Header 2

Chapter 3

(I)

“Well, gawd durn!” Helton exclaimed with some ire once he and Micky-Mack had returned to the shack. His son, Dumar, still tamped down hard by fears regarding the disappearance of his young son, made a startled expression.

“Dang, paw. What’cha riled about?”

“Riled? Fuck. That low-down ear-wax-eatin’ cracker Hall Sladder done stolt my whole stash’a ‘shine.”

“He shore as shit did, Cousin Dumar,” piped in Micky-Mack.

“Fuck!” Dumar shared in his father’s displeasure. “Ain’t that a kick in the tail..but, shee-it, Paw, maybe this’ll cheer ya up ’cos, like I just done calt out to ya”—Dumar’s voice lowered to an enthused whisper—“we gots ourselves a package.”

“Well, aw right, so what’n tarnations is it?”

“Don’t rightly know yet, Paw, on account it’s got your name wrote on it. Come on!”

Dumar led them into what served in this ramshackle abode as the “living room,” where in the middle of the wood-plank floor sat…a package. It was a box the size of a briefcase, plain cardboard, and the words FOR HELTON TUCKTON written on it in tight script. Next to the box, in a hand-made chair, sat a tow-headed adolescent boy in jeans, boots, and a ratty jacket. He smelled, oddly, of old cooking grease.

“Well, hey there, son,” Helton greeted. “Ain’t you one’a Cork McKellen’s kids?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Tuckton,” the boy said with pride. “I’se Trucker McKellen, and, see, I brung ya this package.”

Helton squinted. “Well that’s dang nice’a yer Paw to send me a package, but—”

“Oh, no sir, it’s weren’t my daddy sent it. I was just asked to bring it to ya.”

The prospect of a package was, indeed, interesting, especially in this time of low-spirits. But Helton for the life of him couldn’t understand.

“So if’n it ain’t from your daddy,” Micky-Mack posed to the boy, “who’s it from?”

The young lad of 12 or so explained, quite long-windedly, “Well, see, I got me this job in Luntville, working how they call ‘under the table’ at the Wendy’s. What I do, see, is I clean the toilets”—which he pronounced as toe-lits—“and pump out the grease-pit ever-day”—which now explained the boy’s curious redolence—“and, see, they’se pay me three dollars a hour, like I said, ‘under the table,’ so’s I don’t have to pay taxes to the gover-mitt. See, it saves ’em money in this thing goin’ on that we’se all hearin’ ’bout called the Repression, and I think that ain’t bad ’cos ain’t many folks round here got a proper job, and the money I make I can give my daddy—”

”Well, that’s mighty enterprisin’ of ya, Trucker,” Helton complimented, but it was difficult to stay his frustration ’cos he couldn’t see what cleanin’ a grease-pit at a hamburger restaurant had to do with this package. “And I’m sure your daddy’s a right proud’a ya, but hail, how is it you come to bring me this package?”

The boy continued, seemingly vibrant in some inexplicable nervous excitement. “That’s what I’se fixin’ ta say, sir, ’cos, see, after I finished cleanin’ the pit, my shift is over so’s I go outside to start a-walkin’ home when, when…”

“When what?” Dumar asked with his patience wearing thin.

The boy seemed in a dreamy fog, “…when I look up at this great rumblin’ sound, and what it is, see, is the biggest, fanciest white motor-home I ever seed comin’ rollin’ down the road past the Pip Boys Cleaners and the Qwik-Mart and that place with the sign that say Relax At June’s which I heared is what they call a ‘jack shack’ on account men go in there and pay ladies to play with their willies whilst they stuck a finger up their butts I guess ’cos—”

“Son, son,” Helton interrupted. “You shore have a roundabout way’a tellin’ us ’bout this package. Who done give it to ya?”

“Yes, sir, I was gettin’ to that—”

“Well try gettin’ to it a little faster,” Dumar said because he, like the others, was very curious about this box.

Trucker McKellen nodded, “Yes, sir, I’se will. But…dang…” The lad scratched his head. “I’se cain’t seem to remember what I were sayin’!”

“A motor-home!” Helton nearly yelled.

“Oh, yeah, yes sir, it were that motor-home I tolt ya about, all shiny white’n fancy it was. See, while I’se were walkin’, the motor-home—and I’se mean it were a really big one, all shiny and gleamin’, like I think it were brand-new—but anyway, that motor-home stopped right in front of June’s and then these three men get out, and they’re shorely citified men ’cos they’se wearin’ hats’n sunglasses and these real nice pants’n shoes’n jackets, and each of ’em even had these fancy things ’round their necks that I’m pretty shore folks call ties. And anyways, I think for shore that these city fellas are goin’ into June’s to pay ladies to play with their willies while’se they gots a finger up their butts ’cos that what I heard them ladies in there do, and, see, I’se even heard that some’a them ladies’ll suck on a fella’s willy till that white stuff come out and—”

“Dang, boy!” Helton finally barked. “Tell us about the fuckin’ package!”

“Oh, yes, sir, that’s what I’m fixin’ ta do,” the boy laboriously continued. “But see, these fellas, they didn’t go into June’s. Instead, they all look right at me.”

