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Chapter 7

(I)

Portafoy awoke just as the clock struck twelve. The indentured 60ish African-American butler opened his eyes in the dark, then heard—

clink

And then:

A loud and rather rowdy fart.

Oh my, Portafoy thought, eyes going wide as silver dollars. He’d worked here well over twenty years—in fact it had been Thibald Caudill himself who’d hired him. The old man had said to Portafoy’s face, “What I need, boy, is a loyal, hard-workin’, yazzah-boss buck to run my house fer me. You interested?” Well, Portafoy didn’t care for the boy or the buck references, or any of the other myriad racial jabs that sailed from the mouths of this white-trash-turned-rich family. (The little girl, ‘Becca, was by far the worst). But, hell—$500 per week? No way he’d turn that down. Nevertheless, for the entirety of his employ at the Caudill Mansion, Portafoy could recall not a single time when anyone had broken in.

clink

Then: another rumbustious fart.

And then: an unmistakably backwoods accent in the faintest whisper: “Fuck, Micky-Mack. Yer dang butt’s makin’ more noise’n a fuckin’ circus.”

“Shee-it, Unc. Cain’t help it. It’s all them beans I et. But…dang! This here’s a dandy house inside—”

“Shhh!”

Oh my…my, my, my, Portafoy thought, then quite shakily rose in his pajamas. There could be no doubt: intruders were present. He grabbed the small revolver in the nightstand, then picked up the phone to call 911.

No dailtone.

And his cellphone was downstairs.

Portafoy gathered all his courage, then slipped out of the room into the very dark hall. Pistol in the lead, he took two steps, then stopped.

More voices: “She ain’t here, Paw.”

“You shore?”

“Checked every room, shore as shit.”

The voices came from the landing, which was just out of view.

“The black fella’s asleep in the room on the end. But the master bedroom’s empty.”

“Lemme check. But, wait. What about the girl?”

“Oh, we got the girl. Micky-Mack just took her down the stairs…”

The girl, Portafoy thought with a pounding heart. ‘Becca. He could hear the floor creaking from none-too-discreet footsteps. Several moments passed, then the housebreakers returned to the landing and proceeded down the stairs.

Were they kidnaping ‘Becca? Portafoy felt sworn to protect the girl, little foul-mouthed racist redneck shit that she was. Be brave, he told himself. I might have to kill some men tonight…

Then, with resolution, he walked down the hall, turned toward the landing, and—

“Got’cha!”

A hand snapped out of the dark and snatched away Portafoy’s revolver.

Portafoy nearly lost consciousness.

A long-haired hillbilly in his ‘30s grinned in the subdued light. “Howdy. Ain’t no call ta be scairt.” He waved the gun in Portafoy’s face. “Come on down. We needs ta talk.”

Oh-oh-oh…what am I going to do? The manservant took unsteady steps down. The vast, luxurious downstairs stood dark but he could see the bright white lights of the kitchen blaring.

More sounds.

First, a crunching, then someone said “Ahhhhh,” in unison with a spattering sound. The long-haired man urged him in.

Even in the midst of this calamity, Portafoy was indignant. A younger hillbilly, with mussed blond hair, stood up on his tiptoes, urinating into the kitchen sink—a Kohler kitchen sink. “Sir! Please! There’s a toilet just down the hall!”

The boy looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Dang. Sorry, sir. Couldn’t wait, ya know?”

The crunching sound encroached; Portafoy reeled at the mammoth of a man who stepped forward, eating out of a bag of Gourmet Sweet Potato Chips. “Howdy, sir,” he greeted with mushed chips stuck between his bad teeth. “Terrible sorry ta barge in like this.” The man must’ve been six-four, husky but with wide shoulders and plenty of brawn. He wore a tattered wool coat, old boots, and a floppy leather hat that had probably seen better days decades ago. A great bushy gray-blond beard consumed the bottom half of his face.

