Header 2

Chapter 6

(I)

“Bumpity-bump-bump, look at Frosty go…,” the cheerful Christmas song thrummed through the store. Veronica—jacket on, backpack packed—tapped her foot unconsciously to the tune, casting a dreamy smile out the store’s massive front window. The town’s Christmas lights blinked down the main drag in a wondrous holiday vanishing point.

This’ll be my first Christmas with Mike, she mused.

Footsteps snapped behind her. “Veronica. What are you still doing here? No point both of us staying on duty—we’re not going to have many customers this late.” It was Archie.

“Oh, I already clocked out. I’m just waiting for Mike to get done in the office so I can say goodnight to him.”

Archie paused. “Mike left an hour ago—”

“What?”

“Yeah.”

Veronica noticed only now that very few employees remained on duty. Even the Greeter was gone.

“Well, the Greeter should be here,” she said for no reason she understood.

Did Archie stall? “Oh, no, I cut her an hour ago—”

Veronica tensed up. “You just said Mike left an hour ago… Mike didn’t leave with her, did he?”

Archie laughed but, you know what? It was a forced laugh. “Jesus, Veronica. Get your head out of the sewer. She’s sixteen. You’re not implying that she and Mike got something going on, are you?”

Veronica slumped. I’m overreacting again. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Don’t know what came over me, that’s all.”

“Mike’s really stressed now; that’s why he left without saying goodnight,” Archie offered. “His job’s not easy, you know.”

Now Veronica felt selfish and stupid. I need to have more consideration. “Yeah, and he told me about all that year-end accounting he has to do.” She shuffled away. “See ya tomorrow,” but then she snapped around. “Do you think I should call him?”

Archie made a face. “Well, you probably shouldn’t. I mean, he’s neck-deep in that paperwork.”

“Yeah.” She blinked. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight—oh, and congrats on that dynamite camera sale today!”

“Thanks…”

Veronica left the store. But why should she be so disappointed? What, because Mike—overwhelmed with take-home work—was too harried to say goodnight? Poor guy’s got so much on his mind, running a big store during Christmas and all. Yes, she should be more considerate.

But suddenly the cheery, blinking Christmas lights that constellated the town didn’t seem quite so cheery. She scarcely felt the chill air as she rounded the store to the back parking lot that the employees used.

“Oh, drat!” she complained, her breath gusting. The high security lamp in the back lot was out, leaving most of the lot plunged in darkness. Did she notice bits of glass on the pavement? Yes, she did, but what she didn’t notice was the steel ball lying several more feet away, yet even if she had, she never would’ve suspected that it was a pellet from a slingshot.

She wasn’t worried. Pulaski had low crime rates…although she had heard of a rising drug problem in the bad section. Then again, had someone mentioned something about a dog-killer? Something about torturing puppies? No, that must’ve been in Radford or someplace like that. Killing puppies? Only a crazy person could do such a thing, and Pulaski was a sane town.

She paused to muse: God, I can’t wait to see Mike tomorrow—

Her abduction happened so fast there was no time to scream. She side-glimpsed wedges of darkness darting about in more darkness. A hand slapped across her mouth. Someone said, “I done got her, Unc,” and she was lifted off her feet. Her thoughts raced to a logjam, then—

She fainted.

The terror buzzed through her body even as she was unconscious. “Don’t dillydally,” she thought she heard. Men’s voices, yes. A loud metallic SLAM! The roar of an engine, then…

Motion.

Veronica’s eyes opened. She felt jostling. The hand remained pressed to her mouth. Was she in someone’s car? Finally, her synapses began to re-fire and thoughts that scarcely seemed her own said, I’ve been abducted by rapists or crazy people! and then that roaring sound defined itself: she’d definitely been put in a vehicle, and the vehicle was moving, but why, even with her eyes wide open, could she see nothing? She couldn’t be in a trunk, unless her abductor had gotten in with her…

“Good, son,” came an accented voice. A redneck accent, yet Veronica remained so dazed and terror-jolted, she was unable to thus far put two and two together. “Back roads now…”

At last, she began to squeal beneath the pressed hand. It was no doubt a man, in the dark, holding her up from behind as she squatted, and as more reason filtered back, she thought she felt a lump where the man’s groin would be…

“We’se okay,” rang what seemed the oldest of the voices. Did she recognize it? She squealed again, heaving against the arms wrapped about her. A younger voice whispered, “Shhhhh, shhhhh, hon. You’se all right.”

“Dumar. Turn that light on in back…”

In a flash, Veronica’s eyes could now see. Her gaze panned in stops. It seemed she’d been spirited away into a large metal compartment that had to be the back of a large truck or step van. Its foremost feature was a dented metal table bolted to the floor. A couple of plastic milk crates could be seen, plus a folded-up metal chair, and in a forward corner sat a HOME DEPOT bag on its side. Next to it lay a Black & Decker power drill, and from this an electrical cord extended and disappeared into the front of the vehicle. Battery charger? she wondered. In the back sat some additional grocery bags, and to Veronica’s left there lay stacked three dingy sleeping bags, rolled up. But when her eyes panned to the opposite corner…

Oh my God…

She saw a Bescor bowl-mount tripod and—

Veronica stared.

—a Sony HVR-S27 digital video camera.

The familiar shaggy head appeared in an opening up front. “Why, hey there, Veronnerka!” greeted Helton.

“You!” she yelled when the hand came off her mouth.

“That rascal behind ya’s my nephew Micky-Mack.”

The muscular arms around her loosened. Shuddering, Veronica craned her neck and saw a lean, 20ish man with choppy blond hair and a ragtag jacket. He grinned, showing bad teeth. “Hey there! Good golly, you’se a purdy one!”

It now occurred to her that Helton was sitting in front on the passenger side of the mysterious truck. “And this here,” he said, “is my son, Dumar.”

Now the driver looked back: a creepily skinny redneck with long, stringy black hair and a thin face. “Howdy, Veronnerka! My Paw done tolt us all about ya! Says you was a mite nice sellin’ him that fancified camera.”

The truth finally set in. I’ve been abducted by crazy rednecks! and she screamed at the top of her lungs.

The truck weaved. Helton and Micky-Mack palmed their ears. “Dang, girl!” the younger man yelled.

“Let me ‘splain!” Helton barked.

When Veronica stopped screaming, her heart felt ready to explode.

“Sheee-IT, missy!” Helton climbed in back and sat his large frame on a milk crate. Micky-Mack, erection in his pants and all, slipped out from behind her and took a crate next to her.

“Ya scream louder’n a blammed train whistle,” Helton said. “Ain’t no call fer screamin’.”

“What else can I do?” she yelled. “You’ve abducted me!”

“Aw, no, hon, now see, ya just don’t understand. We ain’t abductered ya, we only, kind’a, borrowed ya fer awhile.”

“Borrowed? Why?”

Helton flapped a sheaf of papers. “That camera ya solt me’s right nice, but holy jumpin’ jehossafats!” He frowned at the papers, whose front page read OPERATING INSTRUCTIONS - SONY HI-DEF HVR SERIES. “‘Tis true I ain’t had no proper schoolin’, but my Maw, she made dang shore I learnt ta read. I gotta tell ya, though, these damn ‘structions? I cain’t make head’re tails of ’em. May as well be readin’ Alfred Einstein!”

Veronica’s face seemed to slowly droop, like melting wax. “Helton. Are you saying that you abducted me because you don’t understand the instruction booklet for the Sony?”

