Authors: Edward Lee
The Minotauress (33 page)
The Writer trembled back down the steps and at once lit a cigarette.
Dicky was helping Balls up, the latter appearing just as shaken as the Writer.
"Balls!" Dicky exclaimed. "Who's were ya shootin' at?"
"I hit it, I
know
I hit it!" Balls yelled. "Couldn't'a missed in a million years, but then I seed the bullet-holes in the back wall... "
know
I hit it!" Balls yelled. "Couldn't'a missed in a million years, but then I seed the bullet-holes in the back wall... "
The Writer sat down and took a deep breath. "Mr. Balls. What exactly did you see upstairs?"
"Bet it was that weirdo chick painted black," Dicky said. "She come back, ain't she?"
Balls looked at his cohort with befuddlement. "Naw, Dicky. It was a white chick with a body that'd make the Pope kick out a stained-glass winder, and-and-and—"
"A bull's head?" the Writer asked.
"You saw it too?"
"Yes." The Writer spewed smoke.
I'd sell my soul right now for just one drink.
"A Minotaur, the offspring of Pasiphae."
I'd sell my soul right now for just one drink.
"A Minotaur, the offspring of Pasiphae."
"And you see the
tits
on that brick shit-house?"
tits
on that brick shit-house?"
Tits,
the Writer thought obscurely. "I did, Mr. Balls. I actually saw a bull's head on a female body, so I guess that could only be a Minotaur
ess.
" He shook his head, however, convinced of his resolve. "But just as before, I insist, it was not real—"
the Writer thought obscurely. "I did, Mr. Balls. I actually saw a bull's head on a female body, so I guess that could only be a Minotaur
ess.
" He shook his head, however, convinced of his resolve. "But just as before, I insist, it was not real—"
The inhuman howl resounded again from upstairs, shaking the house.
"Not real, huh? Then what the fuck was that? One'a yer fuckin' ‘lucina-shun-uns?"
"I contend it was exactly that. The duress we're all under, along with the macabre circumstances—" He gestured the sacrificed corpse. "It's all simply reinforcing the power of suggestion and creating a mode of multiple hallucinations."
"Aw fuck you'n yer bullshit, man!" Balls dismissed. "You're the asshole who says there ain't no Devil or demons and God's a bunch'a
‘rithmatic!
Well, I'll tell you one thing, Writer. That thing upstairs shore as shit's a demon."
‘rithmatic!
Well, I'll tell you one thing, Writer. That thing upstairs shore as shit's a demon."
"If it were a demon, Mr. Balls, then why didn't it break the door down and come down here?"
"'Cos of the cross on the door, ya dick-head!" Balls answered without missing a beat.
The Writer could think of no argument.
My existential actualization has now met its greatest challenge,
he deemed. He thought of Sartre's protagonist in "The Wall," who faced a similar challenge by submitting to the firing squad...
My existential actualization has now met its greatest challenge,
he deemed. He thought of Sartre's protagonist in "The Wall," who faced a similar challenge by submitting to the firing squad...
"I'll prove Emmanuel Kant's theory that God is the
only
supernatural entity that can exist," and then the Writer got up and headed for the steps.
only
supernatural entity that can exist," and then the Writer got up and headed for the steps.
"Take the gun!" Balls implored. "Er—well, strike that. I shot the bitch point blank and the slugs went right through it."
"I won't need a gun, Mr. Balls, nor will I have any utility for any means of defense because I am
certain
that there is nothing upstairs I need to defend myself against. All that is upstairs is a figment of mind that can't hurt any of us."
certain
that there is nothing upstairs I need to defend myself against. All that is upstairs is a figment of mind that can't hurt any of us."
Balls smirked a grin. "That big-tit bitch is gonna nail your college ass to the fuckin'
wall
with them horns. Don't be a moe-ron."
wall
with them horns. Don't be a moe-ron."
"Don't go! Don't go!" Cora shrieked.
The Writer winced, then mounted the steps.
Only faith can save me now,
he thought and smiled.
he thought and smiled.
He took the bar off the door and swung it boldly open. He stepped out, turned, then without hesitation strode into the sitting-room and its cloak of flickering candlelight.
The Minotauress stood in the opposite corner. Ropes of bull-snot flew when it jerked its great head toward him.
The Writer forced himself to stare, forced his gaze to slowly draw upward along the creature's provocative physique and then stop at the beastly, horned head.
"You are not the incarnation of demonic offspring," the Writer spoke right up to it. "You are nothing but the product of hallucination. I'm going to blink now, and when the blink is completed, you will be gone, because for that to not be the case is to reject all that I believe to be true. There is no power greater than the power of truth."
The Writer closed his eyes.
Sheer consternation followed: the hellish snorting, the ungodly mewls, and the blur of impossible mass rushing forward, perfect human breasts riding up and down as the animal-head lowered to advance its deadly horns. The Writer opened his eyes again, just as the thing slammed into him, causing the house to tremor. The horns just missed goring him, instead pinning him from either side under his arms. Plaster fell from the walls amid the impact, paintings popped off, and marble busts toppled. The Writer liberally urinated in his pants, and he couldn't be sure but it seemed the impossible bull-face was smiling at him.
Shouting, he shot his arms up, slipped out of the brace of horns, and ran blubbering back to the basement door. In the background he heard the Minotauress yank its horns from the wall, snort again, and tear after him, screaming.
The Writer leapt into the black stairwell and slammed the door behind him. All the hairs on the back of his neck stood up at the creature's bellow of objection.
Dejected even more than he was terrified, he came back down the steps.
