by Edward Lee
“A fine, big, young fella such as yerself,” Grandpap had said ’fore he died (Grandpap said a lotta things ’fore he died), “it’s only natural that you’ll’se wanna git ta wanderin’ so’s ya kin see the Outside World fer yerself. But ’member what I’se told ya. Don’t take no shit offa no one. Ya gotta fuck ’em up ’fore they kin do the same ta you. An’ ’memeber this too, son. The Outside World is chock fulla some really bad folks, so’s the only ways ya kin git by is ta try real hard ta be badder’n them.”
The Bighead did not foresee a problem there.
(II)
She was just a little truckstop whore, a skinny little stringbean with long brown hair an’ tiny little titties showin’ through her top. See, Tritt Balls Conner and Dicky Caudill had just come off another big ’shine run fer Clyde Nale, and they was hungry as horses so’s they pulled up at the Bonfire truck stop up near the county line fer some sam-widges, and that’s when this little brownie-head whore come up the El Camino. “Hey there’s, sweetheart!” Balls greeted, his mouth fulla B,L,T. “Hey,” she said back, stoppin’ at the open winder on Balls’ side. She were kinda twitchy, kinda scratchin’ at her arms, and Tritt Balls knowed in a minute that she were a junkie, and Balls noticed too just then how long her hair was, hangin’ alls the way down past her little butt!
“I’ll suck both you fellas off fer ten bucks each,” she offered without hesitatin’ a hitch. “Give ya’s both the best pecker-suck’a yer lifes, I will. I’ll suck yer peckers so hard your buttholes’ll inhale.”
“Why, hail!” Balls cited. “Hop on in, cutie, ’cos that shore sounds like a right fair deal ta me!”
Dicky, meantimes, kinda rolled his eyes ’cos he knew what Balls really had in mind. She climbed right on in, an’ ’fore she could say another word, Balls had his big meat-hook hands ’round her tiny neck, an’ lickety-split, he choked her little lights out in all’a ten seconds. “Drive,” he said ta Dicky.
Dicky shoulda knowed. He cruised down the Route a ways, an’ he didn’t have ta worry ’bout cops ’cos they’d already dropped off their load’a hooch. He pulled up one’a the side roads past Miller’s Farm, cut the bigblock 427, an’ doused the headlights. Then they’se dragged the whore out ta the clearing. Balls fancied this clearing in pah-tick-ah-ler ’cos at night right about this time, the moon’d light up the field right nice an’ pretty. Balls tored the gal’s top an’ shorts right off. Her skin looked kinda pale in the high moonlight, but her nipples were kinda neat, really big’n dark on them little titties. Stunk pretty bad, though, she did, which made sense ’cos no doubt she’d been suckin’ dirty cocks all day, an’ gettin’ humped by unwashed truckers in their cabs. Balls didn’t mind though. He flipped her right over onner belly an’ started ta out a corn-holin’ on her ’fore she’d even woked up.
Dicky stood aside swiggin’ a beer. All this ruckin’ they was doin’, rapin’ chicks, killin’ folks, it were fun, shore, but more’n more it got ta botherin’ Dicky Caudill. It weren’t that he was turnin’ inta a softie, or some creamcake faggot, naw, it were just the law’a averages that he was worried ’bout. Once in a whiles, shore, no big deal, but lately they’d been pullin’ ruckin’s like this most ever-day. Sooners or later, he fretted to hisself, We’se gonna git caught.
An gettin’ caught’d be a right blammed bummer, it would! Shee-it. Fer what they pulled, they’d git life in the state slam fer shore, an’ Dicky knowed plenty’a ex-cons who’d told him what went on. White boys, ’specially white cracker boys got turned a might quick. Turned as in turned inta faggots, yes sir! Most fellas in the stone motel, they was city bucks, an they was big, in more ways than one. An’ white boys like Dicky’n Balls, why, they be turned inta genn-ral-pop cherries bitches in less time than it took ta blow a snot out’cher nose. Dicky knowed full well that he wouldn’t be’s able ta hack havin’ ta spend the rest’a his God-givin’ life gittin’ butt-fucked by bucks an’ suckin’ black cock. Uh-uh. So hence were the form-er-lay-shun’a his trep-er-day-shuns. Doin’ life in the joint. An’ it could even be worse, couldn’t it?