The shaggy head nodded. “Yeah, hon. All these buttons’n switches? A hill fella like me’d never figure it all out. So’s I need you ta show me how to work the dang thing.”

Are these men on drugs, or are they just out of their minds? she thought.

“We’se need ya to help us out is all.”

“Helton, couldn’t you have just asked me? Did you really need to abduct me in a parking lot?”

Helton sighed. “Reason we didn’t do that, is ’cos, well, this is a ‘mergency. A family ‘mergency. We’se need a favor is all, and since I knows you to be a nice-type gal, I took it unta myself—”

“To abduct me!” she yelled.

Helton appeared downcast. “It’s only ’cos ya don’t understand the whole ball’a wax. But this is dang important.”

“Family videos at Christmas is important enough to abduct someone against their will?” she continued to bellow. “Helton, you’re not making any sense!”

Micky-Mack had been staring fixedly at Veronica’s bosom the whole time. He seemed pent up sitting there on his crate, but finally he rubbed his crotch, said, “Hail, Unc Helton, this gals tits stickin’ out are killin’ me. I’se just got to have me a feel,” and then his callused redneck hand reached for her bosom.

CRACK!

Micky-Mack fell off his milk crate due to the mammoth open palm that slapped him upside of the head. “Dang, Unc Helton! That hurt!”

“This ain’t no ruckin’, boy, and you know it!” came Helton’s authoritative scold. “Veronnerka’s our friend, and we ain’t layin’ a cotton-pickin’ finger on her less’n she says we can. Ya hear me, boy?”

“Aw, fuck yeah, Unc,” Micky-Mack whined and sat back on the crate, “but Gawd dang that hurt.” Dumar up front was laughing.

The truck rocked and rocked, and Veronica’s unsorted thoughts rocked with it. Madness, madness… Certainly, abductions of young women were always founded by some sexual motive. So…

Why haven’t they raped me? Why this nonsense about needing help with the camera?

“Okay, Helton”—it was the only thing she could think to say—“I’ll show you how to operate the Sony.”

“Why that’s just dandy, girl!”

She picked up the weighty unit, flicked some switches, turned on the lamp. “There. It’s ready now.” She turned the unit around to show him. “See that little square? That’s the view-screen. Whatever you see in that is what you record. And to shoot”—she shouldered the camera and began to record Helton’s astonished face—“you squeeze this little button here on the grip.” She panned around the inside of the truck, released the record button, then showed the view-screen to Helton. “Now I’m replaying the movie I just made. Watch.”

Micky-Mack rushed over and squatted next to his uncle. In the modest view-screen they watched.

“Hey! That’s you, Unc Helton!”

“Shore is! Dang if that ain’t a fine movin’-picture camera!”

“It’s all stored on the camera’s memory, but it’s also copied onto this”—she snapped out the mini memory card. “You know, this doohicky that you bought twenty of. So for your friend to see your Christmas movies, all you have to do is give him this.”

Helton held out his hands. “It’s too good to be true!”

“That shore is some fancy camera!” Micky-Mack enthused.

Even Dumar, peering back, exclaimed, “Dang!”

Veronica set the camera back down. “There. Now you know how to use it, so you don’t need me any more. You can drop me off right here.”

Helton grit his teeth. “Naw, see, hon, it ain’t that easy.”

I KNEW it! “So it’s all a lie then, right?” she spat. “You abducted me because you want to rape me!”

“Please don’t think that,” Helton pleaded. “You’re right. We done sort’a took ya ‘gainst yer will, but it’s all fer a greater good. It’s like this…” Helton rested his shaggy chin on his dirty fingertips. “When a poe-leece man’s follerin’ some bad fellas, if that poe-leece man’s car breaks down, then it’s all right for him to stop the next car that come by and take it—I think it’s called common-deerin’. See, that poe-leece man’s allowed to take another car. Why? ’cos it’s fer a greater good.”

Oh my God! she thought. This is crazy! “Helton? How long are you going to…keep me?”

“Aw, won’t be long, couple’a days or—”

“A couple of days?” she shrieked.

“—or maybe a couple’a weeks, I s’pose. See, Veronnerka, it all depends how long it takes, and don’t ask me to ‘splain that, ’cos…ya simply wouldn’t understand.”

Madness, madness… “Helton, if I don’t show up for work tomorrow morning, then my boyfriend Mike will call me, and if I don’t answer, he’ll go to my apartment, and if I’m not there…he’ll call the police.”

Helton shrugged. “Don’t matter none. Oh, and since ya will be missin’ some workin’ time, we’ll’se pay double fer what’cha miss. How’s that?”

“How’s that?” she wailed. “That’s outrageous! You can’t just take people, Helton! It’s against the law!”

Helton’s tone grew stern. “So’s what was done ta my grandson.”

“What?”

Helton sighed. “Ya just wouldn’t understand, missy. So it’s easier ta just trust me…”

“Here we is, Paw,” Dumar said.

The truck slowed, jostled more violently, then stopped. Veronica, at last, broke down in tears and half-collapsed on Helton, hugging him.

“Please, Helton, don’t do this to me. Don’t hurt me—”

“We ain’t gonna hurt a hair on yer purdy head,” the bulky man assured. “And as fer you…bein’ our guest fer a spell… Believe me, it’s fer somethin’ real important.” Helton took something out of his pocket. “And it ain’t that we don’t trust ya, but, well, we’se just need ya ta stay put fer now,” then—

snap!

Veronica moaned when she was handcuffed to the metal table leg. Then Helton moved her knapsack far out of reach—the knapsack that contained her cellphone and wireless laptop.

“Git yerself some rest, why don’t’cha?” the younger man said.

Helton smiled. “Micky-Mack’s a crack shot with the sling, so’s he’s gonna catch us a squirrel or two while Dumar’n me build a campfire. But we’ll be just outside so’s if’n ya need anything, just holler.”

Madness, madness, she thought beneath her sobs.

“And if’n ya gotta pee”—Helton handed her an empty can of Heinz pork and beans. “There ya go.” He suddenly took a more serious cast. “While’s the squirrel’s cookin’, I gots to have me a long talk with the boys.”

Helton headed for the back door and exited the truck.

Madness, madness, madness, madness, Veronica thought.

(II)

Ten minutes was all it took for the young and eagle-eyed Micky-Mack to bag several squirrels, and a few minutes after that, those squirrels were promptly skinned and gutted via Helton’s big buck knife. Now the tasty rodents roasted slowly on stake-skewers over the roaring campfire outside the truck. The smell was delectable, and it was unfortunate that one of the family’s favorite meals would be tainted by the specter of death, sin, and secrets that hovered over many backwoods folks. They all sat on logs, keeping warm the way men were meant to. Dumar and Micky-Mack looked expectantly to their elder.

“Well, Paw?” Dumar asked.

“We’se waitin’,” Micky-Mack added, antsy by the mystery of what it was that so pained Helton to relate.

“The time’a reckonin’ is upon us, boys,” Helton began, eyes reflecting fire-light and something like dark wonder. “We done got our chops busted by this evil man Paulie, and now’s we’se out fer our revenge. It’s been the law of the land since time began. Someone do you wrong when you ain’t deserved it, then ya got no choice but to do him wrong even worse. Says so in the Bible”—he pronounced “Bible” as bob-ul. “Says ‘a eye fer an eye.’” Helton sipped some soda yet scarcely tasted it. “What I got ta tell ya both tonight hurts me right in my heart—”

“It hurt me in my heart, Paw!” Dumar raised his voice, “seein’ my boy kilt so awful!”

