The Minotauress Edward Lee

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Balls rose and cracked his hands together. "Well then let's go eat 'em, then get on our way to Clyde Nale's. ‘Sides, I gots one last chore ta do outside ‘fore we leave."

But when Dicky turned toward the back door, he stopped. Clothes were strewn about—clothes that clearly did not belong to Balls. A pair of drab brown slacks, a brown hat that said WENDY'S on it, and a shirt with a WENDY'S patch as well. There was also a pair of panties and a bra.

"What the hail? You gotta chick here?"

"Sort'a," Balls said and smiled.

Dicky noticed something else now. Some stains of some kind darkened the floor, and there seemed to be a minor litter of some little... curly things. One thing more: a pair of pliers and a ballpeen hammer.

Dicky stooped, picked up one of the curly things. "Balls? The fuck? This is a toenail!" he exclaimed and dropped it at once.

"Yeah. I'se pulled 'em out with the pliers, ‘long with her fingernails, the little hosebag."

"Who?"

"One'a them illegal immer-grints," Balls sniped. "Big-tit jibber-jabber bitch she was. Last night after you's dropped me off, I walked down the drive to check the mail'n the bitch is walkin' up the main road. Guess she just got off a shift from Wendy's, and I'se sure she got the job 'cos she works tax-free under the table fer cheap, so's good Americans don't git hired."

"Yeah. More likely as not," Dicky agreed. He picked a wallet up off the floor.

"Only had a couple bucks on her, the bitch. Probably on her way ta buy tamales or some shit."

In the wallet Dicky found a green laminated card that read RESIDENT ALIEN, THIS DOCUMENT CERTIFIES THAT MARIA SUAREZ IS REGISTERED WITH THE U.S. IMMIGRATION & NATURALIZATION SERVICE AND IS PAYING TAXES IN ACCORDANCE WITH FEDERAL LAW. Dicky, however, wasn't really much of a reader.

"Anyways," Balls went on. "Last night I'se checkin' the mailbox'n she walks by'n starts cussin' at me a mile'a minute, she did, callin' me all kinds'a nasty things, fer no reason at all."

"The dirty bitch," Balls offered. "What she call ya?"

"Shee-it, she called me a hola, and a buenos noches, and—" Balls paused to think back. "Aw, yeah, and she called me a cómo se llama usted! Can ya believe that shit?"

Dicky shook his head. "Bitch's got no right to be talkin' ta you like that." Dicky blinked. "But, Balls? What's all that stuff mean?"

"Aw, shee-it, Dicky, I don't speak Spic, but ya know damn well it was bad. Probably motherfucker, cocksucker, asshole—shit like that."

"Yeah, I'se sure yer right." But then more of his observations sunk in. "So... did'ja kill her?"

"Naw, but I'se put a ruckin' like you wouldn't believe on the ‘ho. Assed her four times, I did'n in between I worked on her with the pliers, pulled her ears off'n shit and collarboned her with a ballpeen so's she couldn't move much whiles I was rearrangin' her shit with my peter—oh—and I knee-capped her too with my Daddy's big Webley." Balls pointed to the inordinately large pistol sitting on the table.

"Fuck, Balls." Dicky blinked again. "So, if ya didn't kill her... where is she?"

"Out back," Balls replied and led the way.

Birds chirped cheerily when they stepped into Balls' shitty, overgrown back yard. Some old appliances lay on their sides along with a wasteland of empty whiskey bottles. Looks ta me like Balls' daddy did hisself a tad'a drinkin', Dicky reasoned. There was also a pile of dirt a couple feet high, next to a collapsed cord of wood.

A wood-fire crackled faintly in the middle of the yard, over which hung a big can of crawdads attached to a hook.

"Smells great, don't it?" Balls said. He took the can down with an oven mitt on which had been embroidered GOOD MORNING SUNSHINE! He drained the can, then emptied it into a bucket to cool. Steam poured off the pile of bright-red crustaceans.

Indeed, they did smell good, but Dicky was curious now. He looked about the yard. "So, Balls... Where's this immer-grint chick?"

"Right over there." He pointed to the pile of dirt.

Dicky walked over, half-reluctant. Ooo, he thought when he looked on the other side of the dirt pile and saw a shallow grave. At the bottom lay a naked Hispanic woman with no ears. Both knees looked like plops of raw burger, and her arms lay shuddering at her sides, barely mobile. When she saw Dicky, she began to quake, her eyes widening as if to fire out of their sockets.

A terrified voice twisted out as if by pressure. "Ayúdeme! Por favor!" Her shrieks hitched up and up. "Aquel hombre es loco! En nombre de Dios, ayúdeme!"

"Shee-it," Balls sputtered down at her. "This is America, honey. Ya gots to speak American if'n ya wanna be understood."

"Pleese! That man—heese crazy!"

"There ya go bad-mouthin' my friend again," Dicky chided her.

Horror and pain bloated her face. "Heese loco! Hee-elp—él es un malo hombre!"

Dicky heard footsteps, then saw Balls appear with a shovel full of red-hot coals from the camp fire. "Let's see if'n this puts a hair up yer ass," and then—

FLUMP!

—Balls dumped the coals right on her feet.

The woman lurched six inches off the bottom of the grave, emitting a scream now that sounded like her throat tearing.

"Noisy little dickens, ain't she?" Balls chuckled. He returned with another shovelful and dumped it on her belly.

The next vocal protests sounded more animal than human. In the grave, she jerked and jigged and flipped and flopped.

"A reg-lar Mexican jumpin' bean!" Balls bellowed.

The last shovelful went on her face, and the woman's screams descended to a low, fleshy grind.

Balls looked back down and seemed to disapprove of something. "Dang. Not quite as spek-tacka-ler as I'd'a thunk," and then he started dropping in pieces of cordwood—

THUNK, THUNK..THUNK... THUNK!

—until the hole was mostly full. It could be said that the laugh which exploded next from his throat had a devilish treatment to it, as he squirted half a can of lighter fluid into the grave and watched the flames gust.

"Dang," Dicky commented, stepping back from the heat.

"That should be a lesson to ya, la kookoo-ratchah!" Balls yelled down into the pit. "Don't talk shitty to Americans in America!"

All that came from the grave now were a few fading mewls.

Balls slapped Dicky on the back. "Come on, partner! Let's eat us some crawdaddies on ours way ta Clyde Nale's."

"Sounds fine ta me, Balls," but as they walked away, Dicky took a final uneasy glance back at the crackling grave and the corroding mewls that seemed to issue off its smoke. Yessir. That dude really IS crazy...

Balls grabbed Dicky's arm, as if alarmed. "Dicky!"

"What?" Dicky snapped back, alarmed himself. "What is it, Balls? You hear someone comin'?" The sudden surprise left Dicky one tremble short of emptying his bowels in his pants.

"Naw, but is that... " Balls sniffed the air, intent on something critical. "Is that... an-cher-ladas I smell cookin'?" and then he roared more laughter as he and Dicky went back in the house.

««—»»

Balls and Dicky loaded their hundred-gallon run into the ‘Mino's back deck, then snapped the tarp down over the entire load. Each gallon was sold to the middlemen aka "distributors" in Kentucky for fifteen dollars, after which they were marked up and sold to the consumer. Dicky and Balls got a buck for each jug they delivered, and it was also their duty to bring back the purchasing price, minus their cut, and give it to the "manufacturer," who in this case was a tired, skinny, whiskery guy in his fifties named Clyde Nale, the Number Two moonshine producer in the county. But it was solid bread that social rejects like Dicky and Balls were earning, so one had to at least give them the benefit of the doubt for having a work ethic. No welfare for these industrious young men...

"We'se loaded up'n ready ta roll out'a here, Clyde," Dicky called over to the man who checked a thermometer in a cork float by the main vat. Various other "staff members" came in and out of the hidden clearing, engaged in their tasks: jugging, shucking, stoking the big fire beneath the vats. Clyde Nale lumbered over to them, straining as if he had bad knees. He wore a floppy canvas hat and a stained jumpsuit like a mechanic. Shee-it, Balls thought, about to get in the car. One cracker after another in these parts. He was ready for something new, and after tonight—After we'se empty out old man Crafter's house full'a val-yer-bulls—he just might get it.

"Don't leave just yet, boys," Clyde spake, wiping his hands off on his chest. "Got a Hock Party goin' on up the house, five-dollar ante. You fellas are in, ain't'cha?"

Dicky's mouth took a configuration as if he'd just tasted something wholly unpleasant. "Naw, Clyde, thanks, but we'se wanna git this run done."

But Balls had paused at the car door. "A what party?"

"Hock Party, son. It's a roarin' good time, it is," Nale tried to entice. "Five bucks a head? Come on, boys. Ya got touch'a the kike or what?"

"I'd like ta see me this Hock Party," Balls spoke up, always curious and willing to broaden his life's fund of knowledge.

"Balls," Dicky complained. "Let's just git—"

"Winner gets half the pot," Nale prodded, "and the pot's up ta damn near a hunnert."

Balls liked a good gamble. He whipped out two five-spots and pushed it to Nale. "Come on, Dicky. Like it or not, we'se in. Let's check it out."

They followed Nale up the short road to his weathered, gray farmhouse, and before they were even there, Balls could hear something of a commotion around the back. Balls asked Dicky aside, "It's—what?—a spittin' contest, right? Which ever fella spits the farthest wins?"

Dicky smirked. "No, Balls. It's not... that... "

Clyde Nale just laughed.

But Balls saw what it was a moment later as he came around the house. Tarnations... This is some show!

