The Minotauress

by Edward Lee

  "On the ranch. It was just a processing warehouse, like any other. But this one was... secret."

  "‘Cos you didn't want the authorities to know what you were doing in there. Letting the cattle rot a few more days, letting them drain, so you wouldn't have to pay full price to the rendering company."

  "Right. We called it ‘The Dump' and ‘The Slop-Shop.' It was pretty gross. Sometimes you couldn't even walk in there without a gas-mask 'cos the air was so toxic."

  "The Slop-Shop." Ajax reflected. "A place where you deliberately drained ‘rendering bilge' from dead cattle." Then he drank more. "Can you remember the first time you saw the Slop-Shop? I mean, the very first time?"

  "Well, yeah," Dean answered. "I was sixteen. I'd heard about it from some of the other field hands, so one day I simply decided to check it out for myself."

  Ajax nodded, looking at him. "You were alone when you did this?"

  "Well—" Dean's thoughts ticked back. "No, no I wasn't. I took my girlfriend at the time."

  "And would this girlfriend's name be Arianne?"

  Dean's further thoughts stopped short. He gulped. "Yeah."

  Ajax held his hands up as if full of mystical answers. "Then the answer's easy. Your nightmare was a classic symbol of systematized, reactive loss. Intervential and dissociative. It's textbook, man. It's in the DSM-III, the modern field guide for diagnostic and statistical mental disorders. You're a walking, talking case, Dean!"

  Dean was not quite so elated. "Great. But what's it mean? What's my nightmare mean, Mr. Freud?"

  "It's a calling back," Dean insisted as if it were obvious. "Your current domestic misery collided with the fruits of your past. The ultimate psychological inner struggle—the real you fighting to break out of the encapsulation of urban life and conventional domestic order! Don't you see?"

  "No," Dean said.

  "You dreamed of rendering bilge pouring out of Arianne's pussy! The rendering bilge is the target-symbol of subconscious connectivity to your true love! Arianne!"

  Was it? Wow, Dean thought.

  "She was with you the first time you saw the bilge, and she was with you the first time you fell in love. She was the final common-denominator of the direction of your real life. Then you move away, and it all falls apart. You're sitting in the middle of the pieces every day."

  Am I? Dean thought. Ajax was a long-haired, drunken fat slob... but this made sense.

  "Want another beer, Porky?" the barmaid asked Ajax, "since you drained that one in—what? Two minutes?"

  "How about I drain my gila monster in your East African Rift cleavage?"

  "Don't turn me on for nothing. You ain't got a gila monster, just a newt."

  "You sure about that, Lydia Lunch? My dick's got teeth, baby, and it'd bite all that silly metal shit off your dumbass goth zombie lesbo commie face and fill up my nail box. Why don't you get a life instead of another skull tattoo and another pile of coke up your giant peninsula-sized nose? You oughta shake some of that yeast out of your satanic pussy and start your own microbrew."

  "Hey, Knuckles!" the barmaid shouted over them. In one second, a four-hundred-pound bearded golem appeared, wearing a stained T-shirt that read I EAT AFTER-BIRTH FOR BREAKFAST.

  "You know what I eat for breakfast, Abdullah?" Ajax posed. "Your mother. Bet I sucked out a couple of your brothers and sisters and swallowed 'em like aspirins. But what the hell? Fewer crack babies is a good thing, right?"

  Ajax was grabbed by the collar and the back of the belt, and thrown out of the bar. Dean slapped money onto the counter and followed the fracas out. On the street, he helped Ajax up. The wind of Lake Union abraded their faces.

  "You really are the life of the party," Dean said once Ajax got back to his feet.

  "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke," Ajax murmured. "And that big-tit, pink-haired Ho chi Minh cum-guzzler? I wouldn't fuck her with a dead man's dick."

  "Right, Ajax... "

  "But I wouldn't mind peeing on her back."

  "I hear ya."

  They stumbled down the street, the water shimmering. "Let's go to another bar," Ajax suggested. "The Dubliner! They got a red-haired commie cooze in there waiting tables who's as skinny as a white stringbean. You know who I'm talking about. She looks like Scully... only skinnier. Man, I'd suck the venereal warts right off her cervical wall."