“Simmer down,” Helton ordered. “And listen. In these parts, for years and years, folks been feudin’ over this’n that. It’s part’a man’s nature, I s’pose. But sometimes folks can be so blammed evil that they’ll do ya a wrong that’s so ever-livin’ bad it seems there ain’t nothin’ you can do back to get yer proper revenge. This happened to our family way back in a war they calt the Civil War when the Yankee Army come through here’n start burnin’ our ancestors’ houses down for nothin’ more than retrievin’ the nails out the ashes, which they’d melt down to make more bullets so’s ta kill more decent Southern folk. But that ain’t all they did, see?”

Micky-Mack was so intrigued he sat on the edge of his log. “What else they do, Unc?”

Helton’s voice lowered to a grim rattle. “They round up all the gals in all the nearby towns, even li’l girls nine, ten years old, and they made ’em all live fer a month in what they called a Sibley Camp on account that’s what the tents they put up was called—Sibley tents, and what they turned this camp into…was a fuckin’ camp.”

“A what, Paw?” Dumar asked.

“It were a camp, son, where Yankees from all over could come and git thereselfs a piece’a ass. A blammed rape camp’s what is was! The Yankee general was a black-hearted cad the name’a Hildreth—it’s him was the one who order this big camp put up, and by the hunnerts, the Yankee soldiers’d come to git their willies up in our gals and fill ’em with their evil Yankee peckersnot, and General Hildreth, what he done is he charged each soldier a five-cent piece fer each nut they git in the camp, making profit on his crimes against our gals!” Helton’s rancor echoed through the woods. He had to recompose himself. “And, see, bein’ that the gals was forced ta live in this camp fer over a month, they’se all wound up pregnant, and General Hildreth, he like that a whole lot, he did, ’cos even after his Yankees left, these poor gals’d pop out kids they’d have to raise, just bringin’ more’n more hardship on ’em. And worser than that even was that whiles the gals was in the camp, they weren’t givin’ nothin’ to eat, so’s one’a the gals—name’a Constance McKinney, it was—she were kind’a the speaker fer all the poor gals. What she do is she say to General Hildreth, ‘Please, general, ya gots to give my gals some food ever so often, else we all starve to death!’ So ya know what General Hildreth did? He give each gal a tin cup and then he laugh back ta Constance’n said, ‘Each time one of my men gets his nut up your dirty Rebel pussies, you just stand up and put this cup between your legs and let my mens’ jism dribble in the cup…’cos that’s all you’re ever gonna get ta eat while you’re here! Ain’t no way I’m wasting a single morsel of food on Rebel bitches!’”

“God dang, Unc Helton!” Micky-Mack wailed. He and Dumar were clearly unsettled. “Shorely only the most evilest’a men’d make gals live on cum!”

The shadow of Helton’s nodding head loomed huge in the forest behind them. “Oh, they was evil, all right, boy, evil as if they was the sons’a Lucifer hisself. Our poor gals got fucked or sodder-mized probably a thousand times each by these dag-blasted Yanks. Eventually, though, they moved on, leavin’ our towns burnt and dester-toot. See, the Yanks et all the livestock theirselfs, but what was left they kilt’n left ta rot so’s no one else could have it, and they burnt all the fields too. That blammed Hildreth even sent his men inta the woods to kill every animal they could see; he didn’t want nothin’ left for the folks here to eat. And, a’course, all them poor gals was knocked up and their bellies full’a Yankee bastards…”

Dumar and Micky-Mack shivered, not from the chill air but from the macabre suspense being conveyed by the fire.

“Weren’t long after, the War ended, and the town’s men that didn’t get kilt or die in Yankee prison camps, they come back home, but imagine their horror when they did. Town in ashes, fields destroyed, folks livin’ on roots’n head-lice’n tree bark’n worms, their wives rack-skinny’n traumer-tized’n with a Yankee baby on their tit. It’s said that a good many’a our boys hanged theirselves in despair when they seed that.” Helton eyed the two young men. “But there were a pair’a Rebel soldiers who come back, and they didn’t kill theirselfs, no sir! They decided to do somethin’ ’bout it!”

“What, Paw? What?” Dumar pleaded.

“They hunt down them evil Yankees’n kill ’em, Unc?”

Helton raised a silencing finger. “Listen ta me now, ’cos this is important. These two men I’m speakin’ of? One was a fella named Clyde Martin—”

“Hey!” Micky-Mack exclaimed. “That’s my last name!”

“Dang straight it is, boy, ’cos this soldier, Clyde Martin, is yer direct ancestor, and the other fella, he was Lemuel Tuckton—”

“So, Paw,” Dumar calculated, “You’n me, we’se related to him?”

“Yes, we is. He’s my great, great grandfather, son. It’s the blood’a these two men—these heroes—that all of us gots runnin’ in our veins. When they see what General Hildreth did to the town, they got all in a swivet, they did. And they decided to go after him.”

“Please, Paw! Tell us they kilt Hildreth in a bad way!”

Did Helton smile in the crackling firelight? “After the War, Hildreth, he go back to someplace calt Filler-delfia, became mayor. Lived in a big mansion with pillars out front, had a beautiful wife and couple’a children, and his two best officers from the War, he hired ’em ta run his estate. See, Hildreth, he were pig-shit rich from all’a his war crimes over the years. So what Clyde Martin and Lemuel Tuckton do one night is after ridin’ on horseback all the way to Filler-delfia, they snatch them two’a Hildreth’s officers…”

Micky-Mack and Dumar stared.

“Their bodies was found the next day, both dead as dead could be. Had their heads busted open, they did…but it weren’t no ordinary head wound, no sir. Hildreth ain’t never seen anything like it, so’s he called the family doctor to inspect the bodies. Both the tops’a their skulls was busted open—a ballpeen hammer, probably, the doc said—and ya could see their raw brains still sittin’ inside’a their skulls. But the doc look close at them brains with a magnifyin’ glass, and ya know what he saw?”

“What, Unc Helton! What?”

Helton nodded. “He seed what look like a single knife-slit in each brain, then he took a whiff’a them brains—”

“He smelt the dead fellas’ brains?” questioned Micky-Mack in utter puzzlement.

“He smelt ’em, all right,” Helton assured, and it appeared by his demeanor that something joyous deep inside was just itching to get out. “And he rekka-nized the smell, and then he stick his finger inta each slit and felt somethin’ slimy, like snot…”

Dumar’s brow furrowed. “Paw, ain’t no way snot could wind up in a fella’s brain.”

“It weren’t snot, son. It was cum—”

“Cum!” Mick-Mack yelled.

“Dick-loogie, Paw? Peckersnot? That what you’se talkin’ ’bout?”

“It shore is, Dumar! Man-batter! Joy juice! Cock-hock!” Helton affirmed, rising to his feet as the frenzy of the tale he told began to unwind like a spring. “What Clyde Martin’n Lem Tuckton did is they cracked them two officers hard on the top’a their skulls, picked out the pieces’a bone, and stuck a knife in each brain ta make a slit fer their dicks, and then—then”—Helton began to shake—“and then they fucked their brains!”

Micky-Mack almost fell off the log. “They fucked their brains, Unc Helton?”

“Holy sheeeeeeeee-IT, Paw!”

