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Chapter 12

(I)

Veronica conveniently awoke in the back of the truck only minutes after the men had dispensed suitable punishment upon the unfortunate Russian girl by the name of Kasha; therefore Veronica new nothing of the rowdy event. “I thought you wanted to go to New York City,” she questioned upon noticing only green pastures and farmland beyond the truck’s windshield, but then Helton explained, “Well, shucks, Veronnerka. We’se tried like the dickens ta get ourselfs a map, but…that didn’t work out.” Veronica frowned, went online via her laptop, Mapquested the address of one 62-year-old uptown cosmopolite, Adele Vinchetti, and provided turn-by-turn instructions to their destination.

It would likely belabor the narrative to recant the entire descriptive and subjective ordeal of Helton’s trek and subsequent mission. Nevertheless, some 500-plus miles later, the cumbersome and less-than-sightly vehicle had arrived in “The Big Apple.” Some inconsequential detail, however, seems in order, and given this, it must be said that the metropolis which academic horror writer H. P. Lovecraft referred to as a “polyglot abyss,” a “babel of sound and filth” where “Cyclopean modern towers and pinnacles…rise blackly Babylonian,” a labyrinthine purview embalmed with an amoral populace who amass into an unabated and rampaging “Walpurgis riot of horror.”

One can imagine the psychological impact of such a place upon the simple psyches of Helton and his backwoods kin. Emotional paralysis was one result; others were sound-shock, culture-shock, acute claustrophobia, as well as something quite akin to the shell-shock a soldier feels after spending too much time on the front. However, thanks to Veronica’s navigatory guidance, the group was able to arrive without mishap in Manhattan. Much to Veronica’s displeasure, however, she was then required to treat each man to another oral “tweaking,” something they seemed to be quite fond of now that her skills as a fellatrice had been vastly improved. Veronica’s face seemed to lengthen like a mask of tallow at the now even-more-appalling crotch-odor of each man. My GOD! she thought shuddering from the musky organic stench, yet she’d done the deed all the same, stopping just short of orgasm as her captives still mysteriously seemed to want.

Then she’d directed them to the home of the 62-year-old Adele Vinchetti—a penthouse in a posh highrise—with relative ease; and, since they recognized her via her online photograph, were able to successfully abduct her when they saw her returning from a stroll after dinner-time. This done, they secured the woman in the back of the truck—Veronica, by now, had been repositioned to the front passenger seat—and fled across the bridge to the nearby city of Newark, whereupon they found a secluded spot beneath an overpass and…

The reader can be trusted to make the correct assumption.

Veronica, on the other hand—and try as she might’ve to not make such assumptions, split-infinite be damned—had no choice but to ponder. Sitting handcuffed in the front right seat, as the daylight’s last gasp surrendered to twilight’s first twinkling stars, Veronica stared out the windshield, cotton in her ears. What the men were doing exactly behind that old shower curtain she tried not to contemplate, but knowing at least generally that they were murdering Paul Vinchetti’s mother and simultaneously recording that murder, the darkest recesses of Veronica’s volition had to make considerations. Through the cotton, she had heard Helton say something like, “Not the table this time, boys, the chair. Tie her upright in the chair. We’se’ll do it a tad different this go-round.” He’d pronounced “different” as diff-urnt.

“How so, Paw?” Dumar had asked.

Helton had answered, “What we’se gonna do this time, son, is have a double-header…”

A double…HEADER? Veronica thought. Wasn’t that something in baseball? Further considerations terminated then as the sudden sound of the power drill could be heard even more easily through the makeshift earplugs. But unlike the previous night, the drill-sound had stopped, Helton ordered, “Now do the front, son,” and then the drill-sound had recommenced. What on earth are they doing with that drill? Veronica dared to wonder.

But she didn’t like this wondering; it unsettled her. She didn’t like the forbidden whispers her own psyche seemed to bleed like a nicked vein.

They were…ghastly whispers.

After a half an hour, the whooping commotion behind the curtain seemed to retard. Had someone exclaimed, “That there was a dandy nut!”? But Veronica knew they had Adele Vinchetti back there—that is, Adele Vinchetti’s dead body—so wouldn’t now be the time to dispose of the corpse? At night? Beneath this secluded bridge?

Helton came back up front and removed Veronica’s earplugs. “Well, Veronnerka, we’se done.” He handed her the laptop. “Now how’s ’bout you get on yer magic machine’n git us directions back to Pulaski?”

Veronica, in stifled silence, did so. “Don’t you want me in back now?” she asked when Helton started the truck and pulled away.

“Uh, no, hon. See, there’s somethin’ back there it’s best ya not be lookin’ at.”

“Adele Vinchetti’s corpse,” Veronica said without thinking first.

A long pause. “Well…yeah, hon. Best just ya not concern yerself with it.”

“Aren’t you…going to…dump the body?”

Helton looked at her and sighed. “Well, I’se guess ya got a inklin’ of a idea what’s going on, but what ya gotta understand is that we’se only gettin’ our revenge against Paulie for him murderin’ Dumar’s little son Crory.”

