Header 2

Put her back in, guys.”

“Back in?” Argi asked.

“Back in. Kill her.”

Now the muted screams sounded anything but human as—

“One…two…three…”

—Higball’s head was reinserted into Melda’s vagina, the blond prostitute’s face slowly but surely swallowed.

“Aw right, Melda. Batten down the hatch. I want the bitch smothered.”

“Oh, right away, Paulie,” the hideous woman complied, and the preposterous rim of her vulva constricted.

“See, Case Piece,” Paulie explained. “Just ’cos Melda’s got the biggest, sloppiest cunt in the world, she’s done this so many times that her pussy muscles are…are—” Paulie snapped his fingers. “Doc, what am I tryin’ to say?”

“Perhaps…gymnastically adroit, sir?”

“Yeah, that’s what I meant. Melda, she can lock that cooch down. Like a kid suckin’ a jawbreaker, I ain’t kiddin’ ya.”

The near-death-throes of Highball reached up into Melda’s body like some heinous form of conduction, to the point that the obese woman began to quiver as well, mounds of cellulite-stricken fat oscillating rather spectacularly. But it was Case Piece who finally snapped out of his utter incogitation and made this final plea to Paulie: “Shit, man! This is fuckin’ awful, Paulie! She really deserve ta die like this? I mean,” and he leaned over. “You ain’t even had time to peel-eye her bone-covers, man.” Case Piece quickly unbuttoned Highball’s overcoat, revealing all of the girl’s sexual attributes at once: the desirous curves, the unflawed implants, the trim stomach and sleek white-trash legs.

Paulie took one look and gulped. “Holy shit! That’s a brick-shit-house body if I ever seen one—Argi, Cristo! Pull her out!”

‘Pull her out?” Argi questioned. “But you just said kill her.”

“Don’t kill her! Pull her out!”

The sound of the withdrawal was akin to a booted foot lifting up from ankle-deep mud. Highball was pulled out, and she was dropped to the floor. Argi peeled off the tape.

“Today’s your lucky day, bitch,” he said.

Highball heaved upward, cock-eyed and gasping for breath. Her eyes looked fit to jettison.

Argi nudged her with his foot. “The boss decided to let your sorry ass live. So what do ya say?”

Highball’s lower jaw chattered like someone in sub-zero weather. “Thuh-thuh-thuh…thuh-thuh-thuh…thank you…”

“Yeah. Thank you is right.”

Next, Paulie nudged her with his foot. “Your face looks like fuckin’ dried fruit but your body rocks.”

“Told ya, bro,” Case Piece augmented. “Highball, she got what players call a booty-tooty thunder cunt, clit like a fuckin’ olive, man, real phat-ass blunky monkey, don’t’cha know? And tits like ta bring the roof down, uh-huh.”

Paulie remained stifled by the perfect physique. “It’d be a crime to whack a bod like yours, bitch, so don’t forget who gave ya a second chance. Now get inside and wash all that pussy slime and butter off your face. Me and the boys’ll be in in a few, to fuck the livin’ daylights out of ya.”

Highball just sat there, kind of rocking. It should be pointed out, too, that her jet-black roots beneath the blond hair had, in the grueling interim, turned snow-white.

Case Piece yanked her up and—

WHAP!

—kicked her in the ass. “You heard the man, ‘ho! Get yo stupid beezy boo boo head self inside and wash! You the one wanted to be in a fuckin’ gang.”

Highball, whose eyes perhaps still hadn’t closed, staggered out of the Winnebago.

Case Piece addressed Paulie. ‘Damn, man. You dudes are rough fuckin’ customers.” Then he took another nauseous glance at Melda, who—after two very tonerous thuds! had put her morbid bare feet back on the floor. At once, she tore into a box of Little Debbie Chocolate Swiss Rolls, which still tasted as good as they did 40 years ago.

“Paulie, can we get the fuck out’a here? This rollin’ crib’a yours a fuckin’ horror-house on fuckin’ wheels, man. The shit I see go on here today gonna keep my dick down for, like, a hundred motherfuckin’ years.”

Paulie and his crew laughed hard, then led him back outside.

“So let me get this straight. You use Melda for fucked-up flicks and for this vendetta shit you was rappin’ about, right?”

“Yeah. Pretty nifty, huh?”

Case Piece’s facial reaction suggested that “nifty” was probably not the word he’d use to describe the process. “Uh…and you brought her all the way down here to…what? Whack some dude related to the dudes who offed your wife’s father? I got that right?”

“Not a dude.” Paulie grinned, then Argi and Cristo grinned as well, all quite sinisterly. “It was a 9-year-old kid.”

“And speakin’ of that…” Argi looked at his Rolex (a real Rolex, not one of those knock-offs). “I think our package has probably been delivered by now…”

— | — | —

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