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Argi yanked the cord and revved the machine. Menduez screamed. The grind-wheel began to lower, and a wet spot appeared at the Hispanic’s crotch.

But Helton quickly whispered something to Paulie, then the don yelled.

“Argi, don’t grind him!”

“Don’t grind him, boss?”

“Don’t grind him.”

Argi turned the grinder off.

“Helton’s right,” Paulie averred. “Grindin’? It’s too good for this piece of shit. Too fast, ya know? So Helton suggested we do a Melda job on him.”

“Great idea!” Argi said.

“This fucker needs to die slow…”

Helton, Dumar, and Argi hoisted the trussed man and carried him out.

When the Winnebago door banged open, Dr. Prouty’s solitaire cards flew up in the air.

“Come on, Doc. We got the dog killer,” Paulie said in an antsy anticipation. “Get Melda ready.”

The doctor stalled. “Um, sir, perhaps you’ve forgotten in all the entails of the day but…Melda’s dead.”

Paulie shot the former plastic surgeon a look like someone with lemon juice in their mouth. “Doc, listen to what’cher sayin’. So what if she’s dead? Dead or alive, she’s still got a giant pussy, don’t she?”

Prouty fumbled. “Er, uh, why, yes, of course, sir.”

“So come on! Lube this scumbag up!”

With obvious distaste, Dr. Prouty covered the Hispanic’s head with more spoiling I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter; then all involved repaired to the back compartment.

“Jiminy!” Helton said. “That there’s some powerhouse funk!”

“Shore is,” Dumar said but then gulped when his eyes trained on the massive rice-paper-white corpse piled on the bench. By now, post-mortal lividity had purpled the gargantuan woman’s feet, hands, buttocks, and the bottoms of the depending sacks of flesh that were her breasts.

Menduez screamed when he got his first look. “What-what..what chew do, mang?”

“You’ll see, Pedro. Helton, how about pulling one leg up and Dumar can grab the other. Just pull her knees all the way back for a good cunt shot.”

This done, the abyssal maw gaped, and then all the men howled when an appalling release of vaginal gas escaped.

Helton fanned his face. “A gal cunt-fartin’s one thing, but a dead gal cunt- fartin’?”

“Sheee-IT!” Dumar guffawed.

“This is some party, huh, Paulie!” Helton laughed.

“Oh, this party’s just gettin’ started. Argi?”

Menduez screamed and screamed when the two mafiosos plugged Menduez’s shuddering head into Melda’s dead vagina. “Doc, tell us when a minute’s up.”

“Of course, Mr. Vinchetti.”

The doctor’s watch ticked. Helton and Dumar looked on in astonishment. Menduez convulsed.

“A minute has expired, sir.”

WHAP!

Paulie rammed his fist into Menduez’s crotch; the Hispanic’s suffocating scream could be heard even with his head deep in the cadaver’s birth canal.

“Pull him out,” Paulie directed, and they did.

Menduez vibrated on the floor, heaving in his first breath, but then—

WHAP!

—Paulie rammed his fist into the young man’s solar plexus, robbing him of all air.

“Back in!”

Amid a nauseous schucking sound, Melda’s dead vagina re-swallowed the Hispanic’s head.

“Gawd dang, Paw,” Dumar remarked. “This shore is some heavy-duty ruckin’!”

“That it is, son. Hope it’s a lesson to the fella.”

“We smotherin’ him now, boss?” Argi asked.

The two mafiosos shoved the head up hard. “Naw, not yet. I wanna have some fun with this one.”

They pulled the head out, then pushed it in, pulled it out, pushed it in…several times in a row.

“Longer this time,” and—schhhhhluck!—the head was re-admitted as the most horrendous odors were pumped from the vagina.

“Don’t know what she smells worse than, Paw,” Dumar laughed. “The gut-can at Hack Doobler’s butcher shop or the pit Charlie Fuchson’s uses to git rid’a his cows that die.”

“This gal’s pussy, son, I’d say smells worse that both them things.”

More muffled screams could be heard from the corpulent mass. Menduez began to enter death-throes.

“Look’s like he’s kickin’, boss.”

“Yeah, and I hope all them puppies he killed are waitin’ for him in hell.”

But, again, Helton whispered something in Paulie’s ear.

“Shit! Yeah!” the don exclaimed. “Argi, pull him out!”

“Pull him out, boss?”

“Pull him out! I want him alive!”

schhhhhhhhhhhhluck-THUMP…

Menduez’s head was extracted. The young man lay motionless now, eyes seared open by unmitigated, unutterable, and indefatigable organic horror.

“Aw, shit, he ain’t dead, is he?” Paulie complained.

Dr. Prouty’s finger touched the man’s jugular. “I’m afraid he’s no longer among the living, sir.”

“Well, fuck that, Doc! Get down there and do that doctor shit you do!”

Dr. Prouty made an aghast face. “Umm, pardon me, sir?”

“Come on! That CRP shit or whatever, like they’d do on that old show with the bimbos in the red swimsuits? Shit, those girls were packing some camletoe—Baywatch, that’s it.” He snapped his fingers. “What’s the word I’m lookin’ for, Doc?”

Prouty’s lower lip trembled. “You want me to…resuscitate him, sir?”

Paulie beamed. “Yeah, yeah! That’s it!”

The doctor paled, already wobbling at the spirit-upheaving odor and the mere sight of the Hispanic’s rotten- margarine-and-dead-vaginal-slime slathered head. “Really, sir, that would be a very trepidacious undertaking…”

Paulie stared. “Doc. If you don’t bring that puppy-killin’ scumbag back to life, you know whose head’s goin’ in Melda’s pussy next.”

Prouty was on his knees in half a second, first opening Menduez’s airway, aspirating air into the lungs, then administering expert cardiac compressions.

Helton, Dumar, Paulie, and Argi all watched quite raptly.

Thirty seconds. Forty. Fifty.

A minute.

“Oh, dear!” the doctor wailed. “It appears that—”

—but at a minute ten seconds, Menduez lurched, hacked, threw up in a volcano-like plume, and