Bullet Through Your Face (improved format) by Edward Lee Read Free Book Online

“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