Authors: Edward Lee
The Minotauress (40 page)
She's Thomas Pynchon's
V, he knew.
She's the woman I want the most but, alas, the woman I can never have, because to have her is to beckon chaos.
V, he knew.
She's the woman I want the most but, alas, the woman I can never have, because to have her is to beckon chaos.
The Writer could barely breathe as he gingerly pushed away from her and the rest of her world-tainted perfection.
"You're the woman of my dreams, Nancy," he returned her whisper, "and that is the reason I must go now... "
Her smile lit up every corner of his psyche as she daintily backed away, bunny ears pitching. "I'll'se get you one'a these days... "
"I know," he croaked. "Goodnight... "
"See ya tomorrow, Mr. Writer!" she said and slipped back into her room, and—yes!—she'd pronounced the word writer as "ratter."
Shuddering, his mind a schism now, the Writer entered his own room and turned in the feeble light.
Did a shadow move?
A ghost, perhaps?
After a night such as this, could his spirit now be a beacon for apparitions?
No, I'm just tired and exhilarated at the same time. So much happened tonight: portents, marvels, the sheer unfathomable...
His lighter stalled beneath the cigarette he'd just put in his mouth. He was staring down at his desk. Beside the Remington Standard Typing-Machine No. 2
was a
veritable
stack
of paper.
was a
veritable
stack
of paper.
A drone filled his head when he picked it up. Three hundred pages at least, and every single one filled with type-written words.
My God, my novel...
He stared further, as if over a cliff.
It's finished...
He stared further, as if over a cliff.
It's finished...
He looked at the first page and gulped. The original title, WHITE TRASH GOTHIC, had been typed over with X's, and a line below it, a mysterious
new
title had been typed. The new title was this: THE MINOTAURESS.
new
title had been typed. The new title was this: THE MINOTAURESS.
THE HORN-CRANKER
PROLOGUE
T
he high sun beamed in the sleepy South Dakota summer, and its light painted the boy's already well-tanned arms. This was all part of him, part of his rich and hardy upbringing. The grazeland scent, the whipping wind, and the sun.
he high sun beamed in the sleepy South Dakota summer, and its light painted the boy's already well-tanned arms. This was all part of him, part of his rich and hardy upbringing. The grazeland scent, the whipping wind, and the sun.
The day's beauty sang across the endless land.
"Their horns are their power, son," the boy's father warned. Rugged, overalled. Kind-eyed but resolute. "So ya gotta
take
that power, take it right away from 'em. Otherwise, they'll gore ya; they'll ram their horns right up your ass. I seen it happen to a man once, and it weren't pretty. He died like a dog 'cos his shit mixed all up with his blood."
take
that power, take it right away from 'em. Otherwise, they'll gore ya; they'll ram their horns right up your ass. I seen it happen to a man once, and it weren't pretty. He died like a dog 'cos his shit mixed all up with his blood."
Wow!
the young boy thought.
Shit... mixed with blood!
the young boy thought.
Shit... mixed with blood!
"He got to pukin' too, throwin' up his own shit right there in the cattle-gate."
Wuh—WOW!
The boy was but nine years old at the time of this crucial indoctrination. He didn't know what dick hair was, nor sex, nor did he even know what the infrequent hardening of this
dinger
meant. It was just something that happened. The boy was innocence unspoiled. Until now.
dinger
meant. It was just something that happened. The boy was innocence unspoiled. Until now.
"So here's what'cha do—" The boy's father grabbed the instrument—called a torque-plier—and raised it in the sun. "Handy as a pocket on a shirt, boy—this here pair'a horn-crankers." He took a strong, hard huff, and fit the queer tool's clamps over the steer's horn.
Then
twisted
for all he was worth.
twisted
for all he was worth.
The act begot the strangest sound, like a hinge squeaking, then wood splintering:
kreeeee-CRUNCH!
"Eeee-YEAH!" the boy's father grunted with earnest effort, and simultaneously the wicked tool in his hands successfully yanked the left horn out of the 1,900-pound Black Angus gelding's skull.
The steer, understandably, howled.
The young boy looked into the hole that had been caused by this rude and cruel extraction. A gritty, wet hole in the skull now replaced the once-proud horn. Pinpoints of blood began to appear inside.
