Edward Lee - Header 2

Dumar slowly nodded. “Now ya mention it, I have heard’a her. Me’n Harley Benner was walkin’ back from cuttin’ wood one day, walkin’ along Big Boon Road, and this weird-lookin’ fancy silver car drive by. There were a hot blond drivin’ it, Paw, and I’se mean she had tits stickin’ out till next week. But then ya know what she done? When she see us, she makes a evil face’n up’n give us the finger, and that’s when Harley Benner say, ‘That there is Marshie Caudill.’”

Helton was not surprised. “It was her, all right, son, and you’re right. Righteous pair’a tits on the bitch, yessir. And, see, just like her devilsh daddy, she still drive through these parts—damn near ever mornin’, I’se heard. Drive all the way from Pulaski to where we all live. Likes ta see where she come from, and remind herself she don’t live here no more on account of her daddy’s money. And that weird car? It were the self-same Rolls Royce Thibald Caudill used ta drive. I even seed her a couple’a times up close—in Luntville—still lookin’ good as she ever did, tits hangin’ perfect’n all high’n might, nipples stickin’ out like fuckin’ rivets, ass swayin’ back’n forth in her fancy dresses. Paulie’s proper name is Paul Vinchetti—see, he’s a Eye-tallion type, and he’s in this group they call, I think, the MAFF-ee-uh.”

“What the hail’s that? ” Micky-Mack asked.

“He’s like a gangster, you know? A big whup-dee-doo criminal—see, he’s into what they call organized crime.” Need it be elucidated that Helton pronounced the word “organized” as organnazzed? “Don’t rightly know how it all works, just that Paulie’s pig-shit rich from sellin’ drugs and gettin’ profits from gamblin’ and such. And several years ago, he and his boys, they started selling their drugs ’round these parts, see? And one night he’s in the strip joint Marshie Caudill owns and he gets one look at Marshie and he fall head-over-heels in love with the whore, so much so in fact that he up’n marries her.”

“Well, how you like that? ” Dumar said.

“Must’a been Marshie tolt him ’bout how the Tucktons and Martins was responsible fer Thibald Caudill gettin’ his head fucked.”

Helton nodded. “And now? They’se all laughin’ and carryin’ on ’bout how they fucked over a couple’a dirt-poor rednecks, and they figure we’se too dumb or ain’t got the balls to do anything about it.” Helton half-sneered, half-smiled. “They like ta make movies? Well, we’ll show ’em a movie…”

««—»»

They doused the fire and hit the road, Dumar driving and Helton still communicating expository details via long-winded and essentially passive dialogue. Veronica, in her shock, dismay, and fatigue, had fallen asleep, still handcuffed to the leg of the fish-gutting table. The truck lumbered on through the night, its dim headlights sweeping through winding, wooded roads as a low winter moon followed them through the trees. “It’s likely that Paulie ain’t there,” Helton rambled on, “on account I heard he don’t spend much time at the house. But that’s dandy, ’cos it ain’t Paulie we want just yet. It’s his wife. ”

“Marshie,” Dumar said. “And we’se gonna snatch her—”

“—and have ourselfs a header,” Micky-Mack concluded.

“Yeah we is, and we’se gonna film it on that there fancy camera that our friend Veronnerka solt us, and then we’se gonna leave that movie fer Paulie ta see.”

Silence unfolded for several moments, but it was the antsy Micky-Mack whose incessant inquisitiveness broke that silence. “Dang, Unc Helton,” he began and rubbed his crotch. “Much as I love havin’ a nut…I don’t think I can get my bone up for it.”

“A head with a hole in it’s gotta be tough to get a stiffer for,” Dumar said.

Helton understood. “It’s a differ-kult thing ta conterm-plate, boys. That’s why when ya’s havin’ yer first header, concentration’s the key. Ya gots ta think hard ’bout all the great pussy ya fucked, and all the purdy gals.”

Micky-Mack seemed unconvinced, still rubbing his crotch. “Shee-it, Unc. My dick feels dead right now, like it knows it ain’t a natural thing to fuck folks in their heads.”

Dumar: “Don’t matter that some folks say a header’s the best nut they ever had, Paw. I ain’t gonna be able to get me no erection in a million years.”

“That’s why we gots ta tweak ourselfs a tad, get our dicks all feisty’n fit ta spit,” Helton said. “And I figure our friend Veronnerka can help us with that.” He peered down the dark ribbon of road ahead. “We’se close ta walkin’ distance now, so find a place ta pull over.”

Dumar did as instructed, but Micky-Mack squinted at his elder. “What’cha mean tweak ourselfs, Unc?”

««—»»

It was in grueling stages that Veronica awoke from her black sleep. She’d had the worst  nightmare…

She saw only black, but did she hear…moans? Whistling? Did she hear someone say in redneck dialect, “Hot dang, that’s a dandy body on her…”?

Did she hear, “ Shit, that’s good…”?

Or, “Fuck. My crane’s raisin’, no problem…”

She also had the sensation that something was in her hand. Something, warm, turgid, and tacky…

Finally, her eyes peeled open from the noxious sleep…

What in the name of…

Helton, Dumar, and Micky-Mack stood around her where she sat slumped against the truck wall. They all had their penises and scrotums out, and they were stroking themselves and staring down at her with salacious grins. Veronica’s eyes flicked to her free hand…

Micky-Mack had not his own hand but her hand wrapped around his penis. The penis was erect, large, and heavily foreskinned.

Veronica screamed.

The men winced at once. “There she goes again!” Dumar yelled, erection bobbing. Micky-Mack dropped her hand to cover his ears, and Helton roared, “God dang, girl! That scream’a yers’ll travel halfway ‘cross the blammed county. Gonna crack all the winders!”

“I knew it!” she yelled, “I knew you were going rape me!”

“Dang, Veronnerka,” Helton said. “I done tolt ya we’d never do nothin’ like that.”

“Please! Please don’t rape me!” she sobbed. “I’m a virgin! I have to save my virginity for when I marry Mike!”

“Simmer down, girl,” Helton pleaded.

“Yeah,” Micky-Mack said. “We’se just givin’ ourselfs a little tweak.”

“Gotta get our stiffers up,” Dumar added, “and—dang, hon—we didn’t have no idea you had such hot body.”

“Hotter than the lid on a pot-bellied stove,” Helton said.

Only then did Veronica notice that while she’d slept, these three perverts had raised her top, exposing her bare breasts, and they’d pulled her work pants and panties down.

“That’s some sure-fire gorgeous rib-melons on ya, Veronnerka,” Helton complimented, “and the dang purdiest slop-box I ever seed.”

“So don’t git mad,” Micky-Mack said. “We’se just admirin’ ya.”

“ Admiring me?” she spat. “You were using my hand to masturbate with!”

Helton chuckled. “‘Tis funny how gals git their dander up over the littlest things.” He began stroking his penis again, and cradling his testicles. “All we need is somethin’… provokertive , ta gander, that’s all.” Another friendly chuckle, glancing to Micky-Mack. “See, I sent my nephew there to pick us up a girlie mag, and lookit what the dimwit brung back.” He picked a magazine off the floor, and showed it to her. The cover read SWISH FAMILY ROBINSON and showed a half-dozen young, muscular, and quite naked men standing cross-armed before a log cabin. They all sported erections of prodigious size. “As ya can see, the dumb-ass got a stroke mag fer homa-sexual fellas—got pictures in here’a fellas cornholin’ each other’n suckin’ peter! Damn, Micky-Mack, sometimes yer common sense is worth ’bout as much as a dixie cup full’a dogshit worms…and that ain’t worth very much, now is it?”