A barefoot girl with lank-brown hair so greasy it looked like black udon noodles sat tensed in a fold-down lawn chair. Probably thirty but beat. She was skinny yet with what looked like ample breasts pressing the front flap of the standard farmer's overalls she wore. Twenty feet in front of her was a line drawn in the dirt, and behind the line stood roughly twenty hillbillies of all ages and sizes. They were taking turns...

"Come on, Jedder!" someone yelled.

"Give it'cher best spit!"

"Open wiiiiiiiide, Ida, honey!"

The hayseed with the unlikely name of Jedder stepped to the line, took a few moments to loudly clear his throat, then hauled back and spit in the air.

The girl sat, head craned back and wincing, eyes squeezed shut. She stretched her mouth wide open.

"Aw, fuck!" Jedder's expectoration hit the girl's upper arm. Balls, meanwhile, took note that the girl's overalls were daubed by dark spots which, on closer examination, turned out to be wads of phlegm.

Balls turned to Clyde Nale. "You mean—"

"First fella to get a loogie right in her mouth gets a blowjob from Ida and wins half the pot."

Groaty, Balls thought. But I LIKE it. "And the chick gits the other half."

Nale smirked as if slighted. "Naw, son. The house gits the other half. Ida gits paid in free moonshine. A hardcore alkey's what she is."

"Dang, Clyde. Who's got a touch'a the kike? A gallon'a shine don't cost you more'n few bucks to make."

"Not a gallon, a pint," Nale corrected, shaking his head.

"Shee-it," Balls chuckled. "That's low-down... ," but, he finished in thought. I LIKE it.

Nale clapped his hands, rallying. "Come on, fellas! Drag up some dark ones! Make it fun!"

Alas, many slang-forms existed which were much more interesting than such clinical terms as "expectorant," "sputum," and "congestion": Loogies, Goobers, "lungers," Irish Oysters, Chest Pudding and, the author's personal favorite, Redneck Custard. This is what the next four dutiful contestants went to exerted and quite audible efforts to cull from their lungs, each with the verve of racing dogs waiting to chase that rabbit. One by one, then, they took their turns... spitting...

"Aw, shit... "

"Dang... "

"Ain't that a kick in the dick?"

"Closest one yet! Chew see that 'un, Clyde?"

Regrettably, three of the next four "shots" arched short, splatting Ida's thighs or shins, while the fourth creamed her cheek.

"This ain't horseshoes, Tucker!" Nale guffawed. "Nice try, though," and, of course, he pronounced the word nice as "nass."

Balls watched, arms crossed, reflecting to Nale, "Ya know, Clyde. That's harder'n it looks, I'll'se bet."

"You bet right."

"If'n a fella does manage ta drop one in her pie-hole, seems right he should get ta fuck her instead'a settlin' fer just a blowjob."

Nale cast an admonishing glance. "Son? Would you wanna fuck a hill girl covered with hillbilly spit?"

Balls chewed the question. "On second thought... "

"Yeah."

Nale clapped harder now—it was Dicky's turn. The hesitant, overweight rube stepped to the line, then feebly cleared his throat.

"Come on, Dicky!" Balls encouraged. "Dig up a deep one, boy! Make yer mamma proud!"

"You's heard him, Dicky!" Nale appended. "Pretend yer diggin' fer clams... "

Dicky's throat grated a few more times until he had a mouthful of something substantial enough to give it the All American Try, then—

P-tooie!

But, lo, Dicky's effort fell a yard short of Ida's feet; the crowd cracked up laughing.

"Aw, Dicky! Ya wussy," Balls complained.

The girl, however, lolled her head dismally toward Nale. She looked exhausted as if she'd just climbed a tree with a knapsack full of bricks "Fer fuck's sake, Clyde. We'se goin' on the sixth round... "

"Cain't back out now, Ida," Nale scolded. "You's the one who vollern-teered—the boys'll spit till there's a winner. Just be glad you wasn't poor Verna coupla weeks ago." He looked to Balls. "Was windy that day. Fuckin' party went on four hours, it did, ‘fore Jimmy Jack Wallace finally put one in. Verna didn't have a dry spot on her. Had ta use a squeegee ta git all the hock off." Then Nale nodded sternly. "Your turn, son."

"All's right, lemme show non-hockin' lightweights how ta spit inna gal's mouth."

Balls posed at the line, and dredged up a deep one.

P-tooie!

The crowd hushed as Balls' expectoration—which looked like a mouthful of condensed cream of asparagus soup—arced high in the air. All eyes rose up, then trailed down, like spectators at a tennis match.

Splap!

The formidable aggregation of "Chest Pudding" landed right in Ida's left eye.

"Close!" Nale barked. "But no cigar!"

The girl, with an understandable expression of disfavour, scooped the matter out with a curled index finger and flapped it away.

"Shee-it," Balls muttered. "Almost got ‘er in there."

"Balls, let's just go," Dicky implored. "This shit's grossin' me out, and, ‘sides, we gotta long ride ahead'a us."

"Yeah, guess'n yer right." Balls shook his head, chuckling, at the phlegm-pelted girl. "It's a good thing she ain't standin' in a steel drum 'cos by the time this here party's over, she'd be belly-deep in hock."

Balls' comment had been overheard by a cocky, gaunt redneck who stood hunch-shouldered. He had severely bucked teeth and hair like that Carrot Top guy only brown. "You thank so, Led Zepplin?"

Balls smirked at the implication about the length of his hair. "Yeah, I do, toilet-brush."

Buckled teeth showed through a grin. "Just you watch... "

This gentleman's effort to disgorge some suitable wares came louder and longer than anyone yet. It sounded like someone trying to pull-start a boat motor that wasn't quite turning over. Nale informed, "Billy-O's no slouch—he's won four times in the past. Seems he's always got himself a cold or the flu or some shit."

"Ya don't say?" Balls replied.

Now, Billy-O's cheeks were stuffed as a squirrel's full of acorns. He eyed the seated girl twenty feet away with the focus of a dart player. The stuffed cheeks seemed to throb, then he slowly leaned back, held a moment, and shot his head forward:

Kuuuuuuuuuuuuur-HOCK!

It could've been an ice-cream scoop full of brown yogurt that launched from Billy-O's mouth. He'd lined up straight and wisely put a high angle on it, and his follow-through?

Perfect.

The shivering wad fell right smack dab into Ida's mouth.

The crowd roared in applause. Ida, eyes thinned in disgust, leaned up, moaning. The mass just sat there in her cranked-open mouth, and just as she was about to spit it out—

"There's no hooch if'n ya do that, girl!" Nale warned. "You know the rules. Ya gots ta swaller it."

Poor Ida's shoulders slumped. Her eyes squeezed shut so hard, her face reddened. Then—

gulp...

More applause rose in the yard.

Nale nodded in pride, and happily turned over half the pot to Billy-O. "Good job, son. See ya next week."

"Yeah, man!" The skinny cracker pocketed his winnings, then strode rather bow-legged toward a none-too-pleased Ida. "Now I'se gonna have me my blowjob! Git ready, Ida! Here comes dessert!"

All the boys gathered round to watch...

Nale walked back to the ‘Mino with Balls and Dicky.

"Hard workin' boys deserves ta let off some steam," the elder man said.

"Dang straight," Balls agreed.

"‘Course, there was that one time when we'se caught a squatter gal millin' ‘round the yard stealin' corn, so's we tored her clothes of'n slapped her up some, then each fucked her'n afters that we slapped her up some more'n each gave her one in the tail."

"Only proper. Any gal who steals deserves ta git the blocks put to her," Balls pitched in.

"Yeah, but after we'se was all done puttin' some spunk up her dirty ass... you know what we done next?"

"What's that, Clyde?"

Nale smiled grimly. "We tied her to the chair."

Dicky looked perplexed, as he often did. "Tied her?"

"Shore did, and what else we did is we forced her mouth open with a wooden peg"—Nale clapped and hooted—"and then we all just took ta hockin' in her mouth one after another fer a good half hour, we did. I'll tell ya, boys. That was fun. Then ‘fore we let her go, we each fucked her one more time, and ya know what? That squatter gal never stole corn from me again."

"I'll bet she didn't, Clyde!" Balls joined the man's laughter.

The idea appealed to Balls, very much so. And to Dicky? Well, not so much.

Nale's tone took on a serious edge. "Fun'n games aside, boys, you's both be careful after ya drop off yer run. Ever now'n then coupla creekers other side'a the line'll wait till a runner's offloaded his hooch'n picked up the cash, then they'se'll try ta bushwhack 'em on their way out."

Balls grinned. "Ain't no one gonna bushwhack us, Clyde, 'cos if'n they do?" He pulled up his shirt, showing the old Webley .455. "They'll whistle when the wind blows."

"I like fellas who're prepared ta git tough when they'se gotta." Nale winked. "See you boys tonight."

Dicky still looked a bit pale as he and Balls approached the car. "Shee-it, Balls. We didn't need ta stay fer that shit. ‘Member, after we git back from this run, we'se gonna hit that guy Crafter's house."

"Relax, Dicky. We got it all covered. I kind'a enjoyed that Hock Party—good, clean fun, ya know? Shee-it. When fellas in the city git together, they watch fuckin' football on TV. Cain't think'a nothin' more boring than that. And ya know what else? When that last loogie fell in the ‘ho's yap... I don't mind tellin' ya I got a bit hard."

Dicky stared. "Jaysus... "

They double-checked the tarp covering their load, then started to get in the car.