“Can I…help you?” Portafoy asked absurdly.

“‘S’matter’a fact, ya can. We’se lookin’ fer Marshie Caudill.”

Robbers, no doubt, and then some. Portafoy did his best to assume the role of his authority in this house. “Mrs. Vinchetti is not available at the moment. She happens to be out of town.” A thought kindled. “I’d be happy to call her, that is if you’d kindly reconnect the phone line. Who shall I say is asking for her?”

The great man roared, while the other two cackled with him. “You gotta hail of a sense’a humor, sir! Naw, there’ll be no phone calls. But, shucks, that kind’a alters our plan.” He looked to the long-hair. “Guess the girl’ll have to do, son. Let’s have a look.”

“Micky-Mack?”

The brash blond man hitched up his zipper at the sink, deputed himself into the next room, then reappeared, pushing along a chubby teenaged girl with hair dyed bright as Kool-Aid Pink Lemonade and a long nightshirt that read HANNAH MONTANA! Her eyes looked more infuriated than afraid, even with her hands tied and some nylon stockings knotted through her mouth.

“‘Becca!” Portafoy exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

Her face reddened in rage as she gruffed something through the gag, but then the blond man who’d relieved himself in the sink took the gag off, and at once, in a tight, high-pitched backwoods accent, she bellowed, “Does it fuckin’ look like I’m all right, you stupid”—and she used the N-Word.

Silence closed over the room.

The large man’s brows shot up. “Young lady, lemme tell ya somethin’. Only the worst kind’a hill-trash use that there word. Decent folks don’t make no slurs regardless of a person’s race, their color, or even their creed.”

“Aw, fuck yew, ya big bearded hillbilly fuck!” the girl yelled. Inflamed eyes shot to the cocky blond man. “And this pervert was rubbing his crotch against me and feeling my tits!”

“Ain’t much ta feel, girlie, hate ta say.”

“Aw, fuck yew, ya stinky cracker! All’a yas!” Next, the eyes shot to the indentured family servant. “Portafoy! Shoot these pieces’a shit with your gun!”

Portafoy faltered. “Regrettably, Miss ‘Becca, this other gentlemen here took the gun away from me.”

The girl hurled more invectives, starting with “Why yew stupid”—and she used the N-Word. “Only the dumbest”—she used the N-Word—“in the world would let some redneck steal their gun! What fuckin’ good are ya? A house”—she used the N-Word—“who’s got his gun took away!”

The long-hair chuckled, arms crossed. “Some mouth on the little beast.”

“Shore is,” the big man said, “but we’ll’se see what we kin do ’bout that a right quick.”

The girl heaved and blared, “Yew-yew-yew—aw, fuck yew, you dog-dick! You hillbillies are so poor ya gotta eat the fuckin’ corncob after ya wipe yer dirty ass with it! When my stepfather hears about this, he’s gonna kill yew! He’s in the Maff-ee-ah—I know ’cos my Mama tolt me!—and he’ll throw all your redneck asses in a wood-chipper!”

The three intruders laughed, then the big man said, “Your stepdaddy, huh? Paulie Vinchetti.”

“Yeah, yew fuckin’ turd burglar! I’se kin tell just by lookin’ at yew! Yew suck each other’s dicks!”

More chuckles, then the big man said, “Ya know, boys. Turns out I’m glad we get this ‘un instead’a Marshie. I reckon it’s time we go.”

The girl shrieked when the blond man started to hustle her toward the back door. Portafoy, without even thinking, leapt forward and pushed the blond man away, then stood in front of the girl.

“Sir?” the big man asked, incredulous. “What’cha think yer doin’?”

“I’ve been in this family’s employ for a long time, sir, and I am bound to protect this girl when she’s in my charge. I’m prepared…to fight.”

More chuckles. Then the girl rallied, “Yew tell ’em, Portafoy! Yew fight these fuckers! ’cos if’n yew don’t, my stepfather’ll drop your”—and she used the N-Word—“ass right into a fuckin’ wood-chipper!”

