Edward Lee - Header 2

“Put ‘er there, Helton,” Paulie exclaimed, and then they all shook hearty hands.

To Argi, Helton offered, “Sorry ’bout what happened to yer nut, fella.”

Argi gently cradled said “nut” with his finger. “No big deal. Hurts like a motherfucker, but the doc said it’ll heal up.”

Paulie leaned to peer at the exposed gonad. “Was big as a grapefruit a little while ago but now it’s back down to avocado-size. Sounds like a good sign to me, Argi.”

Argi nodded, then shrugged and told Helton, “And now that we’re all friends—fuck, Helton—I feel bad about killin’ the blond kid. Your nephew or somethin’, huh?”

Helton scoffed. “Don’t let it worry ya none. Him dying was just a case’a him payin’ fer his misdeeds. It’s ‘tween him’n God now, and I ‘spect he’ll do all right.”

Dumar stepped up. “And, dang, since we’se all apollergizin’, I’se sorry fer killin’ that slim fella was drivin’ yer motor-home earlier.”

“Think nothin’ of it, kid,” Paulie allayed. “Cristo was an adventurer; he knew the risks. He lived a button’s life and died a button’s death. Fuck, no one lives forever.”

Helton seemed to recall somethin’. “Aw, shit, Paulie. Lemme give ya back all them diamonds’n gold necklaces I stolt from yer wife’s house—”

Paulie flapped a hand. “Fuck that, Helton—keep it. I don’t want nothin’ that reminds me of that lyin ’ prissy bitch. This whole thing was her fault for not tellin’ the whole story.”

“Well, I’se not one ta suggest how a fella run his domester-ik affairs,” Helton hinted, “but seein’ how Marshie throwed a serous monkey wrench inta yer life, ya might wanna make a hard introduction’a yer foot ta her ass.”

Paulie smiled sharp as a knife. “I’m not gonna kick her ass, I’m gonna kill her ass. Had to whack the first two wives for makin’ a chump out of me, so Marshie’s gettin’ the same deal, hot body or not.”

“Cain’t say’s I blame ya, Paulie. Marshie go back a long way, and most’a that way ain’t good.”

Dumar looked at his watch, then interrupted. “Hey, ya all! We been so busy tearin’ the holy hail out’a each other, we up’n fergot ’bout what time it is! Dang if it ain’t after one in the mornin’!”

All the men looked at each other, no one quite getting it.

“It’s Christmas!” Dumar rejoiced.

“Well how’s about that!” Helton exclaimed. “Merry Christmas, ever-one!”

“Shit, yeah! Merry Christmas!” Paulie added, and it was then that the true holiday spirit seemed to infuse into all of them, and they all shook hands again and patted each other on the back.

“And ya know, Helton,” Paulie continued. “We’re Italians—we pride ourselves on vendetta, but that shit you guys invented?—headers? That blows us out of the water, man. There’s a whole lotta people out there fuckin’ me over—cops, judges, bank guys, IRS, even some guys in my own family. Well, shit, I hope you don’t mind, but we’d like to start doin’ that header stuff too.”

“Why, go right ahead, Paulie,” Helton approved. “When someone sticks ya in the back hard, ain’t no way ta git ’em back harder than a header.”

“Yeah, boss. Headers are a primo whack; like nothin’ we ever done before,” Argi contributed. “Perfect way to replace Melda.”

“Fuck yeah, didn’t even think of that!” Paulie walked over and put his hand on Helton’s shoulder. “Lemme ask you somethin’, Helton. We been makin’ hardcore flicks for years, but ya know, that camera you guys use? It’s dynamite. Resolution’s so much better than ours I almost shit my pants! What kind of camera is it? We’re gonna have to buy one for ourselves.”

“No need to,” Helton said. Then he went into the truck but reappeared a moment later— with the Sony HVR-S27. “Here ya go, Paulie. Take it. We shore as shit don’t need it no more.”

“Well, thanks, Helton!” Paulie said in genuine gratitude. “Lemme give ya some money for it.”

“Wouldn’t think’ a takin’ money from a friend. This here fancy camera? Consider it our Christmas present to ya.”

“What a great guy,” Argi said.

“Well, fellas,” Helton said next. “It’s Christmas now, so’s I guess we best all be off ta our respecterive families ta have a proper holiday. But next time yawl are back down our way, stop by fer some barbeque. Just gimme a call”—he winked—“‘cos it ain’t like ya don’t have my number!”

They all laughed uproariously, re-bid each other a final “Merry Christmas!” and departed to their vehicles. When the big white Winnebago pulled away, Argi tooted, then headed off, but then stopped again several blocks down the dark street. The motor-home’s back door opened and—

SLAP!

—Melda’s revolting corpse hit the pavement. Then the wheelchair was pushed out and the waste bucket flung. After that, they were off.

Helton and Dumar, both wearing smiles of contentment and holiday joy, got back in the big truck.

“Well, Paw. I cain’t say this were the best Christmas we ever had but it’s dang shore the most interestin’.”

“That it is, son. And now that Maw’s moved on, we can up’n move right into her house. Ever-thang she left—the house, the money, the land—it all go ta me.”

“God bless her.”

Both men ignored the decapitated body of Menduez, which still sat tied up in the fold-down metal chair, while the head itself—abused perhaps more than any head in history —lay face down in a cardboard box. In the rear of the truck, however, something overlooked seized the attentions of Helton and Dumar…

Veronica.

She sat limp in the corner, staring at nothing.

Helton scratched his head. “Dang. We’se plumb fergot all about her.”

“Shit, Paw. What we gonna do? Cain’t just kick her out, not after all she done fer us.”

Helton snapped his big fingers before her blank face. “Veronnerka? Hon?”

Very slowly she looked up at him.

“Well this here is more fucked up than a tube’a crickets, son. Veronerka still ain’t got her senses back after the shock’a all that gone on.”

“But, Paw,” Dumar said, “why’n’t we do what’cha suggestered before? Maybe somethin’ familiar ’ll snap her out of it.”

“Right. That big store she work at, and her car.” Helton climbed behind the wheel and roared off.

After the fact, it should be recounted that during the previous “quadruple-header,” Veronica had indeed been present, silently staring at this veritable jubilee of psycho-sexual revenge. (And, yes, she’d orally “tweaked” all participants without so much as a flinch.) But several questions remained: had her current and hopefully temporary vegetative mental state prevented her eyes from registering the macabre scene? Would she ever be normal again? And would the searing sounds of hole-saws, power drills, and wet schlucking cranial coitus haunt her dreams for the rest of her life?

Hmmm…

Christmas lights twinkled up ahead. Once the clattering truck emerged from the dark residential streets, Helton spotted, of all people, Kasha, the Russian, walking away from the Hess station, evidently having just been relieved of her shift. She was frowning, so Helton rolled down his window, waved, shouted, “Hey, there, missy!” cleared his throat quite noisily, and—

Kurrrrrr-HOCK!

—expectorated in grand backwoods style. The dense, kiwi-sized wad of phlegm traveled straight as an arrow and caught the girl right over the mouth.