“Trucker,” Micky-Mack asked, “was it these citified fellas who done give you this package?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s what I been meanin’ to tell yawl. They waves at me after they get out’a that big white fancy motor-home, then they walk over, and they’re all real nice’n smilin’ and they ask me if I ever heard of Helton Tuckton.”

At this data, Helton’s eyes narrowed. “That so?”

“Yes, sir, they ask me if’n I heard’a ya so’s a’course I say yes sir, and then one’a the city men, he step up and say that he’s a friend’a yours and he got a package for ya, but see, he don’t know where ya live.”

Dumar and Helton looked at each other.

“—so I’se say, yes sir, down the old trail off’a Dog Tail Road past the deadfall about a mile, but then I tell ’em that that road ain’t big enough for that big fancy motor-home see, so then this fella, real nice fella, I mean ta say, all of ’em, that is, but this fella ask me since he cain’t drive his fancy motor-home to yer house, could I take this here package to ya directly, so I say yes sir, and you know what he done? He done give me a hunnert dollars for doin’ it!”

Helton went into some deep contemplation. Something just didn’t sound right about this. “Trucker, you say this city fella paid you a hunnert dollars to deliver this package to me?”

“Yes, sir, that’s a fact.”

“And you say that he says he’s a friend of mine?”

“Oh, yes, sir, he say you’re a good friend’a his, for shore—oh, oh—and he even tolt me his name. He said his name is Paulie.”

Helton stood stunned. His son and his nephew peered at him.

“Well, I cain’t think of a city fella who’s a friend’a mine,” Helton gave voice to the puzzle. “Ain’t never known no Paulie neither.”

“Well shit on all’a that, Paw,” Dumar suggested. He was tired of all this talk.

“Could be someone ya forgot, Unc Helton,” Micky-Mack added.

“Let’s just see what it is that this fella Paulie sent ya,” Dumar said. “Then you’ll shorely remember him.”

“Yeah, I guess’n yer right.” He looked to young Trucker McKellen. “I thank ya kindly for walkin’ all that way with this package, son. But you best git on home now, and think ’bout how you’re gonna spend them hunnert dollars.”

“Oh, I will, sir,” the boy said. “I reckon I’ll give it to my daddy on account he work so hard and still ain’t got over my mama up’n leavin’…” Trucker looked at the five $20 bills. “Or, dang, maybe I’ll just give some of it to my daddy and keep the rest.”

“Ain’t no reason not to,” Micky-Mack said. “It’s your money.”

Now the boy’s brows rose in an anticipation. “Mr. Helton, you think for maybe fifty dollars one’a them ladies at June’s would stick her finger up my butt while’se playin’ with my willy? My mama used to do that fer me when I was little, and now that I recall…it felt a right good, it did, and—”

Helton winced. “Aw, son, now we don’t wanna hear ’bout none’a that—”

“—and sometimes my daddy’d come in and then he’d—”

“That’s enough, Trucker. Just you run on home now,” Helton insisted, and then, after a polite if not crude farewell, the boy was gone.

“Jesus,” Helton muttered.

Dumar’s face was all lit up. “Come on, Paw! Let’s see what’s in the package!”

Helton whipped out his Buck knife and zipped it through the clear packing tape. He opened the box, looked inside, and withdrew…

“Another package,” he muttered.

Sure enough, there was another box inside the first box, but this one had—

“What’s all that writin’ on the box, Unc Helton?” inquired Micky-Mack.

“Yeah,” Dumar said, “I cain’t read for dick, but you can, Paw. What’s all the black letters say?”

Helton put on an ancient pair of spectacles and, squinting at the box, slowly recited: “M-a-g-n-a-v-o-x…p-o-r-t-a-b-l-e…d-v-d… p-l-a-y-e-r…” He blinked. “What the hail’s that?”

“Aw, shit, Unc,” “Micky-Mack enthused. “I know what it is,” and then he opened up the second box and pulled out a small, sleek device, whose lid amazingly flipped open.

“I’se think I heard of ’em myself,” Dumar speculated.

Helton frowned. “Well I ain’t never heard’a no such thing.”

“Aw, yeah!” Micky-Mack placed the player on a handmade table and showed the others how there was a viewing screen inside that flipped up lid. “See, it’s fer watchin’ movies!”

Helton eyed the strange machine. “Movies? Ya mean like the movin’-picture show?”

“Yeah!”

“Shee-it, I only been to one movin’-picture show in my life. Was back when I was a little kid and some fella named Eisenhower were president.”

“What was the movie, Paw?” asked Dumar.

“Some silly shit ’bout giant octopusses or some such attackin’ underwater boats. 20,000 Weeds Under The Sea’re somethin’ like that. Didn’t much care for it.”

“Unc, things have changed in these times,” Micky-Mack went on, inspecting the machine. “Now they got these really cool modern movies made in this fancy place called Hollywood. See, I know this ’cos—‘member Crud Tooley? Just a few months ago he come back from the Army, from fightin’ these people they call towelheads in the Eye-Rack, and, see, I hadn’t seen him in years but one day I were walkin’ in town and I see him and he says, ‘Hey, Micky-Mack! I’m back! Let’s go to my place ’cos my sister’s havin’ a up against the waller!’ so I say, ‘Hey, Crud, good to see ya but—shee-it—what’s a up against the waller?’ and he say, ‘Come on up the house and you’ll see,’ so I go with him and, see, it cost ever-body a dollar to go to this up against the waller; Crud, he say his sister has ’em all the time. So when I gets there we go down the basement and I’ll be danged if there weren’t twenty fellas down there, ever-one from Old Man Halm to Mr. Winslow the school principal, and the Larkin Boys—all five of ’em—and that bald-headed fella I hear plays the organ at church, oh, and—”

“Micky-Mack!” Helton raised his voice. “Get to the dang point!”

