Part One: The Crevice
Waylon Dowd loved cocaine. He loved the rocket-like rush, the undeniably sexual tingling up and down his trunk; he especially dug the 1980's-cut-fingernails used to line up the product for consumption on old episodes of Miami Vice. Waylon's devotion to the powdery opiate was not in any way diminished by the fact that he had never actually tried cocaine before. So sure was Waylon's conviction of future bliss, that he had recently tattooed a "black eight" billiards ball over his heart. He was particularly proud of the ingenuity of his new body art, even more so than the pre-existing "to inflate, blow here" with downward-facing arrow tattooed onto his shorn groin.
A former accounts payable clerk for a South Texas grocery store chain, Waylon knew numbers, and he knew them well. He understood that a cocaine addiction was an expensive and unyielding proposition, one he intended to finance for at least six years, before laying fallow, as loosely per Biblical instruction.
Waylon was methodical in his analysis; he crunched the numbers. He took into account the prevailing prices in the Laredo market for reasonable grade blow. He adjusted for inflation and the potential impact of future political climate on the movement of goods and services across the Mexican border. He created a set-aside for the high probability of a legal defense for addiction-related offenses such as larceny and public urination. And he totaled.
The approximate cost of a fully committed cocaine binge, for a half-dozen years was near-on three hundred thousand dollars. That figure included a modest per diem for convenience store frozen food items and smartly assumed repossession of most other-worldly assets.
This sum total was impressive, especially as matched up against a forty-three-year-old whose lifetime earnings paled in comparison. A common man might have been daunted by the task ahead of him. But Waylon Dowd was hardly a common man. This he thought to himself as he strained to lower a fifty foot extension cord down a narrow crevice on the backside of Old Man Pritchard's property late one summer evening.
"What the fuck you doing there, boy?" barked a voice from behind Waylon.
It was Henry Hank Pritchard, Hank Hank to his friends, of which he had none currently living. Henry Hank was Old Man Pritchard's son, well known in the area as an even harder ass than his old man, and that was a monumental recognition.
The unexpected salutation caused Waylon to lose his grip on the extension cord, which flew through his hands and whipped down into the crevice along with the accompanying and disturbing sound of a screaming child.
"Wheaton!" screamed Waylon as he scrambled toward the opening in the earth.
Henry Hank pulled the slide on his shotgun, causing Waylon to freeze in his tracks.
"Don't shoot! It's me, Waylon Dowd, your neighbor, you stupid fuck."
Henry Hank flipped on an incandescent flashlight and trained it on Waylon's face to confirm.
"Yep," said Henry Hank in terse recognition.
Henry Hank pointed his flashlight in the last known direction of the extension cord, over the edge of the crevice, in the far reaches of his family's mostly arid property.
"Who the fuck just fell into my old man's crevice?"
A half-hour later and Henry Hank had set up a diesel generator, with 300-watt spotlights, propped up a card table, and polished off four cans of Budweiser just twenty-odd feet from the site of the extension cord plummet.
He used a handkerchief to wipe a smattering of blood from beneath his nose. Waylon Dowd had been a fighter, right to the end. Henry Hank admired him for that, at least as much as you might rightfully say a man admired another man so shortly after bleeding him out with a Bowie knife to the spleen. That no good Waylon Dowd deserved nothing less for his nefarious schemes.
Being the son of Old Man Pritchard had been far more chore than delight. Maybe Henry Hank wasn't fully right in his mental faculties, but he knew right from wrong, and what Waylon Dowd was up to was more perverse than anything even his own mean bastard daddy had ever conceived. Somebody needed to send a message to these sick fucks, on behalf of the children; the day of reckoning was tonight.
The 300-watt spotlights illuminated the sticky path of blood from knifepoint to the edge of the crevice, where a lifeless corpse might find a comfortable resting place. A common man might have been daunted by the task ahead. But Henry Hank Pritchard was no common man. This he thought to himself as he dialed 9-1-1 on his cell phone.
Part Two: The Penis Finger
When news broke in Laredo, The KXLC news van was first on scene.