“They fucked their evil Yankee brains, and I’se mean they fucked ’em hard, and they each got theirself a nut, boys!” Helton was reeling. “Then they done the same to all’a Hildreth’s housemaids’n servants, snatchin’ ’em two at a time and humpin’ their heads!”—the frenzy rose, veins bulging in Helton’s forehead, eyes wide and gleaming in vengeful delirium—“then they snatched Hildreth’s children—his children!—and they fucked their heads, and then they done the same to his wife! And then, then, they snatched Hildreth himself and they fucked his head ta kingdom come! They fucked that head three times apiece, boys, comin’ each time’n blowin’ their load right inta the middle’a Hildreth’s twisted brain, they did, till his head was full up with their cum, and that, boys”—Helton stomped the ground—“that…is what’cha call a header!”

««—»»

The chill, quiet night stretched on, and as the fire diminished to eerie, phosphoric embers, Helton—in calmer voice now—told the rest of the story to Dumar and Micky-Mack. Helton ate his squirrel with gusto, but the younger men scarcely picked at theirs, their appetite hindered partly from the revulsion of what had just been related to them, but mostly from the distraction of what could only be called macabre fascination. Helton’s commanding finger wagged at them. “I want you boys to eat, ya hear me, even if yer bellies don’t feel like they need a fillin’. For what’s comin’ up? We all gonna need our strength’n stamina.”

Dumar’s voice was a feeble etching. “A header’s what you mean, huh, Paw?”

“We’se gonna have ourselfs a header, ain’t we, Unc Helton?”

“That we is—”

“On this Paulie man,” Dumar finished the speculation.

Helton shook his shaggy head. “It’ll be his head we hump last, son, ’cos, see, the full effect of a header come from fuckin’ the brains’a your enemy’s kin first. With God’s help’n a little luck, we’ll be able to do it.”

Dumar couldn’t have appeared more uncomprehending. “But why, Paw? Why this man Paulie do that horrible thing ta my son?”

Helton’s voice clicked. “I’ll tell ya,” and his stained teeth stripped the tender meat off the roasted squirrel’s ribs. “Micky-Mack, you’se too young, but Dumar, you probably ‘member my brother Tuff—”

“Aw, yeah, Paw, I ‘member Uncle Tuff, shore.”

“And ya both likely ‘member Jake Martin who ever-body called Grandpap Martin.”

Nods from both of the younger men. Micky-Mack said, “Oh, shore, Unc, I ‘member him—he was a great old guy. He made me a pair’a fine boots when I were a tike.”

“Me, too,” Dumar said.

Helton raised a big booted foot. “Made these fer me twennie-five years ago, and to this day they ain’t busted a stitch. See, Grandpap Martin were the best cobbler in the county—”

“Yeah,” Dumar recollected, “and it were weird on account’a him not havin’ no feet.”

“A shoemaker,” Micky-Mack pondered, “with no feet…”

Helton sucked some warm marrow. “It was some disease he got, so’s a doctor in Pulaski cut his feet off,” Helton said, “but that didn’t keep ole Grandpap’s spirit down, no sir. A fine, fine man he was, and, see, Grandpap’s only daughter was Joycie Martin, and she married my brother Tuff, and what they done is, they had theirselfs a son named Travis Tuckton.”

Dumar and Micky-Mack traded grave glances.

“I heard’a Travis Tuckton,” Micky-Mack said diffusely.

“Me, too,” Dumar said, “though I don’t recall meetin’ him.”

“Travis were a good boy mostly but just couldn’t keep out’a trouble when ya get right down to it,” Helton informed. “Got a 5-year jolt in the county detent but wound up doin’ twelve ’cos he wouldn’t take no shit from the cons. But I ain’t surprised that ya both heard’a him ’cos he’s got kind of a…repper-tay-shun ’round these parts.”

Dumar nodded. “Folk kind’a whisper ’bout him, like he’s some kind’a backwoods hero but, ya know? They never say why…”

“Ain’t surprisin’. Travis were a hero, all right, along with Grandpap Martin, and now…I’ll’se tell ya all ’bout it ’cos it’s time ya learnt.” Helton took a breath, like a long-winded character in a novel that insists on propelling backstory in passive, static scenes like this. “Nineteen, twennie years ago it was, my brother Tuff owned some shit-land ’round Luntville, hunnert acres or so. Weren’t worth a bucket’a mule puke so’s he just kind’a forgot about it. Then one day this cracker come along sayin’ he wants to buy it’n he offer Tuff a hunnert dollars a acre. So’s Tuff said, shore, and he even tolt him that the land weren’t nothin’ but scrub but he tell Tuff he wants it anyway, so a’course, Tuff sold it to him fair’n square…or so he thought. But, see, this fella, what he done is he found out that land had valuable stuff on it—”

“What kind’a stuff, Paw?”

“Natural gas, deep down underground,” and Helton pronounced “natural” as natch-rull. “S’what city folks use fer heat’n ‘lecktricity, and it turnt out there was so much natural gas on that land, it made the fella that bought it a millionaire overnight—”

“What a kick in the ass for Uncle Tuff!” Micky-Mack commiserated.

“Oh, yeah. The fella that bought it knew ’bout all that natural gas but, a’course, didn’t tell Tuff, instead payin’ him shit money and gettin’ hisself rich.” Helton eyed both Dumar and Micky-Mack. “That fella’s name was Thibald Caudill.”

Dumar and Micky-Mack’s faces showed no recognition.

“After Caudill rip Tuff off, he bought hisself a big, fancy mansion in Pulaski, and he come back to our neck’a the woods ever so often—drivin’ a fuckin’ Rolls Royce—just to laugh at us all over the screw-job he pulled on Tuff. Liked ta rub our faces in the fact we was poor and he weren’t. So what we do is we all pitched in some money and give it to Tuff, and he hired hisself a citified lawyer, and what that lawyer tolt him was there was laws now—some law ’bout sales made in bad faith—that might make it so Tuff could sue Caudill fer what he stolt from him…”

“Then Uncle Tuff’d be a millionaire,” Dumar deduced.

“Um-hmm, but that never happened…”

“So how come that fancy lawyer didn’t sue Thibald Caudill?” Micky-Mack asked.

“On account Tuff and his wife Joycie up’n died.”

Dumar nodded at the dim memory. “Car accident, weren’t it?

“Weren’t no accident, son. It was murder. Once Caudill got wind that Tuff was fixin’ ta sue, one night he’n his two boys, they followed Tuff’n Joycie back from that lawyer’s office”—Helton made an angry fist—“and they up’n run ’em off the road—”

“No!” Micky-Mack and Dumar exclaimed.

“—and they crashed in a gully. Poor Tuff, he shoot right through the windshield’n died instantly…”

“What about Aunt Joycie?” Dumar asked. “She go through the windshield too?”

“No,” Helton said very resolutely. “She didn’t. See, Joycie was wearin’ her seatbelt, so’s she lived—”

“But you just said—” Micky-Mack blurted.

“Joycie weren’t kilt in the wreck, no.” Helton ground his teeth. “But what Caudill’n his two boys do is they pulled poor Joycie out the car”—he had to pause—“and they tore off alls her clothes”—another pause, his face reddening—“and they dragged her up on the hood”—Helton began to simmer—“and they pult their dirty dicks out and they got theirselfs a ball-peen and they cracked up the top’a Joycie’s skull”—and he flew into another rage, shuddering—“and they HAD THEIRSELFS A HEADER!”

Dumar covered his face with his hands while Micky-Mack brought his arms ’round his belly and just moaned.

“Weren’t enough,” Helton’s voice cracked and boomed, “fer Caudill to steal the millions that was rightfully Tuff’s, and it weren’t enough to kill him ta boot! No! Caudill, he hadda have more! He hadda fuck Tuff’s poor wife in the head!”

“No, no, no,” Micky-Mack moaned.

