The Minotauress

by Edward Lee

  "Well, actually, yes."

  "Aw, cool! So if'n ever ya wanna fuck me 'cos ya got someone in a story fuckin' an' you cain't remember what that's like, just you knock on my door. And all I'se'll charge ya is ten bucks!"

  The Writer was flabbergasted. "Uh, well, I just might do that if I need to reflect that aspect of the human condition in my work."

  "Good! ‘Bye!" but, of course, she pronounced ‘bye as "baa!"

  Depressed now, the Writer left the house and proceeded at once to the Crossroads, to drink with the gusto of Hemingway...

  (III)

  Needless to say, McKully rehired Balls and Dicky, upped their twenty-five-gallon runs to a hundred, and quadrupled their pay—and with the jaded event came the actualization—the epiphany—that would forge the true meaning of their destinies. They ran liquor for another man, as well, a man named Clyde Nale. What they each earned on a weekly basis was a fair shake of money, solid remuneration for two young dropouts in an economically wasted town. Balls and Dicky, hence, were a unique pair in Luntville: they were successful.

  But Balls, since the genesis of his epiphany, wasn't satisfied with one-dimensional success...

  That night, the El Camino cruised smoothly down dark, winding roads. They'd just finished dropping off a load of moonshine in Whitesburg, Kentucky, and now it was time to relax. Each had a beer between their legs and a smile on their face.

  "Dang good day, Dicky," Balls remarked, his long hair billowing in the breeze from the open window.

  "That it was, Balls," Dicky replied.

  Balls went to wipe a booger when Dicky wasn't looking, but after doing so his fingers touched a small pile of odd plastic strips under the ‘Mino's seat. The hail? "Hey, Dicky? What're these here funny thangs?" and then he held one up. "Come ta think of it, they look familiar... "

  "Huh?" Dicky replied, squinting over.

  "Oh, I know what these are," Balls finally said. "They're Flex-Cuffs, ain't they?"

  "Oh, yeah... "

  Balls nodded in the moonlight as the stars streamed by the open window. "The bulls used these things on us whenever they'd transport convicts to another block." Next, Balls' lips pursed. "But, Dicky... What'choo need Flex-Cuffs fer?"

  "Aw, see, my Uncle Marty works the state penn, he brings home boxes of 'em. It's always good ta have some in the car in case ya need ta pole-tie a deer. It's the fastest way ta truss 'em up if'n you're out poachin'."

  Balls thought about that and found the idea to be quite innovative. But then, in a mental jag, it wasn't a deer he saw pole-tied in his mind's eye, it was a naked woman. Or better yet, Flex-Cuff her wrists'n hook 'em over a broken branch-end stickin' out of a tree. Then git ta workin' on her nice'n slow with the manual drill, right in the breadbasket...

  Dicky was chuckling. "Shee-it, my Uncle Marty's got it made workin' up at that place."

  "The state slam?"

  "Aw, yeah, man. Decent pay and benner-fits, plus he's kin git a blowjob anytime he wants and alls it costs is a quarter."

  Balls thought about that, eyes thinned. "Oh, you mean from the female cons on the women's block."

  Dicky paused for a number of moments, then blurted. "A'course! What'cha think I meant? From dudes? Shee-it."

  Balls wondered but dismissed it. Suddenly he was thinking what it would be like to stick a spoon down a woman's throat in order to make her vomit while simultaneously engaged in the act of intercourse...

  "But'cha knows what?" Dicky blathered. "I was thinkin'. Since we'se been runnin' ‘shine? I'll'se bet we make more scratch than dang near anyone in all'a Luntville."

  In Balls' mind, he was now making the woman drown in the vomit... "Huh? Oh, yeah, Dicky, I'll bet we do, buts ya know we'se'll be makin' even more real soon. You ain't fergot 'bout Crafter's house, now have ya?"

  Dicky thought behind the wheel. "Aw, yeah. That fella on Governor's Bridge Road."

  "Right. And it ain't but a couple'a days ‘fore he goes to Spain."

  "Then we'se'll really be loaded, after heistin' all that fancy jewelry he's got."

  "And other stuff, too, like really old statues'n furniture. Bud Tooler tolt me Crafter even had dinner plates made'a gold."

