The Bighead Read Online Free

outside’a Luntville, nears Whiskey
Bottom’n Cotswold. They’d met back in seventh grade at Clintwood
Middle School, the grade they both dropped out’a. Mid-twennies they
both was now, Dicky bein’ kinda short an’ fat with a buzzcut, and
Tritt Balls bein’ a right tall an’ big-framed, long-hairt, with a
hard, mean face an’ chopburns an’ always wearin’ a John Deere hat
evens though he ain’t worked on his daddy’s farm in years. Dicky
knowed Balls wore the hat on account he had a bald spot that he
were real senser-tive about, so’s Dicky never mentioned it. And the
reason they needed fast wheels, see, was ’cos it gave ’em a fast
getaway when they was out on a run. Neithers of ’em hadda real job,
didn’t need one. What they did ’nstead was run hooch for Clyde
Nale, who had hisself a bunch’a stills up’n the woods just
outside’a Kimberlin. It was a right big set-up ol’ Clyde Nale had,
an’ he needed runners with balls, so’s that’s why Balls an’ Dicky
got the highest payin’ runs on account they had about the fastest
set’a wheels in the county and they knowed all the back roads so’s
the state cops and those BATF chumps hardly ever got a line on ’em,
an’ Balls Conner, well he had the balls not ta take no shit off
them hillbillies over the line, which were why he was called Balls
in the first place. What they did, see, was four or five times a
week, they drove over a two-hunnert-gallon load’a moonshine ’cross
the Kentucky line ta distribiters in Harlan. Clyde Nale, he played
it smart; Russell County was “wet” so’s that’s why he brewed his
hooch here—less cops—and then paid Dicky an’ Balls ta run over the
line ta Harlan, where they sold it to the “dry” counties over that
ways. And since this was a long an’ risky run, Nale paid ’em a
thousand per month, which Balls an’ Dicky split. They was hard
workin’ young men, was what they was in other words.
    But like the sayin’ went:
all work an’ no play make Balls an’ Dicky a fairly dull pair’a
boys. So’s ’tween runs they had thereselfs all kinda play, doin’ what they
referred ta as “tear-assin’.” Rapin’ gals, runnin’ folks off the
road, hidin’ out behind the roadside bars an’ jackin’ fellas in the
noggins so’s ta take their scratch. An’ well—
    Killin’ folks too, on
occasion.
    Dead crackers tell no
tales, were what Balls said that first
time. It was just after a run to Harlan, an’ on theirs way back
they spotted the purdiest li’l gal you ever did seed, a blondie wearin’
tight shorts’n almost nothin’ up top, hitchin’ along Furnace Branch
Road round about midnight. A hill gal she was, and whens they
pulled over ta offer her a ride, why she just up an’ smiled the
whitest, purdiest smile an’ says “Shore, boys, Thank ya much.” So’s
she slid right in next ta Balls on the bench seat, an’ Dicky pulls
off the shoulder figgurin’ they was gonna give her a ride home,
when he hears SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! and he looks over aghasted ta see that Balls had
’mediately cracked her upside the head with his homemade jack.
“What’cha goan do that fer!” Dicky wailed. “Pulls up the next dirt
road ya see,” was all Balls had answered, an’ when Dicky did…well
ain’t too purdy recitin’ what happened then, so’s let’s just say
that Tritt “Balls” Conner had hisself one hell of a romp. He laid
dick twice on that gal, he did, ’fore she even come to, right there
off the side’a the road. Yessir, she were a fine lookin’ thing but
probably weren’t but fourteen ’er so, an’ once she come to right in
the middle’a Balls’ second nut, she started screamin’ like ta wake
all the dead outa Beall Cemetery, but all Balls did was laugh out
loud like the devil hisself, continuin’ ta hump her poor young
pussy right inta the ground. Dicky hisself stood aside ta watch,
an’, well, seein’ this cute li’l gal with her clothes ripped off
her, an’ her