Authors: Edward Lee

The Minotauress (36 page)

BOOK: The Minotauress

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The house shook as the Minotauress, teary-eyed now, gave up one last, pitiable howl and then fell limp to a bout of harmless shivering, as the Spermatogoyle finger-wrote another supernaturally charged word on her belly...

"Dang!" Dicky exclaimed.

"That's what I'se call hosin' a bitch down hard," Balls added. Their flashlights beamed on the quivering, sperm-cloaked form. "Is it dead?"

"No," the Writer ventured. "The potent brew of supernatural sperm seems to have subdued the Minotauress to a comatose state. I can only presume that the word our ally wrote on her abdomen triggered some sort of paresis spell."

The Spermatogoyle stepped back as if winded, then bowed to Balls in veneration. The bastard daughter of Pasiphae had been rendered innocuous.

The Writer seized the moment for a metaphysical summation. "The ultimate allegorical showdown between male and female: virility versus fertility. As in quality speculative fiction, the
themes
become tangible living things. It's clear that in the realm of the occult, abstractions such as symbolism are as concrete and objective as the physical in our realm.
Notions
are represented by sentient entities."

"
That's
the reason the big dick's cum took the wind out'a the bitch's sails?" Dicky asked, confused.

"No doubt, Mr. Dicky. The symbol of masculinity reigns supreme."

Balls shot the Writer a funky look. "That's the dumbest-ass thing I ever heard!"

The Writer lit a cigarette and shrugged.
Sounded good to me...

Balls opened the front door. "You done great," he said to the ludicrous bipedal sex organ. "Go have yerself a run around the yard. You deserve it."

Enthused, the Spermatagoyle leapt through the doorway to revel in the twilit night.

"What now, Balls?" Dicky asked.

"Finish loadin' Crafter's shit in the U-Haul and split, I reckon."

"What a night of great adventure," the Writer commented. "And now, it would seem, great profit for you gentlemen."

But Balls seemed seized by a contemplation. He scratched his goatee, looking down at the incapacitated Minotauress. "Shee-it, guys... "

"A conjecture, Mr. Balls?"

"Dicky! Go out ta the car'n fetch some'a them Flex-Cuffs you gots from yer uncle."

"What'cha need them fer?"

"Just git 'em... "

Dicky lumbered out the door and returned momentarily with said Flex-Cuffs.

Now Balls walked eagerly about the candle-lit room, rubbing his hands. "Ya know what's worth more than all the ‘spensive shit in this house, Dicky?"

"What, Balls?"

"
That,
" and Balls pointed down to the afflicted Minotauress. He quickly Flex-Cuffed the creature's ankles and wrists. "We'se gonna be millionaires!"

"Yeah?"

"Shee-it, Dicky! Use yer noggin! We'se gonna sell this big-tit bitch to a circus or zoo or somethin', make a fortune!"

"Quite an industrious endeavor," the Writer said. "Or perhaps start your
own
exhibition, traveling from city to city to sell tickets to the public. I suspect people would pay handsomely to see such a spectacle."

"Hail yeah!" Balls whooped. "And ya knows what, Writer? We ain't even gonna kill you now! Dicky and me? We're gonna make you a partner!"

"My gratitude knows no constraint," the Writer said.

"Come on, boys! Lets get this bull-headed ‘ho loaded!"

The three of them pitched in to carry the spermatically enslimed Minotauress outside to the U-Haul. Balls secured the latch, and the sound of the door closing echoed through the night. The Writer glanced errantly into the back property and saw the Spermatogoyle chasing squirrels amongst the gravestones.

"Time ta blow this pop-stand!" Balls celebrated.

Dicky got behind the wheel while the Writer squeezed in next to Balls. The big engine revved, fracturing the night's stillness; then Dicky put the Hurst in first and drove out the front gate.

The car passed fine but as soon as its back bumper cleared the entrance—

"The hail?" Dicky remarked.

The El Camino stopped short as if it had run into a wall.

Balls glared. "Don't tell me you just dumped yer brand-new trannie ‘fore we'se can even get out'a here!"

Dicky tried to continue forward but the hot-rod only spun its wheels.

"I know what the problem is," the Writer volunteered. "The salt."

"The
what?
" Balls questioned.

"What we observed previously. The property is completely surrounded by a line of hexed salt, what an occultist would refer to as a warding barrier or a totemic boundary. Presumably anything hellborn can't cross it. That's why the car stopped. The salt functions as a force field, so to speak. Once it detected the presence of the Minotauress in back, the field activated, causing the creature's mass to be repulsed."

"Well what the hail we gonna do now?" Balls complained.

"Mr. Dicky? Back the car up, please. I'll be right back." The Writer disembarked, and when the vehicle had backed up past the salt-line, he got down on his knees and pushed the salt back with his hands. "Try driving through now," he called out.

The car rumbled past the gate, encountering no preternatural resistance. The Writer quickly redistributed the salt back across the entrance and hopped back in the car.

"I think that should do it," the Writer announced.

