The Bighead (8 page)

This was different.

It wasn’t simply that he liked looking
at this blond city woman. He could tell by the way she’d looked at
him and by the way she’d said “hi” earlier.

Gawds Almighty,
he thought, stuffing his deflated penis back into
his pants.
I thinks I loves
her…

(III)

“
Hold ’er down, Dicky, come
ons!” Tritt “Balls” Conner exclaimed. “Hail! Ya
gots
ta hold her down harder’n
that!”

They’d just got off a hooch run from
Big Stone Gap just ’cross the state line, droppin’ a coupla hunnert
gallons fer Clyde Nale, when they sawwed this creeker chick lyin’
passed out by one’a the fermentin’ tanks. “Takes that alky bitch
outa here, ya want,” said the Kentucky cracker who runned the
joint. “Blammed alkerholic she is, hangin’ round here ever-day
givin’ my boys blowjobs fer hooch. We’se all sick’’a her, we is.
So’s you take her outa here if ya want, fuck her, kill her, bury
her, what’s ever ya wants. We’se don’t wants ta see he no
more.”

Which sounded fine ta
Balls, so he an’ Dicky, they throwed her passed-out dead-drunk
skinny ass in the back’a the El Camino, covered her up with the
tarp and tooks off. Hour later they was back ’cross the line and
she
still
ain’t
woked up, so drunk she was! Dicky parked the ’Mino up one’a the
byroads off the Route and they’se hauled her out. Balls didn’t
waste no time gettin’ the stinky clothes off her, and she were a
sight, she were. All skinny and may-sher-ated on account’a bein’ a
corn junkie, ribs an’ hipbones stickin’ out, ratty dirty head’a
hair on her, titties all little an’ shriveled. Had long
stretchmaarks, too, on her skinny belly, which meaned she’d had
kids, an’ they was probably retarts ’cos she no doubt dranked like
a fish whiles she were preggered, but who know fer shore? Had big
long dirty toenails, too, an’ a yap full’a rotten teeth that was
almost black and caked with crap in ’tween ’em. Weren’t no prize,
this gal. Nevertheless, Balls dropped trow, hocked a spitter inner
dirty mufff, and gots right ta work. “Chrast, she a
bony
bitch, Dicky,” Tritt
Balls observed once he got ta humpin’ her passed out girlmeat.
“Fuckin’ hipbones like ta stab me in the belly!”

Dicky had his dick out, givin’ hisself
a wank, but he just weren’t into it. Wouldn’t git hard, it
wouldn’t. “Shee-it, Balls, let’s just leave and git outa here. This
rummy ain’t worth havin’ a nut in.”

Balls, still humpin’ away,
looked up a might disapprovin’ly. “Lets me tell ya somethin’ Dicky.
Hail,” he berated. “If it’s a hole, it’s worth havin’ a nut in,
’cos that’s what holes’re fer… Shee-it! She a
stinky
bitch, too! Ripe!”

Tritt’s ass rose an’ fell a
country mile a minute, whiles Dicky just up’n shook his head,
puttin’ his pecker back. Weren’t a whole hell of a lot’a fun
roustin’ a bitch when she were all passed out and smellin’ worse’n
a pig’s butt. But Balls, he knew, were different. Shee-it, he
humped
fellas
on
occasion, when there weren’t no gals around, and a coupla times
he’d even humped hisself some sheep. “Hail, Dicky,” he’d excused.
“‘S’all pink on the inside, ain’t it?”

Just then, though, this rummy creeker
gal perked up and started screamin’, she did, once she were
conscious enough ta realize what were bein’ done ta her. “Hold ’er
down, Dicky! Hold ’er down,” Balls had then started exclaimin’.
“She’s fightin’ a might fierce!”

Dicky feebly attempted ta do so,
pinnin’ her arms ta the dirt, but it weren’t ta much use. “You
dirty crackers!” she wailed, and then—ya know what she did then?
She hocked a stinky spitter right in Tritt Balls’ face.

Well, anyone who knowed Tritt Balls
Conner could tell ya. One thing ya never do is call him a cracker,
and another thing you never do is hock in his face. “Dicky!” he
fairly yelled. “Git the ballpeen out the truck.”

