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toward him with the end of his rifle. “Oh, this here’s that bitch works up the Hess station, huh?”

“Um-hmm.”

“Always frownin’,” Charlie related. “Grimacin’ at folks, real hateful-like.”

“Bet she were frownin’ the minute she come out her mama’s pussy, and I bet her mama was frownin’ too. Like mama like daughter.”

“Yeah,” Dumar said, “but considerin’ what her belly’s full of, I’d say she’s really got somethin’ ta frown about now.”

“You got that right, son.”

“Ya know,” Charlie said, “I went in that Hess station once ta buy me some jerky and this prickly cuss starts yellin’ at me and bad-mouthin’ America, and then she said”—and Charlie mimicked Kasha’s accent as best he could—“‘You redneeks all darty sheet people! You take your redneek jarky and get out my store ’cos I hate all you smelly darty redneeks,’ she shore as shit did.”

“Oh yeah,” Helton agreed. “Talked all that to us’n worse. Got a body on her, though.”

“That she does but it don’t matter a hoot how purdy a gal is on the outside if’n she’s ugly on the inside.”

Helton wagged a finger at Micky-Mack. “You listen ta Charlie here, son, ’cos what he says is right.”

“And my mama always teached that the best way ta cure a foul mouth is ta fill it with somethin’ fouler.”

“Amen ta that.”

Charlie’s eyes bloomed upon Micky-Mack. “Well, shit, Micky-Mack. I say that’s just about the mother of all boners you’re sportin’ there, huh?”

Micky-Mack leaned backwards to display his pelvis. The obvious ten-inch erection angled across his thigh to the left; it could’ve been a piece of pipe stuck in his jeans. “Hail, Mr. Fuchson, what kin I say?” Micky-Mack, ever the one for pomposity, flexed the erection beneath the denim. “Sumpin’ ’bout watchin’ a buck nekit gal eat cow snot’s got my dick ready to bust.”

Dumar chuckled. “Paw, I say that boy just ain’t quite right in the head.”

Helton smiled to Charlie. “Kids these days, huh, Charlie?”

“Yessir,” Charlie replied. “Ever generation’s got it’s own thing, I reckon. A’course, when we was kids we’d fuck boxes’a bullfrogs.”

“That we did, that we did…”

Momentarily, the men looked at Droop, the mange-clumped and nearly 20-year-old basset hound. It snuffled about Kasha’s inert form, sniffed an armpit, then gave the woman’s crotch a lick.

“Bet her hair-pie tastes like borsh,” Charlie said.

Helton raised a brow. “Borsh?”

“Some cold soup they eat in Russia. Made from mushed up beets.”

“Yuck!” Micky-Mack said.

Charlie appraised the unconscious woman, rifle lying across his forearm. “But I say, Helton. What ya done here today is…ya done her a favor.”

“Let’s just hope she’s a good learner, and hope still that that belly full’a cow snot’ll have her thinkin’ twice ‘fore she starts talkin’ down ta folks she don’t even know.”

“The cuss throw it up?”Charlie asked.

“Yeah, after the third cow, she couldn’t keep it down, but then the rest’a the cows turned out ta be a perfectly fine second-helpin’.”

“And ya know,” Charlie postulated further, “I’ll bet silver dollars ta grasshoppers that this big-tit bitch don’t never bad-mouth no one ever again.”

“I bet she don’t, Charlie, I bet she don’t.”

“Look, Mr. Fuchson!” Micky-Mack exclaimed, pointing. “Ole Droop’s helpin’ hisself to a piece’a ass!”

The men looked on in bemusement. See, Kasha’s collapse had caused her to land quite compromisingly spread-eagled, and now the archaic egg-suck dog had mounted her and was listlessly copulating.

“You want me ta break it up, Charlie?” Helton offered. “I’se mean, a low-down bitch like that’s liable ta have a pussy chock full’a European diseases’n such.”

“Oh, naw. Ole Droop, he ain’t hadda piece’a ass in a hoot owl’s age, and I don’t reckon a human bitch’s cunt-germs’d be compatter-bull. Best ta let the critter have a good time. Lord knows he won’t likely be with me much longer.”

“Ain’t like her pussy’s busy right now anyway,” Helton said, and, yes, they all laughed.

“Go, Droop! Go!” Micky-Mack rooted.

“Been a spell since I seen a dog fuck a gal,” Dumar observed. “Kind’a… interestin’.”

“All gals like ta fuck a dog on occasion, son,” Charlie said in assurance, “and any gal who say she don’t…is a liar.”

Helton nodded. “I hear that.”

The dog humped exertedly, gave evidence of climax, then snuffled away.

“There ya go, Droop! Good dog!” Micky-Mack said.

“Get’cha a good nut, ole boy?” Dumar asked.

“Belly full’a cow snot, pussy full’a dog-cum,” Helton remarked. “That’s what I call takin’ a gal ta school.”

“And ya know,” Charlie tendered more wisdom, “my mama always taught me a little dog-nut up a ornery gal’s snatch never fails ta make ’em humble.”

“‘Tis true, ‘tis true.”

“Best that folks just be nice to one another,” Dumar observed. “Don’t make no sense not?ta be. If’n someone start somethin’, a man got no choice but ta finish it.” He glanced errantly at the unconscious girl. “But if folks didn’t start nothin’ in the first place, then ever-one’d git along, like, all the world over.”

“Well dag blam, Dumar!” Fuchson cracked. “All’s we need ta do is git you in the United Nations, and I say there wouldn’t be no problems anywhere! ”

“Hail, yeah, Mr. Fuchson!”

More hillbilly laughter, then after a bit more banter, adieus were bid and Charlie and his faithful—and now rather content—dog were on their way. But as Helton and his kin made their way back to the truck, Micky-Mack picked up Kasha’s clothes.

“Ya reckon we should give her her duds back, Unc?”

Helton took them. “Well, a’course, we will, Micky-Mack. Only a bunch’a rat bastards’d let her walk all the back ta her gasoline station buck nekit,” and then Helton dropped the girl’s clothes right smack-dab atop a particularly large deposit of cow manure. He put his foot down in the middle, broke the excrement’s crust, and traversed his bootsole, and though it was purely by accident, it will be mentioned that the first garment to fall onto the pile was the Vladimir Putin t-shirt, front side down.

Helton dropped the befouled garments onto the unconscious woman’s abdomen and led his son and nephew back to the truck.

“So what’cha think, boys? We ready ta go ta New York City?”

“Like a mare in heat’s ready for a big ole horse dick, Paw!” Dumar assured.

Micky-Mack hauled back and did a magnificent Rebel Yell.

(IV)

Mike nearly shot out of his shoes at the sudden jolt of music from the hi-fi department. The entire store seemed to shake; speakers boomed a cacophonous rap song: “Aye-unky, a bunky cunky!—aye, bee, cee—dunky, Ee-unky, funky!—dee, eee, eff—gunky, a hunky eye-unky!—gee, ayche, eye—”

Hair nearly on end, Mike snapped off the Phillips/Bose surround-sound. Yeah, every now and then some