Veronica looked at him.

“And there’s a reason that we ain’t dumpin’ the body just yet. See, we need the body—we’se ain’t done with it. We gots ta film another scene with the fancy camera ya solt us.”

Another…scene…

“We’ll be back in Pulaski by sun up, I reckon, then we make one quick stop, film the last scene, then we’se’ll dump the body.”

One stop quick as we can, she recited. “What…stop?”

“Gots ta see a friend’a mine, fine old fella named we up’n talked to just yesterday, s’matter’a fact. Fella the name of Charlie Fuchson…”

(II)

Yes, for those curious, that same night, Helton, Dumar, and the youngster Micky-Mack had indeed partaken in what was known amongst select hillfolk as a “double-header,” something that reportedly hadn’t been done in quite a few decades. At least in Helton’s understanding, it had been Bustin Kucker who’d first thought it up, back in ‘74, and Helton had been invited to the gathering, along with Grandpap Martin, Helton’s brother Tuff, and about ten other upstanding yokels. See, Bustin needed to get the task over with before his wife Darcy got home from the sewing shop in Russelville, so he figured that sawing two holes in the victim’s skull—and hence permitting the insertion of two penises at a time—would speed things up. Bustin had had a feud going with Melmo Faft for a long time, and when the ‘74 Recession hit, it had been Bustin, not Melmo, who’d been fired from his job in the farm co-op. Word had been going around that, due to the economic duress of the times, several would have to be let go, and Melmo hated Bustin so much that he’d stolen Bustin’s buck knife out of his truck, slashed the project manager’s tires, and left the knife in proximity. The knife, of course, had been engraved with the name KUCKER. But Bustin had six mouths to feed, so such a deed was deemed grievous enough to warrant the ultimate punishment.

Melmo’s busty and well-bottomed daughter Bliss had been expeditiously absconded with, removed to Bustin’s shack in the Luntville woods; and, instead of being tied down to a table, she’d been tied to a chair. The hole-saw shrieked as not one but two holes were cut into her head: the first, in the forehead; the second directly in the rear of the skull. Two at a time, then, the attendees had stepped up, one in the front and one from behind, and then the double-header had commenced. Much sperm was pumped into Bliss Faft’s attractive head that night, and much satisfaction felt.

Helton recalled this fond memory the night they’d snatched Adele Vinchetti. Helton had gone first—executing a more traditional single-header, because he wanted the initial camera footage to allow for a front-on closeup of Adele’s face, and it must be said that that face had still shown minute signs of life when Helton slid his dirty erection into the back of her head. Dumar had been holding the camera for the shot, and, upon initial penetration, he’d exclaimed, “Hot damn, Paw! The bitch’s eyes went wide open the second ya got yer pecker in her brain!” The information brought gladness to Helton’s heart, as did his forthcoming climax. After this, Helton manned the big Sony, yet with the skill of a Mario Bava—er, well, maybe not quite that much skill—he’d changed camera angles, shooting now from the side with Madam Vinchetti’s ear center-of-frame.

Dumar fucked the woman’s head from behind while Micky-Mack fucked it from the front, in a “push-me, pull-you” fashion. Helton’s clever positioning of the camera allowed for a maximum visual effect.

It must be mentioned—however belatedly—that the quality of cosmetic surgery enjoyed by the upper-class had left Adele Vinchetti’s physical body in quite a provocative state, even for a woman of her years. So fascinated by her implants Micky-Mack was that even after his climax, the desirous zeal of his youth left him with no choice but to fondle those pert implants with much appreciation. The young man was erect again in no time, and then he had a second “go” at Adele’s “coconut,” this time from behind.

So long as it was amongst kin and for a stalwart purpose, “sloppy seconds” in an evil head were perfectly acceptable and, in fact, smiled upon.

Afterwards, though—all men now being spent—it was Dumar who’d seemed disconsolate. “Well, dang, son,” Helton questioned. “We just done put four loads in this bitch’s head. Ya oughts ta be happy, so’s how come ya ain’t?”

Dumar jigged a scoffing hand. “Shee-it, Paw. It just…ain’t enough, ya know? I mean, it was this gal’s devil-lovin’ son who kilt my boy so horrible-like.”

“Yeah, and ya just done fucked her in the head. Fittin’n proper. Ya cain’t tell me ya didn’t get no satisfaction from that.”

Dumar rubbed his face, perhaps hiding tears. “It just ain’t enough…”

Micky-Mack sat lackadaisically on a milk crate, his penis still out as he played with the seated and very limp woman’s neatly electrolysized pubis. “I think I’se knows what he means, Unc Helton.”

“We needs ta do somethin’ more,” Dumar insisted. “When Paulie see this movie, we need him ta be more pissed than he ever been. Ain’t enough just ta fuck his Maw in the head.”

Semen drooled out the hole in Adele Vinchetti’s skull.

“Somethin’ more, huh?” Helton reflected, opening a bottle of soda. He guzzled, thinking.