Yeahs, it could be worse than just gettin’ caught, it could. We could even get ourselfs kilt…
It could happen, shore. Why not? What’s ta say one’a these gals they snatched wouldn’t pull gun on ’em, an’ pop both he an’ Balls fulla holler-points, or one night they’se could be jackin’ some fella out for his green and they’se could wind up with faces fulla 12-gauge double-ought buck from a sawed-off. This were plain buck stupid, this was, pullin’ shit like this alls the time…
“Hail, Dicky!” Balls guffawed, poundin’ away on this poor gal’s backside. “She gotta butthole on her bigger’n cow’s, I say! Bet she been gettin’ assed since she were four! Bet her daddy broke her in, creamin’ her poop fer years!”
Balls looked intent on drivin’ her right down inta the dirt, hard as he was reamin’ her. “Aw, lordy ta shee-it!” he eloquented, then pulled his dog out an’ shot a good-sized wad right on her back. Just then, though, she came too, groanin’ an’ droolin’, her eyes aflutterin’. But Balls railed, “Aw, what the hail!”
“What’s wrong, Balls?” Dicky asked.
Balls were there on his knees, his dirty pecker droopin’, an’ he were lookin’ down a might disgusted. “You know what this cracker whore done, Dicky? She done shit!”
Dicky frowned; he could see it in the moonlight. Shore enough, she had, crapped herself a lumpy, runny shit right there in the dirt.
“Got some on my’s leg too, the dirty whore!” Balls grabbed her long hair, shook her head around to rouse her further. “What’s wrong with you, girl! Ain’t’cha got no manners? Hail, only crackers shit thereselfs whiles their gettin’ buttfucked!” He jerked her head some more, whippin’ it back an’ forth. “An’ ya plumb shit on my leg ta boot!”
Then he dragged her around. She groaned steady now, her eyes propped open wide. “Dicky! Git the pliers out the ’Mino! We’se got ta teach this here gal some manners!”
Dicky did so, not even botherin’ ta wonder, an’ cracked hisself open another beer.
“Eat it, cracker!” Balls demanded of her. He’d forced her face down right in front of her shit. “Eat that poop right up like a good li’l whore.”
“No!” she was finally able to respond, hacking.
Balls chuckled. “Somehow I’se thought you’d say that,” and then he took those pliers, stuck ’em right in her back, an’ pinched up an inch’a skin. He squeezed the pliers hard, givin’ a good twist.
The gal screamed so high’n hard, Dicky’s hair almost stood on end.
“Eat that shit, girl!”
“Nnnnnnnno! Ya cain’t make me!”
“Aw, shore I can, honey.” Next, the pliers bit into the back of her thigh, and she screamed again even louder.
“Still ain’t gonna eat, huh?” In the moonlight, Tritt Balls’ eyes looked devilish, his hair hangin’ in front’a his face like a reg-lar redneck from hell. Next thing he grabbed with them pliers was her pussy lips, an’ he clamped down real hard this time, he did, and this time the gal screamed an’ hollered, “Okay okay, I’ll’se do it!”
An’ did it she did, all right. She put her face right on down there an’ stared eatin’ her own shit.
“There ya go. Bet it tastes good, huh, whore? Eat it all’s up an’ swaller it down. Hard-workin’ gal likes you deserves a good-sized helpin’ of hot viddles.”
Hackin’ an’ gaggin’, the poor gal et it all up, she did. It weren’t much poop, but damned if she didn’t lick up the last right up outa the dirt. So’s next Balls chuckled some an’ said, “Dicky, that shore weren’t much of a meal, ya know, an’ a growin’ gal like her, she needs proper noo-trish-er-un, what with all that hard fuckin’ an’ cock-suckin’ she does ever-day. Comes on’s over here an’ drop trow. Pinch our li’l cutie pie here a big loaf, yes sir!”
Dicky groaned to hisself. “Aw, come ons, Balls, I don’t wanna—”
Balls’ face glared up mean as a weasel. �
�What the hail’s wrong with you’a late, Dicky! You shore are turnin’ inta a big creamcake!”
“Aw…” Dicky smirked an’ moseyed on over, droppin’ his jeans an’ jockeys. He squated an’ pushed, bustin’ a few farts first, then pinched hisself out a coupla big logs’a poop.
“There ya go, honey,” Balls announced, pushing her face down again. “Now that’s what I’se call a meal!”
Her face white as a ghost now, the poor li’l hooker opened her yap an’ got ta eatin’ again. That first poop she’d made herself weren’t nothin’ compared to Dicky’s big logs! Steam flowed off’a ’em, ’n’fact, an’ bite by bite, she et ’em up.