“And his boys did it too, all standin’ ’round cacklin’ and hee-hawwin’ like the devils they was. They each put a nut in Joycie’s brain, they did, but Caudill even bragged later up the Crossroads that his youngest boy Crow, he knew the story ’bout how Clyde Martin and Lem Tuckton done fucked General Hildreth’s head three times, so’s he said, ‘Anythin’ a low-down Martin or Tuckton can do, I’se kin do better!’ and then he fucked Joycie’s head four times—just ta one up the family!”

“It’s horrible, horrible, Paw!” Dumar wailed.

Helton calmed back down, thumbing a tear or two from his eyes. “Horrible is right, but at least there’s a happy endin’ to this story. See, Tuff’s son Travis Tuckton, he were in the county slam when all this happened, and all Grandpap Martin ever told him was that his folks got kilt in a tragic car wreck; Travis didn’t need ta know the truth, not in stir, ’cos the boy, shee-it—he had it bad enough. But when they let him out, Grandpap tolt him what really happened, and Travis flew inta such a swivet, he swore on his Maw’n Paw’s graves that he would avenge ’em, and that is when Grandpap tolt Travis the in’s and out’s of havin’ a header.” Helton reached behind him and produced the King Edward cigar box that Micky-Mack had fetched for him earlier. “See, there’s better ways’a havin’ a header now, boys. Bashin’ in the top’a the skull’s fine but, see, sometimes ya can git bone-slivers stuck in the brain and then ya stick yer pecker in and—YOW!—next thing ya know, that bone-sliver’s stickin’ in yer dick!”

“Holy fuck!” Dumar recoiled at the image.

Micky-Mack protectively covered his crotch. “Dang, Unc! Cain’t think’a anything that could hurt more’n that!”

Helton nodded grimly. “Happened to a fella once, Sisal Conner, who done got wronged one way or another by Jeremiah Croll, so’s Sisal, he snatched one’a Croll’s kids and threw a header on him. He busted a hole in the kid’s head, but the second he slipped his stiffer up inta the brain-meat, he up’n scream bloody murder. See, he weren’t careful enough with the ball-peen’n he wind up catchin’ a bone-sliver right in his dick-knob, he did. Pult his pecker out’a there and it squirted blood halfways across the room!” Helton opened the cigar box. “But, see, long time ago, like in the ‘50s, I reckon, Grandpap Martin came up with a safer way. Instead’a usin’ the ball-peen, ya use one’a these,” and from the box he withdrew several old, rusty hole-saw blades. “All ya’s do is lock down one’a these in the chuck of a power drill and ya saw a hole in the skull’a the person yer fixin’ ta head-hump.”

“Wow!” Micky-Mack exclaimed.

“Pretty dang smart fer thinkin’a that,” Dumar observed.

“Cuts a perfect hole ever time,” Helton went on, and he passed the cylindrical blades around for the younger men to see.

Dumar deduced, “So’s…did Travis ‘ventually throw a header on Caudill?”

“Yeah, he shore did—”

“And it were one’a these here hole-saws that Travis Tuckton used?”

“Naw, the actual one used on Caudill disser-peered. Word is it was took by a poe-leece man—”

“The poe-leece!” Micky-Mack shrilled.

Helton wagged his finger. “Lemme finish tellin’ the story, boy… Now, it were Grandpap who not only told Travis the truth ’bout what happened to his folks, it was him who taught Travis how to have a header, and what they did then—God bless ’em—well, they kind’a went on a header rampage, havin’ headers on the kin’a dang near anyone whoever’d wronged the Tucktons or the Martins in the past. It was kind’a like…practice, see? But by the time they was ready, they was experts in the art of throwin’ a header.” Helton smiled and whispered. “And then one day, they gots their chance. They got their hands on Thibald Caudill hisself, and they hole-sawed that cracker’s skull and they humped the shit out’a his head. Travis, he was so twisted up inside with hatred, he fucked Caudill’s brain ta porridge, and the outrage that had been done ta his fine parents was finally avenged.”

“Thank God!” Dumar said.

Helton collected back up the hole-saw blades. “Now, the actual blade used on Caudill’s head, like I said, it disser-peered. ’cos, see, not long after they had their header on Caudill, a cop discovered ’em and shot both Travis’n Grandpap dead right in Grandpap’s old shack by the deadfall.”

“Aw, dang!” Micky-Mack said.

“Yeah, but they got the job done, and that’s all that matters,” Helton said. He emphasized, “Family’s all that matters when ya get right down to it.”

The fire’s dwindling embers tainted their faces in ghostly orange. But Micky-Mack seemed antsy about something, and Helton noticed this and ordered, “Say what’s on your mind, boy?” even though he had a good idea what it was.

“Unc Helton?” the 20-year-old asked. “Have you…ever been to a header?”

Helton breathed deep. “Tain’t sayin’ I’m proud’n I ain’t sayin’ I’m ashamed…but, yeah, boys. I had a couple’a headers back in the day. The why’s’n wherefores don’t matter. It’s just that several times we was offended in ways so dag-blasted low-down that a header was the only way ta git justice.” He looked idly at the rusted hole-saws. “It were Grandpap Martin, my brother Tuff, and me. See, fellas, our families didn’t never treat headers willy-nilly. We respected the law of the hills and only threw headers when someone deserved it. Shee-it, Tuff never did no wrong ta Thibald Caudill, not never. It was Caudill’s greed, and his sheer fuckin’ evil that got him ta doin’ what he did.”

“And he got what he deserved,” Dumar said with some satisfaction.

“Yeah, he shore did, and I’se hopin’ that Satan hisself is butt-fuckin’ that old rube as we speak. ’cos, see, some folks—folks like Caudill—they’se so sick’n twisted’n just plain wicked that they’se throw headers when they got no business. They do it…’cos they like it, and that’s just the most devilish thing that hillfolk can ever do.”

Micky-Mack looked overwhelmed. “Shee-it, Unc. How could anyone like cuttin’ a hole in someone’s head’n fuckin’ their brain?”

Helton deliberated over a response. “Well, son, for the reasons I just tolt ya: ’cos they’se evil, but…but…” He sighed. “There’s another reason, too.”

“What reason could that be, Paw?”

Helton rubbed his eyes. “Aw, son, I’ll be honest with ya. See, there’s somethin’ ’bout havin’ a header—just…somethin’… Dang, I might as well just say it. There’s somethin’ ’bout a freshly opened head, and the brain inside’a that head, that makes it good ta fuck.”

“What’cha mean by that, Unc?” the ever-inquiring Micky-Mack asked.

“What I mean, boy—and this is what has caused some ta stray—what I mean is, gettin’ yer nut in a brain? It feels better than any nut you ever had, better’n the best pussy ya ever fucked, better’n the best mouth or butt you ever come in…” Helton stroked his beard. “Don’t know why, just does.”

“Dang,” Dumar remarked.

“And you two’ll be findin’ out ’bout that a right quick,” Helton went on as the woods seemed to darken around them, and grow colder and colder. “What I ain’t ‘splained to ya yet is what this man Paulie’s got ta do with any’a this.”

“Yeah, Paw, I was fixin’ ta ask.”

Helton looked grimly at his son. “Li’l Crory’s awful murder was Paulie gettin’ revenge against Grandpap and Travis for fuckin’ Thibald Caudill’s head.”

“Oh, so this Paulie fella, he one’a Caudill’s kin?”