Even better than a police scanner was a news editor who happened to be married to the County Sheriff's call-center dispatcher. The moderately unhappy, but ever faithful wife bestowed a three minute head start to KXLC on all relevant emergency phone calls. While there was no specific evidence that this three-minute advantage translated into increased ratings, management at KXLC clearly reveled in their insider advantage. A former cleaning lady at KXLC once reported accidentally walking in on Tom Dwyer, the station manager, pleasuring himself as he repeated the words, "three minute advantage." Former cleaning ladies testimony being what they are these days, this story was always taken with a grain of salt, yet, the tale was forever seen as a general indicator of the stations' confidence in their ill-gotten competitive edge.
The news van screeched to a halt along the primarily untended Pritchard Family Farm on San Ignacio Road. The audible screech was a signature move of driver and news station intern, Teddy Dwyer, the semi-retarded son of the aforementioned station manager. This hockey-stop was the highlight of Teddy's day, a moment so precious that the near-moron would intentionally bang his head hard into the steering wheel as a demonstrative adjunct to the van's sudden stop. For newcomers to the KXLC van, this dramatic gesture could be quite alarming, but after a few rides, you simply wrote it off to Teddy being Teddy, and the semi-retarded son of a man who would masturbate in his place of work.
The van's side cabin door swung open and hot Latina reporter, Mem Martinez, stepped down onto the gravelly surface of her latest remote location. She stroked her penis finger in nervous anticipation. The damn thing always began to itch in the moments before the cameras went live.
The Bolivian born TV reporter suffered from a congenital birth defect wherein the index and middle finger of her right hand were fused into a single, solid digit with remarkable approximation in appearance to a man's engorged penis. Mem was tormented as a child for her deformity, teased by her grade school peers with a nickname that translates roughly into English as "dirty girl sausage hand." Despite her disfiguring appendage, as the years passed, Mem matured into a true olive-skinned beauty, with full lips, a fine bosom, and an apple-bottom that caused many an old man in her village to rediscover his virility. By the age of seventeen, Mem had secreted her penis finger beneath a homemade mitten and set off to the United States in search of a richer destiny.
To say Mem's rise through the ranks of the KXLC TV news department was astounding was to ignore her natural, onscreen charm, her dedication to English language lessons, and her willingness to engage in sexual intercourse with a large number of her supervisors. While sleeping with the boss was a staple of the TV news industry, Mem was a true standout. During rumpus sessions in the copy room, the Bolivian minx would ease her right hand out of its woolen casing and plunge her engorged penis finger into the puckered rectum of her mate. Not only did this uniquely fashioned finger-bang send shudders of heretofore never experienced pleasure rippling through the sensitive nerve endings of her higher-ranking lovers, but the mere act of being violated by the penis finger bound each of these men to a homophobic shame that translated to epic levels of favoritism in the workplace. Such it was that by the tender age of twenty-three, Mem Martinez was reporting live on scene during the A-block of the nightly news cast on KXLC.
"We go live in thirty seconds!" shouted cameraman Alejandro Reyes, relaying the countdown call echoing through his own radio earpiece.
Alejandro's panicky pronouncement caused audio-operator Chris Cormac to stumble and nearly drop his boom, while Teddy Dwyer partially wet his pants. Mem stroked her penile appendage with vigor as the entire team raced quickly toward a set of 300-watt spotlights a hundred feet or so in from the roadside.
"Father and son, both down into that there narrow crevice. Dead as deer. A real shameful accident," lamented Henry Hank into the KXLC Channel 4 microphone.
"Can you explain the obvious signs of struggle and blood here on the ground?" queried Mem as she repositioned the microphone back toward her local Emmy-winning mug.
Henry Hank let out a flummoxed grunt.
Got you there, motherfucker, thought Mem to herself. Despite the lascivious underpinnings of her professional climb, Mem fancied herself a true journalist. She knew this redneck prick was hardly telling the whole truth about the grim circumstances in the nearby crack in the earth.