  "I think it'd be better if I just drove you home now," Dean suggested.

  "Whatever."

  Eventually Dean guided Ajax to his car.

  "Hey," Ajax drunkenly recalled. "There's one thing I forgot to ask you."

  "And what might that be?" Dean asked.

  "What did you do with the slop?"

  "Huh?"

  "The rendering bilge." Ajax wobbled against the passenger door. "All those gallons and gallons of putrefied waste, pus, discharge, and rancid blood? What the hell did you do with it? You had to get rid of it somewhere, didn't you?"

  Dean stood stock-still by the driver's door, keys hanging on his finger. It didn't even sound like his own voice when he answered:

  "We dumped it. Down the old gypsum mine. Right behind—"

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "—right behind Stoddard's Mill!" the old biddy wailed. "That's where I saw it. This woman, buck nekit and black as the night, and she were standing there leadin' this monster by the hand! She were leadin' this monster down into the old mine shaft behind Stoddard's Mill. I knows it sure as I knows I saw my husband lose his legs in that tredder accident!"

  "Now, now, Mrs. Codder," Sergeant A.T. Lass appealed, patting the old woman's bony shoulder. "We'll investigate thoroughly. Don't you worry one bit."

  "Well ya better!" she cracked back in her split-timber voice. "‘Cos there's somethin'... there's somethin' a blammed fucked up going on out there behind Stoddard's Mill!"

  "We'll check it out presently, ma'am," Lass' partner tonight, Oly Dodell, assured.

  They left the wily old woman on the front step of her 14 x 64 Mini-Lux trailer, then stomped back to the DeSmet patrol car.

  Dodell's crooked-toothed grin gaped over the top of the patrol car. "What'cha think, Sarge? Ya think ya could fuck the old bitch in a pinch?"

  Lass shot an outraged expression right back at Dodell. "Come on, man! She's pushing ninety! Fuck, she looks like Granny on the Beverly Hillbillies."

  "Yeah," Dodell agreed over the dopey shucks grin. "But could ya fuck her? Like in a real pinch?"

  Lass was an officer of the law, and the last people he needed to be lying to were his own men. He traced his hand up his crotch. "Well... shit. Yeah, I guess I could. You know. In a pinch. I guess gash is pretty much gash when you get right down to it. One hairy hole is pretty much the same as another."

  "Damn right, Sarge, and I'm glad ya pointed that out." Dodell slid into the passenger seat. They pulled away from the trailer. "It's all about comin', not about what'cha come in, right?"

  Lass cruised past rows of rusted trailers and tiny yards filled with junk. "Well, yeah, I guess you could say that."

  "I ain't ashamed to admit, I've fucked a sheep or two in my time. You?"

  "Of course not!" Lass replied, but this was a bold-faced lie. He'd spent his whole growin'-up days getting his willy off in any manner of farm animal. But there were some secrets that were personal, so denying it wasn't really a lie, not as far at A.T. Lass saw it. "I ain't no pervert, Dodell."

  "But it's like you were just sayin', one hole's the same as another. Your dick don't give a shit, long as it gets ta squirt." Dodell shrugged lackadaisically. "Shit, I ain't ashamed ta say I've fucked a few fellas in my time, too. No difference between a man's ass and a gal's. I mean, don't get me wrong, I ain't no homo, but if there ain't no pussy around, a man's bunger gets the job done just as pretty as you please."

  Lass' face crinkled up. "You're shitting me?"

  "Sure am not, Sarge. And I ain't ashamed. I've fucked men and I've been fucked by men. And I've had balls across my nose on more than several occasions. A mouth's a mouth, an
d a hole to put your dick in is a hole to put your dick in." Another shrug. "It ain't a queer thing, it's a reciprocal kind of thing."

  "Reciprocal? What the hell are you talking about?" Lass demanded.

  "Just friends takin' care of each other. Like last year's Alfalfa Festival Bull Roast. I went with my pal Kit Nuller. We had a ol' good time, good food, good beer, but by the end of it, there weren't no chicks left to pick up. But we were both horny as dogs so we said fuck it. I blew him, he blew me, no big deal. A friendship thing. One guy helpin' another guy out in his time of need."