  "Shee-it!" Dicky whispered.

  "Yeah, man. So what's our schedule lookin' like?"

  Dicky put on his Thinking Cap, which took a while. "Uh, let's see, I'se think tomorrow we got a full run for Clyde Nale, and day after a run'a piece for McKully'n Nale. And day after that... we'se off."

  "That's dandier than a double-blowjob from underage twins, Dicky-Boy. So's figgure night after tomorrow, we do the job'n fence the shit in Pulaski the next day."

  "Solid."

  Dicky drove on through the wooded night, thinking sweet thoughts of all that money they'd have soon. Balls' thoughts, however, remained not so sweet. Now he dredged up the delicious memory of that rucking he'd pulled at McKully's, and recalled the accelerated intensity of his orgasm when he'd sodomized the hill girl once she was headless. He focused on the recollection, like a scientist focusing a powerful microscope, and he re-lived the rush he'd gotten whilst scalping her pubis. He relished the remembrance of the minute and indefinable sound that the battery brush had made when he'd been scouring off her nipples...

  And a moment later his maladapted synapses were firing impulses into his libidinal system, and in less time than it would've taken him to say the word "pathological," his penis thudded within the confines of his jeans, painfully erect.

  As he luxuriated in these thoughts, he was pap-pap-papping his homemade blackjack into an opened palm...

  "What's that?" Dicky inquired.

  Balls blinked out of his distraction. "Huh? Oh, this? Ain't nothin' but my jack. Found it in a box'a junk at my Daddy's house. I made it myself when I'se was a little kid, I did. Alls ya do is screw a fishing weight inta the top of a screen-door spring, then ya wrap it up in ‘lecktrical tape." Pap-pap-pap. "Kind'a neat, I'd say. Figgure I'll carry it ‘round in case of a emergency."

  Dicky's corpulent face screwed up. "What'cha need a dang blackjack fer when ya got that big ole pistol in yer belt?"

  "A quiet-type of emergency, Dicky."

  "Oh... But, hey, you ever really use it on anyone?"

  Balls' cheeks billowed as he scoffed. "Shee-it, Dicky, you kiddin' me? I'se jacked dozens of fellas out with this here jack, and a lots of 'em was really big fellas too, I'se kin tell ya. Some turd give me a hard time? I just pop him one in the noggin and he's lights out. Then, a'course, I take his green."

  "Wow," Dicky responded, impressed.

  Naturally, everything Balls had said was a lie. He'd never struck anyone with his homemade blackjack—only neighborhood cats as a child.

  But now? Since his epiphany?

  "Where we at now, Dicky?" Balls asked. The 'Mino was cruising through another drab, rundown little town. Most shops stood closed, and no other traffic could be seen.

  "Waynesville. Don't'cha worry none, Balls. Won't be more'n ten minutes'n we'll be pullin' inta the Crossroads."

  Now, for some unidentifiable reason, Balls scanned the streets more intently, as if looking for something in particular... When they turned a corner, though, he saw a small, dented sedan parked in the front lot of a Peoples Drug Store. It was the only car in the lot, and in the back sat several young children. A haggard fortyish woman with a beehive hairdo was walking away from the store carrying two bags.

  "Pull inta this drug store, Dicky. I gots ta pee."

  Dicky frowned. "Ya cain't wait ten minutes?"

  "I ain't peed in two or three hours, man, and I'se already done drunk a six-pack. My piss-bag's full, brother. Just pull in."

  Dicky did so, then Balls jumped out, but instead of heading toward the store... he headed toward the sedan. He leaned over and smiled into the back seat, where three little girls sat huddled.

  "Howdy, girls! What'cha all doin' this fine night?"

  The little girls exchanged wide-eyed glances, then one peeped, "We'se havin' a pajama par
ty so's my ma's gettin' us some sodas and cheese doodles."

  "Well, that sounds like a lot'a fun!"

  Just then the woman rushed up to the car. "Who're you? What'choo doin' talkin' to my kids! Just you get out'a here!"

  "Aw, ma'am, I'se was just sayin' hi," Balls replied and—smack!—hit her right in the forehead with his blackjack. She collapsed, instantly unconscious, while the little girls in the backseat burst into a round of ear-piercing shrieks.