Aw, shee-it,
Dickey complained in his thoughts. Balls were
havin’ another swivet, he were. That rummy gal got him
all
fired up mad.
Problee be outs here all night, so’s he kin fuck
with her…
Dicky retrieved the
aforementioned hammer an’ gave it ta Balls, who ’mediately brought
it down hard—SMACK-SMACK!—on her skinny, stickin’-out collarbones
ands then—SMACK-SMACK!—on her hips, so’s she couldn’t move withouts
causin’ a greeverous ’mount’a pain. Naw, she couldn’t move much now
at all—Balls’ job with th ballpeen had taken the fight outa her a
right fast, it did—but she could still scream ta holy heck, so’s
Balls, then, he stucks the hammer handle inner yap and pulled it
back, stretchin’ her mouth open wide, and puttin’ a end ta her
noise. Then he leaned down real close like, coughin’ up a good many
chest oysters and took ta hockin’ ’em right inner open yap.
Shee-it, Balls about
filled
her mouth up with his spit’n phlegm, and it were a
might gross ta watch. Then he pulled out that hammer handle and
palmed up on her chin, shuttin’ her yap ’fore she’s could hock it
out. “Swaller, bitch,” Balls commanded, increasin’ the pressure
’gainst her chin. “Swaller all them there loogies ’less ys wanna
broke neck. You needs ta be taught ta never—an’ I means NEVER—hock
a spitter in Tritt Balls’ face!”

Eventually, the poor gal obliged,
swallerin’ that big snotty, lumpy mouthful’a hock. Then she bursted
a fresh scream from her broken bones scrapin’ as Balls flipped her
over an’ got ta conrholin’ her real hard’n fast. “Hail, Dicky,” he
pointed out. “Ain’t no shit up her butt, like nones at all!
A’corse, I’se guess that makes sense on account she probably ain’t
et no food in months. Just livin’ on corn liquor an’ all that
Kentucky cracker peckersnot she suck out fer free hooch,
huh!”

Balls worked her butt but
good, humpin’ it twennie minutes at least. Then he grunted out an’
had his nut right up her dry backside, he did. “Hail Dicky, that
was
shore
a fine
nut. Shore ya don’t wanna piece?”

“
Naw, I’ll’se pass,
Balls.”

Balls pulled out, wiped his
dick off inner ratty hair. By now, a’corse, there weren’t much fire
left inner at alls. She just lay there on her skinny belly, moanin’
an’ groanin’, with blood smeared alls over her skinny
buttcheeks.
Lotta
blood, it were, shellackin’ her like a ten-coat lacquer job.
Yeah, ol’ Balls shore had tored her ass up. In fact, when Dicky
looked close he swored he could see half the inside’a her asshole
hangin’ out that there busted hole, likes a bunch’a ground pork
slicin’s sittin’ right there ’tween her cheeks.

“
Come ons,” Balls saaid.
“Let’s git outa here.”

“
But, Balls!” Dickey
interjectered. “Ain’t we’se gonna kill her? I’se mean, we
gots
ta kill her, don’t
we’se? The cops might find her, ands she could give ’em our
descrip-sher-uns.”

Balls sniffed his fingers after
stuffin’ his pecker back’n his drawers. “Shee-it, Dicky. Ain’t not
cops ’round here. Ain’t no ones gonna find this rummy cracker whore
this far back’n the woods.”

“
But—but—” Dicky didn’t
understand. “Don’t’cha wanna kill ’er?”

“
Naw, Dicky Boy. She cain’t
move a lick after that ballpeenin’. Best ta just leave her, ya
know?” Balls brushed his long hair out his eyes, readjustered his
John Deere hat, an’ laughed high an’ hard. “Best ta leave the
possums somethin’ ta et. They’ll et her up good, those possums
will, an’ I’se say let ’em et her up
alive.
”

—
| — | —

FIVE

(I)

“
That was a fantastic meal
your aunt made for us,” Jerrica commented, jingling her car keys.
“Christ, I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in—well, I can’t even
remember. Since I got hired by the
Post,
I’ve been living on coffee and
chili dogs from the corner stand on 15th Street.”

Charity’s aunt had prepared
dinner, and Jerrica was right, it was very good. Country fried
steak, local butter beans, homemade sourdough rolls. Charity hadn’t
eaten much herself, though, her appetite stymied. Somehow, the
presence of Jerrica’s slim, vital physique made Charity
self-conscious.
Chili dogs, huh? I wish I
could eat chili dogs and have your figure.
Even Jerrica’s scant attire—cutoff jeans and a parrot-green
halter—made Charity feel frumpish in her plain blouse and billowy
blue skirt, an old maid before her time. It was a peculiar clash of
notions: that she could like Jerrica so much yet be so secretly
jealous.