"Hey!" a voice whined. "You fellas! Wait up, will ya?"

Balls and Dicky turned to see Ida scampering down the hill after them. Her overalls looked polka-dotted with phlegm. She carried a pint-jar of moonshine with her.

"Aw, what's she want?" Dicky complained.

The stalwart girl caught up, huffing, and asked, "Kin you fellas give me a ride to town?" and, of course, she'd pronounced the word ride as "rad."

Balls peeked down into a formidable cleavage. "Well I don't see why not."

"Ain't no way, girl!" Dicky complained. "You ain't gittin' in my damn-near mint condition 1969 El Camino all covered with hock!"

Balls' right brow rose. "He's got a point there, hon," he said to her. "But now if ya throwed them snotty overalls in the back and rode nek-it, then that'd be fine."

Ida sighed. "Awright... ," and she began to peel off the sullied garment.

Dicky and Balls got in.

"Shee-it," Dicky griped. "What'cha go'n do that fer? She probably stinks worse'n a dog's ass."

"Aw, that ain't very neighborly of ya, Dicky," Balls replied with some mirth. "But I wouldn't mind havin' me a gander at her tits'n cooter, ya know?"

"Shee-it... "

Balls whispered, elbowing his friend. "And just ya watch. Ten ta one I talk her inta givin' us each a blowjob."

"I don't want my dick in her mouth, Balls. It's dirty as a cat box."

Balls chuckled. "Dicky, yous need ta relax. We got time ta make our run and hit Crafter's house aaaaaaaaaand get blowjobs from this alkey hosebag. Bet'cha I kin talk her inta it." He slapped Dicky on the back. "Life's fer livin', man! Ya gots ta go with it."

When Ida slid in next to Balls on the ‘Mino's long black bench seat, she did indeed smell something roughly akin to a dog's ass. But what she was sporting in addition to her nudity were two pleasingly distended breasts and nipples like pink baby pacifiers. Yet there was something else rather distended about her as well.

Her stomach.

"Thanks, fellas," she obliged and quickly closed the door. Her hands trembled as she unscrewed the jar of clear liquor and took a good hearty chug. Then she leaned back, sighing. "Aw, fuck, yeah. That hits the spot... "

Balls marveled at the physical proof of the girl's fecundity, not that he knew what fecundity meant. "Well, dang, girl. I'd say you shore as shit got yerself a bun cookin' in that oven down there."

"Aw, fuck, I know. Somebody preggered me up fierce'n I don't even know who," she replied. "Figgure I'm four or five months... " Her breasts vibrated nicely when Dicky turned over the big 427 and got on the road. "Just what I fuckin' need, huh? At least my food stamps'll go up. Gots me three crumb-snatchers already."

Now Balls was gazing appreciably at the amble outgrowth of black thatch between her legs.

Her hands shook a bit less now, when she took another hit off the jar and smacked her lips. Balls thought oddly of all that high-octane alcohol mixing with that skinny dude's hock and semen...

Dicky leaned over behind the wheel, shooting her an alarmed glance. "Say, honey, you ain't supposed ta be drinkin' if'n yer knocked up, ya know? It fucks the kid up whiles he's growin' in yer gut."

Ida cast back a look of skepticism. "Aw, that ain't nothin' but a bunch'a what my mama used ta call codswallop. She drank ‘shine whole time she were pregnant with me, and I turned out all right."

Balls shot Dicky a quick smile.

"You don't mind if I sort'a... feel yer belly, do ya?" Balls asked next.

Ida frowned, then shrugged, letting the liquor take the edge off her need.

Balls smoothed his hand over the stretched, white stomach and popped-out bellybutton. That's what I'se call a belly FULL'a white trash, he thought. In his demented mind's eye, he saw himself fucking her hard as someone plungering a toilet, trying to bop the little critter's head with his knob. I'd give it a face full, I shore would. He wasn't sure but he thought he could actually feel the blood in her belly beating. Next, he asked, "Well, hon, ya know that's a damn fine set'a jugs you got hangin' on ya. How's 'bout if I have me a feel?"

"Shore, go ahead," she said with no interest in the least.

Balls plucked the meaty, pink nipples, then squeezed. The breasts cumulatively felt like hot water balloons. "If I, like, sucked 'em... would milk come out?"

"Oh, yeah, it don't stop when you're pregnant all the time," she informed.

"Well... how 'bouts if I take me a suck?"

Ida rolled her eyes. "Aw, go ahead. You's are givin' me a ride, after all."

Dicky frowned aside as Balls leaned over and planted a lip-lock on the left areola. When he applied some hard suction, the papilla swelled up like a salty gumdrop, and then—

There she blows...

Hot milk eddied out and filled his mouth. Was it his imagination or did it taste like it had been cut with moonshine? He switched back and forth, letting it all trickle down his throat. South of the belt, things began to stir.

I got me a load ta bust, he realized, and then he unbuckled his jeans.

"What'choo thank yer doin'?" came her immediate objection.

Balls answered in complete honesty. "I'se whippin' my dick out so's you kin suck it."

"I ain't doin' no such thing!" Now she was getting nasty. "What kind'a girl you think I am, anyway?"

Again, Balls answered in complete honesty. "You're a creeker fuck-dump who lets twennie rednecks spit in her mouth fer a pint'a hooch. In others words... you're a whore."

"Yeah? Well, whores get paid, asshole, and I don't see no money in yer hand," she sniped back.

Balls didn't like to be called asshole. That's what his father had called him damn near every day of his life.

He tapped her in the head with the blackjack, which put her lights half out.

"Find a clearin', Dicky," he ordered. "And pull ‘er over. Ain't no splittail calls me a asshole'n gits away with it."

"Aw, come on, Balls," came Dicky's wearied reply. "Just push the ‘ho out the car'n let's go."

"Nots till we put a ruckin' on the bitch. Now... Pull over."

Dicky groaned to himself and slowed the ‘Mino. Meantime, Balls sucked a nipple into his mouth, waited till more milk flowed, then bit down hard. Half-unconscious, Ida shrieked. Balls chewed alternately, as if on tough steak, then, for formality, he let his front teeth clip down on the inverted nub of navel. The girl sort of vibrated from the pain. Balls was trying hard to bite the nub clean off but he never quite got there.

The Camino chugged into a small clearing off the road.

"Just leave her here'n let's git on our run," Dicky practically begged. "You've rucked her up enough."

"Shee-it," Balls muttered. He opened the door, grabbed a handful of greasy hair, and dragged her out of the car.

Here we go again, Dicky thought to himself. He watched Balls drag the girl into the woods until they disappeared.

(VI)

It was the most satisfying dream of his life...

At first.

As the Writer lay back naked on the bed, the activity commencing about him could only be called a "Seven-Girl Tongue-Bath." Hot tongues and sucking mouths ranged his flesh. Any errant glance showed him beautiful bare butts in the air, breasts in his face, swollen nipples brushing his lips. Wedges of smooth white flesh shifted all around him as these voluptuous servitors constantly traded positions to lave every square inch of his body—er, almost every square inch. His groinal area was deliberately neglected, to only incite him more.

What a great dream, he thought in the dream.

"Okay, girls," spoke a hot, syrupy voice. "Let's really work him over now... "

Bedsprings squeaked as his group of lovely attendants changed positions yet again, but this time it seemed as though they were assigned locations, and as this ensued, the Writer noticed Beatrice, Anita, Nyna, and several other of Mrs. Gilman's working stable, along with last but not least, Nancy.

Fuck, the Writer thought in a rare departure from his avoidance of profanity. Beatrice sucked his tongue. Two more girls sucked each of his nipples. Hot hands pulled his knees back toward his shoulders, and next thing he knew his right testicle was in Anita's mouth, while his left was being suckled by Nyna. A sixth girl slowly and very wetly laved his anus, and Nancy...

Sucked his dick.

It was Naked Twister, and the Writer sufficed as the mat.

Somewhere, a clock struck midnight...

And beyond the window... a wolf howled.

Every sensation of pleasure that his physicality was capable of feeling was stimulated and, hence, let loose. It built up from the Writer's brain to his groin, making him abstract that his penis was something like a Super Giant oil pool that had just been tapped. One eye managed to glance between both of Beatrice's sensational breasts just as Nancy was pulling an upstroke: the Writer's penis was so stuffed with lust-driven blood that it looked alien, it looked so much bigger than what he was used to seeing that he thought, Where did THAT hoagie come from?

Then Beatrice adjusted her position to suck his tongue more intently, and the view was severed. It was just luxuriant pillows of flesh now...

I'd like to see D.H. Lawrence write about THIS...

The sucking grew more precise at every area, save for his penis. Nancy had withdrawn the Mouth That Would've Launched a Thousand Ships. Though the Writer couldn't see, he could feel, and what she was doing now was clear: she'd made a tight ring with her thumb and index finger and had taken to stroking the spit-lubricated shaft with a finesse that seemed to draw every nerve-charged sensation in the Writer's body slowly to the vicinity of his groin. A handjob, he thought, executed with the adeptness of Dali's brush-strokes in SUEZ, or the prosecraft of Gore Vidal... Then, an even more titillating sensation blossomed at the very tip of his member. Holy smokes, that's good, he thought. Whatever it is.

"Time to take his business," Nancy announced next and began to shuck that spitty "ring" up and down much faster.

The Writer's entire body clenched; he was at the brink—one more shuck—then—This makes aesthetic celibacy worth it!—he was there.