Wow!
the boy thought.
A hole—in its head!
the boy thought.
A hole—in its head!
The mammoth beast bucked in its steel gate, still howling, snot flying away in ropes. Metal clattered, hooves pounded the earth.
"If it could get out of there, son, it'd gore us lickety-split. It'd kill every thing that moved."
The boy peered closer at the huge trapped beast.
Yeah, but it CAN'T get out! It CAN'T!
Then came a fit of giggling.
Yeah, but it CAN'T get out! It CAN'T!
Then came a fit of giggling.
Next, the boy's father wrenched out poor beast's second horn.
kreeee-CRUNCH!
The steer, again, howled. Its howl trumpeted over the farm's vast expanse like a vociferation from hell...
"There ya go."
The two horns lay in the dust now, between the boy's high-top Keds.
"See? That's all it takes to turn this mean-ass creature into a harmless pud. " The man set down the infernal instrument, then put his arm around his son. "And one day, boy,
you'll
be a horn-cranker too, just like me and my father before me... "
you'll
be a horn-cranker too, just like me and my father before me... "
CHAPTER ONE
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, 1999
W
hen it wasn't raining, the entire city of Seattle sighed in relief. Which wasn't often. No, God saw fit to tinkle liberally on this city 280 days per year. Hence the floods, the washed out roads, the houses sliding off hillsides, and the highest suicide rate of any national metropolis came as little surprise, forging a dismal inclement cement shit-house with a candyass monorail, a ripoff "Underground," and a piercingly ugly Space Needle that most residents hoped would fall over onto 5th Avenue rush hour. Tourists were in for a big surprise should they venture past the scenic "Waterfront," for then they would see what the city was
really
about: derelict vomit splattered on every sidewalk and buses that smelled worse than the shit-hoppers at a compost dump. Seattle was a wino-loogie-pasted rain bucket which attracted too many fish-belly-white "Goths" who thought it "chic" to live in environs bereft of sunlight, too many women with knapsacks and unshaved legs, bums, drunks, and homeless crack addicts (because showers, here, were free), and police kicked off of every major city on the West Coast (because what
qualified
officer would
want
to work here if he could get a job anywhere else in America?) Teeming rain ruled, as did people blowing off their heads due to protracted Vitamin-D deficiency and Seasonal Affect Disorder.
hen it wasn't raining, the entire city of Seattle sighed in relief. Which wasn't often. No, God saw fit to tinkle liberally on this city 280 days per year. Hence the floods, the washed out roads, the houses sliding off hillsides, and the highest suicide rate of any national metropolis came as little surprise, forging a dismal inclement cement shit-house with a candyass monorail, a ripoff "Underground," and a piercingly ugly Space Needle that most residents hoped would fall over onto 5th Avenue rush hour. Tourists were in for a big surprise should they venture past the scenic "Waterfront," for then they would see what the city was
really
about: derelict vomit splattered on every sidewalk and buses that smelled worse than the shit-hoppers at a compost dump. Seattle was a wino-loogie-pasted rain bucket which attracted too many fish-belly-white "Goths" who thought it "chic" to live in environs bereft of sunlight, too many women with knapsacks and unshaved legs, bums, drunks, and homeless crack addicts (because showers, here, were free), and police kicked off of every major city on the West Coast (because what
qualified
officer would
want
to work here if he could get a job anywhere else in America?) Teeming rain ruled, as did people blowing off their heads due to protracted Vitamin-D deficiency and Seasonal Affect Disorder.
In a city as fucked up as this? Who knew what other "disorders" might be percolating? Who knew what other slow-burning sicknesses were beginning to smolder in unsuspecting heads?
Who knew?
««—»»
When Dean Lohan's wife pulled up at the corner of 4th and Virginia, Dean just stood there a moment, looking at her face behind the half-opened driver's side window. Pert, classy, with penetrating indigo eyes, Daphne's beauty only seemed to evolve since their marriage three years ago. They both had jobs in the city, rode to and from work together, had lunch together every day... Well, not
every
day; lately Daphne was having to skip her own lunch hour for important work meetings. She worked for a national clothing distributor, was moving fast up the ranks, working hard for the marriage.