“Uh, well, shore, Unc. Anyway, what this up against the waller was, see, was Crud’s sister Tulip—she look kind’a funny ’cos her eyes are crooked, and Crud, he tolt me it’s ’cos their mama drunk a lot’a ‘shine when she were pregnant—but anyway, we all give Tulip our buck and then all twenty of us line up against the wall and drop our pants and—I ain’t kiddin’ ya—Tulip got down on her knees and sucked each’n every one of us off. Swallowed ever-thang, too, even my big nut. And ya wanna know the funniest part? Tulip even charged her own brother a buck!”

Helton gaped. “Micky-Mack. You run yer damn mouth more’n Mckellen’s kid. What the fuck’s a 13-year-old girl blowin’ a basement full’a rednecks got to do with this damn thingamajig that come from the package?”

“Oh, well, that’s right, I was gonna tell ya that,” Micky-Mack admitted to a diversion of topics. “It was Crud, he brung one back from the Iraq and tolt me all about it. Ya watch movies on it. Movies that ya can buy in the big-city stores, and, shee-it, now that I think of it, it’s a right kick in the ass for Tulip to charge her own brother for a blowjob when it’s been him paying the property taxes on the house!”

Helton sat down and sighed. “Son. You can probably tell I’m in bad spirits right now. My grandson’s missin’, my daughter-in-law just hanged herself, and today I find out Hall Sladder stolt all’a my moonshine. Now I got this fuckin’ package from some fella named Paulie I never heard of, and I got this fuckin’ machine sittin’ here and as bad as I wanna know what it is, you’re bendin’ our ears ’bout Crud Tooler’s sister chargin’ him a buck for a fuckin’ blowjob. I don’t wanna know about that”—he pointed aggravatedly toward the machine—“I wanna know about that.”

“Does kind’a suck, Paw, that Crud should have to pay even though he been the one payin’ for the house his sister lives in,” Dumar pointed out but then he paused. “A’course, Tulip, she give a dandy blowjob—I got me one off’a her a couple years ago—so’s I guess if Crud don’t like it, he can blow his own self,” and then he and Micky-Mack howled laughter and high-fived.

Helton’s large, bearded face came down into his hands; he bellowed, ‘WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT DAMN MACHINE!”

Dumar and Micky-Mack straightened right up when they saw how out of sorts Helton had become. “Calm down, Paw,” Dumar said.

“And the machine?” Micky-mack stepped in. “It’s like I was sayin’, it plays movies. It’s kind’a like that thing we had a while back—the tv—only this don’t show shows, it shows movies. And these machines are a right ‘spensive, Unc Helton, so this friend’a yers, this Paulie fella, he’s a damn fine friend fer sendin’ you such a snazzy gift.”

Helton remained in this quandary. Who on earth would send him something like this, some new-fangled doohicky he had no use for? “So, what? We gonna watch a movie now?”

Micky-mack stalled. “Uhhhh…well…now that I think on it… It’s the movies themselves are the dvd’s—they’se these round things ’bout the size of a beer coaster at Crossroads, only a little bigger, and they’re really smart-lookin’, see, they’re all shiny’n silvery, and believe it or not, a whole dang movie fits on one of ’em. All ya do is stick it in this slot on the machine but…” Micky-Mack’s befuddlement was clear. “Don’t look like this friend’a yours Paulie sent ya any movies to go with the machine. Unless…” The 20-year-old finnicked with the machine and—presto!—a small drawer, like magic, automatically slid out. In the drawer lay something quite similar to what Micky-Mack had just described.

“Well, how ya like that, Unc Helton! Your pal Paulie already put a movie inside!” Micky-Mack studied the buttons on the machine. “Now, give me a sec while I’se figure this out.”

“Aw, fuck, boy,” Helton continued to complain, because he didn’t have much liking for modern contraptions. Likely as not, they were more trouble than they were worth. “And, shee-it. If’n this blasted thing’s like that ole teller-vision we had, then it must run on the blammed electricity. I gotta haul out the blammed generator?”

Micky-Mick’s face seemed illumined in excitement. “Oh, naw, Unc. It’s this new tek-knowler-gee. This li’l movie machine here? Don’t need ta plug it inta mothin’!”

“Then how the fuck’s it work!”

“It runs…,” and Micky-Mack’s voice quieted as if in veneration…, “on a battery.”

Helton threw his hands up. “Well then, balls, boy. If’n we’se gonna watch a movie, then make the blasted thing work.”

Micky-Mack fiddled with some buttons—for, like Dumar, his reading skills were barely existent—until he inadvertently pressed one that read PLAY, and again, like magic, the little drawer closed…

And the screen lit up.

Dumar sat down next to his father. “Aw right! Looks like we’se gonna watch ourselfs…a movie!”