Again, silence.

The big man cleared his throat. “Sir, I admire a man who’ll fight fer what he feel it’s his duty ta fight fer. But now, if’n ya do, you’ll just wind up gettin’ yer butt whupped, and we don’t want that. Our fight ain’t with you, it’s with this Paulie fella.” He frowned at the girl, then shook his head. “And this chunky little trash-mouth here? You shore you wanna fight fer her?”

Portafoy considered the reasonable question.

“And go ahead’n tell me I’m wrong, but I’d bet the back’a my balls she been callin’ you that ugly word fer a long time. Ain’t I right?”

Portafoy sighed, answered in the affirmative, then stepped aside.

Th girl screamed her outrage. “Yew fuckin’ coward”—she used the N-Word—“piece’a shit! Yew fuckin’ yellow-ass”—she used the N-Word—“no-good, no-balls”—she used the N-Word—“motherfuck!” and then, finally, the blond man put her gag back in, threw her to the floor, and dragged her kicking and flailing out the back door by two handfuls of her bright-pink hair.

“Wise choice, sir,” the big man said. He took two small glasses from a cabinet, then, from another, pulled out a fancy liquor bottle that read LOUIS XIII on it. “Here, take a nip,” and he filled the glasses and passed one over. Meanwhile, the long-hair was filling plastic bags with food.

Portafoy and the big man each shot theirs back neat, but the big man’s brow twitched. “Don’t barely taste like nothin’. This what rich folks drink?”

Portafoy realized just then that he’d been serving the same brandy to white people for years and years, yet this was the first time he’d ever been offered any. It seemed to melt down his throat. “It’s $500 a bottle, sir, and…delicious.”

“Well, you can have it. Me, I’ll take corn liquor any day.” He gently turned Portafoy around and began to tie his wrists. “I gots ta tie ya up but don’t worry none. It won’t be tight. Figure you’ll be able ta git out’a it in a hour or so, then you just call the police’re do what ya gotta do.”

“I appreciate your consideration, sir.”

“Aw, don’t think nothin’ of it.” Next, he tied the servant’s ankles, then he picked up two more plastic bags off the floor that hung heavy with whatever filled them. Some kind of pilferage, evidently.

The big man winked. “Just you take care’a yerself now, and, again, I’se terrible sorry to roust up yer night like this,” and then he grabbed the other bags and began to follow the long-hair out.

“But, sir, I beg your pardon,” Portafoy said. “What…what are you going to do with the girl?”

The big man laughed. “After what she call you, do you really care?”

“Actually, no, sir, I don’t,” Portafoy admitted, “and I do hope you have a pleasant evening and wonderful holiday…”

(II)

It’s about time! Veronica thought when Helton loudly opened the back door to the truck. He had a great big grin for her. “Tolt ya we wouldn’t be long.” He set down several plastic bags, and then—

Veronica’s heart surged with joy.

—he pulled out the handcuff key.

“You’re letting me go!” she rejoiced. “Oh, Helton, I knew you were a nice guy!”

He unlocked the cuff hooked to the metal table. “Aw, shore. We’se’ll let ya go”—he took her arm and led her toward the front of the truck—“just…not yet.”

Veronica’s joy collapsed.

What now? What? she thought.

Helton sat her down in the front passenger seat, and he cuffed her right hand to the door handle. “You’ll be more comfortable up here,” he said. Then: “All right, fellas,” he called out behind him,” then—SWOOSH—he pulled the jury-rigged shower curtain across the back of the front seats.

“Couple’a things, if ya don’t mind,” he began and stepped right up close so his groin opposed her face. He pulled down his zipper.

“Oh, come on, Helton! Give me a break!”