That's when he heard a sound that seemed suspiciously similar to an old aquarium pump. Two and two were put together quite quickly, and in a lurch he pushed Beatrice off and looked down appalled to see Nancy slipping the vacuum tube to her Therm-O-Fresh Food Saving System several inches into his penis just as his ejaculation unloosed. Sperm filled a foot of the tube in one second, then the machine continued to suck. Beatrice sat on his neck to pin him down, while Nancy chuckled in a manner that was witchlike. She kept the tube in long after the Writer's orgasm had ended. Clicking was heard next, as if someone had turned the machine's motor to High, and then the Writer trembled in place, feeling more than mere sperm being hoovered from his reproductive tract.

"Yeah, now we're gonna take all'a this fucker's business," and all the girls laughed after that. Quite like witches.

The tube was kept in place for what seemed hours, and finally, when he was let up—amid still more echoic, witchlike cackling—the Writer looked down in the most abject horror and saw that the tube was actually dozens of feet long, and full of blood and pinkish testicular pulp.

Oh my God! Oh my God! the Writer lamented, and when he reached down to feel his scrotum, he found himself holding an empty sack...

That's when he woke up.

So convincing were the details of this dream and the clarity of its imagery that the first thing he did once his mind started clicking was reach down to his scrotum. Thank God, he thought when his testicles were still in evidence (not that, as a celibate, he actually needed them for anything). Then he groaned, thinking, What a TERRIBLE dream! Obviously it was just a spurt of Neo-Freudian symbology. The more desirable the woman, the more effectively her desirability emasculates men, he knew. A drifting hand told him with some distaste that the dream had been of the "wet" variety—his first in years.

A guillotine blade of sunlight carved into the room from the gap in the shade; it lay directly across his eyes, firing a headache of legendary proportions. I'm SO hungover, he realized. Last night at the bar he'd consumed much—probably as much as Dylan Thomas on a good night. He moaned out of bed in his underwear, preparing to head for the shower, when something caught his eye...

It was on the shade over the window.

Someone must've been in my room last night, he thought, but then rejected the conclusion when he found the door locked.

A new graffito, however, had been added to the others on the shade. It read as thus:

You live alone. You

dial your number by mistake

and someone answers.

It appeared to be written in the ink of his own black Sharpie, and—Hmm. Is that my handwriting? He thought so. The haiku was properly seventeen syllables and possessed the correct five-seven-five beat. Ultimately, though...

Why would I write that? he wondered. Well... Faulkner wrote parts of THE FABLE on his wall. Why can't I write a haiku on a dirty shade?

The problem was he didn't remember writing it. And if he'd written that?

The Writer scratched his shorts.

What else might he have written that he didn't recall?

He rushed to the Remington Model No. 2 and fixed his eyes on the page that had been hanging out of the platen for a month.

WHITE TRASH GOTHIC

CHAPTER ONE

There was a knock at the door. When Nikoff Raskol opened it, he espied a baleful purview of imprecations, an apophysis of dolorous spiritum—perforce: the Nietzschean Abyss. He'd dreamed of utter blackness, of dripping sounds, and screams, and it was all those things that he found himself looking at beyond the transom of his solitary motel room. The blackness that was somehow fulgent, in which traversed the fallow masses with faces like poultices and acuminated grins. His heart beat in mordant rubato when the gracile hand—certainly that of some outerworldly woman—reached out from the festering clough and took his own. He thought of light's absence in the flesh, he thought of ataxia undiluted.

Indeed, he thought of lost worlds.

The hand tightened about his. He was beseeched by eyes wide and lambent as diminutive moons, and the voice resounded as if from the highest precipice of the earth, to offer, "Come. Come with me... and see... "

Nikoff Raskol, then, followed her out of the room into the living dark.

The Writer's mouth fell open in a gag of joy. He nearly collapsed. "It's brilliant," he croaked. "It's Francois Truffaut and Thomas Hart Benton and James Joyce all rolled up into one, with a pinch of Sartre and a dash of Hegel. It's Descartes' proof that the mind is independent of the body, and Locke's affirmation that the test of truth is the comparison of thought and fact!" Tears formed in the Writer's eyes, and he fell to his knees. "My God... It's better than the opening of Kafka's Metamorphosis... "

The Writer was charged now, he was kindled by a creative fire that in all his years of writing had never burned him so intensely. His writer's block was over now. This was the leap that had hoisted him over humanity's hurdles to drop him headlong into the rich, hot blood of his Art. Now, the rest of the book was as easy to see as his own shadow.

Dylan Thomas was right, the thought arrived quite like an epiphany. I wrote this last night—the finest opening of my career—and I was DRUNK!

He showered and dressed, his mind reeling in the exuberance that comes with sheer genius. He knew that he could sit right down this instant and keep going, probably bang out thirty or forty pages by tomorrow.

But he didn't do that.

Instead, he went straight to the bar.

To celebrate!

(VII)

Dang, the old ones take fer-ever ta git their peter's off! Cora Neller thought, mouth stuffed. She looked munchkin-faced there on her knees in the little cubby outside. It was next to the room where they stored the beer kegs. She knew that's what they kept in there because she blew the beer-delivery guy every Tuesday when he was filling the next week's order. At least the beer-guy always came quick (just with a bit more volume than she cared for) but the old barkeep whose name nobody knew? The old fuck's probably seventy! she suspected. Bet I'se been tootin' his old pipe twennie fuckin' minutes! Nevertheless, she continued to suck because the old stick slipped her free drinks every so often, and looked the other way when she cruised the bar for johns. His penis wasn't stuck in her mouth, it was sort of just laying there as she drew her lips back and forth over its ancient meat. She thought of a rubber full of pudding but covered with raw chicken skin. Keeping her mouth full of a sufficient ration of saliva was a problem, too. Cora was a meth-head and clinical alcoholic, the former being her vice of choice, but it had the regrettable contraindication of debilitating the activity of her saliva ducts. In addition—and at less than ninety pounds—she didn't eat much. Poor nutrition equals poor saliva production. And, if truth be told, Cora consumed more calories in human semen per day than in food.

"Jaysus, Cora," the barkeep's voice creaked from above. "This is damn near the worst cock-suck I'se ever had. My fuckin' dead grandmother could blow me better'n you."

She wanted to bite down on the sodden tube of flesh but thankfully thought the better of it. Don't piss the old fuck off, she warned herself. 'Cos if'n you do he's'll never let'cha turn tricks here again...

Anyway, as aforementioned, she was a meth-head and a drunk. Way she worked it is she'd play the bar till closing, hitting up the tighter customers for ten-dollar blowjobs and booze. Doreen, the other bar-whore, got fifteen, the little shit. But Cora would get shit-faced to take the teeth out of the meth-withdrawal, then after closing she'd score. The kick in the ass was that prices were going up now. Fuckin' inflation! she thought, still chugging away. A bag of Snort was fifteen bucks now, and Ice was twenty. It's that fuckin' George Bush, she knew. Keepin' us good junkies down. First Reagan and then THAT asshole! Cora wasn't terribly politically minded, of course, but she overheard the bar-talk all the time. There was some new guy going to run for President next term—a Democrat—and not only was he from the South, he was handsome. Hilton? she quizzed herself. Naw, it's Clinton! she finally got it. I shore hope he wins. She'd seen him on TV once, and she knew in a glance that she'd clean out his pipes any time he wanted, and for free even.

"Aw, shee-it, Cora!" the barkeep griped and slid the floppy penis out. "It'll take you a hunnert years ta git me off." He turned around quickly and next thing poor Cora knew, his withered ass was in her face. There were moles on it that looked like hairy Raisinettes. "Just give my asshole a tonguin' whiles I jerk off."

Cora was appalled. "Aw, come on! That ain't right!"

"It's that ‘er no booze, sweetie. Yer choice."

Cora sighed, then thumbed open the crease-ridden crack and began to lick.

"Yeah. We'se finally found somethin' you do right," said the keep, naturally pronouncing the word right as "rat." Cora's face felt as though it were trying shrink behind her skull. To make the circumstance worse, the barkeep wasn't much for washing, nor—as she could now attest firsthand—was he particularly thorough about the manner in which he wiped. She could hear his masturbation, a sound like someone flapping a raw steak repeatedly on a table.

Her tongue roved through a creamy glaze and other less seemly debris. Bumps of some kind, too, seemed to encircle the puckered anus. In actuality, they were rectal warts, but it was all for the best that Cora didn't know that. At any rate, this was just a day in the life of a backwoods whore. No big deal. And as she continued, she did find solace in one consolation: ‘Least I won't have ta taste the old fucker's dick-snot.

Just as Cora had thought that, the barkeep spun around and jammed the now three-fourths erect penis into her mouth where he deposited an appreciable amount of semen.

"Ummmm... That's the ticket. Not a bad load fer an old man, huh, hon?"

Cora's eyes locked shut and she leaned back and let the penile slime slide down her throat.

"From now on, we'se'll do it that way ever' time, Cora," he informed, buckling his trousers. "Now I'd best git back inside. The Harkins boys'll set fire to the bar if'n their mugs're empty more'n five minutes," and then he loped back inside.

The smirk on Cora's face felt like a clay mask that had been baked on. Like that familiar emblem denoting drama: one smiling mask tilted next to one frowning. Cora was the frowning one, and probably would be for a while. The smell coming off her lips made her tempted to cut off her nose.

She stood up and dusted herself off. The knobby knees on bone-thin legs looked like banged up faces. But at least some drinks were covered now. It was still early, but with a little luck she'd be able to pull a couple of tricks before last call, then she could score some snort or ice.

