Bullet Through Your Face (improved format) (7 page)

BOOK: Bullet Through Your Face (improved format)
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Birds chirped cheerily at daybreak, sunlight invading Gray’s
prison. He heard a racket outside, and voices. The chain, he found,
was just long enough to let him get to the window.

Maybe I can see what’s going on . . .
He had to crane his neck but was able to look outside. Down
behind the house. From this vantage point he could see into the
plank-fence enclosure. There was a garage back there, and a large
tarp propped up by tent poles, cover against rain, he supposed. Gray
saw several cars within the fencing, including a black-lacquered
‘68 Camaro and his own Callaway Corvette with the windshield
and glass taped over.
What are those assholes doing to my car!
his
thoughts screamed. They’d painted it cotton-candy pink. And there
was Hull in the background, putting on a coat of lacquer with an air
brush. More customization had been previously added; silver cursive
letters on the back fender read: KICKIN’ASS, AIN’T TAKEN NO
NAMES.
Oh, man,
Gray screamed.
They’ve turned my beautiful car
into a dick-wagon! They didn’t even spell ‘takin’‘ right!
It looked like
a pimp’s car now.
Hull glanced over to Jory. “Come on, Jor. Git that cracker cut
up’n outa here.”

Gray’s eyes moved right. “Shore, Hull. I’se just sharp’nin the
blade.” There was Jory at a grinding wheel, honing the blade of a
frightfully large ax. Then he pulled some more tarp up on the ground.

Beneath the tarp lay a naked corpse.
“Yeah, this here fella weren’t much good fer nothin’.”
“Ain’t kiddin’, Jor. Couldn’t suck a peter fer shit.”
Then came a rubato
thwack-thwack-thwack
Gray’s belly squirmed as the ax rose and fell.
“Not like that city fella we gots upstairs, huh? Ooo-eee!” Hull
celebrated. “Like ta suck my dick so hard I felt air goin’ in my
asshole.”

Jory grinned, setting down the dripping ax. “Too bads you ain’t
inta cornholin’, Hull. ‘Cos that boy? Like fuckin’ a chicken’s how
tight’a butthole he got. Shee-it!”

Now Jory leaned over, stacking pieces of limbs neatly in the tarp.
A forearm here, a shin there. Hands and feet. And finally the head.
And it was a head Gray recognized . . .
That redneck I saw the other night, picking up the girl. And that’s
his Camaro there, only they painted it black . . .
Just then, the girl wandered out of the garage, her halter top off.
In her arms she cradled a naked mulatto baby sucking noisily at her
nipple.
Hull glared, paint gun in hand. “Git that tar-baby outa here, girl!
Cain’t’cha see we’se tryin’ ta work!”
Gray looked harder at the baby. It squalled, naked, in her arms,
less than year old. It looked mostly Negro but . . .
Jesus . . .
Closer examination reveled morose defects: a Down’s head,
one little foot smaller than the other, uneven ears, eyes way too close
together. Kari Ann stuck a distended nipple into its drooly mouth,
and that quieted it down. But Kari Ann seemed contemplative, her
eyes cast to the ground. “But, Hull, I gots ta talk to ya. I means, do
we really gots ta kill that city fella? Cain’t we just let him go?”
“I’ve a mind ta slap you upside the head! Gals shore don’t come no
dumber.”
“We gotta kill him, Kari Ann,” Jory interjected. “We let him go, he’ll tell the cops on us.”
The girl’s lip quivered. “But what if, ya know, what if he promised not ta?”
“Girl, you musta been standin’ in the shit line when they’she was passin’ out brains!” Hull roared. “Now git!”
Jory grabbed the severed head by the hair and bolted after the girl. “Hey! Hey, Kari Ann! Come give yer sweetheart a kiss!”
The girl shrieked. “Git that head away from me!”
“Bet if it were some
nigruh’s
head,
she’d kiss it!” Hull contributed.
Jory chortled, shaking the head. “Come on! Pucker up!” Then he
commenced to chasing her around the enclosed yard with it. “Hull!”
she screamed. “Make him stop! He’s scarin’ the baby!”
“Hail,” Hull chuckled back. “Ain’t nothin’ could scare that shitbaby retart critter, but it’s shores scarin’ the shit outa you!”
“Bet she’se’ll poop herself, Hull!”
Her shrieks followed her like a banner until Jory chased her out of the
yard. She stormed back into the house, the baby shrieking.
Hull honked echoic redneck laughter.
Yes sir,
Gray thought.
Life’s a holiday on Primrose Lane.
“Hey, Hull! Gander this!” Jory, then, expertly drop-kicked the head across the yard, where it—
thwack!
—bounced off the woodplank fence and landed on the chopped body parts piled on the tarp.
“Touchdown, Hull!”
“Shee-it, boy,” Hull remarked, shaking his head. “You’se shore are somethin’. Come ons, we’se finished fer now. Gotta let this
lacquer dry ‘fore I’se kin put on the next coat.”
“But what about this cracker I done just chopped up? Should I’she put his parts in the drum so’s we kin dump it?”
Hull hocked in the dirt. “Naw, it’s kin wait. That cracker fella with the Camaro’s skinny,” he appraised, looking at the chopped
body parts. “Wait’ll we kill the city fella, that ways we kin stick him
in the same drum. Looks ta me they’ll both fit. Then we’ll dump ‘em
both the same tam. Tuh-marruh.”