“Shhh, shhh,” he whispered. “Don’t want the boys to hear.” He extracted his flaccid penis and began pulling on it. “All’s I need is a few more tweaks, ya know, on account I’se older than Micky-Mack’n Dumar—”

“I already gave you your tweak!” she complained, and already she could smell it. God! I want to THROW UP!

Now Helton isolated a testicle. “Ain’t no big deal, hon. Just a tad more, alls right?” He lowered his whisper. “I needs ta be able to perform proper in front’a the boys, ya know? But first, how’s about givin’ each nut a li’l suck first, huh? Ya don’t mind, do ya?”

Yes I do mind! VERY MUCH! Veronica’s face felt hard as a plaster mask. But then the grievous consideration recurred. If I don’t do what they want…

She sputtered, “Oh, all right!” and she pulled one horrendous testicle into her mouth, started to suck, then practically hacked it out. “Helton! Come on! Your balls smell worse than the rest of it!”

The large men chuckled. “Hon, it’s just a li’l male funk. Don’t be such a fuss-budget. Most gals, hail, they like the natural smell of a fella.”

Veronica stared at the slack scrotum and the proffered testicle. For Heaven’s sake! She took a deep breath, then did what he asked.

“Aw, dearie, that’s nice,” he guttered. As she sucked the second ball, his tacky, flaccid penis began to enlarge against the top of her cheek. She felt not only appalled but ridiculous.

“There, there, yeah.” Now the half-erect shaft hung before her face. “Now I’se need ya ta give the ole pipe some love too…”

What could she do?

She began to suck it.

“Aw, yeah, hon,” he kept whispering. “Just like we done taught ya—that’s just dandy, it is…”

With each awkward stroke of her head, she thought, Disgusting! Disgusting! Disgusting! but about twenty such strokes, Helton’s penis was hard and beating. He slipped it out, then, and put it back in his pants.

“There! Are you happy?”

“You’re a doll, Veronnerka.”

Yeah, I’m a doll, all right… All that smegma, the foul balls, and all that sheer odor—it was giving her a stomach ache.

“Now, lemme see—oh, yeah.” Helton seemed to remember something. “Be right back,” and he pushed through the shower curtain.

“How you boys comin’?” Veronica heard but then her mind drifted where she sat.

She felt squashed down by the sheer weight of this turmoil. At least up here she could see a bit. Through the windshield, a clearing within heavy woods extended. A bright moon glimmered behind tree branches. She thought of asking them where they’d been but decided against it when she heard more noises and voices coming from the back of the truck.

“Good. Git the bitch up…”

“Glad she ain’t passed out…”

“Yeah. Best she be awake’n seein…”

A clunk.

“Trash-mouth little snotty bitch like this deserve what she gits…”

They’ve got a woman back there, Veronica realized, and even though she couldn’t see what they were doing, she easily deduced after the clunk:

They’re putting her on the metal table…

“Tie the fat bitch down now, Micky-Mack…”

Something—an impulse, perhaps—distracted her. She looked down against the bottom of the shower curtain and saw…

My knapsack!

Yes, there is was, and she knew that her cellphone was right on top.

Careful now… She gathered all her courage, reached down and unzipped the top flap, and—

Got it!

—but just as she would take the cellphone up and call for help, Helton’s big hand took the phone from hers, and he pushed back through the curtain and sat in the driver’s seat. His other hand gripped the carry-handle of the Sony.

“Dang! I see you got yerself one’a these fancy phones too,” he seemed to marvel. “A cellphone’s what they call it, huh?”

Veronica slumped. “Yes, Helton. It’s a cellphone.”

“We gots one too, believe it or not. Fella named Paulie sent us one.” He tilted his head in resignation and put the phone in his pocket. “Well, see, Veronnerka, way things is…we cain’t have ya callin’ no one just yet. I’m shore ya understand.”

Veronica wanted to cry.

Some minor clatter, now, came from the back, and then?

Oh, no…

Then she thought she could hear the faintest stifled moan…

Like someone moaning through a gag?

