The Minotauress

by Edward Lee

  "Kuk-kuh—keep?" the Writer gasped.

  "Yeah, they'se keep 'em in a jar'a alcohol. Jennie's got like almost twennie, and some of 'em are bigger than chickpeas. Oh, and, Marcy"—she giggled, shaking her head—"she even names hers. Ain't that just the silliest thing ya ever did hear?"

  The Writer could only stare, utterly obfuscated.

  "Well, thanks! Good luck workin' on yer book!" and then Beatrice bounced out of the room, pantiless and quite content.

  The Writer collapsed on his bed, and prayed for a dreamless sleep.

  (V)

  Dicky pulled up in front of the ramshackle house left to Balls by the latter's departed white trash, walking shit-heap of a father: gray wood planks and a canted roof. Jeez, Dicky thought. The place sat back in the woods at the end of a quarter-mile drive, quite remote. Dicky smelled woodsmoke, however, and something cooking that smelled damn good. I'se could use a little somethin' in my breadbasket, he acknowledged. Today they'd be driving a hundred miles into Kentucky and back again. When he stepped onto the porch, it creaked to the point that he feared his sheer weight might snap the planks. He knocked and the knobless front door swung open.

  "Hey, Dicky-Boy! Come on in! Beautiful mornin', ain't it?"

  More floorboards creaked when Dicky's bulk entered. Balls sat at a kitchen table, reading over mail. "Shore is, Balls. Beautiful mornin' ta be runnin' moonshine."

  "Yeah, man. Fer Clyde Nale today, right?"

  "Yeah. He's a dang sight nicer'n Snot McKully."

  Balls seemed to be addled by the mail. "Shee-it my drawers. Ain't nothin' good never comes in the fuckin' mail. Probation shit, bill-collector shit, and a bunch'a fuckin' bills my Daddy never paid. No wonder there ain't no ‘leck-tricity."

  "Dang. Sucks."

  Balls flapped another letter down in disgust. "And a county property tax bill! Four hunnert bucks! Fer this shit-house?"

  "What'cher dander up fer, Balls? You'll have that and a shitload more once we make this run for Nale'n then clean out Crafter's place."

  "You's right, Dicky," Balls calmed down. He cracked a laugh. "The fuck I care!" One last piece of mail remained, an ad flier. Balls squinted at it. It was a special offer for something called the Therm-O-Fresh Food Saving System. Balls just shook his head and threw it out, along with the rest of the mail.

  Dicky sniffed the air, looking to and fro. The woodstove was off, and the thirty-year-old oven was dead. "I smell somethin' damn fine, Balls. What'choo cookin'?"

  "Out back, Dicky. I'se steamin' a pot'a crawdads. Gotta creek out the woods that's loaded with 'em."

  "I ain't had me crawdads in a coon's age!"

  Balls rose and cracked his hands together. "Well then let's go eat 'em, then get on our way to Clyde Nale's. ‘Sides, I gots one last chore ta do outside ‘fore we leave."

  But when Dicky turned toward the back door, he stopped. Clothes were strewn about—clothes that clearly did not belong to Balls. A pair of drab brown slacks, a brown hat that said WENDY'S on it, and a shirt with a WENDY'S patch as well. There was also a pair of panties and a bra.

  "What the hail? You gotta chick here?"

  "Sort'a," Balls said and smiled.

  Dicky noticed something else now. Some stains of some kind darkened the floor, and there seemed to be a minor litter of some little... curly things. One thing more: a pair of pliers and a ballpeen hammer.

  Dicky stooped, picked up one of the curly things. "Balls? The fuck? This is a toenail!" he exclaimed and dropped it at once.

  "Yeah. I'se pulled 'em out with the pliers, ‘long with her fingernails, the little hosebag."

  "Who?"

  "One'a them illegal immer-grints," Balls sniped. "Big-tit jibber-jabber bitch she was. Last night after you's dropped me off, I walked down the drive to check the mail'n the bitch is walkin' up the main road. Guess she just got off a shift from Wendy's, and I'se sure she got the job 'cos she works tax-free under the table fer cheap, so's good Americans don't git hired."

  "Yeah. More likely as not," Dicky agreed. He picked a wallet up off the floor.

  "Only had a couple bucks on her, the bitch. Probably on her way ta buy tamales or some shit."

  In the wallet Dicky found a green laminated card that read RESIDENT ALIEN, THIS DOCUMENT CERTIFIES THAT MARIA SUAREZ IS REGISTERED WITH THE U.S. IMMIGRATION & NATURALIZATION SERVICE AND IS PAYING TAXES IN ACCORDANCE WITH FEDERAL LAW. Dicky, however, wasn't really much of a reader.

  "Anyways," Balls went on. "Last night I'se checkin' the mailbox'n she walks by'n starts cussin' at me a mile'a minute, she did, callin' me all kinds'a nasty things, fer no reason at all."

  "The dirty bitch," Balls offered. "What she call ya?"

  "Shee-it, she called me a hola, and a buenos noches, and—" Balls paused to think back. "Aw, yeah, and she called me a cómo se llama usted! Can ya believe that shit?"

  Dicky shook his head. "Bitch's got no right to be talkin' ta you like that." Dicky blinked. "But, Balls? What's all that stuff mean?"

  "Aw, shee-it, Dicky, I don't speak Spic, but ya know damn well it was bad. Probably motherfucker, cocksucker, asshole—shit like that."

  "Yeah, I'se sure yer right." But then more of his observations sunk in. "So... did'ja kill her?"

  "Naw, but I'se put a ruckin' like you wouldn't believe on the ‘ho. Assed her four times, I did'n in between I worked on her with the pliers, pulled her ears off'n shit and collarboned her with a ballpeen so's she couldn't move much whiles I was rearrangin' her shit with my peter—oh—and I knee-capped her too with my Daddy's big Webley." Balls pointed to the inordinately large pistol sitting on the table.

