Balls shrugged uneasily. "Yeah, I guess yer right," and, of course, he pronounced right as "rat."
Dicky's girth rose from the stool. "I'se gonna go contribit to the Luntville water supply. Why'n'chew order us up another pitcher?"
"Shore... "
Dicky wobbled off. When Balls ordered another pitcher, he and the keep looked up at the television at the same time. It was a commerciaclass="underline" "Try the new Abiciser!" an attractive blond in a red bikini enthused. "If you don't have abs like these in thirty days, return it for a full refund!" and then the camera zoomed in on her flat, bare belly and slit-like navel. There was even some camel-toe printing against the bikini bottoms, the sight of which caused half the men in the bar to woop.
The keep chuckled. "Wouldn't mind fuckin' that ‘un till she's seein' stars, huh?"
Balls shrugged. Shee-it, I'd rather yank her intestines out her asshole with a gaff pole, then cut off her head'n fuck her neck...
The commercial ended, replaced by still more gruesome news of this ghastly killer in Milwaukee. "... when police first entered the apartment, they arrested Dahmer immediately after noticing a pair of severed hands wired together, hanging in a closet. Later, according to hazmat and fire officials, the partially dissolved remains of at least one victim were found in a fifty-seven-gallon industrial drum full of corrosives. In the bedroom, several more body parts were discovered lying on top of Dahmer's bed, which had been covered in plastic dropcloths... "
Dang, Balls thought. He just couldn't figure it. When he glanced right he noticed that dullard in the white shirt still sitting there, looking up at the TV. "Hey, buddy? They say anything 'bout what caused him ta be that way?"
The guy in the white shirt seemed thrilled that someone was talking to him. "Well, one forensic psychiatrist from John's Hopkins has already labeled Dahmer as a sexual-sociopath."
Balls smirked. "That must mean he's crazy, right? Only a crazy person could pull shit like that?"
"Actually, no. Some killers of this ilk display psychopathic symptoms, but that's not the case with this Dahmer man. While it's true that a number of serial killers become inclined toward sexually motivated homicide due to catastrophic childhoods rife with neglect, perversion, sexual abuse, and battery, others have had a childhood experience that would be deemed as normal. The verdict's still out on Dahmer, of course, but it is interesting. Experiences and observations, particularly in the formative and adolescent years, often have a dramatic impact on a young mind, which all leads to transitive behavior in adulthood. Naturally, negative experiences and observations will have a negative impact. So where does that leave the serial killer who enjoyed a positive childhood indoctrination?"
"Huh?"
The guy in the white shirt raised a finger. "There's just as much evidence that proves environment need not have any bearing on certain mind sets. In other words—and this is just one of the current theories—a certain percentage of these so-called serial killers are possessed of no psychological defect and experienced nothing deleterious while growing up. They become serial killers in adulthood simply because of a genetic predilection."
"Huh?" Balls repeated.
"It's an innate impulse, just as it's an innate impulse for a dog to chase a rabbit. These men, these monsters of the modern world, become serial killers purely and simply because it's in their nature."
To Balls, the dissertation was barely comprehendible, but he understood enough. Like a dog chasin' a rabbit... It's in their nature...
Further discourse was then severed when the barkeep re-appeared with another pitcher. Dicky returned presently, and noticed an immediate reversal in his partner's previous preoccupation with morbidity.
"Ya knows what, Dicky? I feel a shitload better right now."
"Well that's dang great, Balls."
"And it's 'cos'a that guy over there," and he pointed to the guy in the white shirt, who was lighting what was likely his twentieth cigarette of the night. Balls slapped a five down on the bar. "Barkeep! Get that Poindexter-lookin' dude in the white shirt over there a drink on me."
"Comin' right up."
White Shirt looked flattered. "Much obliged."
Balls raised his mug. "Here's to our natures... "
Dicky raised his. "And here's to makin' money!"
White Shirt raised his. "And here's to providence"—he winked—"and I don't mean Rhode Island... "
PART TWO:
EPIPHANIES
ONE MONTH LATER
Snot McKully had stump-grinder breath and teeth the size and color of lima beans; he was technically the man who owned one of those old manual drills—properly termed a "brace" drill. Not the kind that worked like an egg-beater; instead, it was shaped like a squared-off U with outward protrusions. The bit was set into one protrusion, a bearing'd palm-wheel was fixed on the other. The manufacture's name—Stanley—could still be detected beneath the tarnished steel, and locked into its chuck was an 8-inch long double-twist auger bit, 3/8th of an inch wide and, anyway, the sequence of events that led up to the instance of Tritt "Balls" Conner cranking that bit into the girl's head was multifarious and rich.
It belonged to Snot McKully, and it was made back when elbow grease was more accessible than electricity.
The idea had simply "occurred" to Balls when he'd seen the drill lying by the main fermentation tung. An epiphany?
Yes.
The tool was a psychic totem of sorts, the Angel of Dementia that whispered into Balls' ear just as surely as Gabriel had whispered into the ear of Christ's mother Mary.
This took place exactly one month after Balls had met up with Dicky in front of Pip Brothers Laundromat two days out of the clink, and given Dicky the money for the Rock Crusher transmission... and in a sense, the affair was an epiphany for Dicky as well. That El Camino was now probably the fastest car in the county, and this is why he and Balls had been hired immediately to run illegal liquor from local stills into the "dry" sectors of Kentucky. It wasn't much of a work ethic but at least they were making money. The car, purely and simply, had gotten them the job.
Here's how it went...
««—»»
When Balls and Dicky got out of the ‘Mino, the barefoot and overalled bulk of Snot McKully rose from a wood table on which he appeared to be playing checkers with himself. Snot wore a straw hat; his face, within an untrimmed beard, seemed inflated and red at the edges. Balls thought of a balloon with eyes, mouth, and nose drawn on, and rimmed with Brillo. McKully sneered, showing the aforementioned lima-bean teeth when the ‘Mino pulled up.
"Don't talk shitty to him now, Balls," Dicky warned. "Snot don't take no shit, and remember, he is payin' us... "
Balls' eyes darkened below the John Deere hat, his black goatee tightening in some resentment. "Shee-it, Dicky, he's got tits bigger'n his wife's, and he ain't payin' us what we'se worth."
Dicky seemed nervous, a trait that had been growing on him since he and Balls had become "partners" in this venture of commerce and other less-seemly ventures. "Yeah, well, Balls, ya know, a hunnert a week just fer five twennie-five gallon runs ain't bad—"