She also knew a good story, and a father and son lying dead in an unmarked grave was a good story. And considering the fact that she might be this very moment interviewing their killer...hell, this was a great story. Mem was ready to move onto a bigger market and this grisly tearjerker of a story was her ticket. She could feel her future tremor in her penis finger.
"Help me," echoed out a weak, but desperate, plea from the depths of the crevice.
The child lives! And still a minute to go before the competition arrived to cover this soon-to-be-spectacle. She would surely be patched into Fox network. Mem's ticket was punched. Penis finger intuition confirmed.
Or was it?
Part Three: Leather 'n Shorty
"Shanyn Cafferty don't like to fuck." That was the vulgar refrain breathed into the ear of the working class men that came shopping for pussy at Rick's Poon Palace 2 just off the Lloyd Bentsen Highway in East Laredo. The man delivering that derisive little ditty was Casey McCoy the gruff doorman at Rick's. Casey was a Vietnam Vet who had distinguished himself during his twenty-five months of active military service by contracting seven unique forms of sexually transmitted disease. To put Casey's virological feat into perspective, in an A.M.A. study conducted in 2008, the average American doctor could name only five STDs.
While Shanyn Cafferty had, in fact, sworn off intercourse since the very moment she became pregnant with her only child nine years earlier, there was no particular reason for Casey to appraise complete strangers of her lack of receptiveness to penetration by the male organ. Some surmised that Casey's motive was petty revenge for Shanyn's outspoken disinterest in his never-ending, lewd come-ons. Others just wrote it off to the fact that Casey was a total dick. Regardless the reason, he was Rick's brother-in-law, and that secured him the job at the front door, manners be damned. Since the firebombing of the original Poon Palace in Culeta, Rick placed an extreme importance on keeping family close, even if those family members were total dicks.
Shanyn's disdain for traditional humping hardly hindered her position of prominence at Rick's; for the past four years, Shanyn had been the featured player in the sex club's uber-popular Leather 'n Shorty Show. Thrice a day, twice only on the day of the Christian Sabbath, Shanyn would secure her diminutive, mute stage partner, Periwinkle, into a rape harness, humiliate him with various straps and toys, and lewdly berate him for his inadequacies as he masturbated himself to completion in front of a dozen or more paying customers. The solemn reaction of the crowd to Periwinkle's discharge was not so much amazement at the copious level of semen produced by the submissive midget, but more so general confusion as to the norms of behavior after witnessing such a spectacle in a public setting. For the first several months of the popular show, there was nary a peep from the audience upon Periwinkle's ejaculation. This was until, one Spring afternoon, a customer remembered only as "maybe Steve," offered up an awkward, single-handed clap against his Tecate can. Maybe Steve's manner of appreciation was quickly adopted by the remainder of the crowd and soon became the post-show standard.
"It's Shanyn," responded the still costume-clad sex worker into her cell phone as she answered in the converted storage closet that was her Poon Palace dressing room.
"Turn on the TV. It's Wheaton!" exclaimed Shanyn's half-sister through the phone.
Shanyn's position in the entertainment world hardly afforded her a television set in her dressing room. She responded to the clarion call from her half-sibling by scurrying down the hallway and barging directly into Rick's business office, where the proprietor of the cum-drenched establishment vacuumed rails of cocaine off the taut belly of an unclad and under-aged Mexican stripper laid out across his desk.
"Waylon's dead," muttered Rick to a breathless and panicked Shanyn.
Rick motioned with his free thumb up toward a television set mounted in the upper corner of the office. "Fell into a crevice."
"Fuck Waylon. What about my boy?" demanded Shanyn.
"He still alive, midget show lady," responded the sixteen-year old girl from Juarez stretched naked across Rick's desk. "But he stuck in the hole."
"Crevice," corrected Rick.
"Si, crevice," smiled the humble spelling bee champ of Escuela Elemenataria d' San Guadalupe.
Shanyn ran from the room.
"Don't forget to clean out Peri's cage before you go!" yelled out Rick after the number three earner in his prurient enterprise.