(II)

Archie leaned forward, elbows propped up on the well-stocked cellphone counter; he was hamming it up with his boss, one Mike Anthon, a snide, too-good-looking-for-his-own good 30-year-old who fancied himself a cocksman and a smooth-operator, and there was little untruth in that fancy. Both men were eyeing Veronica’s rump as she leaned over the camera counter, showing a customer (whose t-shirt read EVEN JESUS HATES THE YANKEES) the latest variety of Dynex-brand mini memory-card readers.

Archie had spiked hair that looked less 2010 Me Generation and more early-‘80s post punk, though neither actually appeared in keeping with a town like Pulaski where buzzcuts comprised the majority of men’s hairstyles. Mike, on the other hand, had short, dark, punctiliously trimmed hair and impenetrable dark eyes, and looked rather like a modern, darker-haired incarnation of Nick Adams (for those who even remembered Nick Adams), and this might explain the veritable posse of young women who seemed to revolve around him as if through some cabalistic sexual gravity. (The previously mentioned Veronica was one such woman in that same gravitational field.) It was Mike who essentially ran the Pulaski Best Buys; Archie was his floor manager, while Veronica worked the camera department, and now that that’s out of the way, we can listen in to the discrete and notably sexist conversation between the two men.

“Not bad looking—not bad at all,” Archie regarded.

“Yeah, but for a package like me, not bad means not good enough,” Mike replied. “Chicks have to take a number to go out with me, and most of them are tens. Veronica’s maybe a six.”

“Six? Oh, come on. That bod’s way better than a six, you cruel motherfucker!” Archie laughed.

“All right, let’s break it down. I’d give her tits a solid nine, maybe even nine-point-five—hands down, it’s a killer rack. And, damn it, I’d be lying if I didn’t give her ass a nine to go along with the tits. Serious.”

“What about the hoonanny?”

Mike crossed his arms. “Gotta give that a nine, too. Perfectly formed, you know, none of that turkey skin shit hanging down. And she’s got this ass-kicking racing stripe, man. It’s the same color as her hair—that real, real light brunet.” Mike shrugged. “Her pussy rocks too. Can’t complain about any of it.”

Archie pursed his lips. “Then how come she’s a six overall?”

“Well, I’d have to give that mousy face a six, and the thick glasses don’t add to the party.”

“Your math’s all wrong, man. Average three nines and one six and you’ve got eight-point-five.”

Mike shook his head. “Tangential circumstances. That’s why I’m dumping her.”

The revelation came as a surprise to Archie. “But she’ll be heartbroken. She’s nuts about you.”

Mike smirked. “Archie, I hate to tell you this, but all girls are nuts about me. And not just nuts but I mean goo-goo-ga-ga, mushy, gushy crazy-in-love nuts.”

“It’s your modesty that attracts them, I’m sure.”

“Seriously, Veronica was just a booty call,” Mike went on, “and there wasn’t even any booty.”

A canted look from Archie.

Mike continued, “What good’s a pussy that ranks a nine if you can’t fuck it?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? I mean she doesn’t fuck. She’s a virgin; she’s got this weird virgin-thing—won’t fuck till she’s married.”

“I didn’t think they made girls like that,” Archie commented. “Especially in Virginia.”

“She’ll suck my dick day and night but won’t fuck. The only way my battleship gets into that port is with knock-out drops.” Mike looked suddenly irked. “And she won’t let me ass-fuck her, either.”

Archie flipped a hand. ‘Well, I’m not into the ass stuff myself. I don’t want to get some chick’s shit packed up my peehole. I mean, think about it. Say you buy a girl dinner on Saturday night, then on Sunday you fuck her in the ass. The shit that gets packed up your peehole and caked around the rim is from the same food you bought her the night before. It’s fucked up.”

Mike frowned at his friend. “Whatever. And the tit-fucking gets old fast, even with a class rack like hers.”

Archie stole a glance to Veronica, then seemed to imagine the possibilities. “At least she lets you do it. Some girls are fussy about that. Don’t know why.”

“It’s almost like a consolation prize, like she’s doing me a favor letting me tit-fuck her. I mean, you can only do it so many times before it becomes monotonous. Fuck, I slop all over those tits. They look like rum buns by the time I’m done.”

“But if she sucks your dick day and night? Sounds all right to keep on the side, even without the pussy.”

Mike appraised his Guccis, having already written poor Veronica off in his mind. “With every girl, you get the good with the bad. Veronica’s worth money—”

Archie’s attention snapped to. “Money? Like, how much?”

“One of her uncles won the Michigan Lottery, bagged, like, a hundred and twenty million, but set 20 million aside for Veronica on two conditions. One, she has to get a college degree and, two, she’s gotta be married by age thirty. That’s when she gets the dough if she meets the conditions.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-three.”

“And how’s her college smarts?”

Mike’ brow tittered. “She already graduated with honors from VT, got her degree in Plasma Physics.”

“Fuck. Smart chick. With a degree like that, she can write her own ticket once this fuckin’ recession’s over.”

“Yeah, and that’s what she wants to do even though she gets all that money when she hits the Big Three Oh.”

“If,” Archie reminded, “she’s married.”

“Right. And she’s already told me to my face: the only guy she ever wants to marry is me.”

Several moments of silence followed, Archie cogitating. “Twenty million? Man…you’d never have to work again.”

“You think I haven’t thought about that?”

“And, shit, if you’re married, then she’ll fuck you.”