“Well, sort’a. See, Paulie married Caudill’s daughter Marshie. Shee-it, Marshie Caudill was damn shore the best-lookin piece’a ass in the whole fuckin’ county, boys. Tits and ass and legs that’d make a grown man cry. She’d been workin’ a seedy strip joint in Pulaski since she was 16, and turnt plenty’a tricks too’s what I heard. Even had herself a trick-baby from a john that knocked her up. But after Thibald Caudill got head-humped ta death, Marshie, she inherit her daddy’s big mansion and all that money, so she buy that strip joint she work all them years in. Still owns the place ta this day. Reckon she must be ’bout your age now, Dumar.”

Dumar slowly nodded. “Now ya mention it, I have heard’a her. Me’n Harley Benner was walkin’ back from cuttin’ wood one day, walkin’ along Big Boon Road, and this weird-lookin’ fancy silver car drive by. There were a hot blond drivin’ it, Paw, and I’se mean she had tits stickin’ out till next week. But then ya know what she done? When she see us, she makes a evil face’n up’n give us the finger, and that’s when Harley Benner say, ‘That there is Marshie Caudill.’”

Helton was not surprised. “It was her, all right, son, and you’re right. Righteous pair’a tits on the bitch, yessir. And, see, just like her devilsh daddy, she still drive through these parts—damn near ever mornin’, I’se heard. Drive all the way from Pulaski to where we all live. Likes ta see where she come from, and remind herself she don’t live here no more on account of her daddy’s money. And that weird car? It were the self-same Rolls Royce Thibald Caudill used ta drive. I even seed her a couple’a times up close—in Luntville—still lookin’ good as she ever did, tits hangin’ perfect’n all high’n might, nipples stickin’ out like fuckin’ rivets, ass swayin’ back’n forth in her fancy dresses. Paulie’s proper name is Paul Vinchetti—see, he’s a Eye-tallion type, and he’s in this group they call, I think, the MAFF-ee-uh.”

“What the hail’s that?” Micky-Mack asked.

“He’s like a gangster, you know? A big whup-dee-doo criminal—see, he’s into what they call organized crime.” Need it be elucidated that Helton pronounced the word “organized” as organnazzed? “Don’t rightly know how it all works, just that Paulie’s pig-shit rich from sellin’ drugs and gettin’ profits from gamblin’ and such. And several years ago, he and his boys, they started selling their drugs ’round these parts, see? And one night he’s in the strip joint Marshie Caudill owns and he gets one look at Marshie and he fall head-over-heels in love with the whore, so much so in fact that he up’n marries her.”

“Well, how you like that?” Dumar said.

“Must’a been Marshie tolt him ’bout how the Tucktons and Martins was responsible fer Thibald Caudill gettin’ his head fucked.”

Helton nodded. “And now? They’se all laughin’ and carryin’ on ’bout how they fucked over a couple’a dirt-poor rednecks, and they figure we’se too dumb or ain’t got the balls to do anything about it.” Helton half-sneered, half-smiled. “They like ta make movies? Well, we’ll show ’em a movie…”

««—»»

They doused the fire and hit the road, Dumar driving and Helton still communicating expository details via long-winded and essentially passive dialogue. Veronica, in her shock, dismay, and fatigue, had fallen asleep, still handcuffed to the leg of the fish-gutting table. The truck lumbered on through the night, its dim headlights sweeping through winding, wooded roads as a low winter moon followed them through the trees. “It’s likely that Paulie ain’t there,” Helton rambled on, “on account I heard he don’t spend much time at the house. But that’s dandy, ’cos it ain’t Paulie we want just yet. It’s his wife.”

“Marshie,” Dumar said. “And we’se gonna snatch her—”

“—and have ourselfs a header,” Micky-Mack concluded.

“Yeah we is, and we’se gonna film it on that there fancy camera that our friend Veronnerka solt us, and then we’se gonna leave that movie fer Paulie ta see.”

Silence unfolded for several moments, but it was the antsy Micky-Mack whose incessant inquisitiveness broke that silence. “Dang, Unc Helton,” he began and rubbed his crotch. “Much as I love havin’ a nut…I don’t think I can get my bone up for it.”

“A head with a hole in it’s gotta be tough to get a stiffer for,” Dumar said.

Helton understood. “It’s a differ-kult thing ta conterm-plate, boys. That’s why when ya’s havin’ yer first header, concentration’s the key. Ya gots ta think hard ’bout all the great pussy ya fucked, and all the purdy gals.”

Micky-Mack seemed unconvinced, still rubbing his crotch. “Shee-it, Unc. My dick feels dead right now, like it knows it ain’t a natural thing to fuck folks in their heads.”

Dumar: “Don’t matter that some folks say a header’s the best nut they ever had, Paw. I ain’t gonna be able to get me no erection in a million years.”

“That’s why we gots ta tweak ourselfs a tad, get our dicks all feisty’n fit ta spit,” Helton said. “And I figure our friend Veronnerka can help us with that.” He peered down the dark ribbon of road ahead. “We’se close ta walkin’ distance now, so find a place ta pull over.”

Dumar did as instructed, but Micky-Mack squinted at his elder. “What’cha mean tweak ourselfs, Unc?”

««—»»

It was in grueling stages that Veronica awoke from her black sleep. She’d had the worst nightmare…

She saw only black, but did she hear…moans? Whistling? Did she hear someone say in redneck dialect, “Hot dang, that’s a dandy body on her…”?

Did she hear, “Shit, that’s good…”?

Or, “Fuck. My crane’s raisin’, no problem…”

She also had the sensation that something was in her hand. Something, warm, turgid, and tacky…

Finally, her eyes peeled open from the noxious sleep…

What in the name of…

Helton, Dumar, and Micky-Mack stood around her where she sat slumped against the truck wall. They all had their penises and scrotums out, and they were stroking themselves and staring down at her with salacious grins. Veronica’s eyes flicked to her free hand…

Micky-Mack had not his own hand but her hand wrapped around his penis. The penis was erect, large, and heavily foreskinned.

Veronica screamed.

The men winced at once. “There she goes again!” Dumar yelled, erection bobbing. Micky-Mack dropped her hand to cover his ears, and Helton roared, “God dang, girl! That scream’a yers’ll travel halfway ‘cross the blammed county. Gonna crack all the winders!”

“I knew it!” she yelled, “I knew you were going rape me!”

“Dang, Veronnerka,” Helton said. “I done tolt ya we’d never do nothin’ like that.”

“Please! Please don’t rape me!” she sobbed. “I’m a virgin! I have to save my virginity for when I marry Mike!”

“Simmer down, girl,” Helton pleaded.

“Yeah,” Micky-Mack said. “We’se just givin’ ourselfs a little tweak.”

“Gotta get our stiffers up,” Dumar added, “and—dang, hon—we didn’t have no idea you had such hot body.”

“Hotter than the lid on a pot-bellied stove,” Helton said.

Only then did Veronica notice that while she’d slept, these three perverts had raised her top, exposing her bare breasts, and they’d pulled her work pants and panties down.

“That’s some sure-fire gorgeous rib-melons on ya, Veronnerka,” Helton complimented, “and the dang purdiest slop-box I ever seed.”

“So don’t git mad,” Micky-Mack said. “We’se just admirin’ ya.”

“Admiring me?” she spat. “You were using my hand to masturbate with!”