“There, ain’t that better now?” Balls made the inquiry. “Probably the first good meal ya had in a long spell, I bet. But now that yer belly’s full, I reckon ya’d like a good drink ta warsh all that good food down with, what say?”
Balls flipped her back over and stood up. Her head lolled, her mouth droopin’ open, showin’ brown teeth. Then Balls leaned back, smilin’ like that evil smile’a his, and let rip a long hard piss inta her wide-open yap. “Yeah, sweet thang. Ain’t nothin’ like a good, cool drink on a hot night, huh?”
Chrast, Dicky thought. We gotta git outa here. “Come ons, Balls. Let’s roll. Just kill her so’s we’se kin be on our way.”
Balls was hitchin’ up his trousers now, lookin’ kinda funky at Dicky. “What’choo talkin’ ’bout, boy? What kinda dag bastard ya think I am? Ya think I’d leave a lady here, all alone in the woods? No ways. The least we’se kin do is drive her back down the road, huh?”
Dicky didn’t know what Balls meant, ’ntil he watched what he did next. Balls grabbed the gal again by her real long hair, he did, an’ he dragged her ta the El Camino’s rear bumper. Now this gal’s hair, as were preev-er-us-lee stated, was, like, real long, three foot at least, an’ what Balls did next was he tied that hair ta the trailer-hitch, then fixed a big hose-clamp around the knot an’ screwed it down good’n tight.
An’ what they did then was—
“Yeah boy!” Balls whooped. “We’se gonna have some big fun tonight!”
They went fer a long drive.
(III)
Charity’s earlier reservations—about coming to the bar— diminished quickly with the introduction of alcohol. Instead, her mental involvements shifted back to herself, as they frequently did, to all the things about herself she didn’t like, to all her failures. Her spirit felt dwarfed, sitting next to Jerrica…
As the evening deepened, so did the crowd; The Crossroads filled up with more of the same: rural locals. Loud, rowdy, hard-drinking—sure. But not once did anyone hassle them, harass them, try to put the moves on them. Every so often, men would cast a glance their way, but Charity suspected that their appraising gazes were more intended for Jerrica than herself. The juke music played on, as did the billiards and dart games, the laughter and drinking and high-spirits.
While Charity’s own spirits plummeted.
She tried to maintain the conversation—again, she liked Jerrica very much, and liked talking to her—but now, after five beers, she felt buried by her own reflections. Jerrica ordered another round, then nudged her. “Hey, why so glum all of a sudden?”
“Huh? Oh, I’m sorry,” Charity replied, chin in hand. “I was just thinking.”
Jerrica didn’t even have to ask. Were Charity’s regrets that plain? “Like I told you before, don’t worry about it. Be patient. You’ll meet the right guy eventually.”
Charity nodded, trying not to appear the sad sack, and failing. It’s that ’eventually’ part that bothers me, her thoughts went on moping.
The keep brought two more beers, then emptied Jerrica’s ashtray which, by now, sat clogged with butts. As he did so though, Jerrica leaned forward, squinting. “What the hell is—”
“What?” Charity asked.
Jerrica’s finger touched the bartop, the space the ashtray had been sitting on. “What is this?”
Now Charity squinted. Writing, she realized. Etched vaguely in the varnished wood, by a knife no doubt, were words, like a graffito. “I can’t make it out,” Charity admitted.
Jerrica squinted harder. “It says, ’The Bighead was here.’ And that’s weird. Somebody wrote something similar in the bathroom, on the stall door. Who the hell is The Bighead?”
The Bighead? Charity’s eyes narrowed, and she remembered as vaguely as the words had been scrawled. The memory seemed a million miles away. “Its like a local legend, I guess.”
“What, you mean like ’Kilroy was here’?”
“No, more like a resident bogeyman. I remember hearing the stories from when I was little.”
Jerrica’s eyes seemed suddenly enthused. “Tell me the stories. I can use them in my article.”
Charity half-shrugged, numb now from beer and self-reflection. “I can barely remember, it was so long ago. Just some story about a monster-child who lived in the woods. He had a giant bald head and crooked teeth, and supposedly was a cannibal. It’s just a story parents made up to scare their kids, you know, ’Be good or The Bighead’ll get you.’ Over time it sort of developed into a backwoods myth.”
“Ain’t no myth, girl, I’se kin tell ya.” The rube barkeep’s face hovered closed as he replaced the emptied ashtray.
“Oh yeah?” Jerrica said. “Tell us about this Bighead.”