“Sure, but she wants to have kids. I got no desire to raise kids.”

“Then get a nanny! With twenty fuckin’ mil, you’ll be able to afford it.”

“Yeah, yeah, but see, I gotta a gut feeling that once Veronica starts fucking me, she’ll be a lousy lay.”

Archie looked astonished. “So what? You just said she sucks your dick day and night. If she sucks your dick day and night and has twenty million…big fuckin’ deal if she’s a lousy lay!”

Mike shook his head. “Archie, you’re not getting it. The good with the bad? Sure, she’s into sucking dick—my dick. Doesn’t want to suck anybody else’s dick, just mine. She’ll blow me any time, anywhere. I snap my fingers, she blows me. If I’m sitting on the couch watching football and ignoring her and I pull my dick out, I don’t even have to ask—she blows me. Serious. If I’m sitting on the fuckin’ toilet taking a shit and I say, ‘Veronica, come in her and blow me,’ she’ll be on her knees sucking my dick while I got turds falling out of my ass. And it’s not like she’s just some dime-a-dozen head queen—she’s all into the love thing. You know, if there were no customers in the store and I walked over there and told her to blow me behind the counter”—Mike shrugged—“she’d do it, guaranteed.”

Archie’s jaw dropped. “Then what the hell’s wrong with you? You can’t dump a girl like that whose gonna be worth twenty million!”

Mike snidely shook his head. “Here’s what I haven’t told you. Sure, she loves to give me head, but you know what? It’s bad head. I mean awful head. You know that old saying ‘there’s no such thing as lousy head?’ Bullshit. Veronica gives the worse head I’ve ever had. No rhythm, no build up, she rakes her teeth, and the finish is all wrong.”

“Really?” Archie said, surprised. “That bad, huh?”

“Worse. It’s so bad, it’s infuriating. It’s so bad, twenty million or not…I’d rather punch her in the fucking face and jerk off.”

“Wow.”

Mike looked at his friend. “So what would you do? Dump it or keep it?”“For twenty million dollars? Fuck, man. I’d keep it.”

Mike shrugged. “Yeah, well that’s because you have different standards. Me, I’m first class. A first-class guy like me needs a chick with first-class looks, who’s a first-class lay, and can suck first-class dick. If she can’t do that, then it’s three strikes, she’s out. My self-image is worth more than twenty million bucks—”

“Oh is it, now?”

“When a chick wants to go out with me, I’m not going to demean myself by settling for less than I deserve.” He looked at Archie, granite-faced. “I’m not a whore, Archie. I’m hot property.”

Archie laughed out loud.

Mike continued, “In general, a girl who can’t suck good dick pretty much has no right to exist.”

Archie continued to laugh. “Okay, but since you’re not a whore, let’s just say that Veronica gave great head. What would you do?”

Mike made a sound like a horse sputtering. “I’d marry her in a fuckin’ heartbeat. With all that money? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Shortly after this conversational exercise in out-right misogyny detailing the relegation of women as soulless arrangements of sexual parts, Veronica rang up the purchase for her customer. The customer paused to take yet another none-too-covert glance at her body, then left the store. Veronica turned, smiled, stood up on her tiptoes, and waved at Mike.

Mike waved speciously back, offering a just-as-specious smile.

Then Veronica blew him a kiss and mouthed I love you!

“Fuck you,” Mike muttered under his breath.

(III)

Not fifteen minutes after Micky-Mack had pressed the PLAY button on the mysterious portable DVD unit, utter and incomprehensible calamity had descended upon Helton Tuckton and his kin. Dumar, after the “movie’s” completion, had collapsed into a swoon. Micky-Mack was still vomiting into one of the pails they used when the roof leaked. And Helton…

Great Gawd Almighty… Just what kind’a evil is it we got here?

Helton sat upright, wide-eyed, paralyzed in his chair, his hands gripping the chair’s arms so tightly, he trembled.

Micky-Mack looked up from the pail with a tear-streaked face. “Uncle Helton—holy shit! Who could’a done such a thing ta poor l’il Crory? Who?”

“Evil men, that’s who,” Helton croaked. His stare remained fixed on the DVD player’s small and now blank LCD screen. “Men eviler than anything we’se can reckon, son.”

Micky-Mack wailed. “Why they do that? Why they do that to li’l Crory? Crory ain’t done them no harm! He just a inner-sint li’l kid! How could they—how could they—”

Dumar roused just then, his face paper-white from all the blood that the horror had drained from it. He looked shock-eyed to his father. “Paw! Tell me that were all just a nightmare we seen on that machine! Tell me, Paw!”

The screen glowed blue and there blinked a small square that read REPLAY and another that read EJECT.

Micky-Mack returned to his vomiting, and Dumar howled like a sick dog.

For those wondering exactly what the movie entailed, consider yourselves duly scolded for diminutive powers of imagination; however, the first three minutes of this fifteen-minute cinematic venture will be communicated via an inappropriate and admittedly indulgent stylistic break…in screenplay format…

FADE IN:

INT. ROOM

We see a bare white metal wall in the b.g. and what appears to be a small, curtained window, like a window, perhaps, in a motor-home. The curtain is a curious deep-burgundy color, with white dots.

MALE VOICE #1 (O.S.)

(gruff Jersey accent)

We’re rollin’, boss.

MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)

(snappy Jersey accent)

How’re the lights? You check the lights?

MALE VOICE #1 (O.S.)

Meter’s readin’ right on.

MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)

Bring the kid in…

MALE VOICE #3 (O.S.)

(higher-pitched Jersey accent)

Comin’ right up.

The scene HOLDS. We hear brief CLATTER O.S.

SUDDENLY—

A Small Boy (CRORY Tuckton) is moved INTO FRAME. A Man in a Suit moves behind Crory, but we do not see his face. He appears to non-verbally direct the Boy to sit on what must be a stool, for we see no chair-back. We PUSH IN on young Crory’s Face…

He’s SOBBING, his face smudged and tear-trailed. His longish, butterscotch hair is disarrayed.

The Man in the Suit moves OUT OF FRAME.

MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)

Go on kid, talk to your daddy.

CRORY

(distraught)

Daddy? Uncle Helton? These-these men, they done took me when I were droppin’ crayfish traps at Hog Neck Lake like I’se do ever mornin’, and-and…they brung me ta this big motor-home thing that smells real bad, and-and there’s this big fat lady here, and-and—

Crory’s tears flow; he continues to SOB and SNIFFLE. We hear a MALE CHUCKLE O.S.

CRORY (CON’T)

Daddy? These men tolt me they’se talked to ya ’bout gettin’ me back to Uncle Helton’s house but said you didn’t want me no more, and they tolt me Uncle Helton say the same—

BREAK

At this, the already stifled Dumar lunged from his rickety seat, bellowing. “You hear that, Paw! These men snatched that my boy tolt him we didn’t want him no more!” and then Dumar made the coarsest vociferation of rage intertwined with despair. He slammed his fists into the wall, even the first adrenalin-accelerated impact splitting the planks like balsa wood. Helton bear-hugged him, muscling him back down to his seat.

“Get a grip, son! Don’t go bustin’ yourself up! We gots to find out what this is all about!”

Cock-eyed, Dumar summoned all of his self-restraint to keep himself seated. Meanwhile, the movie continued…

BACK TO:

INT. ROOM

We remain CLOSE on Crory’s disoriented and terrified face.

CRORY (CON’T)

Please, daddy! Tell these men ya want me back! They’se bad men. I’se sorry I stolt them quarters out yer pants that time’n lied ’bout pullin’ Kelli Jean Rooder’s pants down—I’ll never do stuff like that again, I’se promise, but, daddy, please tell these men ya want me back!

MALE VOICE #1 (O.S.)

Melda, open them big log legs of yours and show the kid the goods.

Male Hands grab Crory’s head and turn it to the right.

MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)

Take a good look, kid—

Crory is looking at something OUT OF FRAME. He SCREAMS high and whistle-like, like a little girl. We hear Male CHUCKLING O.S.

Crory’s head is roughly re-positioned to look back at the CAMERA but now the whites of his eyes have filled with Red Blots.

MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)

Damn, Doc. Why’s that always happen?

MALE VOICE #4/DOC (O.S.)

(distressed, no accent)

A hypertensive spike causes the certain ocular blood vessels to hemorrhage…

(beat)

…the effect of sheer, unbridled terror…

We remain CLOSE on Crory’s face as…

SUDDENLY—

Male Hands seal a piece of Duct Tape across Crory’s lips. Crory HEAVES, while only MEWLS are now heard through the tape.

NEXT—

Another set of Male Hands begin to smear some odd, white-yellow muck over Crory’s head. A WET, SLOPPING sound accompanies the action. In moments, Crory’s head is slathered in this substance.

MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)

All right, cut it now. Let’s get a nice, juicy close-up…

CUT TO:

We see the FRAME FULL of pallid, cellulite-dimpled fat: a Morbidly Obese Woman spreading her legs. Her Vaginal Ingress GAPES, an Organic Hole the circumference of a cereal bowl…

In the b.g., we hear Crory’s horrified MEWLS O.S.

END OF TRANSITION

As previously implied, no further details of the movie’s contents will be rendered; and in an aggravating instance of a narrative proceeding out of chronological order, we return to the point where Micky-Mack has recommenced to vomiting in the pail and Dumar is baying quite dog-like in despair.

Helton palmed his temples, thinking, Evil, evil, evil…

“Who were them men kilt my boy in that fat woman’s pussy, Paw!” came more bellowing from Dumar.

Wincing, and still vomiting, Micky-Mack looked up at Helton. “I guess I’se just too young ta understant, Uncle Helton! Why they do that ta poor li’l Crory?”

Dumar began banging! his head against the floor. “Who’re them men!”—BANG!—“Who’re them men!”—BANG!—“Holy fuckin’ SHEE-IT, Paw! We gotta find them men”—BANG!

Helton pulled his son off the floor. “Cain’t be bashin’ your head in, son! Yer gonna need yer wits about ya—we all is…”

“My poor li’l baby boy died thinkin’ I didn’t want him, Paw! They’se told him I didn’t want him!”

“I know. I know, son…” Helton ran stout fingers through the tumult of long, wavy hair. “Paulie—someone named Paulie. Jesus ta pete, who is this Paulie?”

“Maybe he lied ’bout his name, Unc!” wailed Micky-Mack. “Maybe it were really Hall Sladder!”

