Header 2

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

“What, Paw? What?” Dumar pleaded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Micky-Mack and Dumar stared.

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

“What, Unc Helton! What?”

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

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

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

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

“It weren’t snot, son. It was cum—”

“Cum!” Mick-Mack yelled.

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

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

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

“Holy sheeeeeeeee-IT, Paw!”

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

««—»»

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

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

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

“That we is—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Me, too,” Dumar said.

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

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

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

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

Dumar and Micky-Mack traded grave glances.

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