Balls, Dicky, and Cora all looked at him.
"I guess... Emmanuel Kant was wrong," the Writer admitted. He slumped down in a chair. "And... I seem to have wet my pants."
"Don't feel bad," Balls laughed. "So did I."
"Me, too," Dicky admitted.
"What're we gonna do?" Cora squealed. "That thing ain't gonna let us get out'a here!"
"We-we can wait till Crafter gets back," Dicky stammered.
"You got pig turds fer brains," Balls remarked. "He ain't comin' back fer a week, and all he'd probably do is use
us
fer sacker-ficin'."
us
fer sacker-ficin'."
"But won't the thing upstairs kill
him
when he comes in the house?" Cora asked.
him
when he comes in the house?" Cora asked.
"More than likely not," the Writer said. "In demonic incarnation—which I suppose I believe in now—that which is summoned can not harm the summoner. The Minotauress born to such an incarnation: Pasiphae."
"Pasiphae," Balls muttered, searching for a chronology. "Crafter brought her here from Hell by killin' that fat chick on the door?"
"I have no choice at this point but to say yes," the Writer said.
"Then she fucked Dicky, dropped all that spooge'n slop on the floor, and that's what turned inta that bitch with the bull's head?"
"Yes."
"And it were a good nut, too," Dicky offered. "
Dang
good, it was."
Dang
good, it was."
"Shut up," Balls said. Now he was staring at the unfortunate dead woman. "And all this shit's hittin' the fan 'cos ‘fore Crafter left, he sacker-ficed that butt-ugly ‘ho on the door."
The Writer nodded, opening a hand to the implements on the table. "By using the ritual instructions found in these books and undertaking a particularized ritual invocation known as tephramancy."
"The fuck is that exactly?"
"He impaled her on the chosen door—the Traversion Bridle—removed her heart by means of those branch-cutters and surgical retractors, put the heart in that crucible, it would seem, and then reduced it to ash in the crematory. After that, he applied the ashes to the transom stones over the door and then... the Bridle was lowered and Pasiphae's domain in Hell was opened to this room long enough for her to emerge."
Dicky picked his nose. Cora sniffled. The Writer lit another cigarette and wished he could down a couple of pitchers real fast. But Balls set his chin atop the tips of his fingers, thinking...
"And the Writer here says that what a warlock brings through them doors his own self cain't hurt him... " Balls' eyes caught the Writer's.
"You're thinking that if we initiated our
own
invocation, we could use what we summoned to kill the Minotauress—"
own
invocation, we could use what we summoned to kill the Minotauress—"
"Yeah! And thens we can high-tail it out's this fuckin' place!" Balls rallied. "Why not! Crafter done it so's why cain't we?"
The Writer chuckled smoke. "Mr. Balls—the process would require one of us to be
sacrificed.
"
sacrificed.
"
Silence.
Very slowly, then, Balls and Dicky turned their gazes to Cora.
The Writer thought:
Oh, dear...
Oh, dear...
Cora flailed against her bonds. "Why the fuck you rednecks lookin' at
me?
"
me?
"
Balls shrugged. "Well, see, me'n Dicky still got a haul to make, and the Writer here, he's got the smarts, but you, Cora? You don't bring much to the table, in fact the way I see it, you're about as useful as a dick on a cow... "
"Let me go, you fucker!" she squealed.
POP!
Balls' fist made short work of Cora's protestations. She slumped over again, out cold.
"It's
murder,
" the Writer reminded them. "It's a capital offense."
murder,
" the Writer reminded them. "It's a capital offense."
"Does it look like I care?" Balls retorted. "Shee-it. We'se'll just summon ourselfs our
own
demon, then we can get out'a here and
still
walk off with a shitload's Crafter's hair-looms."
own
demon, then we can get out'a here and
still
walk off with a shitload's Crafter's hair-looms."
"That's purdy dang good thankin', Balls," Dicky said.
The Writer struggled for any idea to thwart the plan. "Tephramancy requires human ashes; that's why Crafter has his own crematory. It probably won't even work with all the power shut off."
Dicky's minuscule intuition fired up. "But that thing runs on gas, don't it? We done seed all them propane tanks outside."
Balls stalked right up to the idle machine, pushed the ON button, and—
POOF!
—the pilot flared from the surge of propane.
"So much fer that, Writer!" Balls turned the knob to high. "Looks like we're ready to have ourselves our very own demoneric
sacker-fice!
"
sacker-fice!
"
And then the dirty-work began.
(IX)
The Writer felt ultimately responsible but then poor Cora didn't have much of a life to begin with.
At least her travails and the pain of her addictions is at an end,
he tried to rationalize.
At least her travails and the pain of her addictions is at an end,
he tried to rationalize.
Balls didn't need much instruction; he and Dicky, first, picked up Cora's unconscious form, and—
CRUNCH...
—impaled her throat on the iron spike of the last wooden door. Her junkie eyes sprang open; she flipped feebly on the spike, whose tip exited the hollow of her throat. Then she began to gargle foamy blood.
Balls looked to the first corpse, then to the Writer. "She gotta be nekit?"
Queasy, the Writer reeled at the gargling sound. "It doesn't say so specifically in these tomes but
naked
sacrifice victims do seem to support the time-held cliché. Nakedness begets lust, and lust offends God. By soliciting a demonic source, you pay tribute to it by offering a
naked
sacrifant."
naked
sacrifice victims do seem to support the time-held cliché. Nakedness begets lust, and lust offends God. By soliciting a demonic source, you pay tribute to it by offering a
naked
sacrifant."
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