Helton chuckled. “‘Tis funny how gals git their dander up over the littlest things.” He began stroking his penis again, and cradling his testicles. “All we need is somethin’…provokertive, ta gander, that’s all.” Another friendly chuckle, glancing to Micky-Mack. “See, I sent my nephew there to pick us up a girlie mag, and lookit what the dimwit brung back.” He picked a magazine off the floor, and showed it to her. The cover read SWISH FAMILY ROBINSON and showed a half-dozen young, muscular, and quite naked men standing cross-armed before a log cabin. They all sported erections of prodigious size. “As ya can see, the dumb-ass got a stroke mag fer homa-sexual fellas—got pictures in here’a fellas cornholin’ each other’n suckin’ peter! Damn, Micky-Mack, sometimes yer common sense is worth ’bout as much as a dixie cup full’a dogshit worms…and that ain’t worth very much, now is it?”

Dumar honked laughter.

“Aw, shee-it, Unc! I knowed we was in a hurry,” the boy retorted, “so I git to the magger-zine section with all the girlie mags’n I just grab the first one my hand lands on. Didn’t know it was for queer fellas. I ain’t never had much use fer girlie mags what with all the poon I bust. Shee-it, gals purdy much foller me down the damn street, and a lot of ’em I don’t even know. It’s ’cos word gits ’round, ya know?”

Helton frowned. “Word gits ’round ’bout what?”

Micky-Mack shrugged with nonchalance. “That I got the biggest dick in these here parts. What I need beat-off mags fer when ever gal in town’s standin’ in line ta sit on my giant cock?”

Helton pointed a finger. “Don’t’cha be braggin’, boy! Aw, shore, ya gots yerself a big pecker, but so did Tater Kline. ‘Member him? He had a dick on him a foot long, son, and he was always braggin’ ’bout it. God’s got ways’a gettin’ back at folks fer their sin’a pride.”

“Damn, Unc Helton,” Micky-Mack dismissed. “Tater Kline? Who’s he?”

Dumar honked laughter.

“I done tolt ya. God saw fit ta hang a foot-long pecker on him, so’s instead’a bein’ grateful, he up’n brag about it any chance he get. Pull it out in the damn bar, he would, doin’ parlor tricks’n shit. Flippin’ beer mugs, playin’ ring toss, flappin’ it around. So’s ya know what God done, boy? He just hauled back and laid on Tater a case’a the dick cancer, He did, yes sir! Then Tater had ta go the hars-spital’n get what they call a penectomy. It’s a operation. Dang doctor from India cut his dick clean off ta get rid’a the cancer. But ya know what?” Helton smiled with a nod. “Tater Kline never bragged ’bout his big dick never again.”

Micky-Mack’s eyes thinned through a contemplation. “Aw, I’se think yer makin’ that up.”

“Just keep braggin’ ’bout your big dick. See how long ‘fore it’s sittin’ in the bottom’a some doctor’s garbage can.”

Veronica could not conceive of this conversation between men with their penises in their hands…

“Don’t listen ta the boy, hon,” Helton said to her as she awkwardly hitched her pants back up and pulled down her blouse. “It’s just that with nothin’ provokertive to lookit, we’se didn’t see no harm in lookin’ at you.” His bushy brows rose. “And, ya know, you could do us a big favor by helpin’ us out a tad more than that.”

Veronica stared up at him. They’re going to rape me, I just KNOW it…

Micky-Mack stepped closer, bringing the whopper of an erection with him. “Ya know, it’d be real kind’a ya ta give us each a little toot.”

“A little…toot?” her voice creaked.

“Why, shore,” Dumar said. “Tease us up a bit, that’s all. Know what I mean?”

“No!” Veronica yelled.

Helton stepped forward with a shucksy smile, stroking his considerably older penis. “Aw, don’t’cha worry none—we ain’t gonna come. Just a li’l suckin’s what we’re lookin’ for.”

Micky-Mack appended, “We need ya to git our peters feisty.”

And Dumar, “We need our bones fit ta spit.”

Veronica’s head began to spin with the madness. They want blowjobs! Oral rape!

“Ya’d be doin’ us a favor like ya cain’t imagine,” Helton went on. “And, ya know, if you was ever in a jam, why, I’d drop ever-thang ta help ya out.” He’d stroked himself to full hardness. His foreskin covered half the glans, which looked like a purplish bald head with a hole in it. “A’course, ya don’t have to. We was just hopin’ you would.”

Veronica’s thoughts tried to organize. Careful now. These psychos are playing some game, but if I don’t do it…they might kill me, and if they kill me… Her heart skipped a beat. I’ll never see Mike again…

She got up on her knees. “All right,” she said.

“Dang, if Veronnerka ain’t the nicest gal!” Helton celebrated.

“Just like ya tolt us, Paw,” Dumar said, ticking the underside of his scrotum with his fingertips.

“Shee-it, yeah!” Micky-Mack added. “Cain’t wait ta get my peckerwood in her mouth.”

Helton stepped around her legs, sort of like a cowboy getting on a horse. “Since I’se the elder’a the family,” he chuckled, “I’ll go first,” and then he brought his erection right up to Veronica’s face.

She gulped, her belly sinking, but when she moved closer and opened her mouth—

“Ooo! Helton!” she complained. “When was the last time you washed?”

He looked fuddled. “Warshed? Why, last Saturday, a’course. So’s we’se clean as a whistle on the Sabbath.”

Her face felt like potato chips crinkling—from the sheer density of crotch odor. Oh, my GOD, this is DISGUSTING! but then she considered: Foul-smelling or not, I HAVE to accommodate these loonies, so she steeled herself, tensed up, and took Helton’s erection into her mouth. He’ll like this, she felt sure and starting sucking, because I KNOW I give good blowjobs. Mike’s said so many times…

“Ho, girl!” Helton intoned, then pulled out. “What’cha call that?”

Veronica smirked at the fetid taste in her mouth. “It’s a blowjob.”

“That ain’t no blowjob, missy,” he said and chuckled. “That’s what we call a fuckin’ disaster. Shit, girl, don’t’choo know how to give head?”

Anger flared. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I give great head! Mike’s told me so!”

“Mike, huh…oh, that silly fella back the store. Well, I reckon he’s just bein’ gentlemanly ’cos he don’t want to rile ya up but, Veronnerka? That’s smack-dab the worst dick-suckin’ I’se ever had. Hon, ya don’t drag her teeth up’n down over a fella’s pecker! There’s technique, see? A certain way.”

Veronica, in spite of the circumstances, was enraged.

Helton turned to his kin. “Boys, give it a go, each’a ya. Tell what’cha think.”

Micky-Mack stepped up next and slipped his equally malodorous but significantly larger erection into Veronica’s mouth. Trying hard not to breath, like at all, she stroked her lips back and forth over the engorged shaft—

Micky-Mack pulled back as if stung. “Shit, Unc. That dick-suckin’s so bad it’s liable ta kill my wood!”

Dumar laughed after his turn. “Hon? You got a thing or three to learn about blowin’ a fella proper.”

Veronica couldn’t comprehend any of this. Abducted, handcuffed to a table, molested, and now forced to perform oral sex, only to be told she wasn’t doing it right?

But…could it be true?

Had Mike simply kept quiet all the times she’s blown him? My God! What if I really DO give lousy head? All three of them concurred, so…

I guess…it IS true…

She wanted to break down in tears.

“Aw, now, don’t git all out’a sorts, hon,” Helton said. He pushed Dumar out of the way, then re-assumed his position. “I-ron-urcal, ain’t it? Now we’se’ll be doing you a favor.” He snapped his fingers. “Listen up, and I’ll tell ya how to suck a dick proper.”

Mortified, Veronica looked right at his veiny penis.

