Edward Lee - Header 2

“Ya know, Unc. Now that I’se thinkin’ ’bout Veronnerka’s big milk wagons…this ain’t so bad.”

“Just keep nice thoughts in yer head…”

A repetitive wet clicking sound could be heard, then…

“Kind’a like…pistons going in’n out, huh?”

“Why, Dumar I’d say that there is a fair annalergy! ”

The clicking sounds picked up.

“Aw, yeah, mmm, boys-boys, looks like the old man’s comin’ first this time ’round—mmm-yeah…yeah! Oh! I’se a-comin’, Iiiiii’se a-comin’!”

“Good fer you, Paw! And I can see it! I can see yer nut in its mouth!” Then—“Aw, Paw—my turn! Shee-IT! There she’s goes!”

“Shit, big as my dick is, I’se surprised it ain’t squeezin’ the brains out the nose!”

“Don’t’choo keep braggin’ ’bout that big dick’a yers, son! I’se told ya what happened ta Tater Kline!”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“Come on, Micky-Mack! We ain’t got all night…”

“Aw, fuck, I’se gettin’ close, I’se gettin’…aaaaaaaaaaaaah! Yeah, man! I’se comin’ up a storm! Feels like I’se takin’ a pee I’se comin’ so much! Holy hogshit, Unc! I’se fillin’ this baby’s head with cum!”

Veronica, still staring, blinked once more, then lost total consciousness.

(III)

Helton, sitting fatigued in the fold-down chair, took another swig of the fancy liquor they’d ripped off from Marshie’s mansion. Another day, another header… “She all right, Micky-Mack?” he called up.

“Dang, Unc. Guess she falled asleep again.”

“Just as well.”

Dumar came back inside, having just disposed of the body, and the tiny severed head. Just as fatigued, he took a milk crate next to his father and sighed. “Paw, I’se shore hope this feud ends soon. Maybe Paulie’ll give up once he sees this movie.”

“Maybe…”

Micky-Mack dawdled back and sat down on the table. “I know it ain’t the family thing ta say, Unc, but, shit. I’se had my fill’a havin’ headers. Feels good, shore, but it just…ain’t…right…”

“I’se hear ya, son. It ain’t right, but neithers is what Paulie done. If we could just find the varmit.”

“Find him and kill him,” Dumar said.

Helton nodded.

“So’s shouldn’t we wake Veronnerka up and have her send the movie to Paulie?”

“Naw, not just yet. She’s asleep. Let’s set a spell. All this head-fuckin’s got yer old Uncle Helton wore out. ”

Dumar looked in one of the bags of McDonald’s leftovers, then declined. He noticed the green and red holly prints on the bag, and the SEASON’S GREETINGS. His eyes bloomed. “Dang, Paw. Sumpthin’ just dawned on me. It’s Christmas Eve.”

Helton stalled and looked at his watch. “Well I’ll be. You’re right, son.”

Dumar had a sudden tear in his eye. “And ain’t that some shit? Grandmaw Petunia ain’t gonna be able to celebrate Christmas with us. First time in my life.”

“It’s a terrible business, feudin’,” Helton uttered. “Takes the spirit out’a ever thang. Shit. Christmas Eve. We should be singin’ hymns and gettin’ the turkey ready and hangin’ orner-mints on the tree, but look what we’se doin’ instead. Fuckin’ a dead baby in the head…”

All three men looked at each other.

“Wouldn’t none’a this be happenin’ if’n it weren’t fer Paulie,” Micky-Mack objected.

“‘Tis true.”

“But what else can we do?” Dumar asked.

Helton looked at his watch. “It’s past three in the morn. We’ll get some shut-eye’s what we’ll do right now. Then we’se’ll send the movie to Paulie…and see what happens next.”

— | — | —

Chapter 16

(I)

Next morning, the morning of Christmas Eve, the day shone unusually bright. Downtown, shoppers emerged en masse, and holiday Muzak could be heard all up and down Main Street. “Silver bells, silver bells, it’s Christmas time in the city…” The season was in the air.

But not in the heart of Deputy Chief Dood Malone.

He listlessly rode shotgun as Boover drove the squad car. Before the Target, a Salvation Army Santa Claus was “Ho-ho-ho!”-ing and ringing his bell. He paused, then rubbed his crotch for no apparent reason. Traffic was rife, and even this early, the parking lots were filling up. Half-heartedly, Malone commented, “Well, looks ta me like the econner-mee’s doin’ just fine. Damn lotta folks out shoppin’, spendin’ money—”

Boover winced. “Shit, Chief! A’ course they’se spendin’ money— stimulus money. Dang Obama’s given the whole country’s financial future away just so’s he can get his popularity up. Chief, all the Treasury’s doin’ is printin’ up more’n more cash and shovelin’ it out the door. It’ll kick inflation sky fuckin’ high, it will, and take decades ta bring ‘er back down. Meanwhile, Obama’s on Letterman smilin’ away’n promisin’ a college ed-jur-kation fer every punk kid who slides through high school. We gotta pay fer that, Chief. We—”

“I don’t wanna hear no more!” Malone gruffed.

