The Bighead by Edward Lee

Balls
chuckled some an’ said, “Dicky, that shore weren’t much of a meal,
ya know, an’ a growin’ gal like her, she needs proper
noo-trish-er-un, what with all that hard fuckin’ an’ cock-suckin’
she does ever-day. Comes on’s over here an’ drop trow. Pinch our
li’l cutie pie here a big loaf, yes sir!”
    Dicky groaned to hisself. “Aw, come
ons, Balls, I don’t wanna—”
    Balls’ face glared up mean as a
weasel. “What the hail’s wrong with you’a late, Dicky! You shore
are turnin’ inta a big creamcake!”
    “ Aw…” Dicky smirked an’
moseyed on over, droppin’ his jeans an’ jockeys. He squated an’
pushed, bustin’ a few farts first, then pinched hisself out a
coupla big logs’a poop.
    “ There ya go, honey,” Balls
announced, pushing her face down again. “Now that’s what I’se call a meal! ”
    Her face white as a ghost now, the
poor li’l hooker opened her yap an’ got ta eatin’ again. That first
poop she’d made herself weren’t nothin’ compared to Dicky’s big
logs! Steam flowed off’a ’em, ’n’fact, an’ bite by bite, she et ’em
up.
    “ There, ain’t that better
now?” Balls made the inquiry. “Probably the first good meal ya had
in a long spell, I bet. But now that yer belly’s full, I reckon
ya’d like a good drink ta warsh all that good food down with, what
say?”
    Balls flipped her back over and stood
up. Her head lolled, her mouth droopin’ open, showin’ brown teeth.
Then Balls leaned back, smilin’ like that evil smile’a his, and let
rip a long hard piss inta her wide-open yap. “Yeah, sweet thang.
Ain’t nothin’ like a good, cool drink on a hot night,
huh?”
    Chrast, Dicky thought. We gotta
git outa here. “Come ons, Balls. Let’s
roll. Just kill her so’s we’se kin be on our way.”
    Balls was hitchin’ up his trousers
now, lookin’ kinda funky at Dicky. “What’choo talkin’ ’bout, boy?
What kinda dag bastard ya think I am? Ya think I’d leave a lady
here, all alone in the woods? No ways. The least we’se kin do is
drive her back down the road, huh?”
    Dicky didn’t know what
Balls meant, ’ntil he watched what he did next. Balls grabbed the
gal again by her real long hair, he did, an’ he dragged her ta the
El Camino’s rear bumper. Now this gal’s hair, as were
preev-er-us-lee stated, was, like, real long, three foot at least, an’
what Balls did next was he tied that hair ta the trailer-hitch,
then fixed a big hose-clamp around the knot an’ screwed it down
good’n tight.
    An’ what they did then was—
    “ Yeah boy!” Balls whooped.
“We’se gonna have some big fun tonight!”
    They went fer a long drive.
     
     
    (III)
     
    Charity’s earlier reservations—about
coming to the bar— diminished quickly with the introduction of
alcohol. Instead, her mental involvements shifted back to herself,
as they frequently did, to all the things about herself she didn’t
like, to all her failures. Her spirit felt dwarfed, sitting next to
Jerrica…
    As the evening deepened, so did the
crowd; The Crossroads filled up with more of the same: rural
locals. Loud, rowdy, hard-drinking—sure. But not once did anyone
hassle them, harass them, try to put the moves on them. Every so
often, men would cast a glance their way, but Charity suspected
that their appraising gazes were more intended for Jerrica than
herself. The juke music played on, as did the billiards and dart
games, the laughter and drinking and high-spirits.
    While Charity’s own spirits
plummeted.
    She tried to maintain the
conversation—again, she liked Jerrica very much, and liked talking
to her—but now, after five beers, she felt buried by her own
reflections. Jerrica ordered another round, then nudged her. “Hey,
why so glum all of a sudden?”
    “ Huh? Oh, I’m sorry,”
Charity replied, chin in hand. “I was just thinking.”
    Jerrica didn’t even have to ask. Were
Charity’s regrets that plain? “Like I told you before, don’t