Then a tearing sound, the tearing of fabric.

“Tolt ya she don’t have much fer tits.”

“And lookit all them dick-stupid tattoos.”

Veronica’s eyes turned to Helton.

“Hon, take some advise. It’s best ya don’t even wonder ’bout what’s goin’ on in back,” the large man said her in a subdued voice. “Buts I do need ta ‘splain a tad more to ya. See, there’s this man named Paulie…”

“Paulie,” she repeated. “The man who gave you a cellphone.”

“Right. And he’s in what’cha call the MAFF-ee-uh—”

Veronica frowned in the tinseled darkness.

“—he’s like a big crime boss and, well, what he did is he murdered my grandboy Crory in a way too awful to describe’n after that? He made a movin’ picture of the murder and he send it to us…”

Snuff film, she deduced.

“So’s now? Now we’se gettin’ proper revenge by doin’ somethin’ just as awful to one’a his kin.”

Veronica voiced her next deduction. “And you’re going to film that, and send the video clip to him. That’s why you bought the Sony.”

Helton nodded, hefting up the big camera. “Only way li’l Crory can rest in peace is if’n we’se revenge his evil murder. We ain’t city folk like you, we’re hill folk. It’s just the way things’re done out here.” He turned the dim dome light on up front, then leaned over with the camera. “I knows ya showed me before, but I need ya ta show me again. How’s this thing work?”

Veronica exhaled more exasperation, then took the camera, flicked some switches, then passed it back to him. “There. It’s all set to record. When you’re ready, just push the button on the grip, the light comes on, and you’re rolling.”

Helton took it back, impressed. “And then it all gets put on—”

She pointed to the slot. “On the doohicky. The entire video clip you record—the moving picture—gets saved to the doohicky.”

“Dandy! Thanks!” but then he paused as if in speculation. “Just lemme ask you somethin’ now. When you was little, did yer Maw or Paw ever tell you the old Bible story ’bout a fella in olden times named Lot and his wife Edith?”

In the continuous whirlpool of turmoil, Veronica could scarcely collate the question. “Uh, I don’t know. Something about Sodom and Gomorrah?”

“Right!” Helton enlivened. “Them was the two cities that invented butt-fuckin’, see, and God, he got all shore-fire pissed ’cos all the folks in these cities, all they did was butt-fuck, and that offended God, so God, He decided ta open a giant can’a whup-ass on them cities and just up’n destroy ’em with fire’n brimstone. But, see, there was two folks there who didn’t do no butt-fuckin—Lot and his wife Edith. They believed in God and they didn’t never offend Him, so God sent a angel to tell Lot’n Edith ta git out’a town so’s they wouldn’t git kilt along with all them sinners—Soddermites, I’se think they was called—so, shit, Lot and Edith packed up and split ’cos there weren’t no way they was gonna disobey a messenger’a God, but ‘fore they left, the angel tolt ’em that no matter what they do while they’re leavin’, they shore as shit better not look back, no matter what kind’a hell-raisin’ they might hear comin’ from them two cities. Shore enough, they’se walkin’ away and alls a sudden they hear a commotion like they never heard’n screamin’n burnin’ and temples collapsin’n what not, and Lot, he wants to look back but he didn’t ’cos he remember what the angel said, but Edith…” Helton shrugged. “Shee-it, Edith—just like a woman—she figger there cain’t be no harm in lookin’ back’n seein’ what’s goin’ and on, so she did, and”—Helton cracked! his hands together—“and right then’n there she turnt into a pillar’a salt!”

Veronica felt flabbergasted. “Helton, why are you telling me old Bible stories?”

Helton seemed suddenly disquieted. “Well, now, see, you’re no doubt gonna hear some mighty peculiar noises’n carryin’ on comin’ from the back, and what I wanna impress upon ya is that under no circumstances should you take a peek past this shower curtain, no matter how bad ya wanna look.” Helton gulped. “‘Cos if’n ya do—”

“I’m going to turn into a pillar of salt?”