Her sex-slave midget at her side, Shanyn hurried out the front door of Rick's and toward her car, but not before receiving a parting comment from doorman, Casey McCoy.
"That's Shanyn Cafferty. She don't like to fuck."
Despite the pressing nature of her situation, Shanyn stopped, turned, and struck the grinning Casey square on in the face with a dildo deftly withdrawn from her leather tool belt. The force of the blow from the Vulcanized rubber sex toy split open a swollen herpes sore resting upon Casey's upper lip, sending an obvious spray of blood and puss upon a passerby, who would forever remember this day as the second worst of his life.
"Motherfucking, bitch!" proclaimed Casey, drawing from the depths of his angry response dictionary.
Wheaton was Shanyn's only child, and even if born into this world as a by-product of a disturbing ten-minutes spent in the backroom of South Texas based grocery store chain, her maternal instincts never wavered. She loved that boy more than life itself. The two days a month that the court ordered her son to spend with his grossly wayward father were only bearable through a carefully balanced mix of Vicodin and denial, neither of which were remotely affecting Shanyn's adrenalin-infused brain as she pulled Peri toward her El Camino in the back row of the Poon Palace parking lot.
Though it was unfathomable to some, Shanyn felt her work at the Poon Palace to be personally rewarding, even if it bore only an admittedly loose connection to her childhood dream job of nursing. It would have been impossible for Shanyn to ever imagine that her occupational skills might someday save the life of her own, precious child.
Part Four: The Undead Nancies
Derek Pride wiped globs of white pancake makeup from his tear-stained face as he powered his chartreuse-colored Harley along San Ignacio Road in the direction of the only sanctuary he'd ever known—Laredo. He had two half-sisters and a step-brother in the border town, and they were pretty much the last remaining members of his blood that still spoke to him. The veteran biker wasn't prone to tears, but on this night, he wept like a baby in an uncomfortably soiled diaper.
Until three hours ago, Derek Pride was the Supreme Commander of the Undead Nancies, a bi-curious Goth biker gang that routinely traveled through the Southern States of the U.S., committing acts of mayhem and immodesty, in near equal measure. If you were to believe their Twitter prattle, they were the fifth largest bi-curious Goth biker gang in the United States, with seventy-three active members, more than fifty of whom were present on their current AbFab Winter Ride through South Texas. Derek's position as head of the motley crew had just been stripped away by democratic vote of the senior council, meeting in ad-hoc fashion in an alley aside a Corpus Christi biker bar known as "The Empty Tit."
The droplets of emotion scurrying down Derek's cheeks this evening belied the fierce nature of this truly demonic and sexually undecided biker. Derek's personal sins were too numerous to count and too heinous to recite, as proven out by scores of failed attempts to do so in the past. As a random example of his crimes against humanity, Derek had once raped an elderly farmer's favorite goat as punishment for ratting out the Nancies to the local authorities. Derek bound the old man with a parachute cord and forced him to watch the sexual assault of his beloved goat for hour after hour of bestial depravity. When later appraised that the aged farmer suffered from a debilitating case of glaucoma and had been unable to witness the fiendishly clever punishment, Derek kidnapped the old man's daughter from her nearby place of work, returned her to the family farm, and re-raped the goat in front of her such that she could verbally relay the horrific events to her father. Derek was nothing if not committed to his indecency.
Yet, it was neither Derek's unchecked rage nor questionable taste in punishments that were the cause of his ouster from the Undead Nancies. This was a matter of corporate politics, plain and simple. More specifically, the trumped up charge of "Indecent Recipe" by Terry Brandt, a relative newcomer to the Nancies, who was dutifully playing out his role in a much larger intra-gang struggle.
The gang code of the Undead Nancies was never committed to paper, but passed from existing member to new member in an arcane ritual of oral history that took nearly three days time from end to end. "Indecent Recipe" was an offense introduced to the Nancies' rule book in 1993 and was predicated on two seemingly disparate underlying conditions: the unwelcome cupping of another member's testicles simultaneous to any song by Go West being played on a jukebox. Truth be told, the "Indecent Recipe" offense itself was born of a personal dispute between two Nancies that had escalated into statutory warfare. Such was the nature of a bi-curious Goth biker gang. A lot of this type of shit went on.