The old face hardened, an eye cocked. “Ain’t a purdy story. Might git you city gals all upset were I ta tell ya.”
Jerrica challenged him with a sly smile. “Try us.”
A pause, a hand sliding against whiskers, then the barkeep began, “This were long ago, mind ya, but it was outa the woods he came. No one knowed who his parents was, and no one’d wanna know, ’cos The Bighead were about the ugliest kid you could ever ’magine. I seed him once myself, matter’a fact.”
Jerrica, obviously, was getting a kick out of this. “You saw him? You saw The Bighead?”
“That I did, girl, and I’se wish I hadn’t. Wearin’ old scrap fer clothes, he was, an’ ya coulds smell him a hunnert yards off, I swear. You coulds always tell when he was around too, ’cos the woods’d get real quiet. Any ways, they called this kid The Bighead on account of he hadda real big head, like twice the size’a normal, an’ there weren’t a single hair on it, an’ his eyes—Jimminy Christmas! The Bighead’s eyes were big an’ crooked, they was, an’ reals close together, looked like a coupla hard-boiled eggs pushed inta his face, only one were big an’ one were little. An’ his teeth? He hadda mouthful’a teeth on him that looked like dog teeth, he did, an’ I’se know it’s true ’cos, like I said, I seed him myself. I seed him eatin’ deerguts in one’a the soybean fields by Luce Creek.”
“Gross,” Jerrica remarked, paling. “Deerguts?”
“Shore,” the old man bantered on. “The Bighead like guts, an’ brains too. Liked ’em raw.”
“Come on,” Jerrica said.
“‘S’true, I’se swear.” The keep, then, poured himself a shot of whiskey, fired it back neat. “An’ it were more’n just animals he et—it were people too. See, it weren’t fer but a week ’er so that The Bighead went on his rant. Alls of a sudden lotta folks started findin’ their livestock kilt, gutted. We’se all figgured it was a timber wolf ’er somethin’, even though there ain’t been a wolf in these here parts fer over a century. Then, a’corse, it were more’n livestock we started findin’ dead. It were local folks too, all on the north side’a town, toward the ridge. Kath Shade, Vera Abbot, Vicki Slavik an’ her husband Martin, shee-it, several more, cain’t remember ’em all. So’s we all banded together ands went out onna shootin’ party, ’cos at that time we still thought it must’a been a wolf or somethin’. ’Corse, we knowed we was wrong once we saw it.”
Jerrica lit another cigarette, intrigued. “So other people saw The Bighead, not just you?”
“Shore, plenty’a fellas. Cain’t quite think ’zactly who off hand, but we’se saw it, all right. ’N’fact it was me who saw it f
irst, in the soy field eating that poor deer’s insides. I chased The Bighead, I did, an’ the other fellas caught up ta me, an’ we’se started firin’. I thinks we hit it, but I’ll never be sure. The blasted thing run off through the woods, an’ nobody ever saw it again. Next day we searched the woods fer the body but couldn’t find nothin’.”
Jerrica was trying hard to contain her amusement. “And you’re saying that The Bighead murdered people, townspeople?”
“Shore am,” the keep affirmed. “Murdered ’em, et parts of ’em too. Mostly gals. See, The Bighead liked gals even though he were only a kid.” The keep’s lips turned up. “He kilt a few fellas too, but like I say, it were mostly gals…blond-hairt gals at that.”
“I guess I better dye my hair,” Jerrica laughed.
“Ain’t nothin’ ta make sport of, missy,” the keep replied with no mirth at all. “‘Cos like I just got done tellin’ ya. We ain’t pos-er-tive we kilt it.” Another quick whiskey shot was poured, and swallowed neat. “So’s who kin tell? The Bighead could still be out there somewhere. All growed up now. An’ who’s ta say he won’t come back?”
««—»»
“Outrageous!” Jerrica said, cutting the Miata’s motor. “That old guy was a trip!”
Charity got out, closed her door, then they headed wearily for the front porch. “Most people around here are like that. They love to tell tall tales.”
“The way he sounded, The Bighead was real.”
“I hope you don’t believe that.”
Jerrica chuckled. “Of course not! But what great material for my article—a local myth, a monster-child! I can’t wait to find out more about it, and everything else about this town.”
Just then they sky briefly alighted; Jerrica glanced up. Vague lightning flashed on the horizon, bereft of accommodating thunder. “That’s weird. A storm’s coming but the sky is almost totally clear.”