  Lass didn't like where this conversation was going. "You get your shift report written up? Don't forget the old lady."

  "Sure, Sarge, but like I was sayin', comin' is comin'. For instance, if there weren't no available pussy and you were hard, I wouldn't have no problem with you fuckin' me in the ass, long as ya gave me a reach around. And if ya needed a quick blow job to take the edge off a hard day's work, why, I'd be happy to oblige."

  "Look, Dodell, what you do in your private life is your business," Lass pointed out. "But I don't care how horny I was, the last thing I'd ever want to do is put my dick up your ass. Now shut up with that stuff. If any shit gets packed up my piss-hole, it ain't gonna be yours. It's gonna be a gal's."

  "Well how about head? You know what they say about head, don't you?"

  Lass scowled. "No, Dodell. What? What do they say about head?"

  "Men give head better than women any day of the week, and it stands to reason. How can a woman know the best way to suck a dick when she ain't got one herself? Shit, I've had many a lousy blow job from gals but ain't never had a bad one from a guy. Half the time, gals don't know what the hell they're doin', rubbin' their teeth against your dick-skin, too much time on the knob but not enough on the pole, and they'll never suck your balls unless ya tell 'em too. But a guy? Think about it, Sarge. A guy knows. Shit, you don't know what a good blow job is, not till you've had your cock in a man's mouth. Don't knock it till you've tried it. Pretend it's a chick doin' it. Then you know ya ain't really queer."

  Lass gnawed the inside of his cheek as he drove down Rural Route 2. He considered Dodell's points, and come to think of it, Lass was pretty horny. And there was no way Dodell would tell anyone—Lass was his boss.

  "All right," Lass said. "What the hell? A mouth's a mouth."

  Dodell grinned in the dark car. "Knew you'd see it my way, Sarge."

  Lass unbuckled his police pants, pulled out his dick. "You suck, I drive."

  "That's a big 10-4, Sarge... "

  Lass raised a quick brow once Dodell got to work. Dodell sucked hard and slow, with a mouthful of spit; Lass' knees wobbled. Damn, he thought. Then: Shit. Then: Holy fuck. Dodell gives some damn good head.

  Dodell paused for a minute to suck his senior watch-commander's testicles, first one, then the other, then both. He picked up the tempo once he got back to the main course. Rhythmic sucking sounds filled the cruiser's interior as Lass' hips clenched, and then—

  "Aw-aw-aw... FUCK!"

  —he came in his subordinate's mouth.

  Dodell took his time with the denouement, wringing out the final drops with expertise. Lass' cock turned to meat-putty.

  "I stand corrected," Lass admitted, wiping his brow. "That was the best blow job of my life."

  Dodell slipped his mouth off, then swallowed in a loud gulp. "Told ya. And nut don't taste nearly as bad as ya'd think. You get used to it."

  I'll bet you do.

  Lass pulled over at the next turn, and suddenly gravel was popping under the tires. In the darkness, Stoddard's Mill loomed like a stark black-marble ruin. Seven dead kids they'd found thus far in the vicinity. What would they find tonight?

  Lass stuffed his wet dick back in his pants and zipped up. "Grab the flashlights. Let's check this out."

  Dodell babbled in disbelief. "Uh, wuh-well, Sarge?"

  "What?"

  "Ain't you got something to take care of first?" Dodell had his penis out. "Like we said? Reciprocal? Fellas takin' care of each other in their time of need?"

  Lass laughed out loud. "Fuck you, ya goddamn homo. You think I'm gonna suck your dick, you're even dumber than I thought. You tell anyone, they'll never believe you, and I'll make goddamn sure you never work in law enforcement again. Shit, you won't even be able to get a job swabbing the floors at Barnett's Diner. Now put your dick back in your pants and grab the flashlights like I told you, you cum-swallowing dick-sucking queen."

  "Aw, Jesus, Sarge!" Dodell rebelled. "That ain't right! I do for you, you do for me—that was the deal!"