Dicky paused before pulling off. "Hey, wait a minute... What about the dick-demon?"

They all looked over their shoulders and saw the Spermatogoyle continuing its romp through the graveyard. It was masturbating itself once again.

"Dang. How many times can that thing beat off?" Dicky posed.

Balls' arched a brow. "Wants ta bust another pile'a demon jizz, looks like."

Intrigued, the Writer watched. Dicky asked, "Think we ought'a take it with us? That way we'd have
two
demons in our road show."

Balls seemed to mull the prospect over. "Naw, leave that ‘un be. I've had me about enough'a that wacky peter."

"Shore," Dicky agreed. "But I wouldn't mind seein' the look on Crafter's face when he comes home."

Balls chuckled. "Yeah. The old geezer's gonna pull up to find a big
dick
runnin' ‘round his yard."

Dicky laughed and pulled off. The Writer continued to watch out the back window as they cruised down the lane. Now the Spermatogoyle was heaping still more sperm, this time onto one of the unconsecrated graves. Would the infernal seed seep down through the soil to resurrect the cursed corpse beneath?

The Writer preferred not to speculate.

««—»»

The car sped around winding, tree-lined roads, cruising through the dim night. They were on their way back to Luntville. But what would happen now?

"How ‘zactly do we go inta the freakshow business?" Dicky raised the issue.

"Dang, Dicky. I don't know." Balls looked to the Writer. "You's the one with all the brains. Thank'a somethin'."

"Oh, I'm confident that with a solid business plan, we'll be making money in no time. Just let me do a little marketing research, find some carnival schedules, etcetera."

"Et
what?"

The Writer smiled. "Leave it to me."

Of course the Writer had no true intention of going into the freakshow business.
I'm a novelist, not a carnival barker.
He'd simply go along with the plan until he could escape these two dimwits and get back to his work in progress.
Yes,
he thought with an unsurpassed creative elation.
White Trash Gothic...

Next, Dicky scratched his head in another contemplation. "I was just thankin'. What we gonna do if that dick-demon's cum... you know... wears off, and maybe that special word it wrote on the bull-gal's belly loses its kick?"

The Paresis Spell,
the Writer mused. And it was a good question. How long would it keep the Minotauress subdued? "I can't say with any authority, but you men did seem to secure her sufficiently. Plus, I'd imagine the latch and hinges on the U-Haul are quite sturdy."

"Aw, shee-it," Balls dismissed. "You boy's are worryin' like a couple'a chicks. Dicky, them Flex-Cuffs are as good as steel cable. Even if the big dick's mumbo-jumbo
does
wear off, ain't no way that bitch'll snap those cuffs."

Dicky seemed pacified by the response, but then his face turned concerned in the dim dashboard light. "Dang. We ain't doin' squat less'n we get some gas, and I'se mean like
right now.
"

Balls glanced down. "What'cha got fer a brain, Dicky? The tank's on E!"

"Yeah, sorry. I were so excited 'bout knocking over Crafter's place, I didn't check it."

"Man, you're about as smart as the loaf'a pumpernickel that dead ‘ho popped out her pussy! We ain't even halfway back to town yet!"

"Relax, gentlemen," the Writer cut in. "There's a filling station right there."

CRICK CITY EXXON, the glowing sign read. OPEN 24 HOURS!

Dicky pulled in. "Fuck, I left our cut from Clyde Nale's run at the house. You got any dough?"

Balls fished in his jeans' pocket. "Dang. I got's nothin' neither." He nudged the Writer. "Don't tell me you're broke too."

The Writer checked his pockets and ankle belt. "I'm afraid I spent the last of my cash at the bar—"

"Fuck!"

"But take heart, gentlemen. I do have my credit card."

"Come on, let's go—"

"Hey, git me a bag'a Funyuns while's yer in there," Dicky called after them. "And a Mr. Pibb, but not that diet stuff."

Dicky, lo and behold, had pronounced the word diet as "dat."

Balls and the Writer approached the pump, but a sign told them: PAY INSIDE AFTER 10 P.M. A bell rang when they entered the brightly lit mini-mart. Balls parted at once to pull several bags of Funyuns off the shelf, and get drinks. The Writer's eyes slid across a magazine rack comprised mostly by x-rated fare, with names like
Poppin' Mammas!
and
Gobblin' Grannies!
and
Tinkle Drinkers!
Next, he noticed a revolving rack of used paperbacks and he perused the titles, hoping for a gem.
Satan's Lovechild, Nazi Nuns in Heat, Lusty Lesbo Love Party.
The Writer nearly shrieked when he saw one of his own books,
The Red Confession,
next to a book entitled,
Farm Girls Just Want To Have Fun.

He looked over his shoulder, then quickly placed his book on the top of the rack.

"Can I help you?" asked a drab, pimply faced young man behind the bulletproof cubby.

"Yes, please. We'd like to fill it on Pump 1," and then passed his credit card through the slot. "And, also, my friend's getting some snacks."

The boy ran the card through the machine, then passed it back.

BOOK: The Minotauress

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