At the impromptu trial outside The Empty Tit, Derek could hardly deny that he had that evening plunked down a quarter and selected the high energy pop hit "King of Wishful Thinking" on the saloon's jukebox. The sole question facing the council was Brandt's assertion that Derek had, mid-song, in a secluded corner of the bar, demonstratively caressed the nutmeat of his junior gang brother. That the council would choose to believe the testimony of a newbie over their Supreme Commander's steadfast denial was really the inevitable and somewhat tragic conclusion for a gang leader who had a tin ear for office politics.
Such it was that a man whose entire adult life was made and measured by his association with the nation's fifth largest bi-curious Goth biker gang, was suddenly stripped of all such relations, and left alone and wretched outside The Tit.
Derek knocked back a nonsensically long stream of pre-mixed Appletini from his leather bota bag, like so much comforting urine flowing into the mouth of a wet-play bottom. Through his alcohol-induced haze, Derek peered up at the spike on his right handlebar, which held the severed head of Terry Brandt, his erstwhile accuser. While Derek was a man bound by honor to accept the vote of his gang's senior council, he was also the dude who twice raped a goat. Terry Brandt might have considered such a pedigree before agreeing to be the patsy in a power play against the former Supreme Commander.
Derek caught a shimmer in the distance from a set of diesel powered 300-watt spotlights. Like a moth toward flame, Derek plowed onward, down San Ignacio, toward the light.
It was the semi-retarded Teddy Dwyer who first spotted Derek's bike fast approaching. At first, Teddy had assumed he was imagining such an ominous specter: a muscle-bound, intoxicated, bi-curious Goth biker toting the very head of his enemy atop a chartreuse Harley thundering toward the news encampment not but two minutes subsequent their arrival.
"Thing!" shrieked Teddy.
Teddy's simplistic alarm meant little to the folks standing near the crevice, save for the hyper-vigilant Henry Hank who turned away from Mem's unexpected question, snatched up his shotgun, turned and fired off two rapid-succession rounds of buck shot in the general direction of the former Supreme Commander of the Undead Nancies.
Part Five: The Plan
"Daddy, why do we always gotta eat pork and beans when I come see you?" inquired nine-year old Wheaton Dowd of his father.
Waylon was never comfortable answering his son's questions. He found them to be an attack on his parental authority, or, in the least, particularly annoying to have to deal with. While Waylon fondly remembered the ten-minutes spent with Shanyn Cafferty in the back of the South Texas grocery store chain, he often pondered how different his life would be had he pulled his manhood out of Shanyn's fertile parts prior to finishing his business.
It's not that Waylon didn't love his son—in fact, he had fought hard just to get the two days a month custody arrangement—it's just that he no longer had room for a boy and his cloying questions in his fast approaching life of cocaine addiction.
"Son, I got me a plan. I don't want you to question this plan, because I've been thinking real hard on it and it's a good plan that's going to help your daddy out quite a bit."
"What kind of plan, Daddy?"
Fuck, there he goes again, thought Waylon. Always with the fucking questions.
Wheaton picked up the 50 foot of extension cord he had rolled into a reasonably tight bundle and slung it over one arm and onto his shoulder. He had meant to get rope or perhaps some parachute cord, but he had forgotten to get to the store before closing and was left only with this makeshift electrical line.
"Are you familiar with the crevice on the backside of Old Man Pritchard's property?"
"Now, when you get to the bottom, you wiggle yourself up good and tight into a stuck position, you hear me?" lectured Waylon as he cinched a portion of the extension cord around his son's waist at the edge of the crevice. "This won't work if you ain't truly stuck."
"Do I gotta do this, Daddy? It's real dark."
"Son, here's the God's honest truth. You're nine-years-old now and I want to be straight with you. Your Daddy's got a drug problem."