Helton stared at her. “Ya just might, hon. Ya dag-straight just might,” then he stuck two balled up bits of cotton in her ears, pointed her face forward, hoisted the Sony, and disappeared behind the curtain.

««—»»

A semi-mute, inscrutable nightmare ensued. Veronica kept her eyes wide on the nighted woods beyond the windshield, and in spite of the make-shift earplugs, sounds galore, however muffled, could be detected, the most salient of which was the loud whine of a power tool. This abated rather quickly, followed by silence.

They’ve killed her, she knew, her stomach shriveling. With the power drill… Could she hear words through the cotton? She removed one plug…

“—fer our peckers,” Helton said.

One of the others said, “Dang!”

“Ain’t as much blood as you’d think…”

Veronica stuck the plug back in. My God my God my God! More muffled noises followed, some hoots and hollers, then thunking. Then she heard, at a higher pitch, “Yeah! Eeeeeee-YEAH! Git it, Dumar!

For a moment, Veronica thought of Lot’s wife, Edith, for part of her volition did indeed urge her to steal a peek behind those curtains…

But she didn’t.

In another minute, however, she removed the earplug again—

“Hump it! I say hump it!” Helton raged amid a rapid thunking.

Veronica put back the plug.

The black and white of it socked right into her brain: They’ve just murdered a girl with a power drill. They’re having sex with the corpse. She gulped. And they’re filming it with the camera I sold them…

Eventually the dim commotion ceased and Helton pushed through the curtain, bearing the big Sony. He pulled out her cotton balls. “We’se all done, sweetie”—he looked at the camera—“I shore hope I did this right. You shore the movin’ picture’s on here now?”

She flicked the dome light back on and took the camera. “Yep,” she said, trying as best she could to sound normal, to sound like she had no idea what went on back there. “The properties bar says that 19 minutes of space have been used on the memory card.” She snapped it from the slot and handed it to him. “The doohicky.”

“Well that’s just peachy, Veronnerka!” but then he scratched his beard. “Now all’s I gotta do is think’a the best way ta git the doohicky to Paulie, so’s he can watch the movie…”

The SNUFF movie, she corrected with a chill. Again, she struggled to act normal, unaffected, as though she had no clue as to what they’d actually done. “You could leave it in his mailbox—”

“Naw. He wife’s house is just over yonder but…the fella there’s more’n likely calt the police by now.”

Act normal!

“Then send it to him through the mail.”

Helton seemed doubtful. “I’se guess we could but—jiminy, hon—we want him to have it soon as possible.”

“How about leaving it someplace and calling him up and telling him where to find it. Do you have his phone number?”

Helton winced. “Aw, see, he calt us once”—he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cellphone—“on this here cellphone he had delivered to our house, but he never give us his number.”

Veronica frowned. “Didn’t you say that this man Paulie was also a crime lord? In the Mafia?”

“Well, yeah, hon.”

“If he really is into organized crime, then he surely has some mode of internet access—”

“Huh? Oh, you mean ‘puters’n all that?”

‘Puters. My God. “Yes. Does he have a computer with email access?”

Helton looked mystified. “Shee-it. I gots no idea.”

“He must. Of course, he might not want to give you his email address, but I can create a screen name for him on my account, tell him the eddress, then he can download the movie himself. Right now.”

“Don’t know what’cher talkin’ ’bout, darlin’,” Helton said with enthusiasm, “but if’n you could make it so he could see our movin’ picture right now, why, I’d be so dang happy…”

“Happy enough to let me go?” she dared to ask.

“Why, shore!”

Veronica reached around. “I’m just getting my laptop,” she said and lifted her knapsack off the floor behind her.

“Lap…what?”

“It’s a portable computer,” she wearily explained, “that has a mobile-wireless card. If you want Paulie to see the movie, you have to let me use my laptop.”