  Balls whipped out his penis and wasted no time in relieving the volume of his bladder. He fired the hot, yard-long stream right into the back seat, swaying back and forth across the horrified little chipmunk faces. The little girls shrieked like referee whistles.

  Balls zipped up quick, snagged the woman's purse and a bag of cheese doodles, then jogged back to the El Camino.

  "Holy shit, Balls!" Dicky yelled when his cohort jumped back in. "What the fuck?"

  "Drive, Dicky! Drive!"

  Dicky dumped the ‘Mino's clutch and pulled a 450-horsepower hole-shot out of the parking lot. Tires screamed, rubber burned, and the engine's roar fractured the night. Dicky careened out, then lead-footed it off the main drag.

  Balls cackled laughter.

  "Jaysus Chrast, Balls! You just jacked a lady out and peed on her kids!"

  "Yeah. Cool, huh?"

  Dicky's face darkened with rage. "Someone could'a seen! What if a cop drove by when you was pullin' that stunt?"

  "Aw, shee-it, Dicky. The parkin' lot was empty and there weren't another car on the street. Relax."

  "Relax?"

  Dicky sped as far away from the incident as he could without dumping the car. Within minutes they were cruising through more winding, dark roads through the woods.

  The dashboard lights tinted Balls' grinning face. He rooted through the woman's purse, snatched up some bills, then threw the rest out the window. "Dang! That beat bitch had sixty bucks on her."

  "Fuck, Balls!" Dicky continued to bellow. "What the FUCK did'ja do that fer?"

  Balls shook his head. "I don't rightly know, Dicky. It just come inta my head to do it. ‘Sides, I had ta pee bad and I'se thought it might be interestin' to do it on them little girls."

  "Interestin'! We could get throwed in jail fer that! And you's on fuckin' parole anyway!"

  "Aw, ferget it." Balls busted open the bag. "Here. Have a cheese doodle."

  "I don't want no fuckin' cheese doodle!" Dicky glared in disbelief. "You are crazy, man! Crazy!"

  Balls sat back, munching contemplatively. "Naw, Dicky. I ain't crazy." He smiled out the window, into the endless night. "I'se just followin' my nature... "

  (IV)

  The Writer left the Crossroads—fairly drunk—in the vicinity of midnight. Just as he shuffled across the gravel parking lot, he was given a start by a sudden avalanche of noise, a great, clamorous chugging that reminded him of one of those ridiculous four-engine powerboats pulling up to a dock. But this was no boat, it was a vintage black El Camino. The Writer sighed in relief when the engine racket severed. It should be against the law for cars to be that loud... Two figures disembarked amid the shadows. The Writer heard some quick redneck dialect: "Aw, shee-it, Dicky! Yous should'a seen their faces when I'se was hosin' 'em down with my kidney juice! Oooo-eee!" Then the figures entered the bar.

  Kidney juice? the Writer thought.

  The moon watched him through gnarled trees when he took the narrow road out of the woods to the main street. Did he hear a wolf howl? No. Power of suggestion. Crickets trilled in a palpable throb; he thought of old Tangerine Dream records. Damn. Cigarettes, he reminded himself, and turned with some trepidation toward the Qwik-Mart. Out front a man in a suit and tie was getting into what appeared to be a Rolls Royce; the Writer immediately noted that the man had inadvertently placed his wallet on top of the car when he'd extracted his keys, then forgot to reclaim it when he got behind the wheel. He backed out and began to pull away, and the wallet slid off the car onto the pavement.

  "Hey! Wait!" the Writer called out. He jogged over. At least a dozen credit cards and various ID's had slid out of the wallet as well. He scooped them all up and jogged over. The car idled at the exit, a man looking out.

  "Yes?"

  "You left your wallet on the car and it fell off."

  The debonair-looking driver frowned at himself. "I must have left my wits at home today. How stupid of me."

  "Some of your credit cards slipped out but I picked them up," the Writer said, and handed it all over to the well-groomed older man.

  "Honesty is such a rare commodity these days. You're one of a choice few, and you have my thanks." Then the man handed the Writer a $100 bill.