"Drugs are bad," recited young Wheaton, the recent graduate of a feel-good, but ultimately ineffective D.A.R.E. program at his grade school.
"No. Not all drugs, " corrected his father. "Most are, yes. But not cocaine. It's just the be-all-end-all red wax on the bottom of the liverwurst. It's not something I can even describe in words. But it's got a grip on your old man like harlots do a whoremonger. And I need that money. Can you understand this, Wheaton? Can you do this for your old man?"
Normal children don't typically think to themselves "what the fuck?" but nine-year old Wheaton sure did as he was lowered the first ten feet down into the dark and constricted crevice on the backside of Old Man Pritchard's property.
"Just like Baby Jessica, Wheaton. This is fucking genius!" came Waylon's voice over the edge of the crevice as Wheaton dropped another five feet along the jagged wall of the narrow fissure in the earth's surface.
Wheaton knew that his Daddy was a loser. Even a young child can sense this in their parent if that adult be such a fuckup as to merit such obvious conclusions by a mere child. And Waylon certainly fit that category. Wheaton sure took ribbing from the boys at school for the questionable entertainment content everybody in town knew that his mama was perpetrating thrice daily down at Rick's. Still, he much preferred to be cared for under her supervision than that of his daddy, who typically smelled like bananas and often misquoted the New Testament. Even better, this was the week his mom's half-brother Derek would be visiting. Wheaton loved Derek more than any other relative, and not just because Derek rode a cool-ass motorcycle and would bring him a box of neatly monogrammed handkerchiefs every time he visited.
Wheaton heard the sound of another man's voice from up above, just moments before the extension cord line went slack and Wheaton plummeted the remaining twenty-five feet to the floor of the crevice, screaming for but a moment before reaching rock bottom with a concussive force, snapping his left tibia bone, and hurling him into unconsciousness.
Part Six: Most Everybody Dies
Henry Hank was good with his gun. The first round of buckshot tore off a chunk of Derek's right shoulder, sending the bi-curious biker reeling backward and his torso right into line of the second shot fired, dozens of lead pellets plinking into his body proper and launching him from the seat of his ride, flying across the dirt topsoil a good fifty feet, and disappearing right into the crevice.
However, the gruesome exit of Derek's body did little to alter the path of his chartreuse Harley, still cycling at top speed, as it plowed directly forward onto the breaking news scene
Station Manager, Tom Dwyer, stood behind his desk in his office watching the live feed from the remote news crew, his mouth agape, his preferred working hand frozen onto his fully-erect and slightly bent penis.
"Three minute advantage," Tom mumbled into space.
Shanyn drove like a woman possessed down San Ignacio Rd. Up ahead she could see the convoy of emergency response vehicles and TV news van presumably driving toward the same location as she.
Shanyn's head rocked forward from a rear bumper blow to her El Camino.
Who the fuck rear-ends your ass when you're doing seventy-five down a two-lane highway?
Shanyn looked into her rear view mirror to see Periwinkle confused and concerned in his three foot metal cage fastened in the rear of her open bed vehicle, and, past the mortified midget, to the vehicle beyond, to the trademark snarky smile of her bully, Casey McCoy, amped up on meth-amphetamine, planted behind the wheel of the newer model Chevy Tahoe he had recently acquired in a Cash-for-Clunkers trade-in.
She could see him mouth the phrase, "Shanyn Cafferty don't like to fuck."
Chris Cormac, whose position in life never afforded him the opportunity to sexually liaise with Mem Martinez, the object of his massive co-worker crush, took the opportunity to high road himself and his vast amount of online poker gambling debts into the next life as he shoved his Bolivian fantasy girl out of the line of the oncoming motorbike, bearing the brunt of the deadly impact himself.
The chartreuse chopper rode right over the boom operator and crashed into Henry Hank's diesel powered generator, creating an explosion that sent both bike and generator parts blowing in all directions from the concussive blast zone.