“Well, fine. Go on ahead,” and then he watched in confused fascination as she extracted the laptop, booted it up, and went online. It took less than five minutes to create the guest-account, download the video clip from the memory card, and email it. “Now,” she said. “Call Paulie back on the phone he sent you.”

“I done tolt ya, hon. He didn’t gimme no number.”

Veronica sighed. “If he called you on it, the number’s on the phone. Was he the last person to call you?”

Helton frowned at the tiny phone. “Well, yeah. He’s the only one ta call us on it.”

“Then highlight the number and push the call button.” How can people be so OBLIVIOUS! she thought. “Here. I’ll call him,” and she took the phone from Helton’s huge hand, hit the number of the last call, and listened.

“Yeah?” a gruff voice answered. A Jersey accent.

“I’d like to speak to Paulie, please,” Veronica said.

“Who the fuck is this? You Tuckton’s whore or somethin’?”

Veronica hated foul language. “My name’s Veronica. I’m calling on behalf of a man named Helton—”

“You fuckin’ asshole! What’d’ya want!”

Appalled, Veronica covered the mouth-piece and whispered, “He’s very rude. He called me an asshole, and he doesn’t even know me!” She resumed the call. “I’d just like to talk to Paulie—”

“He’s asleep!”

“Well, I have an email for you. Do you have internet access?”

“Of course, you stupid broad! We’re in the Mob! We got dozens of blinded email accounts,” the man bellowed.

“Would you please stop yelling!” she shrilled in response. “I’m trying to give you information! Get a pen and piece of paper, please!”

A moment passed, then, “All right, I got it! Now what the fuck do you want?”

Veronica grew infuriated. The nerve of some people! “Go to AOL-dot-com, click the guest box. I’ve created a screen name for you on my account. Got it so far?”

“Yeah! Who the fuck are you!”

Veronica rolled her eyes. “Your screen name is Pauliecrimeguy and your password is your cellphone number.”

A pause. “What the fuck is this all about!”

“I’ve sent you an attachment from Helton,” she continued, tempering herself. “Go to your in-box and download the attachment.”

“What’s the attachment!”

“A digital video file—”

click

The connection severed. “He hung up!” Veronica snapped. “That was the rudest man!”

But Helton seemed concerned. “So’s…how do we know he got the movin’ picture?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll get it, all right. And I have a funny feeling that when he does…” Veronica gulped. “He’ll be calling you back real fast…”

««—»»

Helton took her into the back of the truck and re-cuffed her wrist to the table. “Howdy, Miss Veronnerka!” the younger man said. He was wiping the floor with paper towels. The smile on his face couldn’t have been broader. “So’s Unc Helton tolt me you figgered some fancified way’a sendin’ our movin’ picture to Paulie.”

“Yes,” came her glum response. “Over the internet—”

“Dangest thing, tek-nollergy,” Helton said in stifled awe. “She had this here li’l ‘puter box that sent the movin’ picture ta Paulie, and it didn’t even have no wires on it.”

“No wires?” Micky-Mack asked, bewildered. “How’s can that be?”

“Just…don’t worry about it,” Veronica told them. “It’s magic.”

“Wow!”

When the blond one finished wiping up the floor, he exhaled some aspect of relief and—

Oh for goodness sake!

—rubbed his crotch.

“I’ll tell ya, Unc. That there was fer shore the finest nut I’se ever h—”

Helton pointed his finger. “Quiet.” Then he looked down at something, grit his teeth, and—

SMACK!

—laid an opened palm across Micky-Mack’s head.

“Holy fuck, Unc Helton! What’cha keep smackin’ me fer!” the man wailed, a hand to his temple.

“I done tolt ya to clean this place up! We cain’t have Veronnerka seein’ anythin’ that’ll be upsettin’ to her!” Helton grabbed some paper towels, then knelt before the power drill, which lay on the metal floor.

