Kingsfordland, Tennessee, 1937 — Lollo Aurelie is a city slicker mobster running from trouble up north when he stumbles upon a mountain hick town ripe for a takeover. When moonshiners revolt to his dastardly deeds, they dress him “purdy” in drag and each of his captors have their way with him on a platform deep in the backwoods. They affectionately call him Priscilla Pumpernickel, a late whore who died drowning on a load.
“Look at ol’ Priscilla Pumpernickel dressed so fuckin’ purdy in her pink lace,” woofed Ralph Waldo Donavon, a jolly redhead redneck with girth, pulling proudly on the straps of his dirty overalls.
It was a crude sight to behold. Both utterly disgusting as it was cock-throbbing arousing, standing back there in those dark mountainous woods by the fleeting moonlight. There was a small measure of me that wanted to turn away from this horrific scene, sensing something much worse was on the bend. The part I was driven by, keeping my feet firmly planted on the Tennessee soil with this scandalous curiosity gnawing away at me, wanted to look on the finale of our plan.
“Whee-wee Priscilla Pumpernickel sho’ is a purr-dy doll, yes sir,” lulled David Oliver, a gargantuan black man with a gruff reddish-brown beard using his crumpled southern drawl to make reference to the local tramp that was strangled to death by a hefty wad of his half-brother Albert’s sweet mulatto jizz.
The four other guys standing about continued to laugh heartedly surrounded this odd being slowly coming to with a pair of hairy arms tied behind their back.
“F-U-fuckin’ purdy I tell you!” David declared once more, stomping his large heavy boot on the captive’s platinum blond wig creating another round of hard mirth among the bearish men. “Yes sir, f-u-fuckin’ purdy!”
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