But it was Micky-Mack who’d gotten the idea: “Unc! ‘Member yesterday when Charlie Fuchson’s egg-suck dog fucked that foul-mouthed Russian gal?”

Helton’s eyes seemed to light up, and he grinned and very slowly nodded. “Well, shit my drawers, Micky-Mack. Just when I’se convinced you’re all dick and no brain, you come up with a dandy idea!” The elder man chuckled. “It’ll be bad enough fer Paulie to watch three fellas fill his Maw’s head with cum, but just think how riled he’ll be ta also see it filled with dog-nut! Double-headers’ve been done before, yessir, but there ain’t never been a dog header before. And me’n Charlie go back a long way, we do. I’m shore he wouldn’t mind…”

Hence, this 899-word spiel to accentuate our next scene. Veronica’s navigatory expertise did indeed return them to the Pulaski area by sunrise.

And Charlie Fuchson was all too happy to loan his egg-suck dog Droop out for such a noble purpose…

(III)

“God-DAMN!”

BANG!

“MotherFUCKers!”

BANG!

“They fucked my mother—”

BANG!

“In the HEAD!”

BANG!

Each BANG! ringing out between the tirade-fragments were the result of the impact of Paulie’s fist to the Winnebago’s interior walls. This occurred at about ten in the morning, immediately after Argi had downloaded the next email attachment. Paulie, needless to say, was left out-of-sorts after watching this latest digital video file.

By this time, they weren’t even in the Pulaski area anymore, having supposed that Helton had thrown in the towel. Boy, were they wrong. Cristo was driving the “Winnie,” nearing the Jersey Turnpike, when the unfortunate attachment had been received.

“How could they do that?” Paulie yelled, red in the face and spittle flying, and—

BANG!

—he rammed his fist again into the wall.

“What’s all that bangin’ out there?” Melda inquired from her cubbie of horrors in back.

Cristo looked worriedly over his shoulder. “Wow, boss. Ya know, ya might not want to keep bangin’ the wall like that.”

Dr. Prouty stammered, while raising his brow at the dents in the wall, “Your confederate is quite right, Mr. Vinchetti. Your infuriation is quite understandable given these grim circumstances but, really, what benefit will there be in breaking your hand?”

“They fucked my mother in the head!” Paulie wailed, “and then they let a DOG fuck my mother in the head!” but this time when the don hauled his fist back, Argi caught it.

“Yeah, boss. Better idea is for ya to calm down—”

“Argi!” Paulie bellowed. “If three rednecks and a dog fucked your mother in the head, wouldn’t you be pissed?”

“Well, yeah, boss, sure. But if ya bust your hand from bein’ pissed off, then don’t that give Helton the last laugh?”

Paulie’s brain simmered in contemplation, and eventually he loosened up. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, clearing his head. “I can’t give that hayseed fuck the last laugh… I gotta find some way to, some way to”—he snapped his fingers. “Doc, what am I tryin’ to say?”

Dr. Prouty, still pale himself from witnessing the video, paused, then replied, “I believe, sir, that you mean you need to find a way to re-process this very regrettable catalyst into a mode of energy that can be utilized to your advantage. Rather than expending energy via rage, it would be better to convert that energy into transitive action.”

“Yeah. That’s what I was tryin’ to say.” Paulie sat down on the padded bench seat. “Fact of the matter is…I never even liked my mother. She bad-mouthed my dad and treated me like shit when I was a kid. But still. I’m Italian, and it’s my mother. Pow-Wow time, guys. What do we do?”

“We know he was in Manhattan last night,” Argi offered, “so maybe he’s still there. Maybe he’s lookin’ to find more of your relatives to—”

“To fuck in the head, yeah.”

“So I’m thinkin’ maybe we should go to Manhattan ourselves. Shit, boss, were not that far. We could try to find him. Air him out once and for all.”

“Sounds like a good idea, boss,” Cristo affirmed from the driver’s seat.

Argi: “He found your mother easy enough. Maybe he’ll go after more of your relatives now.”

“Yeah…maybe…” But Paulie was working on something. “Or maybe what we should do is go after more of his relatives.”

“But how, boss?” Cristo asked. “The guy lives in the hills. We don’t know shit about the backwoods. Only reason we knew how to find Helton’s grandkid is ’cos your wife told us he caught crayfish at that lake most mornings.”

“Yeah, boss,” Argi went on. “And it ain’t like we can look up the name Tuckton in the phone book. Shit, these rubes don’t even have phones.”

The hum of the big motor-home’s tires droned on. Paulie looked to Prouty. “Doc. What do we do? How we get a line on this redneck’s relatives?”

Wearied but desperately trying not to show it, the good doctor struggled a moment, then offered this convoluted sentence: “Recalling that your wife’s cultural roots to some extent parallel Mr. Tuckton’s, and given that she, in fact, apprized you of information that led to the grandson’s abduction…perhaps you should ask your wife.”

Paulie stared at him and blinked. “Cristo! Turn the Winnie around and go back to Pulaski!”

“Back to Pulaski, boss?”

“That’s what I said.” Paulie looked to his lieutenant. “Argi, gimme the phone…”

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