They cruised out of the shopping sector and were soon headed down less gainly avenues.

Few words could describe Malone’s state of mind just then. Dolorous, perhaps. Disconsolate…

Boover sensed his superior’s tamped mood. “How’s about some music, Chief? A little livenin’ up’s what ya need,” and he switched on the radio:

“—punky, a que-unky runky—pee, que, are!—sunky, you tunky you-unky—”

“Jesus, Boover!” Malone yelled and switched it off. “I dont’s need ta hear that on Christmas Eve, ‘specially when we’se…” He never finished the sentence.

“You’se worried ’bout the mutt, huh, Chief?” Boover thumbed a cue-ball-sized wad of tobacco into his mouth. “Who knows? Maybe the dog-killer left town. Maybe he got hisself kilt in a drive-by. And maybe, just maybe, li’l Buster’s jumpin’ ’round in the yard right now…”

My God, I’se hope so…

They slowed past the house, then stopped. Malone jumped out while Boover followed more leisurely, and said, “I’ll meet ya inside.”

The chief rushed to the fence, whistling, and yelled, “Buster! Buster! You still here?”

Silence.

Buster was no longer in the yard, which could only mean…

Aw, sweet Jesus…

“Hey, Chief!” Boover called. He was already in the house. Malone shuffled in, head down, hands in pockets.

“It’s bad news for Buster, but good news for us,” Boover said at the kitchen table. He was finnicking with the stop-frame camera.

“With my luck, that dang thing didn’t even work, and Buster died fer nothin’…”

“Have faith, Chief. Look,” and Boover pointed to the tiny, auxiliary play-back screen atop the machine.

Malone squinted.

In the lit yard, in stop-motion, a shifty-looking short-haired Hispanic man was carrying Buster off. His t-shirt appeared to bear the image of Al Pacino holding an M-16. The man grinned satanically (the Hispanic, not Al Pacino). Buster wagged his tail-stump and happily licked his abductor’s face. Before the man proceeded out of frame, his angle afforded the camera a perfect front-on shot of his face.

“There he is, Chief,” Boover nodded. “Looks like we caught ourselfs the puppy-killer…”

(II)

At nine o’clock in the morning, Helton, Micky-Mack, and Dumar awoke, but they were disconcerted to see that Veronica had not. Helton, knowing the toll the last few days had taken, refrained from waking her. In the meantime, he figured that the best tactic now would be simply to devise a way of finding Paulie, and confronting him. The prospect of another trip to New York unsettled him mightily. Helton suspected that after seeing the next video, Paulie would assuredly seek some mode of extreme retaliation—therefore, Paulie would return to the area if he hadn’t remained here in the first place. “It works ta our advantage, boys ’cos, see, we know that Paulie’s drivin’ ’round in a big fancy white motor-home on account that’s what Cork McKellen’s kid tolt us. We know what Paulie drives but he don’t know what we drive.” “Yeah, Paw,” Dumar concurred. “All’s we gotta do is drive around till we see that big fancy white motor-home.” “Cain’t be many’a them around,” Micky-Mack deduced and rubbed his crotch. Hence, the current plan of action, but Helton deemed it imperative that Paulie get the next video file soon and, regrettably—and conveniently for the author—-it wasn’t till past seven in the evening that Veronica finally roused from a shock-spurred, semi-catatonic slumber. Her eyes remained wide and glassy, her mouth hung open. Helton was very concerned but he trusted that his prayers would make it so that this current state of being “all fucked up in the head on account‘a that movin’ picture I’se made her watch” would remedy itself in time. A psychiatrist would likely label her symptoms as “abulia-related indifference with evidence of facial-affect disorder, acute agnosia, and trauma-induced prosopagnosia,” but “all fucked up in the head” worked much better. The only word she seemed to ever say was the name “Mike”; all other responses were subverbal, nodding for yes, shaking her head for no. She did remain “reactively compliant,” however, and retained her ability to take transitive action via verbal commands from others. For instance, whenever Micky-Mick asked, “Hey, Veronnerka? Will you show me that there hum-dinger set of tits’a yers?” she would nod and pull her top up. When Dumar asked, “Hey, Veronnerka? How’s ’bout holdin’ my dick fer me whilse I pee?” she nodded and held it, and when Helton quietly asked, “Veronnerka? How’s ’bout sendin’ Paulie the movin’ picture we made last night? That all right with you?” she nodded, eyes staring, and in a short period of time managed to turn on her laptop and get online. Then Helton offered her the “doohickey,” and in an autonomic state, she emailed the digital video file to Paulie…