“Naw, naw, boy, you’re not thinkin’. Sladder don’t wear no citified suit’a clothes, and he shore as hail don’t drive no big, fancy motor-home. Fuck, he drives a ‘55 Chevy 235, and there ain’t no way the thievin’ cracker has the know-how to run a complerkated movin’-picture camera like what that must’a been.”

“Paw’s right, Micky-Mack,” Dumar moaned. “And Hall Sladder, he don’t know from these VDV machines any more’n we do…”

Helton paced the room in an excoriating psychical stew of regret, despair, and unsurceasing outrage. He could feel the blood beating at his temples, while that same blood felt oddly gritty and loose as if it were not blood at all, and something not a part of his physical being. Paulie, Paulie, Paulie, came the hectoring name. Dumar and Micky-Mack sobbed outright now that the full weight of the horror had set in, and Helton may have sobbed himself as he thunked shudderingly to his knees, his hands clasped in desperate prayer…

“Lord God—holy shit, I’se know I ain’t been the best’a servants to Ya, but the way I see it, I ain’t been the worst, neither, and since You know all things, I ain’t even gotta say that I never did no wrong to no one who didn’t have it comin’…” Genuine tears squeezed from Helton’s closed eyes. “I do believe in Ya, God, so in return fer me believin’ in Ya, is I way out’a line askin’ fer a favor? These evil fellas done kilt my poor li’l grandson in the awfulest way, and I’se also know it says in Your Book, ‘an eye fer a blammed eye,’ so, God, I figure I’d be livin’ more in Your ways by followin’ that. Please, Lord, I’se beggin’ ya. If I ain’t worthy’a Yer favor, then strike me down right here’n now ’cos I don’t deserve Yer attention fer these prayers’a mine. But if’n maybe I am in line fer a favor…holy shit, could Ya please help me find this evil Paulie fella so’s I can properly revenge my grandson’s murder like’n it say in Yer Book? Please, God! Gimme a sign! I beseech Ya, help me get my proper revenge ‘gainst this Paulie fella for this devil-lovin’, des-picker-bul crime,” and Helton pronounced “crime” as cram.

A silence somehow sodden fell over the room, such that all three men, first, experienced gooseflesh and then the hairs on the backs of their necks stood up. Moments ticked by, then moments more, in betwixt of which sobs and croaks and murmurs of despair could be heard. And just as it appeared that God had no intention of answering Helton’s supplication—

The strangest noise erupted in the room.

Helton, Dumar, and Micky-Mack leapt up, eyes darting, positions shifting, hands opened to futile claws.

“The hail’s that?” Micky-Mack yelled.

Dumar hooted at the loud, semi-rhythmic jangling that continued to spill sourcelessly into the primitive room. “Sounds like—sounds, like…sounds almost like the ringin’ of a telephone!”

“Yeah!” Helton barked. “And we ain’t had a telephone in years!”

The jangling, unnatural din drew on and on as the three men pranced about in utter confusion, trying to locate the noise’s source. But it was Micky-Mack—whose younger aural facilities were perhaps better capable of identifying proximity—who swept upon the box that the DVD player had come in. He reached down as if into a snake-pit, then, with eyes abloom, withdrew…

“Look!” came Dumar’s hushed exclamation.

Helton stared with all intentness.

What Micky-Mack now held in his hand was a small rectangular object roughly five inches long and two wide. It was very slim. And there could be no doubt: that blaring, jangling, unnatural ringing was coming from the object.

“What the fuck is that?” Helton voiced.

“Unc Helton!” Micky-Mack shouted. “It were in the same box the machine come in and I think… I think it’s one’a them things they call…a cellphone…”

A cellphone, thought Helton in all perplexion. He’d heard myths about such things: tiny telephones folks carried ’round in their pockets like a pack’a Luckys—telephones that mysteriously didn’t need no wires!

It rang and rang. Micky-Mack, with a shaky hand, passed the cryptic device to his uncle.

“Guess ya should…answer it, Paw,” Dumar figured.

“How ya reckon I do that?” Miffed, he held the thing to his ear and said, “Hello?” but it just kept ringing. “Jesus! That noise is irkin’ me fierce! What I gotta do?”

Still amazed, Micky-Mack stammered, “I’se think ya…open it, Uncle Helton. I seen a fella once in Crick City with one, and he somehow opened it…”

Helton’s big, callused fingers fumbled with the Liliputian device, but eventually the top half lengthwise did indeed open, and the instant Helton achieved the feat…

A thin, depthless voice from nowhere could be heard squawking.

“Anyone there?” said the agitated caller in what was most likely a Jersey accent. “Jesus Christ, Argi, I don’t think these hayseeds even know how to answer a fuckin’ phone…”

“Put it back to yer ear, Unc,” Micky-Mack suggested.

Helton did so. “Huh-huh…hello?”

“It fuckin’ took ya long enough,” the voice cracked back. It seemed to emit—again, impossibly—from a pinhole at the top.

“You there, asshole?” the voice asked.

“I’se here…”

“Good. Now which goober is it I’m talkin’ to? Would it be Doooo-mar or Helton or Micky-Mack—” and then a tiny, etching laugh spilled from the hole. “Holy fuck, fella, where you rednecks get these names?”