She jerked her head at the sound of crunching gravel. Headlights swept the trees behind the bar, then in rattled an old beat-to-holy-hell pickup truck the color of tomato juice. It parked clumsily along the back, pulling a U-Haul trailer.

Please! Cora begged the Fates. Be a young guy!

An old guy got out of the truck: workboots, overalls, and a plaid shirt with sleeves and collar buttoned. His face was nebulous: another old generic redneck. His boots crunched up toward the rear entrance.

"Well, howdy there, darlin'!" came a spirited greeting.

Cora tried to sound as spirited, "Hey, there! My name's Cora! What's yers?"

"Lud. Pleased ta meet'cha."

Cora tried to stand cutesy-style, hoping the barkeep's ass-smell wasn't wafting far off her lips. "Ain't never seen you here before."

"That's 'cos I ain't never been. Not much inta drinkin' establishments, but, see, each year I'se take a road trip from Maryland ta Georgia'n back, tryin' ta bring folks ta the call."

"The call?" Cora had no idea.

"God's call, hon—"

Aw, FUCK! A holy roller...

"—and I ain't et all day so's I were hopin' I could git me some food ta go. They serve food here, hon?"

By now, Cora's interest had grown non-existent. "Well, they gots burgers mixed with deer meat that's real good."

The old man's eyes sparkled. "That couldn't be dandier. I'll get me a ta-go burger'n be on my way—but, hey?"

Cora was about to go back in. This old Bible-thumper ain't gonna want a ten-dollar cock-suck...

"I ain't in that much of a hurry," he continued. "What say you tell me what'cher doin' out back here all's by yer purdy l'il lonesome?"

"You ain't gonna be interested, mister," she said. Why not just go and say it? "I'se lookin' fer a fella who wants ta pay me ten bucks ta suck his dick or twennie—no, fifteen—fer a fuckin'."

The old man's face lit up with enthusiasm. "Is that all? Well, my word, hon. I'd say you got yerself a deal. In fact, as purdy as you is? I'll pay ya forty."

Cora's heart fluttered. He called me purdy! And, boy, had she gotten this guy's number wrong. Some holy roller, soliciting prostitutes. But Cora nearly had tears in her eyes. Not only had the old goat complimented her—an event quite rare in her life these days—but she hadn't bagged forty bucks on a solo trick... ever.

"Well, let's go, sugar!" she said and grabbed his large, work-callused hand. "We'se kin git cozy in yer truck'n I'll'se make yer balls clap together they'll be so happy."

The old man laughed good naturedly. "But the trailer's bigger inside, and I'se got a bed back there. That okay with you?"

She gave his crotch a rub and hugged him. "Anything you want," and—wouldn't you know it? She'd pronounced the word anything as "enna-thang."

This man—Lud—pulled a metal latch on the trailer's door up and out. From a loop on his belt he produced a metal flashlight, and even the most inept reader now will deduce that said flashlight would soon be introduced to the back of Cora's skull.

Whew! the emaciated prostitute thought when the trailer door swung open. It smelled gross inside.

"Take a looky, hon," the man said and shined the flashlight in, but when Cora leaned forward to do so, one big callused hand came around the side of her face and sealed her mouth shut.

Inside, she saw a naked woman bound, gagged, and disturbingly motionless. In the flashlight beam this woman's skin looked gray as modeling clay.

Also in the trailer lay two severed legs and two severed arms. And a case of Shasta Cola.

When Cora screamed, of course, the sound was stifled by the old man's hand. Then she heard his voice, which seemed echoic, like in a movie where gods were delivering dialog.

"God gave us brains to determine our purpose by His will, sweetie, and he is a mite forgivin' God. Hear me now, and ‘member that we'se all been born in original sin since Eve bit that blammed apple, which covered the world with darkness and were took over by the fallen angel Lucifer. But God, see, is the light we'se use ta see through that devilish darkness."

The man's grip held Cora off her feet. She reeled in the air, useless breath gusting into the rugged palm.

"Put yer trust in the Lord, hon. Though you's shore as heck a harlot'n mighty sinner... I shall redeem thee... "

(VIII)

The Writer felt as competent as Samuel Johnson when he sat at the corner stool. The bar around him hustled and bustled in the usual redneck chicanery though this did not distract the Writer from his relevant ponderings. The book, he thought. The book will be brilliant. No, he still did not remember writing that devastating opening passage last night, but that was fine, too. Niccolo Paganini wrote Moto Perpetuo in a drunken blackout... and that's the best violin piece in history.

My novel, the Writer felt sure, will be the fictional equivalent. White Trash Gothic...

Rednecks clacked balls at the table, sinking impressive shots. In the corner more rednecks howled at a wrestling match on TV. One man, with a hairlip and mullet-style haircut griped, "Fuckin' Sting! Rips off the Nature Boy again!" and then he bit a chunk out of his beer mug. Doreen, the prostitute with breasts like stuffed socks, waltzed out of the men's room and spat something on the floor. A man in a cowboy hat soon followed. Several brothers giggled as they engaged in a slap-fight.

Fascinating human interaction on a sub-societal level, the Writer thought. It would all go into the book...

Because it's real.

How powerful was the power of truth? His book would be the literary definition.

Yet another redneck sitting across from him was scratching a steel plate in his head. When the Writer glanced down at an ashtray, he noticed several teeth sitting in it, like big pills. "No, lie," the barkeep was explaining to some patrons. "Licked my ass clean, she did. Then swallered my nut like a champ. She ain't like Doreen, who spits. Fastest way ta tell a gal's got no class is when she spits out yer cock-hock." "Dang straight," someone consented.

Yes. Fascinating, the Writer thought.

An errant glance at the TV overhead showed him still more coverage of this Dahmer man in Wisconsin. "... was only eighteen years of age when he committed his first mutilation-murder in the township of Bath, Ohio, in 1978... "

Him again, the Writer thought. He had little interest. Evil was relative, and the evils of the world were not what his book should be about.

Not the evils. The verities.

He smoked and drank, quite contentedly sorting the nomenclature of his literary bullshit, when an overalled old man with a button shirt took the stool next to him. "Howdy," he said.

"Good evening, sir," the Writer replied.

After the man ordered a carry-out burger and soda water, it looked like he was about to say something more to the Writer when the redneck with the plate in his head blared, "Hey, Doreen! Don't'cha know a whore ain't got no class if'n she don't swaller the nut!"

Other patrons hooted. Doreen showed him her middle finger and stuck out her tongue, which was smeared with semen.

"Ye of little faith," the old man muttered, shaking his head.

"I don't think Saint Matthew can save any of this crowd," the Writer said.

"Hmm." The old man seemed impressed. "Then who said this: ‘Thy faith hath saved thee.'"

The Writer stalled over his cigarette. "You've stumped me, sir."

Did the man chuckle? "Interestin' choice'a words!"

"Pardon me?"

"Aw, nothin'. But I'll'se give ya a hint. He was the best writer of the Gospel authors."

An uncanny bar conversation. "I'm not an expert on Scripture, but... " The best writer of the four Gospels? Then the Writer smiled. "Saint Luke, of course."

"Good! So see? Ever-one can be saved... with faith."

The Writer considered himself an existential Christian which, depending on interpretation, could be viewed as contradictory. He didn't feel like talking now, though. He felt like thinking. About his book. He caught himself staring at one of the billiard games, and suddenly found himself with tunnel-vision. It reminded him of Kant's Eight-Ball Theory, the landmark philosophical tenet that disproved the constancy of causality.

"What'choo thinkin' 'bout, son?" the old man asked. "Looks like yer contemplatin' the whole universe," but he'd pronounced universe as "you-ner-vorse."

In a sense, I am, the Writer surmised, for his novel would surely define an elemental fragment of it. "Well, sir, you probably won't have any idea what I'm talking about, but since you asked... I'm thinking about the laws of cause and effect. That pool table there, for instance. When the cue ball hits the eight ball, is the cue ball really the cause? And is the eight ball necessarily the effect? The most sophisticated intellectual thesis says no."

The old man gave a knowing nod. "Just as six plus six don't ness-ur-sarah-ly equal twelve. But one thing it always equals is six plus six. What'cher talkin' 'bout, son, is Immanuel Kant's Eight-Ball Theory."

The Writer's jaw dropped.

"Aw, yeah, I'se know. You's thinkin' what's this old backwoods rube doin' knowin' 'bout that sort'a stuff, but the truth is, son, I'se been a student'a philoss-er-fee fer about forty years. And as fer Immanuel Kant, I gotta hand it ta the Prussian dingbat. He were a screw-loose, shore, but probably the greatest metaphysical thinker in history, ‘cept fer maybe Descartes or Hume, and a'course, Aquinas."

The Writer almost fell off his stool.

"Me, though? I'se go more fer Kierkegaard: man cain't escape the dismal-ness of his exister-ence without the presupper-zishun'a free will fer a higher duty."

The Writer still sat stunned; he was a big Kierkegaard fan. "He espoused that all truth is subjective and unlike space and time, which are merely shaded forms of intuition. And when you combine that with Kant's theorem on God—"

The old man astonishingly took the words right out of the Writer's mouth: "That logic proves the exister-ence of God because mather-matics equals logic, when you mix that with Kierkegaard's proof that truth is subjecter-ive, then what do ya got?"

"Incontestible evidence that God exists and means to lift humans from their naturalistic existence into a heavenly essence where salvation is achievable."

"Good, good, son," the old man sanctioned. "You sound like you knows almost as much 'bout philosser-fee as me—"

I LOVE this guy! the Writer thought.

