“Aw, we ain’t usin’ it—that’s the elevator.”
“Elevator. The fuck you need that for?”
“Wheelchair,” Cristo said as he and Argi managed the still-convulsant Highball.
“Wheelchair?”
Paulie grinned. “You’ll see,” and then he opened a smaller door with steps at the bottom, and showed everyone inside.
“Damn!” Case Piece said. He swept his gaze about the plush interior: leather couches, kitchenette, full liquor bar, shag carpet, giant-ass plasma TV. An impressive laptop computer and auxiliary screen occupied a small ledge opposite. “You shittin’ me, Paulie! This the toppest party-player wagon I ever see,” but then he took a moment in noticing a door in the wall of the back of the vehicle. Simple estimation told him that only twenty feet of this thirty-foot motor home was visible. The rest…
…was behind that door.
“So what gives, man?” Case Piece scratched his head. “This where you snuff folks?”
“Naw. Back there.” Paulie seemed intensely delighted, looking down at the silenced, squirming, terror-stricken form of Highball. “See, that’s where Melda is.”
“Who’s Melda?”
The mafioso’s grin kept sharpening. “Go through that door and you’ll see.”
“Uh…”
“Go on. Go in. Brace yourself, though. We got a fan runnin’ but the room still smells like a fuckin’ lion cage. See, Melda don’t wash, we don’t let her, ’cos…” Paulie looked to the even more visibly distressed Dr. Prouty. “Tell him why, Doc.”
Prouty sucked in a despairing breath. “Foregoing typical hygiene, with regard to Melda and her unique utility for Mr. Vinchetti, only compounds the sheer magnitude of the horror for the victim.”
Case Piece didn’t know what they were talking about.
“Go on,” Paulie repeated. “Go say hi to Melda…”
Case Piece opened the narrow door and stepped into the rear room. An utterly silent pause ensued, then—click!—Case Piece came back out, closed the door behind him, and leaned against the wall, the whites of his eyes set in the dark face now seemingly twice as large as they should be.
Paulie, Argi, and Cristo burst now into their most raucous round of laughter.
“What the fuck,” Case Piece whispered, “is that?”
“We told ya. It’s Melda,” Paulie was excited to explain. “Melda’s special, like you just saw. We use her for snuff-flicks and the real psycho-sicko stuff to sell to pervs.” Another slap on the back. “Come on. Let’s all go in and we’ll show ya some real action.”
Paulie, Prouty, and Case Piece entered first, while Argi and Cristo followed, bearing the girl who, in the interim, had had her ankles tied together and her wrists bound behind her back. They carried her like a roll of carpet.
Within, the dense, earthy malodor was what one first noticed: a distilled stench of urine, excrement, and soul-upheaving body odor. But what Case Piece was looking at in detail now was exponentially worse than the smell.
“Melda, meet our pal Case Piece,” Paulie announced.
“Hi, Case Piece!” came a high-spirited female voice with a Jersey accent.
Case Piece remained unable to speak.
What he viewed was, indeed, a human being, a naked human being, and one who had to weigh over 300 pounds. She—Melda—sat on a broad bench, elephantine legs parted, while beneath the bench sat a bucket for the manifest purposes of elimination. An extra-wide wheelchair had been folded up and set aside; Case Piece easily deduced that that’s what was used to wheel her in here, and the handicapped elevator was the mode by which she was actually admitted into the motor home. Rolls of pallid fat seemed stacked upon more and more rolls where her lap should be, but half-covered by two flat slabs of still more fat which were, of course, breasts. Each horrendous slab was the size of a ten-pound flour sack but with nipples akin to bologna slices; and from the nipples sprouted veins like some organic Van de Graaf Generator.
The woman was, in all, a human hulk, pale as mashed potatoes, cellulite-riddled: a female Jabba the Hut with bunned brown hair and a sprawling pubic wedge the size of a third of a pizza. The bench that this unfortunate person sat upon…bowed slightly against the mammoth weight, and the previously noted smell which wafted off the pile of flesh was, at best, becoming unspeakable. Ankles swollen by acute diabetes-related edema were connected to big, strangely curved feet whose skin seemed off-pink and pin-prick tight. Toenails, inches long, resembled corroded bamboo shoots. No navel was visible, for the fat-rolls, while her bulbous, multi-chinned face looked like a relief pressed into a massive white pile of baker’s dough.
Unnoticed when juxtaposed with this living spectacle was a digital video camera on a tripod, several lights, and sundry other equipment.
“See her legs?” Paulie said.
Case Piece looked, still speechless. Melda’s shins and thigh-bones seemed slightly curved, and there was something about her hips that appeared oddly and quite abnormally splayed.
“Melda ain’t never walked in her life,” Paulie said. “Some off-the-wall bone disease or some shit. But it’s that same disease that makes her special.”
What’s so special ’bout a giant, fat, honkie ghetto cow? Case Piece thought, queasy just looking at her.
Now Paulie’s grin seemed bright as a tensor lamp. “Ready for the cool part? Huh, Case Piece? You ready?”
“I—”
“Melda, show Case Piece what makes you special,” came the order.
“Oh, sure, Paulie!” the catastrophic woman piped. She reached under her knees and, with some effort, pulled up and spread her massive legs.
“That some fuckin’ poo-putt groaty motherfuckin’ shit, Paulie!” Case Piece wailed without conscious forethought because, see, the unruly pink seam of Melda’s vagina was, like, almost a foot long. “This scary bitch got the giantest fuckin’ pussy in the world!”
“Aw, shit, Case Piece. You ain’t seen nothin’,” and then Paulie directed, “Okay, Melda. Open wide…”
Melda released a deep, sub-octave groan while simultaneously pushing her stomach muscles out. As the gargantuan belly very slowly expanded…the gargantuan vagina very slowly opened…
It opened to an aperture the circumference of a common cereal bowl.
“Ain’t that somethin’, Case Piece?”
Case Piece now had his hands over his face; he was trembling. “Paulie! That woman got a motherfuckin’ impossible fuckin’ pussy, man! That the scariest shit I ever seen! Shit, man! You could put a fuckin’ bowling ball in there!”
“Not quite. We tried. See, we don’t just make snuff flicks, we make all kinds of gross-out flicks for the underground perv market. You name it, we do it,” Paulie boasted. “Wet-flicks, nek-flicks, scat-flicks, torture-flicks, kp, farm animals, shit like that. And giant pussy flicks.”
Cristo added his two cents. ‘Believe it or not, there’s guys out there who get turned on seein’ gross-out stuff, and they pay to watch flicks of women gettin’ things stuck up their cunts.”
“We shoved all kinds of shit up there,” Argi added. “Greased coconuts, cantaloupes, jars of fuckin’ mayonnaise, loaf of pumpernickel…”
Cristo recollected, “Oh, yeah, and that head of napa, head of cabbage, head of iceberg lettuce—”