“Do what?” she spat. “Abduct women, and rape them and murder them and then film it?”
“We ain’t done nothin’ to no one who ain’t had it comin’, Veronnerka. If’n ya knowed ‘zackly what it is that Paulie done ta us…you’d understand.”
Veronica was about to rail again but before she could…
The cellphone rang. Not her cellphone…the other cellphone.
The men froze, their eyes shooting wide. Cumbersomely, then, Helton answered the annoying device, said, “Yeah?” listened, then hung up.
“Was that…,” Dumar began.
Helton nodded.
“Looks like you was right, Unc Helton,” Micky-Mack said. “Paulie done hit us again…”
“I’m afraid so.” Helton passed Veronica the laptop. “Veronnerka, all’s I ask is that ya help us just one more day, then I promise—I swear to God’n all that’s holy…we’ll let ya go.”
Half-numbed now in a combination of angst, rage, confusion, and despair, Veronica took the computer, went online, and downloaded the implied attachment.
Helton uncuffed her hand. “Stand on up, now’n come over here. I don’t feel right about this, but I guess the only way fer you ta understand is fer ya to see it yerself.”
Dumar looked alarmed. “Paw? You mean…yer gonna show Veronnerka one’a the movies Paulie made?”
“Yes, I am, son. Don’t want to, but I must. Now, I don’t ‘zackly know what it is Paulie just send us, but I do know it’ll be something bad, and when Veronnerka see just how bad it is I’m talkin’ ’bout…then she’ll understand why we’se are doin’ what we’se doin’…”
“Fine!”Veronica snapped. She arranged the laptop on the table as they all stood around to watch. She double-clicked the new file, the media player popped up, and then…
««—»»
On the screen we see a close-up of an old woman’s head. She is alive, blinking feebly but mustering an expression of scorn. The camera clearly sits on the ground, and in spite of harsh lights, we know it’s nighttime. Footsteps scuff. The most salient aspect of the scene?
The woman’s head sits on the ground, with only the tops of bony shoulders showing.
She’s been buried up to her neck.
“Who are ya?” she cracks.
Male laughter replies.
Off-screen, a voice in Jersey accent orders, “Cristo, we ain’t very good hosts, are we? Give the old bitch a drink.”
“Sure thing, boss,” and then two hands appear in the frame, pull open the old woman’s toothless mouth. A clear plastic tube is jammed in, then the hands slide the tube down her throat. It’s a urinary catheter tube.
The other end of the tube is connected to a plastic bag filled with discolored urine; the bag is displayed momentarily for camera’s sake, then rises off-screen. The scene holds on the woman’s flinching face as the tube fills with dark urine.
“Fill ‘er up,” announced a different Jersey accent.
We don’t have to see what’s happening, we simply know. The urine bag is being squeezed, displacing its contents into the old woman’s stomach.
“That’s it, that’s it. A nice cool drink…” but the voice pauses. “Hey, Doc? Why’s the old bitch’s piss so dark? Looks like fuckin’ tea.”
“More than likely a catastrophically high creatinine level, that or Hepatitis A. I suspect the former, however. Severe degradation of kidney function is common amongst sedentary senior citizens.”
“Fuck up kidneys, huh? How do you like that?”
Then—
ziiiiiiiiiiiiiip!
—the tubing is yanked out.
The old woman gags, wheezing. But when she recovers, she snaps another glare right into the camera. “What a bunch’s big men you all is—ha! Stealin’ a crippled old woman out a nursin’ home’n makin’ her drink her own pee. I know who you is. You’re the devil’s-dick-suckin’ evil varmits who up’n kill my great-grandson—a 9-year-old! Yeah, give yerselfs a pat on the back fer killin’ a little boy. Now…my son Helton—there’s a real man.”
“Oh, yeah, he sure is, ya old cunt,” the off-screen voice says. “He fucked my mother in the head—”
“Ha! God bless him!”
“—so we figured we’d do somethin’ worse to his mother. And that head-fuckin’ shit he does? That ain’t nothin’ compared to what we got in store for you.”
The old woman laughs. “Do your worst! See if I care one toodly! ’cos when my son get his hands on you, you’ll think you gots the wrath of GOD comin’ down on ya!”
Off-screen chuckles flitter like bats. More footsteps scuff. Then: “Cristo, lube her up, then get over here.”
“Right away, boss.”
The old woman makes a face when the hands reappear and spread margarine all over her head. We can see the tub: I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S NOT BUTTER!
“What the hail is that fer, son?” she cracks, frowning.
“Let’s just say you’re gonna need it to try on your new hat.”
“New hat? Boy, what in tarnations you talkin ’bout?”
The hands slather the margarine heavy, then pull away. “You’ll see, grandma…”
We hear more off-screen talk. “Doc, you and Argi get on that side, Me and Cristo got this side.”
“Of…course, sir.”
“I’ve always liked this way the best. Who we do this to, Argi? It was up in Newark wasn’t it? Kline?”
“Naw, boss, I think it was Ringerman, you know? That runt we had runnin’ numbers for us.”
“Oh, yeah—Ringerman! That fuck. He had balls, didn’t he? Shit, that guy went way back to my grandfather’s time—”
“Vinch the Eye—”
“God rest his soul…”
“Shit, we had that guy on our payroll for decades, and then we find out he’d been stealin’ from us half that time.”
“Well, he got his.”
“Best part was makin’ his wife watch.”
“Yeah! That was sweet, wasn’t it?” A pause. “You ready, Melda?”
“I sure am, Paulie!” exclaimed a ludicrous woman’s voice.
“On the count of three. One…two…three!”
A salvo of grunts.
“Good, yeah, but—shit, Melda. No offense but you’ve gained some weight!”
“Well, I can’t help it, Paulie. Can’t walk, can’t do nothin’ but sit—er, sit, and smother people in my pussy and eat.”
Laughter.
A peculiar shadow hovers over the old woman’s head, then something indescribable seems to edge the top of the frame…
“Push that big pussy open now, huh, Melda?”
“It’s open, Paulie!”
“One…two…three…down!”
In a split second, the old woman’s head disappears as it is completely engulfed by a frame-filling morass of pallid flesh. A mammoth sack for a belly is observed, as well as a severely stretched wedge of pubic hair. Whatever it is, it has swallowed the entirety of the old woman’s head.
“Give it a few seconds.”
A few seconds tick by, then, “Now, boss?”
“Naw. A few more…”
“We don’t want her croakin’, do we?”
“All right, now. One, two, three—up!”
shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-LUCK!
The morass is lifted off as though it has defied gravity to disgorge the woman’s head, which now looks like a perversely glistening wax mask, only semi-human. The head shudders, old gray hair slicked down. The eyelids struggle but eventually open.