"—and ain't it a dang shame that yer average dupe don't care no ways 'bout any of it? We gots the Sooner-ees'n the Sheer-ytes killin' each other over who's the proper descender-ent'a Muhammad, we gots the Or-ther-dox Serbs killin' the Moos-lim Bosnerians 'cos fer five hunnert years it were the Moos-lim Bosnerians killin' the Or-ther-dox Serbs, and ya gots the soul-dead commie Buddhists killin' the anarchistic friggin' Buddhists 'cos they cain't even decide who the first friggin' Buddha was."

"It's madness," the Writer agreed.

"Even when they'se got the proof right there in the works'a Kierkegaard'n Kant. The Great Tribber-layshun is shorely on its way."

The Writer nodded, astounded. "Yet even Sartre in his existential atheism proposed that salvation was attainable through an objectification of morality."

Now the old man seemed to scoff. "Aw, son, that may be fine'n dandy but chew do yerself a favor'n fergit about that fat French fag. He wouldn't'a had nothin' ta write about noways if'n it weren't fer Kierkegaard'n Kant. He was dang near a teller-oller-gist!"

The Writer laughed along with the old man.

"There ain't nothin' out there, son, ‘cept fer the notion'a sacrifice—"

"The sacrifice of accepted morals for a higher morality in itself," the Writer added.

"A'course, son, and any pea-brain kin see that."

The Writer couldn't help but continue to be waylaid, and he thought, in a rare departure from his avoidance of profanity, This old fucker might be right. He probably DOES understand philosophy more precisely than I do.

"The name's Lud, by the way," the old man said, offering his hand.

The Writer shook it, stating his own mysterious name, then offered, "Sir. I'd consider it an honor to buy you a drink."

"Well now, son. That's a mite generous'a ya but I'se surprised ya offered."

"To buy you a drink?"

"Based on the fact that we'se both probably smarter than anyone else in this whole blammed state, and considerin' what we just got done jackin' our jaws about, I knows what you are."

The Writer was baffled. "Sir?"

"You's a Christian existentialist."

Amazing... "Well, yes, that's actually what I've always thought of myself as."

This old man—Lud—nodded. "That's what you are. But what am I?"

The Writer focused. "A Christian empiricist?"

The old man frowned and flapped a hand. "Naw. Come on, son. You's kin do better'n that."

"A Christian solipsicist?"

The old man tossed a shoulder. "Closer."

The Writer pointed his finger like a gun. "A Christian phenomenalist!"

"There ya go!" the old man cracked. "So if I'se a Christian phenomenalist, then that means I'se already done took Kierkegaard's existential leap of faith, right?"

"Of course."

"I'se already pree-ser-posed my empirister-kul free will to acknowledge the sacrifice I'se gotta make—includin' a rejection'a traditional morality—in orders ta attain my grace before God'n Christ on High. That's why Sartre was chock full'a dog-doo, son. Existence don't precede essence unless you accept the essence offered by the God Kant and Descartes already done proved exists."

"I understand," the Writer said. "But what's this got to do with me buying you a drink?"

"'Cos I don't imbibe! Ta reach God, ya gotta be like God. My body's a temple'a the Lord, therefore, son, I don't drink."

The Writer laughed. "You really are an amazing man, Lud."

"It's just more'a the Eight-Ball Theory if'n ya think about it hard enough. If there ain't no cause'n effect, it's like, say, you leave yer house'n go somewhere else, then you go to a pay phone ta, say, call a friend'a yers? But'cha dial yer own number by accident."

The Writer's skin began to crawl.

"And someone answers," Lud continued. "And the fella who answers is... ?"

The Writer gulped. "Me... "

"Right. Since truth is subjecter-tive, and morality ain't constant 'cos it ain't nothin' but a abstraction... who's ta say that couldn't happen?" and then Lud ordered another soda water from the keep.

That's almost impossible, the Writer thought in a creepy rush. What he just said... is like that haiku I wrote on the shade last night when I was drunk...

Now Lud scoffed, pointing up to the TV where more news blathered on about the serial killer. "This up here ain't nothin' but naturalistic evil. It's okay ta reject socially grounded morality when it conflicts with God's laws. But ya have to turn it into somethin' else which follows Kierkegaard's rule. This fella up here— He dang shore didn't do that. If what'cha do don't change yer purpose ta somethin' that serves God, then ya ain't nothin' but a pissant acker-lye'a the devil."

It's unbelievable how deeply this man can COGITATE, the Writer thought. He was even... mildly jealous.

"It's a dang good thing fer men like us ta run inta each other'n talk above the masses, ain't it?"

"Yes, sir, it is."

"Ain't nothin' more important than findin' yer purpose as defined by God," and the old man pronounced the word defined as "duh-fanned." "Nots many folks do that no more—don't care, none of 'em. Alls they'se care about're these dickerliss rock stars and the next John Truh-volter movie."

"You're absolutely right," the Writer agreed. "Especially when the proof is right there. Truth is subjective, therefore God transcends truth empirically by offering salvation through sequent purpose."

"Um-hmm. And I knows I found my purpose, son. It's by helpin' others—sinners mind ya—find theirs, and—" The old man made a mocking smile. "I say, how long does it take fer these fellas here ta cook a burger ta go? I'll'se be back in a minute, son, and we'se can talk a few minutes more ‘fore I gotta be on my way. See, ya gots ta excuse me, unless I wanna die like Tycho Brahe." The old man smiled through a pause. "Ya know who Tycho Brahe was, son?"

But the Writer was already chuckling. "The famous Danish astronomer and philosopher who refined all of Copernicus' discoveries. Brahe died because he couldn't get to the bathroom fast enough, and his bladder ruptured."

"Good, good. Now where's the pee-pot in this heck-hole?"

"Back there, sir," the Writer pointed.

"But let's me tell ya a joke first," Lud said. "Ready?"

"Ready."

"What'cha reckon Sartre said a second after he up'n died?"

"What?"

"‘Oops. I gone ta Hell!'"

Both men laughed so uproariously that every redneck in the place gaped at them. Then Lud slapped the Writer on the back and loped to the rest room.

I still can hardly believe it. I've just had the most elucidating intellectual conversation in my life... and it was with a redneck in his sixties who looks like Uncle Jed on the Beverly Hillbillies... The Writer ordered another beer, still marveling at the coincidence.

But then there was that other coincidence, too, wasn't there?

The haiku, he thought, that I don't remember writing but I MUST HAVE. When the barkeep wasn't nearby, the Writer whipped out his Sharpie and quickly scribbled on the bar:

You live alone. You

dial your number by mistake

and someone answers.

It was uncanny how Lud used an almost identical abstraction to compare to Kant's Theory of the rejection of causality.

Incredible. A completely explicable coincidence, yes, but still...

Incredible.

The barkeep brought over another beer. "Who was that wacky codger?"

That wacky codger probably understands philosophy better than most professors and theologians. "Just some man passing through."

"He the one who ordered a burger ta go?"

"I believe so."

"Well I'se hope he don't mind a little possum meat mixed with the ground beef."

The Writer was only half-listening. "Uh, possum? Really?"

The barkeep sputtered. "Jeez, fella! I'se just jokin'!"

The Writer feigned a smile. He subconsciously felt for change in his pocket. "Say, is there a pay phone on the premise?"

"Don't rightly know where the premise is, fella. What's that? Some restaurant in Pulaski?"

The Writer sighed. "Is there a pay phone here, sir?"

"Oh, shore." He pointed. "Right out back. If'n ya see Cora, tell her the ice in her drink's meltin'." The barkeep astonishingly pronounced the word ice as "ass."

"I will," the Writer agreed and headed for the back door.

Why not? he asked himself. He knew it was stupid but... so what? He believed in portents, or at least he liked to think so...

Or was it just more self-absorbed bullshit?

Nightsounds throbbed out back. The only vehicle parked in the narrow access was a beat-to-holy-hell red pickup truck with a U-Haul on the back. And beyond that? A fathomless forest.

His fingers poised before the payphone just before they would drop in change. Someone had scratched into the chrome plate over the coinbox: THE BIGHEAD WAS HERE. He'd seen that a lot lately.

The coins fell and he dialed the number to his room back at the Gilman House.

"Hello?"

It was a peppy woman's voice.

"Uh... Is this room Six?"

"Naw, it's room Three." A pause. "Hey! I reck-a-nize yer voice! Yer the Writer, ain't'cha?"

Dimwit! I dialed the wrong number! "Uh... yes, actually... "

"This is Nancy! Haa!"

"Hi, Nancy," he greeted, trying not to groan. "I apologize for the intrusion. I seemed to have dialed incorrectly."

"Aw, that's okay. I'se always like talkin' ta you. Somethin' 'bout yer citified voice... " A giggle. "Gits me all runnin' with honey... "

The Writer sighed. But it would be rude to just hang up. "So... How has your night been?"

"Suckin' dicks'n takin' no names, as my grandma used ta say. I'se in between jobs right now. But—kin you believe it? Coupla hours ago? A fella from Waynesville paid me thirty dollars ta give him a enema... . And earlier another fella had me stick a Ken Doll in his butt whiles I blowed him—and he even brought the doll hisself! Lots'a fellas inta havin' stuff done ta their rears, I'll'se tell ya. But they all say they's afraid to ask their wives to do it 'cos they might think 'em queer."

The Writer was speechless.

