by Edward Lee
««—»»
Pasiphae exhaled the rich darkness, watching the idiot constable flee. Such fools, she thought. What has happened over the ages, to turn the world into this... folly? She was back now, that's all that mattered, and for however long, she would turn her hatred into blood, into screams, into the same wreckage that had summoned her return.
She drifted through the woods, a voluptuous oil slick, not moving around the trees but through them. Her footfalls made no sound, and not even the most minute branch snapped beneath her feet, not even a crisped leaf. But she was flesh too, she was real. She could smell and taste and feel, and in this she rejoiced.
Before her lay the pile of freshly dead children. As if to verify what she already knew—that she was real—she ran her slender black hand through the tilled gut of the child who lay on top. Her hand came away wet, and slicked with cooling blood. Her fingers fondled the small shriveled genitals, and then, out of the strangest curiosity, she leaned over and sucked on the little penis. Perhaps her own reality would bring the sprig of flesh back to life but, lo, that didn't happen. The thing remained tiny in her unearthly mouth, and all that it gave up were a few suckings of stale urine. Pasiphae spat it out.
No, here, in this domain, the dead stayed dead. But from hers?
Gods and goddesses never quite died. They just slept.
Pasiphae was fully awake now. And so was her son.
She traipsed back to the opening of the pit, its foulness wafting up like honeysuckles in a warm breeze. Moonlight shifted through the forest. In the entry stood her son, darkness snorting from his fierce nostrils, his manly naked body corded with muscle, glistening in pungent sweat. His cock stood up hard.
There was love in the monster's eyes.
She knelt before the monument of her own womb, and the grand seed of Minos. Then she lay back and spread her legs of night, gasping as her beloved snorted and humped her in the dirt. Her obsidian flesh clenched in orgasm, and then her hot beast-son drained his loins in her, jet after jet of semi-god sperm drooling into her midnight cunt.
When it was over, she embraced him, a black tear of joy in her eye. The huge flap of tongue lolled against her cheek. She stroked the muscled buttocks.
"Tomorrow, my son," Pasiphae whispered endearingly. "Tomorrow you'll have more food, and I'll have more death. Both of us will feast."
Then she kissed each of her son's great horns and sighed into the twilight.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"I thought I told you to clean this dump!"
Daphne stood appalled in the open doorway, her bags in hand.
"I cleaned it," Dean said, lounging with his feet up on the couch.
Daphne dropped her bag. "It's a FUCKIN' SHIT-HOLE!" she bellowed. She left her luggage in the doorway, stomped upstairs.
Women, Dean thought. What pains in the ass. He glanced around. Dishes piled a foot high in the sink, the garbage can overflowing, empty beer bottles littering the floor. Looks clean to me, he thought and shrugged. Guess I better go straighten her out.
He swigged the last of his Hefeweizen, pitched the empty bottle to the floor, then went upstairs. "How was Chicago?" he asked. Steam poured out of the bathroom; the shower hissed.
"Huh?" Dean stuck his head in. "How was Chicago?"
"Leave me alone!" she yelled from the stall. "Clean the house!"
"How come you're taking a shower now? You just got home."
"I've got a regional merchandise meeting in an hour!" she wailed back. "I gotta pay the bills, remember? Now leave me alone and go clean the house!"
Dean nodded. That was about enough. He stomped into the bathroom, threw back the curtain, and grabbed Daphne not by the hair but by the face, and hauled her out of the stall. Water flew off her perfect-white skin, and her equally perfect breasts bobbed in terror. Her first shriek pierced his ears, but Dean put an end to that noise fast, with two solid right-crosses to the mouth. Whap-whap! Her pretty eyes went cockeyed, and now she was murmuring manically with blood smeared at her lips.
"So the house needs to be cleaned?" Dean asked, throwing his naked wife to the floor. "Well, how about the toilet? Let's see if it's dirty."
He got on his knees, then shoved her head into the commode. Gurgling noises spat upward.
"How's it look, honey? Clean or dirty?"