  "Oh, really, sir, I couldn't—"

  "Take it, with my compliments... " The man's face seemed to darken as he smiled. "What a tenuous power... The power of truth... "

  The Writer stared as the Rolls Royce drove off.

  The comment unnerved him, even though he knew it to be sheer coincidence. But then his shoulders slumped as he headed back for the store. A lone credit card lay in the parking lot. Damn, I missed one. The Rolls Royce was long gone now. He pocketed the card and resolved to call the 1-800 number on the back tomorrow.

  In the store a tall young man with a shaved head was buying several cans of refried beans and jalapeno peppers. He wore a swastika earring, and had a tattoo on a bulging deltoid which read: ARYAN NATION. Was the man whistling "The Sound of Music" when he left?

  "You again," the visored, old proprietor greeted. "The Writer."

  "It's good to see you, sir."

  "Shee-it. You 'bout done with this fancy book'a yers?"

  I've only written one and a half sentences... "It's coming along. Rome wasn't built in a day, you know."

  "Rome, huh? My brother fought the Germans in Italy. After they up'n killed everything that moved, they went on leave to fuckin' Rome. Said ya needed a clothespin on yer nose to fuck the whores."

  "How... elucidating," the Writer remarked.

  The proprietor snorted. "Said the whores in Rome were the hairiest whores he ever done seen. Even hairier than the krauts."

  "Hmm. Hirsute prostitutes... "

  The proprietor frowned. "Said they had so much hair under their arms you'd have thought they had the Black Panthers in a fuckin' headlock."

  The Writer stood speechless.

  "Ya ever read the shortest book ever written?"

  "What's that?" the Writer had to ask.

  "The History of Italian War Heroes!" and the proprietor slapped his knees and guffawed out loud. Then he began walking toward a rear door.

  "Uh, sir?" The Writer raised a finger. "I was going to buy something, and I'm rather in a hurry... "

  The proprietor glared. "I gotta take a shit! Do ya mind? Or I guess ya think that 'cos you're the customer, I gotta shit my pants 'cos you're rather in a hurry! Fuck!"

  The man's cane tapped the floor as he disappeared.

  I love this place, the Writer thought. He browsed the aisles, and took several Three Musketeers to the counter. A small television squawked next to the cigar rack. The Writer's eyes bloomed...

  "Don't throw those leftovers away!" spoke an animated voiceover as a Donna Reed-looking housewife dumped a plate of food into a kitchen wastebasket. "Now you can save hundreds, even thousands of dollars a year with the amazing, new Therm-O-Fresh!" Now the housewife emptied another plate of food into a plastic bag. "You can freeze it, you can boil it, you can microwave it! Now your leftovers will taste as fresh as the day you bought them when you use the Therm-O-Fresh Food Saving System!" The housewife slipped a plastic tube into the bag, then pushed a button on a machine about the size of a box of aluminum foil. The plastic bag collapsed, as the tube sucked all the air out of it. "The Therm-O-Fresh patented one-touch vacuum instantly removes all the air from your valuable leftovers, then seals the storage bag in seconds." Next the edge of the bag was placed in a groove on the machine which heat-sealed it shut. Donna Reed was amazed.

  Tha
t's the thing the two girls were fighting over at the motel, the Writer realized.

  "Keep nuts, cookies, pretzels, even potato chips fresh as the day you bought them! The Therm-O-Fresh System includes five specially-designed jars with air-lock tops that you can use over and over again!" Now, the housewife stuck the tube into a valve of some sort on top of a jar full of popcorn. "Watch what our patented lifetime-guaranteed industrial-strength vacuum does to this popcorn!" She pushed the button and the popcorn collapsed like magic in the jar. "Not available in stores! Call now while supplies last! Get the patented Therm-O-Fresh Food Saving System for just four easy payments of $49.95. That's right, just $49.95! And if you call within the next ten minutes, you'll receive a year's supply of patented Therm-O-Fresh vacuum bags absolutely free!"

  "Ain't that some shit?" the proprietor returned, glaring at the TV. "Fuckin' Red China's buildin' a hunnert nukes a day to shoot at us, and all we're makin' is a bunch'a fuckin' Chia Pets'n these goddamn Cabbage Patch dolls'n some fuckin' shit called Windows 3.0! What's the country comin' to?"