"Tonight I had me my reg-lar foot guy 'bout seven but he's gone, so's I'se just sittin' ‘round till my next appointment. Got me a four-top at midnight—some real randy fellas—lawyers," but, lo, she'd pronounced the word lawyers as "lah-yuhs." "They'se from Pulaski'n they comes ta see me ever week 'cos I give 'em some good butt-play. They'se rich; they'se pay fifty apiece and ain't none of 'em comes much—just li'l dribbles mostly, not like some'a these guys who come so much it's like someone stompin' on a large-size tube'a toothpaste."

The Writer was boggled. "That's... wonderful." Ken Doll? "I've got to run now, Nancy. But I'm sure I'll see you tomorrow—"

"Oh! Oh!" she interjected. "Wanna know somethin', Mr. Writer?"

The Writer hoped his frown could not be detected through the phone line. "Sure, Nancy."

Her voice turned rich and warm, like a delectable broth. "I'se had a dream 'bout you last night... "

Was that... a portent? "Really? Well, I'd love to hear all about it but I've got to—"

"I dreamed you was fuckin' me fierce, and, like my Daddy used ta say, I come like a cement truck with no brakes! And then... then... You'n me, we had a baby!"

"Oh, wow," the Writer babbled, disturbed now. "But I've got to—"

More precocious giggling that was somehow unpleasant and erotic simultaneously. "But'cha knows what? The baby didn't have a baby-type head. It hadda li'l bull's head."

"Yes—oh. Talk to you soon—‘bye!" and then he slammed the phone down. Bull's head? Jesus! My existence is definitely preceding my essence right now. He dropped in more coins and this time dialed the right number.

"Hello?"

A man's voice.

The Writer held the phone to his ear, eyes wide as if propped open by toothpicks. "Is this... "

"Room Six?" the voice snapped testily. "Your room? Yeah. You dialed it, didn't you?"

The Writer gulped. "Who... are you?"

"For Christ's sake. If you don't know who this is, why are you calling me?"

The Writer, of course, recognized the voice as his own.

But I do not believe in doppelgangers, he told himself at once. "I called... because... well, it was an exercise in abstraction, I suppose."

He heard his own voice laugh at him.

"What a load of shit! Buddy? I wrote the haiku on the shade last night, not you."

The Writer gulped a rock.

"And I'm glad you called. I'm working on the novel. I'm shaping it up pretty well, if I might say so."

This is impossible...

"One thing, though. The title sucks. I'll change it to something more serviceable."

Impossible or not, the Writer was outraged. "You'll do no such thing! The title's great! It's better than Grapes of Wrath!"

"Oh, man. You really are fucked up with all that literary ballyhoo. White Trash Gothic? It's pretentious shit. You need something that's symbolic and enlightening at the same time."

"You leave my title alone, you!" the Writer bellowed.

"Don't worry about it. When you get back this morning... you'll see."

The Writer stared. "This morning... What, the motel? I'm coming back tonight, not this morning."

"Negative."

The Writer took deep breaths now, and counted ten. "I'm hanging up because this is impossible."

"It's existentially impossible, you're damn right. But I hate to tell you this, pal, existentialism is a no-dick philosophy."

Anger locked the Writer up in rigor.

"It's just an excuse for smarter than average losers to justify their existence. Social basket cases like Sartre and Kierkegaard and Heidegger and fuckin' Camus—"

"I would never say fuckin' Camus!" the Writer almost bellowed.

"—and all those other socially paralyzed misfits."

The Writer steeled himself. "I'll ask you again... Who are you?"

"Jesus, man. You're a published novelist, aren't you?"

"Of course!"

"And didn't you graduate from Yale's English Lit Department with a 4.0?"

The Writer bristled. "Harvard," the word ground out of his breath.

"Did you every really read Conrad, or did you just skim the Cliff Notes?"

This was mortifying. "You're impossible, so I'm hanging up," he informed the phantom voice but now—

The line was dead.

The Writer was left to stand, phone to ear. He could see his own reflection, however scratched, in the chrome box-face. Calm down, he told himself. This is just an alcohol-induced hallucination, nothing more. I'm simply going to go back to my room and go to bed. There's no doppelganger there, no "double," no metaphorical twin. This is just job-stress and too much drinking...

But he did decide to have one more beer before he left. His ruminations, however, stalled him before he could go back inside. Nancy having a sexual dream about him last night was disturbing, of course, because he'd had one about her as well. But that was coincidental, and, as good-looking as she was? Who WOULDN'T have sexual dreams about her? The bull's head on the baby? Now that duped him; the Writer hated Greek Mythology. But it was the hallucinotic phone-voice that puzzled him more. It came from MY subconscious so... how come I don't get it? It was clearly a reference to Joseph Conrad, the acclaimed English writer whose Heart of Darkness proved perhaps the greatest fictional work of applicable modern nihilism ever written, not just the dark heart of Africa but the dark heart of Man.

What could that... have to do with...

Then the Writer recalled his own personal favorite of Conrad's: "The Secret-Sharer."

The story of a merchant sailor, and the man sleeping in the bunk above him... is himself...

His better half...

THUNK-THUNK-THUNK-THUNK-THUNK! he heard next, and jumped at the start.

It sounded like someone kicking a metal door, and beside him, indeed, was a metal door which appeared to be a walk-in refrigerator room for beer. But—

THUNK-THUNK-THUNK-THUNK-THUNK!

It wasn't coming from there. It's coming from... , and the Writer turned his head toward the back lot.

That U-Haul?

Gravel crunched as he walked over, measuring careful steps to off-set his drunkenness. Probably another hallucination, he deduced, but he almost shrieked right after he tapped on the U-Haul's door and was immediately answered by:

THUNK-THUNK-THUNK-THUNK-THUNK! and also a muffled squeal.

Someone gagged, kicking and screaming...

He jerked around at the sound of more crunching footsteps. It was Lud, carrying a shuck-and-jive smile.

"There ya are. I was wonderin' where ya got to, son. And can ya believe it? My carry-out burger still ain't ready! Thought I'd come out fer some fresh air whiles I wait—"

"Sir!" the Writer exclaimed. "I think there's someone being held against their will in the U-Haul!"

The wise old man chuckled. "An ab-duck-sher-un, huh? Son, you been watchin' too much'a the news all 'bout that crazy homer-sex-shul fella up north. Ain't nothin' in the U-Haul ‘cept a billy goat I'se driven up ta my sister's place in Crisfield."

The Writer's heart beat down in relief. "Oh, thank God, Lud. Guess I'm a little drunk now—I thought sure I heard a human in there."

"Looky here, son. I'll'se show ya," and then Lud withdrew a flashlight and opened the U-Haul door.

CLACK!

PART three:

ACTUALIZATIONS

(I)

Dicky and Balls returned from their run for Clyde Nale at about 10 p.m. that night. They drove back from their Kentucky distro point with silent smiles on their faces—smiles not so much stemmed in the fact that they'd earned solid money but instead in the knowledge that tomorrow at this time—with any luck—they'd be sitting on much more money. They had no way of knowing that the most paramount actualization of their lives was about to unfold—in fact, they didn't even know what actualization meant.

They stopped back at Dicky's house briefly for a beer, then got back on the road. It was a Van Gogh night blooming overhead. Moonlight dusted the winding asphalt like queer frost. Eventually Dicky broke the content silence as the ‘Mino barreled onward.

"What time ya figure we should get ta Crafter's house?"

"I reckon we'd best wait till midnight," Balls said and, of all things, he'd pronounced the word midnight as "mid-nat." "I'se like that time. The witchin' hour'n all."

"Shore. It ain't far ta Governor's Bridge Road, so's what'cha wanna do fer the next two hours?"

Balls rubbed his hands together. "After a hard day'a runnin' shine? I'd say we'se could use a coupl'a cold ones at the Crossroads."

Dicky nodded and drove on. It sounded cool to him, and why not? After transporting illegal liquor across state lines and laying a momentous "ruckin'" on an innocent woman... that's Miller Time.

Ah-ha...

Attentive readers will recall Ida, the unfortunate and very pregnant volunteer at Clyde Nale's Hock Party, and they will likely be curious as to what happened to her (while less attentive readers or, more regrettably, readers now interminably bored by a convoluted narrative structure, won't care), but as previously conveyed, poor Ida was dragged naked and barely conscious from the ‘Mino before Dicky and Balls had proceeded to Kentucky. After all, she'd called Balls an "asshole," and this was not a prudent thing for a woman to call him. So Dicky had pulled into a convenient wooded clearing—as were rife in these parts—and Balls wasted no time restricting her mobility. Her wrists he'd Flex-Cuffed together and then lashed to the base of a tree while her ankles had been separately cuffed and tent-staked to the ground in a manner which forced her legs apart. The naked woman was now an awesome sight to any practiced sociopath: skin white as proverbial parchment and beaded with cold sweat, eyes bugging, black pubic thatch strained and pushing outward below the five-months-pregnant belly. Balls took several more chugs off those swollen breasts, marveling at the flavor and texture of the sweet, liquor-tinged milk.

"Dang that's good!" he celebrated. "Dicky, you needs ta take a hit. Ain't nothin' like it."

Reluctant as ever, though, Dicky declined but did find the attendant imagery stimulating enough to extract his member and masturbate.

Meanwhile, Balls weighed some thoughts. So taken was he by Ida's milk-gorged breasts and conical nipples that he knew he just had to give her a good old fashioned Tittie Fuck, but, alas... .

Her stomach was too big to accommodate the required position.

Dicky's face twisted up as his own belly jiggled during his act of masturbation. He stomped his heels twice, grunted "Uh!" once very loudly, and ejaculated onto a tree. The viscid emission seemed to resemble a proofreader's mark for New Paragraph.

