Nixon steps into the foreground and says in an undeniable Jersey accent: “See that pile of shit house, Helton? I’ll bet it looks familiar, don’t it?” and there several robust off-screen laughs are heard. “But that’s just for starters…,” and the scene cuts again to—
A wooden plank sticking in the ground. The camera zooms in, for there seems to be crude writing on that plank.
The writing reads:
MARY BETH TUCKTON
WIFE OF DUMAR TUCKTON
DAWTER OF CLONNER MARTIN
NEECE OF JAKE MARTIN
LUVING WIFE & MOTHER
B. Apr. 30, 1977
D. Dec. 13, 2010
The camera pulls back wider amid an erratic, gritty sound that is soon revealed to be the sound of shovels digging into the crude grave. Wider and wider, the lens retreats and at last the grave-diggers are shown: Spock and Lincoln.
Again, the scene cuts to—
The grave now fully opened. It’s only several feet deep and the shrouded form within indicates that no liner or coffin was available for the interred.
“There’s our bitch,” Nixon relates off-screen. “Good job, guys.”
Hands reach into the shallow pit and haul out the long, shrouded bundle. A tearing sound is heard, while—closer—two sets of hands rip the shroud open. The glare of moonlight reveals the form of a shapely female corpse: light hair that’s probably blond, a face that would’ve been pretty in life. The corpse has been dressed in a simple cotton nightgown with some unidentifiable floral print; then this, too, is riiiiiiiiiiiiiipped open. The globes of large, firm breasts fill the screen: frost-white, with large, oblong nipples puckered in death and tinted the faintest blue.
“Damn,” an off-screen voice comments. “Not a bad set of tits for a stiff.”
“I ain’t never tit-fucked a corpse before but”—a chuckle—“there’s always a first time.”
Brusk laughter.
“Doc. Go up and down the whole body.”
“Of course, sir.”
The camera tracks down over the flat stomach, curvaceous hips, plush thighs. It is a conspiracy of visual elements that collide now: the crisp December night, the crisp radiance of moonlight, and the crisp white skin. They all seem to contribute to an overall image of death-perversity and, somehow, death-beauty. The thighs are parted to afford the camera a more concise vision: the furred pubis, and the plump slit beneath the hair.
More off-screen voices deliberate…
“How ya like that? This is one dynamite-lookin’ dead redneck tramp.”
“Yeah. Drop-dead gorgeous.”
Laughter.
“She don’t even stink. Says on the marker she’s been dead, what, ten days?”
“Nine, sir.”
“Then how come she don’t stink? Wouldn’t her cunt and mouth and all be full of worms?”
“Actually, no, sir. The cool temperatures of the December climate have essentially kept the corpus refrigerated, forestalling most, if not all, putrefaction. There will be evidence of post-mortal lividity, of course, and some visual venosity contrasting with the death-pallor. Rigor has passed, though. She’s quite well preserved…”
A rough cut, then—
A vigorous slapping sound as the screen is now full of a hairy, pumping male buttocks. The dead woman’s parted thighs jostle aside.
slap, slap, slap, slap, slap
“Pussy’s cold but—fuck—I think I’m gonna be able ta—”
The copulation intensifies.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’…”
“Bitch is gettin’ her Christmas present early!”
The hairy buttocks slows, then stops, then withdraws. During the withdrawal, a string of semen dangles from the stout, limpening penis.
“Argi the man!”
A rough cut, then another penis is quickly sliding in and out of the cleavage between the woman’s pressed-together breasts. Upon the moment of climax, the erection rises, throbbing, then releases splotches of sperm across the corpse’s face.
“Not a bad nut. You want a go, boss?”
“Naw, I’ll leave the corpse-fucking to the pros.”
More laughter.
“All right, let’s fill the bitch up now. I love this idea of Argi’s…”
A rough cut, or more like what a screenwriter would call a smash-cut: an off-angle close-up of the dead woman’s face. Her lips, like her nipples, are faintly blue. Fingers peel open her eyelids, then open her mouth to a gape.
“I’m goin’ first,” the voice that seems to be the ringleader’s says, then, quite abruptly, yet with some finesse, a spread male buttocks carefully squats over the corpse’s face, adjusting in hitches, until the rectum has been positioned tightly over the dead mouth.
Sounds of flatulence issue; the buttocks flexes.
“Damn. Feels like I’m shittin’ a foot-long turd!”
Eventually the buttocks lifts off, and the camera slowly zooms to show that the woman’s mouth has been filled with fresh feces. With no prelude, a small rubber drain-plunger is affixed. The fingers of one hand keep the plunger’s rubber cup sealed over the lips. The other hand deftly and with force—
shhhhhlush
—pushes the handle down once hard, then removes the plunger altogether to show that the woman’s mouth is now empty.
“Now that’s what I call flushin’ the toilet!”
Howling laughter.
A slimmer and more sparsely haired buttocks is next perched over the woman’s mouth. There’s a grunt, then a wet, splattering sound—
“I got the runs again! Fuckin’-A. Seems like every other damn day I got diarrhea…”
“What did ya eat last night?”
“Calamari and Marinara.”
“Shit, that’s all Cristo eats.”
“Hell, I love the stuff, but, like, over the last year it’s been givin’ me the runs. Never had a problem with it before.”
More grunts and more wet splattering…
“Why’s that, Doc?”
“More than likely the encroachment of an acid-intolerance. Such intolerances are often experienced by men and women nearing middle age. You see, it’s not the calamari itself, it’s the higher acid-levels of the tomato base in the Marinara sauce. The result, as we’re observing now, is a recurrence of loose bowel-movements…”
During the verbal account, the camera sways off its mark, to show the tips of someone’s shoes.
“Hey, Doc! Come on! It’s great ya know all the answers but keep the camera steady!”
“Yes, sir. My apologies, sir.”
Wet excrement like chunky chili can now be seen in the woman’s mouth. A moment later, the drain-plunger reappears, and said excrement is promptly pumped in the corpse’s stomach.
“Argi’s turn! Step right up!”
The broader buttocks plants itself over the opened mouth. After a series of longer, louder grunts, the mouth is filled and then flushed with the plunger.
shhhhhlush
But the buttocks reappears a second time, repeats its defecation, then—
shhhhhlush
—and even a third time…
shhhhhlush
“That’s it. Pump it all down.”
“Holy smokes, Argi. You’re shittin’ up a storm.”
“Can’t think of a better place to do it than this dead bitch’s mouth.”
“Ya know? I must’ve ate two fuckin’ pounds of lasagna last night, and now it’s all comin’ out.”
After a fourth void, the camera holds on the dead mouth filled past the lips with firm stools, and then—