The Harley's chain drive, still spinning at several thousand RPM, whipped through the air like a flying scythe and straight for Mem who had only momentarily righted herself from her boom operator's life-saving shove. She barely had time to raise her hands in reflexive protection as the bike chain whistled past her frame, miraculously leaving her unscathed, save for the near surgically precise severing of her penis finger, which flew up into the air, highlighted quite dramatically from the remaining sparks of the exploding 300-watt spotlights.
"Jesus Mother Mary," spouted a slightly charred Henry Hank as his eyes tracked the engorged phallus flying up into the air, arc high over his head, and descend tip-first into his shocked and wide-open mouth, lodging firmly in his windpipe.
Mem Martinez stared in horror at her newly disfigured hand, blood now spurting from the previous site of her penile digit. She stumbled back in a wounded trance and fell into the crevice.
"For you," sputtered Derek Pride through the thick blood pouring from his mouth, as he handed a small box to his injured, but now conscious nephew, Wheaton, at the bottom of the crevice.
Derek had fallen into this grim and miserable rock formation only seconds earlier, landing atop the bloodless body of the dude who bare-backed his half-sister nine years earlier in the back of a South Texas grocery store chain.
"Handkerchiefs," smiled Derek, a final act of kindness in a life of mostly foul deeds, now at its conclusion.
Wheaton's put-on smile faded quickly as another body, this of a smoking hot, formerly penis fingered Bolivian-born TV reporter ricocheted down the crevice, her body banging both sides of the narrow and jagged fissure before falling to a final stop on top of Wheaton, the force of the impact cracking the boy's right tibia and fibula into several parts.
She was dead. Dead as a deer. And despite the heaven sent placement of two bodacious breasts square up in his face, Wheaton cried out in great distress.
Another smack from Casey's Chevy Tahoe sent Shanyn's tailgate loose as it flopped into a lowered position, much to the chagrin of Periwinkle, locked in his cage, held secure by only a metal chain slung into and around the El Camino cabin's rear sliding window frame.
Inside that cab, Shanyn cursed a God that would not only put her beloved boy in harm's way, but also allow a total dick to try and abort her rescue efforts.
There were only tough choices in Laredo.
Shanyn turned to the cab window that held the chain link securing her midget's cage. She made eye contact with her beloved Shorty. He shook his head back and forth and offered up a puppy-like plea to his master.
But Periwinkle was now between mother and cub, and that indecent recipe meant only one certain outcome. Shanyn unclasped the hasp lock binding the chain link and flung it loose, even as her foot depressed the gas pedal hard to the floor.
The force of the acceleration sent the semen-shooting showman and his metal cage sliding back along the truck bed of the El Camino and onto and over the downed tailgate, crashing hard onto San Ignacio Road. Casey's SUV immediately struck the wrought-iron cage and flipped hard onto its side, skidding along the pavement and crashing hard into, and toppling, an electric pole. Power would stop flowing to ten thousand Laredo residents even as one total dick with no less than seven venereal diseases departed this world.
As accident investigators poured over the multiple scenes of death over the next several days, one would uncover a small-man-sized cage, trampled, but still primarily intact, about one hundred feet up from the site of the McCoy incident, in a storm run-off ditch. The cage door wrenched open from the force of impact. No body was ever found. To assuage her guilt from that fateful decision, Shanyn would often imagine that Periwinkle had managed to escape that evening's lethal events and perhaps trekked back across the border to the small mountain village in the Chihuahua province where she imagined he had found himself a far better life than at Rick's.
In actuality, she knew it was far more likely that the defenseless little mute had been dragged off by coyotes and consumed in whole.
Teddy Dwyer stared in silence down at the head of Terry Brandt, which had blown clear of the explosion and lay in horrific frozen gaze on the dirt before the semi-retarded son of the television station manager.
"Hello" smiled Teddy awkwardly at the severed human head.
The head did not respond. Nor did it nor Teddy hear the screech of the KLAR Laredo Action News van as it skidded to a stop, smashed into Teddy's backside and sent the semi-retarded intern flying face forward into the Brandt head, resulting in a specific form of brain damage that ironically lead to a near across the board improvement in Teddy's mental faculties from that day forward.
