Edward Lee - Header 2

“It’s horrible, horrible, Paw!” Dumar wailed.

Helton calmed back down, thumbing a tear or two from his eyes. “Horrible is right, but at least there’s a happy endin’ to this story. See, Tuff’s son Travis Tuckton, he were in the county slam when all this happened, and all Grandpap Martin ever told him was that his folks got kilt in a tragic car wreck; Travis didn’t need ta know the truth, not in stir, ’cos the boy, shee-it—he had it bad enough. But when they let him out, Grandpap tolt him what really  happened, and Travis flew inta such a swivet, he swore on his Maw’n Paw’s graves that he would avenge ’em, and that is when Grandpap tolt Travis the in’s and out’s of havin’ a header.” Helton reached behind him and produced the King Edward cigar box that Micky-Mack had fetched for him earlier. “See, there’s better ways’a havin’ a header now, boys. Bashin’ in the top’a the skull’s fine but, see, sometimes ya can git bone-slivers stuck in the brain and then ya stick yer pecker in and— YOW! —next thing ya know, that bone-sliver’s stickin’ in yer dick! ”

“Holy fuck! ” Dumar recoiled at the image.

Micky-Mack protectively covered his crotch. “Dang, Unc! Cain’t think’a any thing that could hurt more’n that! ”

Helton nodded grimly. “Happened to a fella once, Sisal Conner, who done got wronged one way or another by Jeremiah Croll, so’s Sisal, he snatched one’a Croll’s kids and threw a header on him. He busted a hole in the kid’s head, but the second he slipped his stiffer up inta the brain-meat, he up’n scream bloody murder. See, he weren’t careful enough with the ball-peen’n he wind up catchin’ a bone-sliver right in his dick-knob, he did. Pult his pecker out’a there and it squirted blood halfways across the room!” Helton opened the cigar box. “But, see, long time ago, like in the ‘50s, I reckon, Grandpap Martin came up with a safer way. Instead’a usin’ the ball-peen, ya use one’a these, ” and from the box he withdrew several old, rusty hole-saw blades. “All ya’s do is lock down one’a these in the chuck of a power drill and ya saw a hole in the skull’a the person yer fixin’ ta head-hump.”

“Wow!” Micky-Mack exclaimed.

“Pretty dang smart fer thinkin’a that,” Dumar observed.

“Cuts a perfect hole ever time,” Helton went on, and he passed the cylindrical blades around for the younger men to see.

Dumar deduced, “So’s…did Travis ‘ventually throw a header on Caudill?”

“Yeah, he shore did—”

“And it were one’a these here hole-saws that Travis Tuckton used?”

“Naw, the actual one used on Caudill disser-peered. Word is it was took by a poe-leece man—”

“The poe-leece! ” Micky-Mack shrilled.

Helton wagged his finger. “Lemme finish tellin’ the story, boy… Now, it were Grandpap who not only told Travis the truth ’bout what happened to his folks, it was him who taught Travis how to have a header, and what they did then—God bless ’em—well, they kind’a went on a header rampage, havin’ headers on the kin’a dang near anyone whoever’d wronged the Tucktons or the Martins in the past. It was kind’a like…practice, see? But by the time they was ready, they was experts in the art of throwin’ a header.” Helton smiled and whispered. “And then one day, they gots their chance. They got their hands on Thibald Caudill hisself, and they hole-sawed that cracker’s skull and they humped the shit out’a his head. Travis, he was so twisted up inside with hatred, he fucked Caudill’s brain ta porridge, and the outrage that had been done ta his fine parents was finally avenged.”

“Thank God!” Dumar said.

Helton collected back up the hole-saw blades. “Now, the actual blade used on Caudill’s head, like I said, it disser-peered. ’cos, see, not long after they had their header on Caudill, a cop discovered ’em and shot both Travis’n Grandpap dead right in Grandpap’s old shack by the deadfall.”

“Aw, dang!” Micky-Mack said.

“Yeah, but they got the job done, and that’s all that matters,” Helton said. He emphasized, “ Family’s all that matters when ya get right down to it.”

The fire’s dwindling embers tainted their faces in ghostly orange. But Micky-Mack seemed antsy about something, and Helton noticed this and ordered, “Say what’s on your mind, boy?” even though he had a good idea what it was.

“Unc Helton?” the 20-year-old asked. “Have you …ever been to a header?”

Helton breathed deep. “Tain’t sayin’ I’m proud’n I ain’t sayin’ I’m ashamed…but, yeah, boys. I had a couple’ a headers back in the day. The why’s’n wherefores don’t matter. It’s just that several times we was offended in ways so dag-blasted low-down that a header was the only way ta git justice.” He looked idly at the rusted hole-saws. “It were Grandpap Martin, my brother Tuff, and me. See, fellas, our families didn’t never treat headers willy-nilly. We respected the law of the hills and only threw headers when someone deserved it. Shee-it, Tuff never did no wrong ta Thibald Caudill, not never. It was Caudill’s greed, and his sheer fuckin’ evil that got him ta doin’ what he did.”

“And he got what he deserved, ” Dumar said with some satisfaction.

“Yeah, he shore did, and I’se hopin’ that Satan hisself is butt-fuckin’ that old rube as we speak. ’cos, see, some folks—folks like Caudill—they’se so sick’n twisted’n just plain wicked that they’se throw headers when they got no business. They do it…’cos they like it, and that’s just the most devilish thing that hillfolk can ever do.”

Micky-Mack looked overwhelmed. “Shee-it, Unc. How could anyone like cuttin’ a hole in someone’s head’ n fuckin’ their brain? ”

Helton deliberated over a response. “Well, son, for the reasons I just tolt ya: ’cos they’se evil, but…but…” He sighed. “There’s another reason, too.”

“What reason could that be, Paw?”

Helton rubbed his eyes. “Aw, son, I’ll be honest with ya. See, there’s somethin’ ’bout havin’ a header—just… somethin’… Dang, I might as well just say it. There’s somethin’ ’bout a freshly opened head, and the brain inside’ a that head, that makes it good ta fuck.”

“What’cha mean by that, Unc?” the ever-inquiring Micky-Mack asked.

“What I mean, boy—and this is what has caused some ta stray—what I mean is, gettin’ yer nut in a brain? It feels better than any nut you ever had, better’n the best pussy ya ever fucked, better’n the best mouth or butt you ever come in…” Helton stroked his beard. “Don’t know why, just does.”

“Dang,” Dumar remarked.

“And you two’ll be findin’ out ’bout that a right quick,” Helton went on as the woods seemed to darken around them, and grow colder and colder. “What I ain’t ‘splained to ya yet is what this man Paulie’s got ta do with any’a this.”

“Yeah, Paw, I was fixin’ ta ask.”

Helton looked grimly at his son. “Li’l Crory’s awful murder was Paulie gettin’ revenge against Grandpap and Travis for fuckin’ Thibald Caudill’s head.”

“Oh, so this Paulie fella, he one’a Caudill’s kin?”

“Well, sort’a. See, Paulie married Caudill’s daughter Marshie. Shee-it, Marshie Caudill was damn shore the best-lookin piece’a ass in the whole fuckin’ county, boys. Tits and ass and legs that’d make a grown man cry. She’d been workin’ a seedy strip joint in Pulaski since she was 16, and turnt plenty’a tricks too’s what I heard. Even had herself a trick-baby from a john that knocked her up. But after Thibald Caudill got head-humped ta death, Marshie, she inherit her daddy’s big mansion and all that money, so she buy that strip joint she work all them years in. Still owns the place ta this day. Reckon she must be ’bout your age now, Dumar.”