“What kind’a stuff, Paw?”
“Natural gas, deep down underground,” and Helton pronounced “natural” as natch-rull. “S’what city folks use fer heat’n ‘lecktricity, and it turnt out there was so much natural gas on that land, it made the fella that bought it a millionaire overnight—”
“What a kick in the ass for Uncle Tuff!” Micky-Mack commiserated.
“Oh, yeah. The fella that bought it knew ’bout all that natural gas but, a’course, didn’t tell Tuff, instead payin’ him shit money and gettin’ hisself rich.” Helton eyed both Dumar and Micky-Mack. “That fella’s name was Thibald Caudill.”
Dumar and Micky-Mack’s faces showed no recognition.
“After Caudill rip Tuff off, he bought hisself a big, fancy mansion in Pulaski, and he come back to our neck’a the woods ever so often—drivin’ a fuckin’ Rolls Royce—just to laugh at us all over the screw-job he pulled on Tuff. Liked ta rub our faces in the fact we was poor and he weren’t. So what we do is we all pitched in some money and give it to Tuff, and he hired hisself a citified lawyer, and what that lawyer tolt him was there was laws now—some law ’bout sales made in bad faith—that might make it so Tuff could sue Caudill fer what he stolt from him…”
“Then Uncle Tuff’d be a millionaire,” Dumar deduced.
“Um-hmm, but that never happened…”
“So how come that fancy lawyer didn’t sue Thibald Caudill?” Micky-Mack asked.
“On account Tuff and his wife Joycie up’n died.”
Dumar nodded at the dim memory. “Car accident, weren’t it?
“Weren’t no accident, son. It was murder. Once Caudill got wind that Tuff was fixin’ ta sue, one night he’n his two boys, they followed Tuff’n Joycie back from that lawyer’s office”—Helton made an angry fist—“and they up’n run ’em off the road—”
“No!” Micky-Mack and Dumar exclaimed.
“—and they crashed in a gully. Poor Tuff, he shoot right through the windshield’n died instantly…”
“What about Aunt Joycie?” Dumar asked. “She go through the windshield too?”
“No,” Helton said very resolutely. “She didn’t. See, Joycie was wearin’ her seatbelt, so’s she lived—”
“But you just said—” Micky-Mack blurted.
“Joycie weren’t kilt in the wreck, no.” Helton ground his teeth. “But what Caudill’n his two boys do is they pulled poor Joycie out the car”—he had to pause—“and they tore off alls her clothes”—another pause, his face reddening—“and they dragged her up on the hood”—Helton began to simmer—“and they pult their dirty dicks out and they got theirselfs a ball-peen and they cracked up the top’a Joycie’s skull”—and he flew into another rage, shuddering—“and they HAD THEIRSELFS A HEADER!”
Dumar covered his face with his hands while Micky-Mack brought his arms ’round his belly and just moaned.
“Weren’t enough,” Helton’s voice cracked and boomed, “fer Caudill to steal the millions that was rightfully Tuff’s, and it weren’t enough to kill him ta boot! No! Caudill, he hadda have more! He hadda fuck Tuff’s poor wife in the head!”
“No, no, no,” Micky-Mack moaned.
“And his boys did it too, all standin’ ’round cacklin’ and hee-hawwin’ like the devils they was. They each put a nut in Joycie’s brain, they did, but Caudill even bragged later up the Crossroads that his youngest boy Crow, he knew the story ’bout how Clyde Martin and Lem Tuckton done fucked General Hildreth’s head three times, so’s he said, ‘Anythin’ a low-down Martin or Tuckton can do, I’se kin do better!’ and then he fucked Joycie’s head four times—just ta one up the family!”
“It’s horrible, horrible, Paw!” Dumar wailed.
Helton calmed back down, thumbing a tear or two from his eyes. “Horrible is right, but at least there’s a happy endin’ to this story. See, Tuff’s son Travis Tuckton, he were in the county slam when all this happened, and all Grandpap Martin ever told him was that his folks got kilt in a tragic car wreck; Travis didn’t need ta know the truth, not in stir, ’cos the boy, shee-it—he had it bad enough. But when they let him out, Grandpap tolt him what really happened, and Travis flew inta such a swivet, he swore on his Maw’n Paw’s graves that he would avenge ’em, and that is when Grandpap tolt Travis the in’s and out’s of havin’ a header.” Helton reached behind him and produced the King Edward cigar box that Micky-Mack had fetched for him earlier. “See, there’s better ways’a havin’ a header now, boys. Bashin’ in the top’a the skull’s fine but, see, sometimes ya can git bone-slivers stuck in the brain and then ya stick yer pecker in and—YOW!—next thing ya know, that bone-sliver’s stickin’ in yer dick!”
“Holy fuck!” Dumar recoiled at the image.
Micky-Mack protectively covered his crotch. “Dang, Unc! Cain’t think’a anything that could hurt more’n that!”
Helton nodded grimly. “Happened to a fella once, Sisal Conner, who done got wronged one way or another by Jeremiah Croll, so’s Sisal, he snatched one’a Croll’s kids and threw a header on him. He busted a hole in the kid’s head, but the second he slipped his stiffer up inta the brain-meat, he up’n scream bloody murder. See, he weren’t careful enough with the ball-peen’n he wind up catchin’ a bone-sliver right in his dick-knob, he did. Pult his pecker out’a there and it squirted blood halfways across the room!” Helton opened the cigar box. “But, see, long time ago, like in the ‘50s, I reckon, Grandpap Martin came up with a safer way. Instead’a usin’ the ball-peen, ya use one’a these,” and from the box he withdrew several old, rusty hole-saw blades. “All ya’s do is lock down one’a these in the chuck of a power drill and ya saw a hole in the skull’a the person yer fixin’ ta head-hump.”
“Wow!” Micky-Mack exclaimed.
“Pretty dang smart fer thinkin’a that,” Dumar observed.
“Cuts a perfect hole ever time,” Helton went on, and he passed the cylindrical blades around for the younger men to see.
Dumar deduced, “So’s…did Travis ‘ventually throw a header on Caudill?”
“Yeah, he shore did—”
“And it were one’a these here hole-saws that Travis Tuckton used?”
“Naw, the actual one used on Caudill disser-peered. Word is it was took by a poe-leece man—”
“The poe-leece!” Micky-Mack shrilled.
Helton wagged his finger. “Lemme finish tellin’ the story, boy… Now, it were Grandpap who not only told Travis the truth ’bout what happened to his folks, it was him who taught Travis how to have a header, and what they did then—God bless ’em—well, they kind’a went on a header rampage, havin’ headers on the kin’a dang near anyone whoever’d wronged the Tucktons or the Martins in the past. It was kind’a like…practice, see? But by the time they was ready, they was experts in the art of throwin’ a header.” Helton smiled and whispered. “And then one day, they gots their chance. They got their hands on Thibald Caudill hisself, and they hole-sawed that cracker’s skull and they humped the shit out’a his head. Travis, he was so twisted up inside with hatred, he fucked Caudill’s brain ta porridge, and the outrage that had been done ta his fine parents was finally avenged.”