Pecker Problem


Pearly Svine took a dirty middle finger and swiped out his lower lip in the hopes of shoving some Skoal into it. The fingernail-sized tumor there prevented him. Goddamn the goddamn mouth cancer. So he decided to kill Billy Savitch.

This morning, at the Dandi-Mart down the line, Billy had gone on and on. Pearly you’re getting fat Pearly are you even sure you can find your johnson I bet Rita needs a microscope and a set of tweezers. Pearly had to go pick up his lawnmower from the repair shop, so he hadn’t the chance to correct Billy’s mouth. He didn’t figure to come out of it standing, though, so he took his gun off the rack behind the seat and sawed off two inches above the slide. Pearly even took the time to file down the sharp edges, bracing the gun with his foot on the tailgate of his truck. Right there in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Pearly felt his death like a lump in his trousers. Didn’t happen often, so he was determined to make the most of it.

He cranked the CD player with Hank III and took off down the highway as fast as he could given the truck wouldn’t run past third gear. He’d tossed the plug out the window and loaded five shells. The woods didn’t exactly blur by him, given the soggy transmission, but he felt a little wind and that was OK with him.

Billy stood outside his garage pissing against the concrete. Pearly drove right up next to him and let go with the shotgun. The pellets knocked Billy back a little, but Pearly saw quickly he’d need another shot. His prodigious pecker still hanging out, Billy stumbled into his garage, no doubt for a gun, and Pearly got out of the truck, but left it running.

Billy came out with a .45 shooting all over the place with his off hand. Pearly steadied the shotgun and blasted Billy in the chest. He sank in place like a heartshot deer, his pecker draped like a doily over his thigh. Pearly couldn’t believe the size of it–a fucking truncheon, it was. It made him not feel so bad about his 5.25 dick. How could Billy have gotten any, with that thing?

Pearly reached down and turned Billy over, retrieving a can of Copenhagen. It wasn’t Skoal, but it would do. Pearly thought about all those times he’d wished for a bigger pecker. He tucked the chew into his lip, slobbering a little. It just goes to show you, he thought. Some men have all the luck. And some don’t.

~ fin ~

Rusty Barnes grew up in rural northern Appalachia. He received his B.A. from Mansfield University of Pennsylvania and his M.F.A. from Emerson College. His fiction, poetry and non-fiction have appeared widely, with stories forthcoming in Mystery Tribune and Toe Six.