Her arms and legs flailed as she blew bubbles of terror in the toilet water. Dean's hand vised in her hair, holding her down.
"Think maybe you should lick it? That'd get it nice and clean, wouldn't it, sweetheart?"
He shoved her head in harder, with both hands now. The bubbles were literary bursting now; it looked like a full-tilt hot tub down there.
But then the bubbles stopped, and her naked body fell slack.
"Oopsie!" Dean remarked. "Goodness gracious what have I done?"
Daphne lay dead, her head hanging in the commode. Dean considered giving her a last poke but then said to hell with it. He'd been sick of that pussy a week after the honeymoon.
So instead of fucking her he simply pissed on her head, flushed the toilet, and went back downstairs for another brewsky—
"—it's a FUCKIN' SHIT-HOLE!" Daphne bellowed so hard little veins bulged at her temples. Dean was staring at her from the couch. He looked around and noticed the house was clean.
Just not clean enough, evidently.
By the time Dean's mind surfaced from this next—and worst—Jig-Jag, Daphne had already stormed upstairs. But Dean remained frozen on the couch: in the Jig-Jag, he'd—
I killed her, he recalled. I killed my loving wife!
He couldn't imagine what could spur such thoughts, but then he remembered all the things Ajax had told him. More and more, it seemed to all be true.
I guess I really need to get some help...
He made to get up, go and talk to Daphne, when the phone rang—
"Hello?"
"Dean, this is Ajax. You need to—"
"Ajax! I gotta tell you something," Dean rushed in. "I think maybe you're right about a lot of this. I just had the worst—"
"Forget about all that," Ajax insisted. "Turn on CNN, right now!"
Dean kept the phone to his ear and he punched up the remote control.
A blond newscaster reeled off the short news-clip, "—say authorities in the ranch town of DeSmet, South Dakota. Thus far, thirteen children have been found mutilated, along with a police officer and security guard—"
"What the hell!" Dean declared.
"That's the place you grew up, isn't it?" Ajax said over the line. "DeSmet?"
"Yeah... "
Next, a video clip showed—
"That's the old Stoddard Mill!" Dean exclaimed.
"—in the vicinity of the old Stoddard Mill," the newscaster went on, "which officially closed in the early eighties. All of the bodies of the children have been found here as well as the body of the police officer. The first shocking murder, however, occurred when a security guard was found similarly mutilated on the property of DeSmet's largest cattle ranch—" The next clip showed a place much familiar to Dean: the great sign in high sunlight which read WELCOME TO THE LOHAN RANCH
"That's my dad's ranch!" Dean exclaimed.
"All of the deceased seemed to be victims of some kind of bizarre animal attack. State authorities will be stepping in to aid in this brutal crisis, which far surpasses the resources and capabilities of the modest, six-man DeSmet department headed by veteran sergeant A.T. Lass." On the screen, Lass' plump face appeared, his mouth like two twisting worms as he attempted to assert authority. "It's a horrible, horrible tragedy we got goin' here in our good town, but my department will do everything in its power to assist the state investigation squad which should be arriving shortly." Lass, then, inadvertently picked his nose before the TV news camera. "But one thing I need to impress upon folks is that this is a police matter, and the last thing any of us needs is citizens runnin' off and tryin' to kill the varmint on their own. It's an accident waitin' to happen, and we can't h
ave a bunch of good ol' boys shooting at each other's shadows in the woods. This needs to be left to the proper authorities." The screen switched back to the blond newscaster. "After last night's grim discovery, rumors have abounded that male residents are in the process of arming themselves and venturing out into the woods to hunt down the vicious animal—"
Dean sat locked in rigor as the shocking newscast ended.
"Ain't that some weird shit?" Ajax asked over the phone.
"I'll talk to you later," Dean stammered and hung up. Gotta call dad, his thoughts rushed. Gotta find out what's going on out there... He quickly dialed his father's number in South Dakota, but it wasn't Dean's father who picked up; it was Shirley, the Lohan housekeeper for the last thirty years.