“First, ya gotta, like, prime the pump.” He pulled the flabby foreskin back, showing half-dissolved rings of smegma. “Ya grab hold and kind‘a tease the pee-hole open with yer fingers, then run the tip’a yer tongue over it.”

Mortified, Veronica did so, feeling Helton flinch in reaction.

“Yeah, that’s good, hon. It gits some spark in a fella’s works, ya know?”

Veronica felt ludicrous daintily roving the tip of her tongue over the small but plump slit.

“And once the fella gets harder, ya jiggle yer tongue alls around his meat, kind’a toyin’ with it, and then?” Helton kept looking down at the kneeling young women. “Then ya stick yer tongue all the way out flat and start lickin’ the underside’a the fella’s bone—”

Veronica sighed, then commenced. The process reminded her of a child licking an ice-cream bar.

“Yeah, yeah, hon. That’s a tad better,” Helton informed. “But make shore ya play with the nuts, too—give ’em a little squeeze, ya know? Not too hard but just enough to let ’em know that somethin’s gonna be required of ’em soon.”

She continued licking while fondling the lump-heavy sack of skin, which began to magically constrict at her touch.

“And now? Now, hon, ya gets ta the meat’a the blowjob. Start off suckin’ the knob, slow at first, and light, thens a little harder, see, but—” He tapped her on the head. “But hear me out, Veronnerka…”

She looked up to see him frowning down. “What?” she barked.

“Yer still doin’ it wrong,” he said with a lenient chuckle. “What’cha do is this. Ya pull yer upper lip over you upper teeth, see, and stick yer tongue out over yer bottom teeth and kind’a make it curl, like a shovel-head—”

“A shovel-head!”

“Why, shore. Look”—and then he demonstrated, turning his bushy face into a mask of absurdity.

Veronica slumped, but mimicked what he’d done.

“That’s a girl!” he approved, and then he slipped his erection into contorted orifice. “Now, back’n forth, real slow but with each push forward ya slip a tad more in till—yeah! Like that!”

Veronica’s head began to move awkwardly back and forth over the rigid flesh.

“Looks like she’s learnin’, Paw.”

“Yeah, Unc. Who knows? We’se just might make a natural out’a her.”

“But while’s yer doin’ that,” Helton continued to advise, “ya get a bit’a suction goin’ on in yer mouth—oh, and make shore to keep some spit flowin’ too now. And ya also need ta speed up a bit at a time…”

My GOD! Veronica thought. But on she went, trying to turn the instructions into action.

“Dang, boys! I say she’s done got it down pat!” Helton celebrated, and after a few more strokes he pulled out, the gorged penis beating before her face.

“Don’t you want to—”

“Get a off a cock-hock?” he said. “Naw, girlie. I done tolt ya we ain’t gonna come. That’d defeat the purpose.”

This is CRAZY! she screamed to herself. “I don’t understand!”

“We just need ya ta get us riled,” Micky-Mack said.

“We needs to be hornier than skunks in heat,” Dumar amended.

“’Cos, see,” Helton said, “it’s gotta be that our dicks are all cranked up fer later.”

Veronica peered at him with no comprehension whatever. “For…later? What happens…later?”

Helton stepped back to make room for Dumar. “Nothin’ fer you ta worry about, so’s don’t’cha pay it no mind. Dumar, git yer log in there’n try ‘er out.”

Dumar waited for her to pull her upper lip back and stick her tongue out, then—

“Eeeeee-yeah,” he grunted. “Dang shore better’n before.” He paused tentatively. “And, say, hon? Is it alls right if’n I pulled yer top back up and feel on yer titties whilse yer doin’ it?”

“Yeah, how’s ’bout it!” Micky-Mack exclaimed. “You got dandy titties!”

She pulled her mouth off long enough to frown at the revolting smell and say, “Oh, I guess—”

Dumar re-inserted himself but stooped over, peeled up her top, and began to fondle her breasts.

“Eeeee-HAH!” Helton railed. “Are they some milk wagons or what!”

Dumar began to sweat. Like the true redneck gentleman, he pressed her ears, pumping. “And—lemme see,” and then quite abruptly he slipped the entirety of his erection all at once into her mouth, half of which went well into her throat. “Dang if she cain’t deep-throat too, Paw!”

“Consider yerself blessed, Veronnerka,” Helton said in a tone nearly fatherly, “‘cos a gal with none’a what they call the gag-reflex is a blessin’ indeed.”

Micky-Mack was staring at the job, amazed. “Unc! Just watchin’s got me so sure-fire horny, why, my dick’s leakin’ pre-cum like a blammed spigot!”

“There ya go braggin’ again!” Helton roared. “Don’t take yer youth fer granted, boy!”

By now, Veronica’s oral resolve filled the compartment with the sounds of voracious fellatio.

“Shee-it, hon,” Dumar railed. “That’s dang near perfect technique.” He pumped a few more times, winced through some self-control, then pulled out. “Yeah. Theeeeeeeere’s the ticket. My dick is fit ta spit now, ready ta tussle shore as shit.” He flexed it a few times, as if to demonstrate something to her.

“My turn,” Micky-Mack trundled forward and got right to it. The larger erection shocked her when it slid inches deep into her throat, but there was never once the impulse to gag. Her mouth, in fact, began to engage in an intricate synchronicity with her head, and as uncomfortable as it was to simultaneously cup her tongue and keep her lip pulled back over her upper teeth, Veronica found very quickly that…

Wow. This is pretty easy.

“Good Gawd, girl!” Micky-Mack raved. “Alls a sudden, yer suckin’ dick like a champ!”

“The backwoods technique is it,” Helton said. “Make shore ya don’t ferget it, hon. It’ll serve ya well.”

Veronica just kept sucking.

“Ho, ho,” Micky-Mack murmured. He started getting twitchy. “Dang, dang! I mean, this is dead-solid the best blowjob I ever got.” He began to twitch some more. “Shit, ya know, Unc Helton? I’se just cain’t help it. The dick-suckin’s just too good. I’se gonna have ta git me my nut—

WHACK!

Micky-Mack toppled backwards with a wail; his penis popped out of Veronica’s mouth. What happened? she wondered but then she looked and saw the younger man cringing on the floor and holding his head.

“Gawd DANG, Unc Helton! What’cha clout me in the head fer?”

Helton’s indignation smoldered in his eyes. He pointed his ever-present finger. “Don’t’cha be a selfish little punk, Micky-Mack! We ain’t doin’ this fer our own pleasure! This is family business!”

The boy sat up, groggy. “That hurt like holy hail, Unc…”

“Then let it be a lesson to ya. Our friend Veronnerka’s helping us get our willies riled out’a the goodness’a her heart, boy! This ain’t a ruckin’ party—you’re savin’ up that cum fer a important reason! You understand?”

Micky-Mack shakily nodded. When he got up, he wobbled at first. “Yeah, I understand, “ he droned.

Dumar laughed. “These young kids. Gots no force’a will.”

“No they shore don’t,” Helton said, stuffing his erection back into his jeans, and then the other men followed suit. Helton smiled down at Veronica. “Thanks kindly fer torquin’ us up, hon. We’se gonna have to leave ya fer a short spell, but we’ll be back.”

This is so strange… Why would men only want partial blowjobs? Veronica wondered as she wiped the appalling dick-B.O. off her lips. The men were all putting on their jackets.

Before they left, Helton paused at the big truck’s back door. “Oh, and feel free ta help yerself to some spaghetti. It’s made by that famous chef—Boy-Ar Dee!” and then he left and closed the door behind him.

Veronica just sat there, staring at the door. I have a feeling this is going to be a long night…

— | — | —