It was a satisfying climax for Dicky. He shucked the last of it out, then flapped some spillage off his hand. When he looked toward Balls, however—

"Aw, come on, Balls! Ya don't need ta be pullin' more'a that crazy shit! We gots ta get on the road!"

Balls wouldn't hear of it. "Just keep yer shirt on, Dicky. This tramp's set'a knockers are just so primo, I ain't gonna be happy till I have me a Tittie Fuck. So that stomach on her's just got ta go... "

See, while Dicky had been slaking himself, Balls had gone to the car to fetch the Stanley-brand manual brace-drill that he'd used so effectively on that scarecrow with tits at Spit McKully's not too long ago.

When Ida caught her first dazed glimpse of the tool, her semi-consciousness broke and then she heaved against her bonds to scream so loud every bird within a quarter mile lifted off from the trees.

Balls was horny—a "gittin' right down ta business" kind of guy. No drama, in other words, no drawing out the anticipation like taffy just for fun. He knelt and promptly put the end of that 8-inch long double-twist auger bit right into the little kernel of Ida's popped-inside-out navel and began to crank on the drill...

Her screams corroded to deep, annoying howls as she watched the bit's barber-pole-like action. Balls twisted fast and hard, and in only seconds the bit had churned down to the chuck.

"See what'cha git fer callin' me a asshole?" he pointed out.

Ida shuddered, back-arching as if to snap. Only one simple line of blood leaked out of the wound, running straight down one side of the tremoring belly. When Balls reversed the long bit back out—

"Holy Moly, Dicky! Would'ja lookit that!"

—Ida's vagina expanded spectacularly and then her womb spontaneously miscarried, expelled a five-month-old bloody mess right out onto the ground between her legs. Balls glanced uninterested at the glistening pile of fetus, umbilicus, and placental mass.

The obstructing stomach, now, was gone. Balls yanked off his jeans, straddled Ida's vibrating chest, and got down to the task...

So much for the flashback. In a movie, for instance, the ploy would be much more effective than when executed in narrative prose. As for Ida and her gored child—it was a boy!—their corpses were left as they lay, food for the night varmints that would surely be along. And Balls' orgasm?

It had proved just dandy.

But the event was long behind them now, at 10 p.m. All Balls could ponder was the loot that surely awaited in the house they would soon be breaking into. Not just cash and jewels, but priceless antique furniture and old paintings and sculptures, a veritable treasure trove. But then—

"Fuck me and my dead Daddy ta boot!" Balls cursed and smacked his thigh in anger.

"What, Balls?"

"Aw, shee-it, I plum fergot! We need a blammed U-Haul ‘fore we'se knock over Crafter's house."

Dicky scratched his gut. "Uh... yeah, I'se guess yer right, less'n ya wanna just go fer smaller stuff'n put it in the back. We'se'll cover it with the tarp."

"Naw, naw, Dicky. There's ‘spensive furniture'n shit in the house. That's what Bud Tooler tolt me."

"Well... maybe we'se should just say ta hail with the furniture, just go fer the jewels'n silver. Furniture's a pain in the ass."

Balls shook his head, disgusted. "Naw, naw, Dicky, ya don't understand. This ain't just reg-lar furniture. It's hair-looms. We'd make a killin' hockin' it all to the antique dealer's."

"Wow. Hair-looms... "

"Yeah, man, but—damn. Where we gonna find a U-Haul ta pinch at this hour?" Balls asked aloud just as Dicky pulled the ‘Mino into the back lot of the Crossroads...

They both stared astonished at the object now lit up in the ‘Mino's headlights: a beat-to-holy-hell red pickup truck with a U-Haul hooked to the back.

Dicky said in a hush: "Dang, Balls. You must be cyclic."

"Dang straight. Now you just pull right alongside that pickup... while's I hitch that U-Haul up ta our back bumper... "

««—»»

It was a shame about the fellow in the white shirt. Lud had enjoyed the man's conversation to no end. Not quite sure what to do with him now...

But ole Lud knew he'd think of something that would help the man find his true purpose in life—his Kantian actualization of self and the Godly heart within his existenz.

Lud finally did get his carry-out burger (which, by the way, was composed of fifty percent ground beef and the rest a combination of ground possum and deer), and now it was time to get back up to Maryland and return to the business of his work for God on High. He paid his tab amongst the tavern's riffraff and exited out the back door with his bagged burger.

Well ain't that a fine how-do-ya-do? Lud thought, stopping in his tracks. His beat-to-holy-hell red pickup truck was still there, but the U-Haul connected to it was missing.

Indeed, God worked in strange ways. Lud was not thwarted, for the U-Haul could not be traced to him. But I wish I could see the look on the face of whoever stole it, once he opens the back.

Lud got in the truck and drove away.

(II)

Was it a dream? The Writer wasn't sure, rocking and becloaked in spongelike blackness. He was dreaming of a stench—something gone to rot—and the stench, somehow, was proof of existentialism's utter failure as a true philosophy. There was no Kierkegaardian "leap of faith," no confrontation of existence to unveil essence. It was all just rotten meat...

In the dream the Writer struggled against bindings at his wrists and ankles, and could only make choking sounds when he tried to call out, for a gag had been tied through his teeth. All the while the darkness jostled around him. He considered his symbolic function in the dream: he the human intellectual unit straining against the strictures of a naturalistic environment. Can't move, can't see, can't speak. My God, I'm like Kafka's "Hunger Artist!" My free will has been suppressed!

And, hence, so had his innate impulse to seek actualization. In the dream, the Writer, now, was a living symbol.

Which, of course, was all bullshit. There was no philosophical symbology, for God's sake. There was no meaning that existed behind objective truths. Nor was the Writer in the grip of a dream. He was in the back of a stolen U-Haul and he'd been knocked unconscious and tied up by a psychopath who, in years to come, would be dubbed by the police as "Mr. Torso." This, however, he could have no way of knowing yet, nor could he know that said U-Haul, by an ironic happenstance worthy of Jean Paul Sartre's "The Wall," had been stolen yet again by two more psychopaths named Balls Conner and Dicky Caudill.

The Writer would find out in due time what the rotten smell really was...

(III)

"Dang," Dicky complained at the traffic light that would take them onto Governor's Bridge Road. "What's that fuckin' smell?"

Balls leaned his head out the ‘Mino's window and sniffed. His lips puckered within the redneck goatee. "Shee-it, Dicky. Damned if I know." He narrowed his eyes through a rumbling pause. "You thank it's comin' from the U-Haul?"

"Naw. Probably a deer're somethin' died in the woods. But nows that ya mention it... I wonder what's in the U-Haul... "

The light changed, then Dicky turned the ‘Mino onto a forest-lined road which seemed to plummet.

"Didn't feel like there were much in it when I'se hitched it up ta our ball," Balls offered. He sniffed the air again and made a face in the dashlight-tinged dark. "But it don't make no difference what's in it. We'se'll dump it all at Crafter's house ta make room fer what we pinch."

"Yeah," came Dicky's sophisticated concurrence.

The narrow road could've been an abstractive esophagus which was swallowing them into darkness that just kept getting darker. The night was digesting them. Balls snuck a crotch-squeeze when Dicky wasn't looking. For some reason the recollection of cranking the manual drill into Ida's pregnant gut still had him all hot'n bothered. I'se gonna have to do that again, he told himself. Drillin' pregnant chicks in the belly's a damn sight more fun than playin' cards. "Man, Dicky, I'm chompin' at the bit ta see what Crafter's got. How far ya thank his house is?"

The ‘Mino slowed at the conclusion of Balls' query. The headlights illumined a barely visible turn-off, and there stood a mailbox peppered with buckshot holes. E. CRAFTER read the little sign atop. Dicky grinned. "Here we are, brother."

They pulled in to find themselves driving up a steep incline through woods even more dense. An owl hooted, and they could see fireflies dotting the forest on either side. Finally, then, the road emptied at the top of a massive hill, and there sat the house. Dicky idled the car toward the front door, then cut the big engine.

The nightsounds amplified, engulfing them. Balls and Dicky stared upward.

"Shee-it," Dicky muttered.

"You got that right."

The house stood as a narrow, three-story ruin that looked like it might fall over. The paint had long since blistered off its plank walls, showing only weathered gray wood. A front porch, if you wanted to call it that, had actually collapsed at one end, while the screens that had once enclosed it hung in tatters. The many trees around the house were gnarled, overly twisted, and appeared to be dying.

Balls shook his head. "This place makes my Daddy's shack look like fuckin' Graceland. What a dump."

"Ain't no one been livin' in there fer years by the looks of it. Your buddy Tooler was pullin' yer leg."

"Guess yer right but—shee-it—Bud Tooler? Man, he was a straight up guy, had his head on straight. Ain't no reason fer him ta lie or git his info so fucked up."

Dicky smirked. "Head on straight? I thought you said this guy raped a chick in a Good Humor truck'n got caught 'cos he went back ta steal ice cream cones."

"Tastee-Pops," Balls corrected. "You know, the things that push out the cardboard tube? But, yeah, I guess Tooler's full'a shit."

They both got out before the monstrosity of a house. The moon glowed a sickly mucus-yellow right behind it. Balls passed Dicky a flashlight. "We gots ta have a look anyways, I guess."

"Cain't hurt."

Balls looked over his shoulder. "Aw, but let's empty the U-Haul first."

"Shore."

When Balls unfixed the latch and swung the U-Haul's door open—

"Holy fuck!" Dicky yelled, gagging at the stench.

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