After dinner, they’d decided to go for
a drive; Jerrica wanted to see the town, in order to begin some
basic notes for her article. “Are you sure you don’t mind showing
me around?” Jerrica asked. “I mean, if you’re too tired, that’s
okay; we can go tomorrow.”

“
I’m fine,” Charity said,
opening the passenger door. “It’s funny—we’ve been on the move
since six this morning, but I’m not tired at all.”

“
Me either. I’m really
excited about being here.” But just as Jerrica would start the car,
a voice called out behind them.

“
Oh, girls!”

They both looked over their shoulder.
It was Aunt Annie standing behind the porch screen.

“
It’s getting dark, so mind
the roads. And watch for the ’shiners.”

“
Don’t worry, Aunt Annie,”
Charity called back, repressing a smile. “We’ll be real
careful.”

Jerrica turned the small red car
around the circled drive. She seemed perplexed, pushing locks of
blond hair back. “‘Shiners?” she asked.

“
Moonshiners,” Charity
added the proper prefix.

Jerrica gazed agape.
“You’ve got to be
kidding
me! You mean like white lightning, bootleg
whiskey, stuff like that?”

“
Sure,” Charity replied.
“Around here they just call it ’corn,’ as in corn liquor. You saw
all those cornfields on the drive up—well, they don’t sell it to
Green Giant, I can tell you that. Moonshining is big business in
these parts, it’s the only steady work for a good chunk of the
population. Keep in mind, in Russell County, the unemployment rate
is over fifty percent. Almost everybody’s poor, so there’s an
instant market for 150-proof liquor that only costs ten dollars a
gallon. But the ’shiners make even more money selling the stuff on
the other side of the state line. There are a lot of counties in
Kentucky that are dry.”

“
What do you mean,
dry?”

Charity gave a shrug. “Alcoholic
beverages are illegal, so there’s a huge demand.”

“
Wow,” Jerrica remarked,
pulling off onto the Route. Gravel dust skittered behind them. “I
had no idea stuff like that still went on. I thought it was just a
southern cliche.”

“
Around here,” Charity
offered, “cliches are a way of life. The ’shiners have to use the
backroads to keep the police off their backs; that’s what my aunt
meant. They drive like maniacs. In fact, a lot of them
are
maniacs. I guess
anything in moderation is okay, but these people drink corn
constantly. It makes them crazy after a while.”

Jerrica paused a moment, as if
considering something. “This moonshine stuff is great material for
my article, but— Do you think I could get some snapshots of a
still, and maybe some ’shiners?”

Charity’s frown made no secret of her
disapproval. “Jerrica, around here you don’t want to even mention
it. Don’t ask anyone about stills or corn liquor. And don’t get any
ideas about snooping around the woods trying to find a still.
People get shot for that all the time.”

“
I get the message,”
Jerrica replied, going a little wide in the eye.

They drove on a ways, the inklings of
dusk just beginning to touch the horizon. And, yes, Charity’s
earlier observation held true. She’d gotten up at five a.m. to
leave D.C. by six, had been cooped up in the tiny car with Jerrica
for over nine hours, yet she didn’t feel fatigued in the least. If
anything, she felt revitalized, shot in the arm with a brisk new
vim. She supposed it could be attributed to an array of things:
fresh country air instead of smog; the vast stretch of field and
forest, unpocked by skyscrapers; plus the persistent rekindlement
of childhood memory.

“
Okay, this is your home,
Charity,” Jerrica pointed out. Now on the open road, her lambent
blond hair whipped to a tumult in the steady gust over the
convertible’s open top. “Which way do I go to get to
town?”

“
Luntville isn’t really a
town, not as you would think of one. Just old, small houses
stretched along the Route and the backroads. There is a main drag,
though—Main Street, if you can believe that. Just keep going, then
veer left when you see the white church.” Charity let her thoughts
swim then, clearing her mind of the world behind her. Raddled
scarecrows seemed to stare at her from the endless cornfields. More
fields of wild pokeweed shimmered in orange dusk, and beyond,
sweeping hills offered the distant silhouettes of blooming white
dogwoods, hornbeams, and groundcherry trees. The drag of wind
caressed her face, like fastidious, cool hands.