Alejandro Reyes panned his camera around the breaking news scene of death and destruction. Within a month's time, he would receive a more lucrative offer from a news station in Dallas who inquired about the steadiest of hands behind the camera on this fateful evening.
Alejandro zoomed in on Henry Hank, down on his knees, struggling for breath, with what appeared to be an engorged penis stuck in his maw.
An EMT on the scene moved to tend to the asphyxiating Henry Hank, but to no avail, as the penis finger was so firmly stuck in his gullet that not even an emergency tracheotomy would provide a reversal of ill-fortune.
Henry Hank slipped from this world in a manner in which he could have never foreseen, neither ironic nor symbolic, just uncommon and unfortunate. Old Man Pritchard would cherish his son in death, though never regret the fact that he had not done so in life. Such were the ways of a mean old bastard with a mostly arid farm just east of Laredo.
Still in her "leather" costume, Shanyn Cafferty ran toward the crevice, now lit by the bright light of an overhead helicopter and the still flickering flames from the recent diesel explosion.
A noticeable inactive line of police and fire rescue personnel flanked the crevice.
"That's my son down there! Wheaton, baby? It's mommy," yelled out Shanyn as she leaned over to peer into the now partially lit crevice floor.
"Mama! Help me. I'm hurt real bad. Most everybody's dead," shouted up the badly wounded nine-year-old.
Shanyn turned to the befuddled officers on either side of her. "Get down there. Get my boy!"
"Ma'am, it's too narrow, we sent down a free line but he's stuck under a couple other bodies," replied one officer.
"Ma'am, do you remember Baby Jessica?" remarked another of the public servants.
"Too dangerous to send anybody down. Most likely get stuck themselves. I've ordered a current halt to rescue activities," proclaimed the man who appeared to be their chief, trying to settle the deal with a bureaucratic period, end of sentence.
Wheaton looked up toward the lip of the crevice to the sight of his leather-clad, dominant mother spelunking down the side of the narrow walled hole in the ground.
Shanyn nimbly utilized her leather straps and a series of rubber sex toys to avoid the jagged edges of the rock formation as she let out line through the rape harness she had retrieved from her vehicle and strapped to her person.
"Baby, I'm coming. You gotta move that reporter whore off your person and then move the body there blocking my way. Can you do it for your mama, Wheaton?
"That's Uncle Derek," remarked Wheaton, gritting his teeth with pain as he rolled the bloody Mem off of his own battered body.
"Uncle Derek's down there? What the fuck?"
"He got me handkerchiefs," smiled Wheaton bravely.
"Well, he's dead now. Dead as a deer. Move him boy so I can reach you," ordered Wheaton's working mom as she lowered herself the final few feet toward the rescue of her beloved boy.
Part Seven: The Old Man and The Goat
"You've got what?" screeched a sweaty and sex-covered Derek Pride as he got in the face of the old farmer.
"Glaucoma. Can't see much past a foot," responded the septuagenarian farmer.
"So you didn't just see me rape your goat? For two hours you've been sitting here unable to see the horrid fucking thing I just did to your favorite farm animal and you didn't say a word?"
"You told me to shut up," replied the farmer.
Derek scratched his head in bewilderment. He surely loved a hot woman. And he had definitely experimented with his feelings toward other men, though he remained unsure about being entirely gay. However, fucking that flea-ridden goat had been a monumental task. He didn't like fucking animals. Who did?
Derek got out his ivory-handled .22 revolver and stuck it up under the old farmer's throat.
"Here's the deal, and you're gonna commit this to memory. You got a daughter," started Derek.
"I don't have a daughter," interrupted the farmer.
Derek pressed the business end of his gun up harder into the old man's neck apple and got his mouth right up close to the old farmer's right ear.
"You got a daughter. Since you didn't just see me rape your goat on account of your glaucoma, I went to her nearby place of work and kidnapped her back to the farm here. Then I re-raped the goat for a couple more hours in front of her so that she could see it and verbally relay the horrific events to you. Are we clear on this?"