place of Sladder’s confidante. Revenge must be enacted but in this case only revenge of the post- mortal variety was feasible. Belabored exposition need not be made, only that the slim corpse was flipped over and an orifice other than the poxed vagina was utilized for purposes of angst-assuagement, after which Helton declared, “Wish ya’d got her alive, boy, ’cos it would’a just tickled me pink to put one holy hail of a ruckin’ on the tramp, but I’se guess it’s good enough to leave the whore to rot with a buttful’a our cum,” and then they headed for home.
Though Helton could hardly have been aware of it, he’d taken precisely thirteen steps back toward his shack when the outrage of this treacherous theft would be reduced to insignificance. It was then that his 35-year-old son Dumar called out from afar, “Paw! Come on back the house! We’se just got a package been delivered!”
Helton’s squint found a similar squint on Micky-Mack’s face.
“A package?” the youth questioned.
Indeed.
For Helton and most of his kin were what the Census Department would label “documentation elopement cases”; in other words, they’d fallen off the People Radar long ago. Tax records inactive for decades, no Social Security trail, no utility records. Though they lived on land properly owned by Helton’s mother, Petunia Tuckton, they were essentially squatting there, and this status included Dumar and Dumar’s wife, their missing son Crory, and Micky-Mack. Hence, with no official address, how could any “package” be “delivered?” None of them had seen a mailman in years; and, that said, it must be abstracted now that though Helton could have no idea of what the very near future would reveal, the unmitigated outrage of his “stash” being stolen would just as quickly be reduced to utter unimportance…
Because, thirteen days after the dread and inexplicable fact, the mystery of young Crory Tuckton’s disappearance was about to be disclosed.
— | — | —
Chapter 2
(I)
PULASKI, VIRGINIA
“…and now on to the local news,” issued the monotonic voice of the radio newscaster. This voice issued from the speakers of a commonplace redneck pickup truck as it clattered down the quaint and rather dull Main Street of the small town of Pulaski, Virginia, famous for the Pulaski Mariners semi-pro baseball team. The driver of the commonplace redneck pickup truck was a fugitive and former Alcohol, Tobacco, & Firearms agent whose long hair, scrappy attire, and unkempt beard proved his desire to appear as commonplace a redneck as one who might own such a truck. His name and details, however, are unrelated to this narrative. It was not the driver, nor the truck that bore relevance, but instead the radio news broadcast that issued from the truck.
“…another incident was reported early this morning by Pulaksi authorities, regarding the recent spate of animal mutilations. For the past several months, some sick, sick person has been kidnaping dogs—puppies, in most cases—and subjecting the harmless animals to heinous acts of torture, including evisceration, boiling and burning, and dismemberment.” Here, the newscaster croaked something like a sob. “The body parts of these animals are then left in areas that police believe to be havens and/or drug districts in the surrounding tri-city area. The dog killer’s gruesome signature seems to always involve the decapitation of the dog, the attaching of the dog’s head to a stick, and the planting of the stick on or near property thought to be occupied by random drug rivals. Deputy Chief Dood Malone, of the County Sheriff’s Department and commander of the Pulaski Regional Station, had this to say,” and then a far less monotonic voice, tinged by indigenous dialect, continued, “What we got here, in this fine, upstandin’ town of ours, is a criminal of the lowest-down sort, and I mean lower’n snake shit,” the expletive, properly assumed, was BLEEPED out by technicians in an electronic delay. “Aw, folks, now I’se sorry ’cos I reckon I cain’t say snake shit over the radio waves, but I think the seriousness of these crimes will be understood by all the good, church-goin’ folks out there listenin’. Over a dozen dogs—usually cute li’l puppy dogs—has been snatched, tortured’n murdered these past several months, and the experts have tolt me the evidence inder-kates that the levels of torture ‘fore this sick motherfu…motherfooler cut off their heads is stuff like what’d make the Devil hisself heave-ho. I’se mean, innocent little dogs! Now, since we’se always on top’a thangs here in Pulaski County, we immediately contacted none other than the FBI and the DEA to ask for a profile of this piece of shhhhhh…piece of shoot, low-down scumbag, and what they done tolt us is that more’n likely this despicable person is a heroin dealer serving the local areas and maybe—er, proberlee—a illegal immergrint from Venezuela on account of it bein’ known that Venezuela heroin dealers reg-larly mark their turf by torturin’ poor, innocent dogs and then choppin’ off their heads’n puttin’ ’em in the yards of their enemies. It’s a sad, sad day when evil stuff like this slides its way inta the midst of fine, law-abidin’ folks like us, ‘sppecially so close ta Christmas. What I gotta impress upon’ yawl, now, is that the Fido Alert we’ve had goin’ fer months is still gonna be in effect, so—please, hear me, folks. Keep yer dogs inside. Walkin’ ’em’s fine on a leash but don’t under any circumstancers let ’em out in the yard—even if ya got a fence—less’n you’re with em. If any’a ya out there know anything about this sick piece’a shhhh…er, piece’a shucks, then you call up the county sheriff’s department and you ask fer me personally, ’cos when I catch this-this-this person, it’ll be his head gettin’ cut off’n put on a stick, and I’ll be the one doin’ the cuttin’!” A brief disclaimer announcement followed, the county executive wearisomely assuring listeners that when the perpetrator was apprehended, his head would in fact not be cut off, and that he would be granted his day in court.
The driver of the redneck pickup truck raised a brow at the spew of gruesome information. Torturing puppies, cutting off their heads? he reflected. Man, this is one SICK world…
Now, it just so happened that at the same moment the pickup truck was idling past the Martins Pharmacy on Main Street, a pedestrian heading down the sidewalk overheard the entire newscast. This pedestrian’s name was Menduez, late-‘20s, dark complected, and possessed of an arrogant gait. He spoke and understood English now fairly well—yet had an accent more Cuban than Venezuelan, to the degree that he was often accused of deliberately mimicking Scarface—since arriving quite illegally in the United States from his home town of Caracas, Venezuela; and, yes, he was indeed the perpetrator of these hideous crimes against local pet dogs. Hearing the newscast brought a smile to his face, and he thought, Ah, so dat fat gringo sheriff piece’a chit theenk he gonna catch me? ME? He need a fockin’ ARMY ta catch me. Gude lock, fat gringo moth-ur FOCKer piece’a CHIT.
Down the sidewalk he cockily strode, catching some disapproving half-glances from passersby. In one hand was a Burger King bag, and in the other, a burlap sack.
For those desirous of characterization, it should be communicated that Menduez was the only survivor of the vicious M-27 Gang that rampaged through Richmond not too long ago, raping, killing, selling black-tar heroin, and,
