“Get a grip, son! Don’t go bustin’ yourself up! We gots to find out what this is all about!”
Cock-eyed, Dumar summoned all of his self-restraint to keep himself seated. Meanwhile, the movie continued…
BACK TO:
INT. ROOM
We remain CLOSE on Crory’s disoriented and terrified face.
CRORY (CON’T)
Please, daddy! Tell these men ya want me back! They’se bad men. I’se sorry I stolt them quarters out yer pants that time’n lied ’bout pullin’ Kelli Jean Rooder’s pants down—I’ll never do stuff like that again, I’se promise, but, daddy, please tell these men ya want me back!
MALE VOICE #1 (O.S.)
Melda, open them big log legs of yours and show the kid the goods.
Male Hands grab Crory’s head and turn it to the right.
MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)
Take a good look, kid—
Crory is looking at something OUT OF FRAME. He SCREAMS high and whistle-like, like a little girl. We hear Male CHUCKLING O.S.
Crory’s head is roughly re-positioned to look back at the CAMERA but now the whites of his eyes have filled with Red Blots.
MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)
Damn, Doc. Why’s that always happen?
MALE VOICE #4/DOC (O.S.)
(distressed, no accent)
A hypertensive spike causes the certain ocular blood vessels to hemorrhage…
(beat)
…the effect of sheer, unbridled terror…
We remain CLOSE on Crory’s face as…
SUDDENLY—
Male Hands seal a piece of Duct Tape across Crory’s lips. Crory HEAVES, while only MEWLS are now heard through the tape.
NEXT—
Another set of Male Hands begin to smear some odd, white-yellow muck over Crory’s head. A WET, SLOPPING sound accompanies the action. In moments, Crory’s head is slathered in this substance.
MALE VOICE #2 (O.S.)
All right, cut it now. Let’s get a nice, juicy close-up…
CUT TO:
We see the FRAME FULL of pallid, cellulite-dimpled fat: a Morbidly Obese Woman spreading her legs. Her Vaginal Ingress GAPES, an Organic Hole the circumference of a cereal bowl…
In the b.g., we hear Crory’s horrified MEWLS O.S.
END OF TRANSITION
As previously implied, no further details of the movie’s contents will be rendered; and in an aggravating instance of a narrative proceeding out of chronological order, we return to the point where Micky-Mack has recommenced to vomiting in the pail and Dumar is baying quite dog-like in despair.
Helton palmed his temples, thinking, Evil, evil, evil…
“Who were them men kilt my boy in that fat woman’s pussy, Paw!” came more bellowing from Dumar.
Wincing, and still vomiting, Micky-Mack looked up at Helton. “I guess I’se just too young ta understant, Uncle Helton! Why they do that ta poor li’l Crory?”
Dumar began banging! his head against the floor. “Who’re them men!”—BANG!—“Who’re them men!”—BANG!—“Holy fuckin’ SHEE-IT, Paw! We gotta find them men”—BANG!
Helton pulled his son off the floor. “Cain’t be bashin’ your head in, son! Yer gonna need yer wits about ya—we all is…”
“My poor li’l baby boy died thinkin’ I didn’t want him, Paw! They’se told him I didn’t want him!”
“I know. I know, son…” Helton ran stout fingers through the tumult of long, wavy hair. “Paulie—someone named Paulie. Jesus ta pete, who is this Paulie?”
“Maybe he lied ’bout his name, Unc!” wailed Micky-Mack. “Maybe it were really Hall Sladder!”
“Naw, naw, boy, you’re not thinkin’. Sladder don’t wear no citified suit’a clothes, and he shore as hail don’t drive no big, fancy motor-home. Fuck, he drives a ‘55 Chevy 235, and there ain’t no way the thievin’ cracker has the know-how to run a complerkated movin’-picture camera like what that must’a been.”
“Paw’s right, Micky-Mack,” Dumar moaned. “And Hall Sladder, he don’t know from these VDV machines any more’n we do…”
Helton paced the room in an excoriating psychical stew of regret, despair, and unsurceasing outrage. He could feel the blood beating at his temples, while that same blood felt oddly gritty and loose as if it were not blood at all, and something not a part of his physical being. Paulie, Paulie, Paulie, came the hectoring name. Dumar and Micky-Mack sobbed outright now that the full weight of the horror had set in, and Helton may have sobbed himself as he thunked shudderingly to his knees, his hands clasped in desperate prayer…
“Lord God—holy shit, I’se know I ain’t been the best’a servants to Ya, but the way I see it, I ain’t been the worst, neither, and since You know all things, I ain’t even gotta say that I never did no wrong to no one who didn’t have it comin’…” Genuine tears squeezed from Helton’s closed eyes. “I do believe in Ya, God, so in return fer me believin’ in Ya, is I way out’a line askin’ fer a favor? These evil fellas done kilt my poor li’l grandson in the awfulest way, and I’se also know it says in Your Book, ‘an eye fer a blammed eye,’ so, God, I figure I’d be livin’ more in Your ways by followin’ that. Please, Lord, I’se beggin’ ya. If I ain’t worthy’a Yer favor, then strike me down right here’n now ’cos I don’t deserve Yer attention fer these prayers’a mine. But if’n maybe I am in line fer a favor…holy shit, could Ya please help me find this evil Paulie fella so’s I can properly revenge my grandson’s murder like’n it say in Yer Book? Please, God! Gimme a sign! I beseech Ya, help me get my proper revenge ‘gainst this Paulie fella for this devil-lovin’, des-picker-bul crime,” and Helton pronounced “crime” as cram.
A silence somehow sodden fell over the room, such that all three men, first, experienced gooseflesh and then the hairs on the backs of their necks stood up. Moments ticked by, then moments more, in betwixt of which sobs and croaks and murmurs of despair could be heard. And just as it appeared that God had no intention of answering Helton’s supplication—
The strangest noise erupted in the room.
Helton, Dumar, and Micky-Mack leapt up, eyes darting, positions shifting, hands opened to futile claws.
“The hail’s that?” Micky-Mack yelled.
Dumar hooted at the loud, semi-rhythmic jangling that continued to spill sourcelessly into the primitive room. “Sounds like—sounds, like…sounds almost like the ringin’ of a telephone!”
“Yeah!” Helton barked. “And we ain’t had a telephone in years!”
The jangling, unnatural din drew on and on as the three men pranced about in utter confusion, trying to locate the noise’s source. But it was Micky-Mack—whose younger aural facilities were perhaps better capable of identifying proximity—who swept upon the box that the DVD player had come in. He reached down as if into a snake-pit, then, with eyes abloom, withdrew…