Dean spoke, identified himself and asked about his father, but Shirley was hysterical, could not be understood through the gibberish of sobs.
"Shirley, please!" Dean insisted. "Get a grip on yourself! What's wrong?"
Eventually the woman became comprehensible. Choking back tears, she revealed, "Oh dear Dean—it only happened a little while ago! Your wonderful father... he's in the hospital!"
Dean was gripped in dread. "The hospital? What for?"
"He's in a coma, Dean! They say he's going to die! Come home at once!"
No! Not Dad! Dean felt frantic, confused, shattered. "I'm grabbing the first flight out!" he told Shirley and hung up. Next he raced up the stairs, taking three steps at a time, barged into the bedroom and began throwing clothes into a suitcase. Steam poured out of the bathroom; the shower hissed. Dean stuck his head in.
"Sweetheart? I'm-I'm sorry but—" His lower lip trembled—"I'm not going to be able to clean the house—"
"Why not!" she shouted from behind the shower curtain.
"My dad's in a coma."
Her voice turned regretful. "Oh, Dean, honey. I'm so sorry."
"So I have to go back to DeSmet. I'm not sure when I'll be back."
"Okay, honey. Have a good trip," she said and continued with her shower.
What a woman! Dean beamed. I knew she'd understand!
««—»»
Still rattled by the sight of his dead deputy Dodell (and the loss of a pre-eminent source of fellation), Sergeant A.T. Lass cruised down night-shrouded Main Street, frowning at its new-found desolation. Any other time, Main Street would be abuzz with hookers and dealers at this hour. But not tonight, he complained to himself. Everyone's off the street, sitting at home with their doors bolted. All afraid of the big bad wolf.
Diligent law-enforcement officers would approve of this sudden lack of skell, whores, and scumbags prowling the streets but less-than-diligent officers, such as Lass, saw it from a different angle. He wanted those dealers on their street selling their wares; he wanted those hookers turning twenty tricks a night because the first thing they did with their trick money was buy more crystal-meth. Lass had his fingers in those profits, and it was a big pie.
How am I gonna pay for my new Cherokee and pool table if this shit keeps up? he wondered.
That blond bitch newscaster didn't help improve his mood much, either. Made me look like a damn fool, he thought. Tellin' folks we need the damn state fuzz in here 'cos of our limited ‘resources.' The fuckin' bitch!
That was the last thing Lass needed. To hell with the dead kids. Bunch'a state investigators got in here nosing around, they might easily find out about some of Lass' less than dutiful involvements.
Yeah, the blond bitch... Lass wouldn't mind taking her skinny ass around back behind the station and breaking up her pursy face with his billy. Then she'd be too ugly to be on TV. He could toss her to a pimp who'd have her ass turned in one day, out on the street earning cash.
Bitch, he thought a last time.
Couple of kids die in this shit-pit town and once it makes the national news, the whole country's going nuts. And only 'cos it's kids, Lass thought bitterly. And they don't give a hoot that each and every one of 'em wasn't nothin' but trailer park skell no ways. Bunch'a little white ‘gers raping ten-year-olds on the playground, quittin' school in the fourth grade to steal hub caps and CD players and prance around in their ball caps and baggy pants listening to that rap shit. Lass didn't get this Rap business, no matter what that pussy suck-face Hoiter said. To Lass it just sounded like a bunch of shit; all these players did was make up words that rhymed.
Lass, come to think of it, needed some real music now. Like some Reba or Bonnie Rait, or some of the good ‘ol Dolly. He flicked on the console radio:
"Got the big dick itch, dig a motherfuckin' ditch, then my AOL glitch—yo white bitch!"
Lass snapped it off, clacking his teeth. Obviously, Hoiter had fucked up all of Lass' pre-set stations. I'll fix his ass tomorrow. See how he likes scrubbing all the bum puke out of the drunk tank.
He idled down the back streets now. No action here, either. Just house after house and trailer after trailer with their shades drawn. Shut in. Scared.