Tuh-marruh,
Gray thought.
Tomorrow.
They were talking about
him. He even saw the large metal drum in the yard, easily big enough
for two dismembered bodies. Gray’s gut quaked.

They’re going chop me up and put me in that drum. Tomorrow.

But ‘tomorrow’ lengthened into two more days and nights. Gray
supposed the inexplicable reprieve was something he should be
grateful for. Hull mentioned that he’d run out of clear lacquer and he
wanted ten full coats. This was good.

What
wasn’t
so good was how Gray was forced to spend his
temporarily extended life. He was promptly sodomized by Jory each
night, while having to simultaneously admit Hull’s rank penis into
his mouth. The brothers were having a hootinnanny, and Gray’s
mouth and rectum were the party favors. But he took it like a man:
on hands and knees, doing the job.

Each night, too, he was forced to eat steamed pumpkin. Gray
guessed there was more purpose to it than mere cruelty: it produced
bowel movements that were essentially liquefaction, the remnants
of which left him slick back there, easier to penetrate. After each
violation, he’d sit on the bucket and pour forth more pale diarrhea
marbled with Jory’s sperm. Aterrifying question nagged at him: what
would happen when the bucket was full? Would Kari Ann empty it,
or would he be dead before that eventuality?

On the second night Gray noticed threads of
blood laying in the
septic stew. No surprise there, not after the job Jory had done on him
just after dark. He’d been really riled, really ready to get it on, and
had
plungered Gray’s asshole like a stopped toilet. Hull’s finger-up-theass
blowjob hadn’t been much easier. Hull had been holding back—
Gray could tell—staving off his release for as long as possible.

Probably thinking about goddamn Randy Johnson,
Gray thought.
Works pretty well, huh, Hull?
Fuck. The nail on Gray’s index finger
remained permanently lined with shit. There was no way for him to
sufficiently clean his finger—they wouldn’t let him wash (and he
wondered if they did themselves), so now the dirty finger haunted
him. Any time he’d unconsciously scratch an itch on his nose, that
horrible shit-and-spit smell was there. There was no hope.
Or was there?

He’d overheard her, hadn’t he? Kari Ann? Trying to talk her
brothers into letting him go.
At least that meant she was thinking about it.
The third night, they came up twice. It was hard to concentrate
with Hull saying “Wiggle that finger, bitch” and Jory saying “Make
that cornhole
tight!
” both at the same time. Jory fondling Gray’s
testicles didn’t help. In time, Gray gulped down another liberal
dispensation of Hull’s sperm, while Jory came in his ass like a squirt
gun.
When Jory inched out, he slapped Gray hard on the ass. “That’s
a
good
girl!” he celebrated. He reached forward and pinched Gray’s
nipple. “You’re one great fuck. Fuckin’you’s like fuckin’a l’il school
girl.”
Hull bopped Gray’s temple with his knuckles. “Say thank ya
when my brother comp-ler-ments ya.”
Gray rolled his eyes. “Thank you.”
“You know, Jory,” Hull said. He remained standing, his overalls
still down. “I’se
feisty
tonight.”
“Yeah?”
Gray felt disconcerted when he saw what Hull was doing. He
was tugging on his deflated penis.
What? Again?
Gray thought.
Hull went on, “I don’t usually fancy to it but I think, I say, I think
I might like ta have me a piece’a his ass, too. Ain’t had me a good
butt-fuckin’ in a while. Now if I kin just get my dog hard again . . .”
Hull kept playing with himself. Gray prayed,
Please, please, DON’T get hard again...
Hull got hard again.
“Tear yourself off a piece, brother,” Jory said.
For the love of God,
Gray thought. He knew there was no way his rectal cavity could accommodate an erection the size of Hull’s.
Something would have to give, the same way as if you stuck a
cucumber in a donut hole. Gray’s
anus
was the donut hole.

BOOK: Bullet Through Your Face (improved format)
11.14Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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