“I-I’se Helton—”

“Well, good, fuckface. Now, you don’t know me but—”

“Ain’t no one else ya can be ‘cept Paulie!” Helton roared.

“That’s right, cracker, I’m Paulie, and it was me and my crew did the job on that snivelin’ little inbred kid of yours. You did see the movie, didn’t you?”

Helton gulped, trembling in place. “Yeah. We shore did.”

“Good. Fuck, I’ll bet it took you rubes three or four hours to figure out how to set it up—”

“It didn’t take but one hour, you evil, low-down bastard!”

Paulie laughed over the seemingly supernatural connection. “I’ll tell ya, Helton, we had a blast killin’ that kid! Man, it was sweet! Got all our dicks hard it was so sweet! Kid shittin’ and pissin’ himself, cryin’ for his daddy and his uncle, and we just kept tellin’ him ‘They don’t want you no more, ya little booger,’ and then we’d push his head in and pull it out, and push it in and pull it out—fuck, it was fun!”

“Who in blazes are ya!” Helton roared. “Why you do that devilish shit to my grandson!”

“Think about it, Gomer. I figure a rube like you ain’t got much of a brain from all that white lightning you all drink, so you think hard. And since I’m such a nice guy, you know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna give you a hint…”

The cellphone felt like a burning ember against Helton’s ear. “Ya damn well better ’cos I know full well I don’t know who ya fuckin’ are! And if I don’t know who ya fuckin’ are, there ain’t nothin’ I could’a ever done to ya to deserve what I just seen on that evil machine!”

A pause. A chuckle. “Here’s the hint, Gomer—”

“And I don’t know no Gomer neither, so whys you keep callin’ me that!”

More tiny laughter billowed from the phone. “Man, you white-trash types are a scream! But anyway, dickface, here’s your hint.” Another pause, then the caller’s voice lowered and said, “Thibald Caudill sends his regards—”

The connection went dead.

Helton stood stock-still. It took a full minute to lower the wretched phone from his ear. Eventually he closed it, then calmly set it down.

“Was it him, Paw?” Dumar raged. “Was it the man kilt my poor baby boy!”

“Yeah, Unc Helton,” Micky-Mack quavered. “Was it this fella Paulie?”

Helton’s stern eyes addressed his kin. “It was and we ain’t got time fer me ta tell ya ’bout it right now. We got important things to do first—”

“But, Paw!”

“Quiet!” Helton ordered. “Both’a yas!” and the power of the command sent Dumar and Micky-Mack into attentive quietude.

“Both’a ya’s do as I say,” Helton continued. “Dumar, first ya go get the truck out the barn. Make sure there’s water in it’n gas and oil too,” and he pronounced “oil” as ole. “Then ya get the old fish-guttin’ table out’n ya put it in the back the truck, then ya get the proper tools and ya bolt that table down the middle’a the floor—”

Dumar and Micky-Mack looked duped. “The hail ya want me ta do that?”

Helton’s finger pointed, and he shouted, “Ya want your proper revenge or don’t’cha, boy!”

“I want it, Paw! More’n anything!”

“Then ever-thang I say, you do, and without no questionin’ or backtalk, ya hear?”

“Yes, sir, Paw, yes, sir, I shorely do,” and then Dumar rushed out the back door to embark on his unreckonable duties.

“Same goes fer you,” Helton told Micky-Mack.

“Yes, sir!”

“We’se goin’ on a road-trip. Collect up three sleepin’ bags and extra clothes.”

“Right away, Uncle Helton,” but then the boy paused. “But…how many changes’a clothes should I fetch?”

“Don’t rightly know how long we’ll be but I reckon it could be as much as a month—”

“A month?”

“—so’s ya better bring two changes’a clothes fer each of us.”

“Right away, Uncle!”

“Not so fast— After ya done that, I want ya to go up in the attic, and I want ya to tear that place inside-out till ya find a cigar box”—Helton pronounced “cigar” as see-gar. “You know what a cigar box is, boy?”

“Uh, yeah, Unc, I’m pretty sure I do.”

“Well, I know ya can read a bit and this box, it say King Edward on it, and’s got a picture of a fella from olden times with a beard kind’a like a toilet brush. You find that box, son, and you bring it to me.”

“But, Uncle Helton. You don’t smoke cigars.”

“No, I’se don’t but, see, there ain’t no cigars in this box. There’s somethin’ else. Now, the box is tied with twine, and it better still be tied with twine when you bring it to me. Don’t’cha be lookin’ in the box ’cos if’n ya do…I’ll give ya a whuppin’ worse’n the time I caught ya stealin’ watermelons from Bill Sodder’s field. You understand?”

Micky-Mack gulped and nodded.

“Now git!”

Micky-Mack sprinted away with the determination and zeal that came with blessed youth.

However, Helton remained stock-still in the middle of the room…

He’d asked God to help him get a fix on this devil-lovin’ fiend named Paulie and shore as hail God had answered his prayer, because when the voice on that blasted cellphone had said Thibald Caudill sends his regards, Helton knew in the space of half-an-instant who Paulie really was and why he had murdered young Crory Tuckton so horribly.

And for those on the edges of their seats wondering what the sinister King Edward cigar box contained, the author will completely ruin the element of suspense by making that revelation now.

It contained several rusty and quite well-used 3 1/4-inch hole-saw blades.

— | — | —