Bad for business.
And now, to top it all off, those damn hayseed ranchers had to go out and get their asses killed too. I warned 'em, Lass congratulated himself. I warned 'em not to go fuckin' around out there. And look what happens.
Eight of them had met at Lohan's Ranch, and old Jake Lohan himself had been the one to rile them all up with shit like if the police couldn't protect their kids, they'd have to do it themselves. So they'd all grabbed their guns and run off in the woods like a bunch of perfect asses. Couple hours later, the rescue squad was hauling them out of the trees behind Stoddard's Mill in body bags. They'd all been gored right through their hearts.
The only one of them that lived was Jake Lohan but he was in a coma and looking like he'd be cold by morning.
I told 'em so, the dickbrains.
Lass cruised down more dark streets. This wasn't exactly routine patrol, of course. The main reason he was out tonight transcended his law-enforcement obligations. Lass needed a nut in a bad way. And it damn sure pissed him off that none of the whores were out plying their trade like they should be. Ordinarily, any time Lass got horny, all he had to do was pluck a gal off the street and pull it out. They weren't stupid, and they'd always swallow. To tell the truth, though, what Lass really wanted was another hum-dinger cocksuck from that closet-fairy Oly Dodell but there was no way that would be happening tonight, not unless Lass went to the morgue and opened Dodell's drawer.
Christ! Lass pawed his crotch. I need to get off!
His plight took him deeper and deeper into DeSmet's more remote roads. He turned at the corner of 38th Avenue and Auburn Street, thinking: Please, please! Just one fuckin' whore!
And by the time he'd finished the turn, his plea was answered.
Lass grinned. It was Arianne Zausner, the meth-freak who'd sucked his ass last week. Lass measured a woman's right to exist not by her contribution to society, nor her intelligence, but by her ability to suck ass. And Arianne Zauser got the highest mark in town.
He pulled over, stopped, and flipped open the passenger door.
"Aw, shit," she said. Her wan face looked half-dead already. "You're busting me again?"
"Simmer down, sweetie. Your good old Uncle A.T. isn't gonna arrest your dirty ass. It's just time to pay a little street toll. Don't forget about that break I gave you last week."
"Yeah, some break," she came back. "I got to lick the shit out of your asshole."
Lass' jaw set. He wasn't in the mood for back-talk, especially from a skinny dope-addict. "Don't make this hard, hon. You can get in and pay the toll, or maybe the next time you fire up a pipe, you'll get a lump of ammonia instead of ice."
The girl slumped into the cruiser, shut the door.
"That's a smart girl. And all this time I thought you had cum for brains."
She sat with her arms tightly crossed, chin down. Her bare legs sticking out of the faded cut-off shorts looked white as a grouper-belly in the moonlight. "I need to cop bad," she admitted, shivering. "I need some ice. Like really bad."
&n
bsp; "Well, I can't help ya there, baby," Lass announced from behind the wheel. "What happened to that bag I gave ya last week?"
"That was gone in two days."
"Not my problem." Lass found one of his hide-outs, a little snip of an old haulage trail. What didn't occur to him, however, was that this long-disused haulage trail was once an auxiliary access lane to the gypsum mine behind Stoddard's Mill.
He parked, let the car idle.
"I'll need twenty for this," she peeped a demand.
Lass laughed. "Honeybunch, you seem to be forgetting something. I don't pay for blowjobs. I'm The Man. I'm John Law. You suck my dick for free whenever I tell you to."
"Okay, a ten!" she nearly shrieked. "I need to cop some ice!"
"Well then I guess you need to walk your dirty ass to Callisto and buy some from Leonard."
She shrieked again, "I can't buy with no money."
"Then I guess you need to peddle that junkie fuck-hole of yours a little harder, huh?"
"There's no johns out! There's no tricks! Nobody's cruising the strip because of the killings! Goddamn you! I need to score!"
Lass nodded in consideration. "Okay, I'll give you ten, but this is the only time, understand?"