Veronica caught one glimpse…

One was sufficient.

A strange hollow cylinder stuck out of the end of the drill, a cylinder rimmed with saw-teeth. Blood dripped off of it. Helton very quickly wiped it up.

I don’t want to know, I don’t want to know… She tried to remain naive. “Where’s the other man? The dark-haired one?”

“My son, Dumar,” Helton answered.

“Yeah,” Micky-Mack piped up. He was still rubbing his crotch. “Dumar, he’ll be back in a sec. Hadda git rid’a the b—”

SMACK!

“Gawd DAMN, Unc! That fuckin’ hurt!”

“Next time I’se just might bust my hand on that thick head’a yers, boy. Just keep yer mouth SHUT.” He pulled something from a plastic bag. “Here, Veronnerka. Have some…” He squinted at a small snack bag. “Veggie Chips, whatever the hail they is.”

She looked aghast at the offered bag. “I don’t want Veggie Chips, Helton! I want to go home! I want to be with Mike!”

Helton chuckled huskily. “Aw, that silly fella, ya mean. Hon, that cocky boy ain’t good enough fer you.”

Micky-Mack cracked a smile. “Sound like she all mushy in looooove…”

Veronica was about to wail another objection; however—

The cellphone rang.

Helton and Micky-Mack tensed up.

“That’s got to be Paulie,” Veronica said.

Helton looked uncomprehending at the tiny phone. “Shee-it! I’se fergot how ta answer it!”

“Helton, just open the phone!” Veronica snapped.

Clumsily, the man did so. He put it to his ear. “Hello?”

At this distance, Veronica could decipher nothing, but she was aware of a very irate squawk coming from the cellphone. “Yeah?” Helton said, amused. “Well I just think that’s dandy, ya snake-shit-eatin’ city fuck…”

More squawking, then Helton said, “Well then bring it on, buster ’cos you snot-nose uppity city types gots no idea who yer messin’ with…” Then he hung up.

“Was that Paulie, Unc?”

“Shore as shit was, and he’s more riled than a pitbull with a ball-bag full’a ticks, he is!” Helton leaned hugely over and kissed Veronica on the cheek. “Veronnerka? You’s a flat-out genius!”

“So Paulie saw your movin’ picture,” she deduced.

“Oh yeah he did—”

“EEEEEEEE-ha!” Micky-Mack rejoiced, and then Dumar came in through the back, and when he was informed of the news…

“EEEEEEEE-ha!”

The three whooped, jumping up and down, high-fiving. The truck rocked from the impact of their booted feet.

Helton roared, “And ya knows what that city faggot tolt me? Tolt me he was goin’ ta all at WAR with us!”

More high-fiving and raucous hoots.

“He wants war, Paw! We’ll show that fucker war!”

Helton was so happy his face was turning pink. “This calls fer a cellar-bay-shun!” and then he extracted a liquor bottle from another bag. “Whatever cheap-ass rotgut swill this is, it don’t matter ’cos we stolt if from him!” Helton passed the bottle around. The label read JOHNNY WALKER BLUE - 40-YEAR.

But Veronica just seemed to sit and spin in this ever-increasing kaleidoscope of madness. “Helton!” she barked.

“Yeah, hon? Oh, you wanna nip?”

“I don’t want a nip! You said if I got the movie to Paulie, you’d let me go!”

He looked down in all sincerity. “Aw, hon. I’se already tolt ya we’ll let ya go…” and then his brows inched up. “Just…not any time soon. We’se just started gettin’ our revenge ‘gainst Paulie, and we’se gonna need ya fer a spell, fer yer exper-teese.” He laughed. “We’se gonna need you ta send lots more movin’ pictures ta Paulie!”

Veronica began to cry.

“There, there, hon. Don’t be upset.” The crinkly bag was offered again. “Here. Have some…Veggie Chips. They’ll perk ya right up.”

— | — | —