  "The only deal is you suck my dick any time I tell you to, and you don't say shit. Homo. Fruitbar. Now get the goddamn flashlights unless you want your queer ass kicked from here clear to Canada."

  "That's blackmail!" Dodell shouted.

  "Yeah. Don't like it, do something about it." Lass' heavy chest rattled from the laughter. "Unass this car, Suzy. We've got work to do."

  Lass got out, looking into the darkness. Dodell clumped out himself, flashlights clinking. He passed one to Lass.

  "That's low-down, Sarge. That's a scumbag thing ta do."

  "Uh-huh," Lass agreed. "And look at it this way, Liberace. The sooner we get this check-out finished, the sooner my dick's gonna be back in your yap."

  Lass' big size-12 shoes crunched forward, gravel popping. Dodell followed. Ahead of them, the long-closed Stoddard's Mill seemed to grow as they approached, its silo tower spearing the night. They walked around behind the drooping edifice, and Lass scanned his Mag-Lite to and fro over the range where they'd previously found seven dead, gutted children.

  Nothing tonight.

  "Thank, God," Lass mumbled.

  "What's that, Sarge?" Dodell asked.

  "Shut up, queercakes. And keep your hand out of your pants. That old shriveled bitch Mrs. Codder said something about way behind the mill, near the old mine."

  "She said she saw a monster," Dodell reminded.

  "That's right, Elton. So let's check it out. Probably just a rummie cooping in the trees. We'll find him and beat his ass black and blue and be on our way. Go check around the right. I'll check the left."

  They both parted. Their bright flashlight beams roved through the darkness. The woods rose before Lass. Lass stopped, cock throbbing.

  Fuck. That was one doozy of a head job, he thought. He rubbed his crotch in recollection. I might have ta, I might—

  Lass was too aroused. He needed another nut—bigtime. The follow-through and all that. Second nut's always better than the first. Dodell's footsteps could be heard crunching away.

  No one would know.

  Lass whipped it out in the dark, not thinking of Rachel Welch or Pamela Anderson but of Private Dodell's hot, balls-of-fire mouth. He shucked his stiff meat back and forth like skin on a fresh pork sausage, then raised up on his police tip-toes and—

  "Oooooooo!"

  He squirted his restless seed deep out into the night.

  Man! he thought.

  But no sooner had he replaced his penis into his trousers... he heard the smacking sound.

  "The fuck?"

  He switched his Mag back on, roved it to the left.

  And stared.

  What he was staring at was not another dead child but a veritable pile of dead children.

  And, if the flashlight beam could be trusted, the child on the top—a boy—was still alive.

  Quivering. Shuddering. Convulsing.

  But still alive.

  "Hold on, son!" Lass proclaimed. "I'll help ya!"

  It was then, though, that Lass noticed just exactly where his plume of sperm had landed: in the boy's mouth.

  "Aw, Jesus, kid. I'm sorry... "

  The apology was hardly needed; the boy died a moment later, smacking Lass' sperm. He'd been gutted and gored, and so had the six other children who lay there between twin oak trees, stacked neatly as bags of heifer feed. This is DAMN fucked up! he thought. What the hell am I gonna do! I can't k
eep all these dead kids out of the papers!"

  Dead kids were bad enough. But what about a dead cop?

  That's what Lass found when he tromped off to the other side of the mill's rear. An old track-trail led down the cleared path, toward the head shaft of the gypsum mine that had been closed decades ago. Lass' bright flashlight scoured the space between the rusted rails, and he saw—

  Footprints? he wondered.

  They were footprints, all right. But not human. They were—

  Hoofprints, he discerned. Like a bull's.

  Ten feet further down the tracks, Lass found Dodell's body sprawled in the dirt. The best cock-suck in town was dead. The younger officer's chest had been ripped open, gored.

  Lass was too scared to scream. Mindless, now, he turned and ran back to the cruiser, certain he would hear the manic hoofbeats following him. By the time he'd returned to the front of the mill, he was shaking feces out of his pant legs. He drove off, spinning wheels in gravel, and sitting in his own hot shit.