Paulie’s men were.
“Then let’s split, or…sky up, or whatever the fuck. Oh, and tell your whore I’m sorry I stuck her head back in Melda’s cunt.”
“Fo’ shizzl”—but then Case Piece let it slide. “I’ll tell her, man.”
Paulie and his men made their exit into the night. All of them, save for Dr. Prouty, were rubbing their crotches for no apparent reason.
— | — | —
Chapter 9
(I)
Veronica awoke at daybreak, frowning at her recollection of the most hideous nightmare. Abducted by rednecks, she thought with a shudder but then she looked around to find herself in a reeking sleeping bag with one wrist handcuffed to a metal table in the back compartment of a large truck. The sound inside was akin to that of a bear cave, her three “hosts” snoring like machines. Micky-Mack and Dumar each lay on the floor in their own sleeping bags while Helton slept sitting upright in the corner.
Veronica choked back tears upon the eventual recognition that none of this was a nightmare. It was all real.
Just a few days before Christmas…and here I am…
Dim morning light flowed from the front windshield through the shower curtain.
The snoring went on an on.
Oh, for goodness sake! her thoughts shrilled. She had to urinate. Her nose crinkled at the sleeping bag’s stink as she clumsily crawled out. She took the empty bean can, frowned hard at it, then, with great awkwardness, pulled her pants and panties down, squatted, then began to void in the can. Her nose crinkled again, for her urine smelled like Veggie Chips.
The nearly musical chime of the stream hitting the can woke the others at once.
“Well, hey there, Veronnerka,” Helton greeted and stretched his great arms. “Havin’ yerself a pee, huh? I’se’ll tell ya. First pee’a the day’s a saturs-fyin’ thing indeed, ain’t it?”
Veronica couldn’t fathom a response.
Dumar shrugged out of his bag. “‘Mornin’ Veronnerka! And hows are you doin’ today?”
Veronica, still in the awkward squat, glared. “I’m peeing!”
“Ya sleep well, I’se hope?”
How could I possibly have slept WELL?
Micky-Mack was awake too, and looked right at her with eyes abloom. “Hot dang! I’se love seein’ a gal with a purdy pussy takin’ a pee!” He was obviously rubbing his crotch. “Puts some lead in my pencil, yessir!”
Veronica finished, frustrated to tears, and pulled her pants back up. When she tried to sit down—
clang!
“Oh NO!”
—the awkward movement caused her to knock the bean can over with her elbow, and all that warm urine flowed right beneath her.
The men all laughed.
“It’s NOT FUNNY!” she screamed. “My pants are DRENCHED!”
“Ain’t nothin’ but a li’l pee,” Dumar said.
Helton chuckled. “Gals shore do get bitchy ’bout the littlest things.”
Micky-Mack was grinning, sniffing the air. “Ya know? There’s sumpthin’ ’bout the smell of a purdy gal’s pee gits my dick dribblin’.”
Helton and Dumar nodded in assent.
Madness, madness, madness! Veronica thought as her pants soaked up the urine. She began to blubber. “Helton! Would you please let me go!”
“Don’t be all cryin’ and such, hon. See, the way feuds work is, see, they ain’t over till the fella yer feudin’ with up’n cries uncle. Ya know? He’s gotta give up, and, well”—Helton shook his head—“when Paulie calt last night after seein’ our movin’ picture, it didn’t sound like he were gonna do that.”
Dumar stood now at the truck’s open door, urinating loudly. The cool air caused the void’s arch to steam. “Shee-it, Paw. That Paulie, he’s all talk. Once he watched our movie, he know full well he’s messin’ with the best.”
“Paulie ain’t got the balls to try’n hit us again,” Micky-Mack said. He cocked a buttock and farted. “And even if he wanted to, what could he do?”
Helton seemed to consider this but suddenly—
They all froze.
The cellphone was ringing.
“Gee,” Veronica said with some sarcasm. “Why do I think that’s Paulie?”
“Ya gonna answer it, Paw?”
Helton peered with annoyance at the little phone. “Here, Veronnerka. Why’n you answer it? Sumpin’ ’bout these little magic phones git my goat.”
Veronica snatched the phone from him and answered.
“Hello?”
A steely, Jersey accent snapped back, “Who’s this? This Tuckton’s whore?”
“I beg your pardon!” Veronica half-yelled and half-sobbed.
“This is Paulie!” the man on the other end barked. “You tell that white-trash Gomer Pyle fuck that he’s got an email!” and then the line went dead.
“Well?” the others all seemed to say simultaneously.
“Paulie sent you an email,” she told them. “And, gee! Why do I think he’s attached a movie to it?”
“Dang, Paw! Ya reckon he done sumpin’ back ta us alls-ready?”
“But what the hail could he do?” Micky-Mack said in disbelief.
“There’s only one way to find out,” Veronica snapped. “I have to go online.”
“On what?”Dumar asked. “Like a clothes line? Paw, what she talkin’ ’bout?”
“I think,” Helton perceived, “that it’s the same magic phone line like what she used last night to send Paulie our movin’ picture. Am I right, hon?”
“Yes, and if you want to see what he sent you, you’ll have to give me my laptop.”
“Oh, ya mean yer fancy ‘puter?”
“Yes,” she sighed, slumping in her own piss. “My fancy ‘puter.”
Helton brought the laptop, and in minutes, Veronica was downloading the file sent to the new eddress she’d created last night.
“Is it…,” Helton began with a dry dread in his voice.
“It’s a digital video file,” she told them. She opened it through her media player, then passed the laptop to Helton. “Here. Whatever it is, I don’t want to see it.”
“Probably fer the best, hon…” He set the unit on the metal table. “Come on, boys. We needs ta watch this.”
“Just hit the enter button,” Veronica said, then sulked in her corner.
With some difficulty, Helton did so, and then…
They watched.
««—»»
It’s nighttime, though there’s an icy glare from some mode of auxiliary lighting. The camera pans across leafless trees, then the forms of three men are waving at the camera: men with the most curious rubber masks. The husky man wears the face of Abraham Lincoln, while a slimmer man wears Mr. Spock. A third, who carries the air of ringleader, looks back with the face of Richard M. Nixon. The masks look very old but remain quite flexible. The men wave for quite awhile. Then the scene cuts to—
A roaring fire.
It’s an elaborate yet quite ramshackle dwelling made of wood planks and what appears to be hand-hewn cedar shingles. Sound that is somehow grainy accommodates the image: the crackling of abundant flames. In only minutes, the wooden edifice is consumed, collapsing in a minor mushroom cloud of smoke and sparks. There’s something almost awesome about the fire’s voracity, as well as the promptitude of its reducing the shack to a pile of raving embers.