp life!”
“You done rode half the dick in Backtown, you mangy-ass bitch, so don’t you act like yer some kinda saint!”
Dora cackled. “I just fucked them ones what knew better’n to throw it in that pus-seepin’, piss-flapped cunt’a yours!”
Carly Ann’s face reddened. “When I’se done whippin’ up on that other whore, I might just see about flattenin’ yer ugly mug!”
“Well, I’d be scairt to death if I thought you’d stop jackin’ yer jaw long enough to finish up here, but it don’t look like I’m in any danger there!”
Carly Ann opened her mouth to say something, but realized she’d be playing into Dora’s hand if she did. Instead, she leaned her head back, shouted, “Come on!” and jacked her mouth back open, for yet another eruption of sputum.
And on the count went:
“Sixty-six!”
Kurrrr-HOCK!
“Sixty-seven!”
Kurrrr-HOCK!
“Sixty-eight!”
Kurrrr-HOCK!
Brice trudged to where Augie and Clark remained in line. “I’m out. This is beyond deplorable.”
“Where’s your sense of charity, Brice?” Augie said, straight-faced.
“Charity?”
“Yeah. We’re giving these poor, under-privileged women a chance to win some money in tough economic times,” and then Augie and Clark burst out laughing.
“You slobs ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” Brice said, disgusted.
“Yeah, we ought to be,” Augie said.
“But we’re not!” Clark finished. Then came more hyena-like laughter.
Brice threw Augie the keys. “I’m walking back to the motel. Meanwhile, you two model citizens have fun.”
The laughter followed Brice as he stalked off. “We’re only addressing our primal, limbic selves, Brice!” Clark shouted. Then Augie: “Don’t worry! We’ll let you know who wins!”