She's my life,
Dean thought as he stood looking at her. The image and the thought nearly brought him to tears
She's my very world...
every
day; lately Daphne was having to skip her own lunch hour for important work meetings. She worked for a national clothing distributor, was moving fast up the ranks, working hard for the marriage.
She's my life,
Dean thought as he stood looking at her. The image and the thought nearly brought him to tears
She's my very world...
"I'm going to Ajax's to drink beer," he said to her. "I need the car."
Daphne, with a creased expression, rolled the window down the rest of the way. "What?"
Dean's voice was already honing its edge of impatience. "I'm going to Ajax's to drink," he repeated. "You deaf? Get out of the car."
Daphne's model-face froze, then went lax as she laughed. It was a joke, of course. Dean joked around all the time.
"Think it's a joke?" he said. He yanked open the car door. Then he grabbed her, not by the collar and not by the hair, but by the
face,
and hauled her shrieking out of the Honda Accord.
face,
and hauled her shrieking out of the Honda Accord.
"What's wrong with you?" came her shrill and flabbergasted objection.
"I'm thirsty. I need a beer."
Daphne stood stiffly on the sidewalk, her fists at her side. "How am I going to get home?"
Dean grabbed her—again, not by the hair but by the
face—
and shoved her toward the bus stop. She nearly lost her footing, nearly fell into the street.
face—
and shoved her toward the bus stop. She nearly lost her footing, nearly fell into the street.
"Take the fuckin' bus," Dean said.
—as the drone rang in his head, he couldn't move, he couldn't—
"... mind taking the bus?"
—and Dean's mind jigged, then jagged, and he snapped out of the waking dream. He was standing on the corner of 4th and Virginia, looking at his beautiful wife behind the wheel of their car.
"Honey?" Daphne asked through the open window. "Are you all right?"
Reality slammed back. "I'm sorry, honey," he said once he recomposed himself. "Forgot to change the air in my head today."
Daphne seemed concerned. "You looked like you were in a trance. Are you sure you're all right?"
"Fit as a fiddle, however fit that is," Dean tried to joke. "Seriously, how fit
are
fiddles? What's that you were saying?"
are
fiddles? What's that you were saying?"
Her profuse lashes blinked at him. She looked depressed. "Mr. Thron called a work meeting tonight. Quarterly inventory."
"Bosses do that," Dean tossed it off.
"The meeting's now. Would you mind taking the bus home?"
"No biggie," Dean said. "I enjoy busses, actually. You might even call me a bus-loving man."
"I knew you'd understand." She batted her big eyes again. "Kiss-kiss."
"Ah, of course." Dean leaned over and kissed wife on the lips.
"Love you," Daphne whispered.
"I love you more... "
"Do not."
"Do too."
Dean grinned, stepping back. He could stand there and kiss her forever, and that would be fine with him. But then she'd miss her meeting!
"Oh, and I might be late," Daphne added, slipping the car into gear. "So don't wait up."
The love in Dean's eyes shone like hot embers as he watched Daphne drive off. He thought nothing of the fact her office was south yet she was driving north. It didn't even register.
Dean looked at the Metro bus stop, less than enthused about the hour-and-a-half ride back home.
Hell, it's Friday night,
he thought. A minute later, he was on the pay phone.
Hell, it's Friday night,
he thought. A minute later, he was on the pay phone.
"Ajax, it's Dean. What say we have a few beers?"
««—»»
Ajax, like Dean, was not a true Seattlelite. He'd moved here from the east coast to pursue the more bountiful employment opportunities. He stuffed envelopes for a national survey corporation and was quite proud to make a living at it—not that many would call his existence a living.
Ajax looked like Rush Limbaugh with a beard, and possessed similar political sentiments. Well, make that Rush Limbaugh with a beard who dressed like a pan-handler. He and Dean had met quite by accident, at a Fremont tavern called THE DUBLINER during the last game of the World Series. They'd been the only two cheering when the Yankees had won. Since then, both never fitting into the Seattle grunge-goth-Left Coast-shaven-headed-everyone-has-a-fucking-knapsack scene, they became fast friends.
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