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Now Micky-Mack was breathing between his teeth. “And ya know, as good as yer blowjobs is now…I’se just gots ta git me my nut. Can that be our secret too, Veronnerka? I’se cum in yer mouth but you don’t tell Unc Helton? That okay?”

Veronica nodded, sucking with mechanical precision.

“Aw-aw-aw,” he grunted, tensing all the more. “I gots ta warn ya, though. Me? I’se belt out a lot of peckjuice, enough ta likely fill yer whole mouth up. And if’n ya spit it out, Unc Helton’ll see’n, well, you know. So’s how’s ’bout swallerin’ all my nut. Okay?”

Veronica nodded.

“Git ready now, hon. I’se just about ta, just about ta—” but the sound of rough voices made Micky-Mack glance terrified over his shoulder. Helton and Dumar were opening the back doors!

“What a fuckin’ kick in the ass!” he whispered fierce, and had no choice but to awkwardly pack his unspent erection back into his pants. He got back in the chair—legs crossed, of course—just as Helton came inside.

Helton stared. “Boy? What’s goin’ on here?”

“Why, nothin’, Unc Helton. I’se just come back from the Mack-Donald’s with the viddles ya told me ta fetch.”

Helton’s eyes narrowed. “Then how come Veronnerka’s tits are out?”

“Aw, hail, Unc. They’se so nice lookin’ I’se just asked her ta show me again, that’s all.”

“That’s all?”

“Shore that’s all, Unc.” Micky-Mack looked to Veronica. “Ain’t that right, Veronnerka? That’s all?”

Veronica nodded.

“Oh,” Helton said. Then he sniffed. “Dang, sumpin’ shore smells good.”

“Citified food,” Dumar remarked with enthusiasm. He was still just outside the open doors, clattering with something.

“Let’s all get our breadbaskets filt so’s we’ll have plenty’a energy tonight,” but as Helton approached the fast-food bags, Micky-Mack had to ask, “So, Unc. What all you buy at the Home Depot? ”

Dumar came inside, hefting the purchases: three heavy-duty shovels, of the sort that grave-diggers might use.

(II)

The big black truck had parked in yet another convenient and well-secluded clearing in the woods. From there, the men had slipped away into the cool night, their mysterious task still unrevealed. Were they still in Pulaski town limits?

Who could tell?

Not even two hours had expired before the men, shovels clattering, returned to the truck. This was precisely at the stroke of midnight, when December 23rd officially became Christmas Eve…

They entered through the rear doors, speaking little. Was it excitement that quelled conversation, or unease?

It was both.

Veronica, still foundering glassy-eyed in her semi-catatonic state, had been handcuffed to her usual place during the “headers”: the front passenger seat, facing the dense, nighted woods. A trail led beyond, the same trail that the men had just returned from. Had one of them been carrying a bundle or some sort?

Yes.

They closed the doors, then flicked on the lamp in back. Helton stuck his head forward. “We’se back, Veronnerka. Right now we’se got ta…get things ready, then we’se’ll be up fer a…well, you know… a quick tweakin’. All right?”

Veronica nodded, staring off.

“And untils then, I’ll just close this here curtain like always. Remember now, don’t’cha be lookin’ back here ’cos what ya’d see would likely…mess ya up in the head more’n ya already are. Okay?”

Veronica continued staring forward.

“Veronnerka? Hon? Ya ain’t gonna look back here, are ya?”

Veronica shook her head no.

Helton closed the curtain.

Clattering. Low, indiscernible talk. Then came the now-familiar whine of the hole-saw. It sounded once, paused, then sounded again. After a longer pause, someone said, “Dang. Are we really gonna do this?”

“Just ‘member what Paulie did ta yer son, and yer wife, and yer grandmaw…”

The curtain fluttered, then all three men crowded into the front, their limp penises out.

“Veronnerka? Can we’se git our tweakin’ now?”

Veronica nodded and with no reluctance nor complaint stuck her tongue out over her bottom teeth, pulled her upper lip over her top teeth, and began to fellate their foul-smelling members. In moments, all three were painfully erect and cringing just short of orgasm.

“Good girl,” Helton said. “We’se cain’t thank ya enough. See..this is rough work we got goin’ in back.” He put cotton balls in her ears, then repaired to the rear of the truck with the others. The curtain was re-closed.

Veronica continued to stare forward. If the question What are they doing back there? ever occurred to her, it was entirely subconscious. She still didn’t know where she was and she scarcely knew who she was. As her eyes acclimated, however, her vision began to identify aspects of her surroundings: the trees, mostly bereft of leaves; crisp moonlight glimmering through boughs’ and that trail just before her began to surrender details. It seemed to incline. Without forethought, she squinted, focusing…

Yes, that trail rose to a barely visible hill and a perimeter of iron fencework. Here the moon shimmered more brightly. Past the fencework she was able to make out…gravestones.

A…cemetery…

Veronica blinked. Then an interesting and highly unlikely thing happened:

One of those cotton balls…fell out of her ear.

She heard:

“So’s we gonna double-fuck this ‘un like we done Paulie’s Maw?”

“Nope. We’se gonna triple-fuck it.”

“A triple? But, Paw. How’se can we triple-fuck it if’n ya only drilt two holes?”

“Hand me that hack-saw, son, and I’ll show ya.”

The grisliest sound ensued, very much that of a saw-blade cutting through meat.

“See, I got me this idea that headers is most effective if’n ya do it a little bit different ever time. I think the word is…variety. See, boys, to piss Paulie off the most we can, we gots ta have variety in how we fuck the heads of his kin. Cain’t never be the same old thing. So’s…here’s what we’se gonna do, and thank God Veronnerka recommended I buy this tripod along with the fancy movin’-picture camera. You boys ready? Good? Now, see, what I’se gonna do is I’se gonna stick my dick up its neck-hole first—ah, yeah, like that. It’s a little cold now, fellas, just so ya know—been in the ground since last summer.”

“Paw! Shee-it, this is nifty! I’se can see the end’a yer dick in its mouth!”

“Uh-huh. Like I said. Variety.”

“But, Unc, if it’s been in the ground since last summer, hows come it ain’t all gone ta rot?”

“Well, Micky-Mack, that’s a good question, and the answer is ’cos it’s been embalmed. ‘S’what rich folks do when their kin die—they embalm ’em. Special preservatives they pump in, so’s it don’t rot.”

“Aw, wow…”