excerpt from WHITE TRASH GOTHIC
WHTE TRASH GOTHIC excerpt
Hillbilly rock and roll jangled from a boombox (“I’m gonna buy me a graveyard of my own, kill everyone who ever done me wrong...”) next to a cooler full of beer. The thought of beer enlivened him...until he saw a score of crushed cans lying about. Ugh! Keystone Light. But a turn of his head showed him a matter far more grievous than undrinkable beer. He was instantly watching an unwatchable scene, and witnessing events that were indescribable.
However, they will be described nonetheless...
At the water’s edge there sat parked a gleaming jet-black 1969 Chevy El Camino, with an expanded hood in order to house a street-illegal engine. On the multi-lacquered hood rested the open-mouthed, open-eyed severed head of a blond woman, before which stood a portly young man with a crew cut. His jeans were down to his knees, and he masturbated with what could only be called precision, intermittently glazing his corona over the tip of the head’s lolling tongue. The Writer knew immediately who this man was: Dicky Caudill.
Another denim-panted fellow knelt on the ground and was engaged in an activity far worse than Dicky’s exploit. It was a long-haired, wiry, muscular man with chopburns, wearing a ball cap that advertized chewing tobacco. Balls Conner, the Writer knew at once. Before “Balls” lay a headless woman divested of all garb, and easily eight-and-a-half months pregnant. Her thighs had been tied together so to prevent miscarriage. Balls, pants opened, straddled the corpse and was slowly inserting and withdrawing his erect penis in and out of an obvious wound in the lower quadrant of the woman’s belly. A bayonet on the ground told the tale of how the wound had come to be.
“Fuck, Dicky, I’m gonna bust right away, feels so good, it does!” Balls related with enthusiasm.
But Dicky hadn’t heard, too focused was he on the task, literally, at hand. He quivered, rose to tiptoes, while his love-handles jiggled beneath a double extra-large t-shirt which read BASTIN SAWKS CACK. The fat man’s back began to arch as he grunted “Uh-uh-uh-uh!” in a comical sight, and when the crisis arrived, he shucked his member like a corn ear, doing his best to ejaculate into the severed head’s mouth.
Balls’ crisis arrived almost as fast. He palmed the great gravid belly before him, thrusting, thrusting, then– “Ahhhhhh, there she blows, Dicky! I’se a-fillin’ this here preggo creeker the fuck up, I is!”
Dicky faced the spectacle now, for some reason pulling on his now-flaccid penis. He giggled as an over-excited retarded person might. “Yuh-yuh-yuh shore are, Balls! Yuh shore are!”
Now Balls was standing and pulling his flaccid penis as well. He seemed to ponder an overwhelming question. “Gee, I’se wonder if...well, if the baby in ‘er is a girl, I wonder if maybe I knocked it up...”
“Could be, Balls,” Dicky said, impressed by the possibility. He put the blond woman’s head in the beer cooler, no doubt, for partying later.
Balls was hitching up his pants. “Yes sir! Nothin’ like a good ole fashioned belly-fuckin.’ Gettin’ a good nut an’ doin’ society a service at the same time! These cracker bitches all the time gettin’ knocked up on purpose just so’s to git the welfare.”
“Dang straight, Balls.” Dicky put the cooler and boombox in the vehicle’s back bed.
“Yeah, way I figger, ‘tis any man’s patriotic duty to belly-fuck these knocked up trailer trash ‘ho’s ands cut off their heads. Keep down the surplus population, and helps fix the deffer-sit.” Before he zipped up, Balls urinated for an unimaginably long time on the pregnant, headless corpse. “And what they’se knocked up with is anyone’s guess. Only white dudes ta ever knock these hosebags up is their daddies ‘er brothers. What’s the world comin’ too?”
Another minute more ticked by in Balls voiding his very full bladder on the headless woman. The belly shined like a wet, white beach ball (well, in a manner of speaking, since beach balls weren’t generally tattooed with the words FUCK ME TO HELL’N BACK!) Balls started to zip up.
“Dang, Balls,” Dicky pointed out. “Cain’t believe ya wasted yer pee like that. You ain’t yerself lately.”
Balls cut a sneer. “What’choo talkin’ ‘bout, Dicky? Ain’t myself?”
“Guess you’re too worried ‘bout the ‘conomy’n the welfare’n all. See, any other time you wouldn’t’a thunk twice. The Balls Conner I know would never’ve peed on a gal he just belly-fucked. He’d’ve peed in the hole he fucked her in.”
Balls looked at the glistening corpse, then slapped himself in the head. “Dang, Dicky! What the hail’s wrong with me fer not thinkin’ of that!”
“‘Twas just sayin’, you know? Stands ta reason, ya just done come all over that baby inside, might as well pee all over it too.” Dicky chuckled. “Bet her belly’d git all swole up like a water balloon.”
“Shee-it! I’se hate it when I forgit the really important shit! When we’se done at the Crafter House, we gotta find us another preggered gal! ”
“Shore thing, Balls. ‘Twon’t be too hard, not ‘round these parts.”
“Dang right. Come on, let’s git,” said Balls, dejected with himself. Both men got in the car. The doors thunked closed, then the earth shook when Dicky started the 750hp engine and sped off, leaving a screen of dust.
Was it just the veil of the mechanism called dreaming that made the Writer certain he’d known these men?
Or did I know them for real?
He contemplated abstrusions, orphic enigmas, and oblique strategies, all while exerting every effort not to look at the dead pregnant woman. He could swear that something had moved beneath the belly...
Yes, he knew full well that he’d seen those two men before, long before they’d died. For real, not merely in the dream. And he knew something else...
He knew he’d heard of the Crafter House, and a name to go with it: Ephriam Crafter.
But in the next blink, all musing disintegrated when suddenly he was gagging, surrounded by a stench like the worst body odor imaginable, intensified a hundredfold. He was about to collapse to his knees but alarm prevented it. His temperature dropped, his sweat chilled. He felt a massive, almost palpable shadow cover the ground in front of him.
It was no man who looked down at him; it was a malformed thing, seven, maybe eight feet tall. It had a hand-breadth the size of a dinner plate. Through the horrific stench, the Writer noticed that the thing wore overalls and had a huge bulge at its crotch. Then it palmed the Writer’s head like a basketball, lifted him aloft, and opened a black maw for a mouth rimmed by what looked like a dog’s teeth. It was then, of course, that he realized he’d stumbled upon that mythic monstrosity of local legend known as the Bighead. Guess it’s not really a myth after all, he concluded at the moment the creature’s mouth closed over his face...