  "Fuck, Balls." Dicky blinked again. "So, if ya didn't kill her... where is she?"

  "Out back," Balls replied and led the way.

  Birds chirped cheerily when they stepped into Balls' shitty, overgrown back yard. Some old appliances lay on their sides along with a wasteland of empty whiskey bottles. Looks ta me like Balls' daddy did hisself a tad'a drinkin', Dicky reasoned. There was also a pile of dirt a couple feet high, next to a collapsed cord of wood.

  A wood-fire crackled faintly in the middle of the yard, over which hung a big can of crawdads attached to a hook.

  "Smells great, don't it?" Balls said. He took the can down with an oven mitt on which had been embroidered GOOD MORNING SUNSHINE! He drained the can, then emptied it into a bucket to cool. Steam poured off the pile of bright-red crustaceans.

  Indeed, they did smell good, but Dicky was curious now. He looked about the yard. "So, Balls... Where's this immer-grint chick?"

  "Right over there." He pointed to the pile of dirt.

  Dicky walked over, half-reluctant. Ooo, he thought when he looked on the other side of the dirt pile and saw a shallow grave. At the bottom lay a naked Hispanic woman with no ears. Both knees looked like plops of raw burger, and her arms lay shuddering at her sides, barely mobile. When she saw Dicky, she began to quake, her eyes widening as if to fire out of their sockets.

  A terrified voice twisted out as if by pressure. "Ayúdeme! Por favor!" Her shrieks hitched up and up. "Aquel hombre es loco! En nombre de Dios, ayúdeme!"

  "Shee-it," Balls sputtered down at her. "This is America, honey. Ya gots to speak American if'n ya wanna be understood."

  "Pleese! That man—heese crazy!"

  "There ya go bad-mouthin' my friend again," Dicky chided her.

  Horror and pain bloated her face. "Heese loco! Hee-elp—él es un malo hombre!"

  Dicky heard footsteps, then saw Balls appear with a shovel full of red-hot coals from the camp fire. "Let's see if'n this puts a hair up yer ass," and then—

  FLUMP!

  —Balls dumped the coals right on her feet.

  The woman lurched six inches off the bottom of the grave, emitting a scream now that sounded like her throat tearing.

  "Noisy little dickens, ain't she?" Balls chuckled. He returned with another shovelful and dumped it on her belly.

  The next vocal protests sounded more animal than human. In
the grave, she jerked and jigged and flipped and flopped.

  "A reg-lar Mexican jumpin' bean!" Balls bellowed.

  The last shovelful went on her face, and the woman's screams descended to a low, fleshy grind.

  Balls looked back down and seemed to disapprove of something. "Dang. Not quite as spek-tacka-ler as I'd'a thunk," and then he started dropping in pieces of cordwood—

  THUNK, THUNK..THUNK... THUNK!

  —until the hole was mostly full. It could be said that the laugh which exploded next from his throat had a devilish treatment to it, as he squirted half a can of lighter fluid into the grave and watched the flames gust.

  "Dang," Dicky commented, stepping back from the heat.

  "That should be a lesson to ya, la kookoo-ratchah!" Balls yelled down into the pit. "Don't talk shitty to Americans in America!"

  All that came from the grave now were a few fading mewls.

  Balls slapped Dicky on the back. "Come on, partner! Let's eat us some crawdaddies on ours way ta Clyde Nale's."

  "Sounds fine ta me, Balls," but as they walked away, Dicky took a final uneasy glance back at the crackling grave and the corroding mewls that seemed to issue off its smoke. Yessir. That dude really IS crazy...

  Balls grabbed Dicky's arm, as if alarmed. "Dicky!"

  "What?" Dicky snapped back, alarmed himself. "What is it, Balls? You hear someone comin'?" The sudden surprise left Dicky one tremble short of emptying his bowels in his pants.

  "Naw, but is that... " Balls sniffed the air, intent on something critical. "Is that... an-cher-ladas I smell cookin'?" and then he roared more laughter as he and Dicky went back in the house.

  ««—»»

  Balls and Dicky loaded their hundred-gallon run into the ‘Mino's back deck, then snapped the tarp down over the entire load. Each gallon was sold to the middlemen aka "distributors" in Kentucky for fifteen dollars, after which they were marked up and sold to the consumer. Dicky and Balls got a buck for each jug they delivered, and it was also their duty to bring back the purchasing price, minus their cut, and give it to the "manufacturer," who in this case was a tired, skinny, whiskery guy in his fifties named Clyde Nale, the Number Two moonshine producer in the county. But it was solid bread that social rejects like Dicky and Balls were earning, so one had to at least give them the benefit of the doubt for having a work ethic. No welfare for these industrious young men...

  "We'se loaded up'n ready ta roll out'a here, Clyde," Dicky called over to the man who checked a thermometer in a cork float by the main vat. Various other "staff members" came in and out of the hidden clearing, engaged in their tasks: jugging, shucking, stoking the big fire beneath the vats. Clyde Nale lumbered over to them, straining as if he had bad knees. He wore a floppy canvas hat and a stained jumpsuit like a mechanic. Shee-it, Balls thought, about to get in the car. One cracker after another in these parts. He was ready for something new, and after tonight—After we'se empty out old man Crafter's house full'a val-yer-bulls—he just might get it.

  "Don't leave just yet, boys," Clyde spake, wiping his hands off on his chest. "Got a Hock Party goin' on up the house, five-dollar ante. You fellas are in, ain't'cha?"

  Dicky's mouth took a configuration as if he'd just tasted something wholly unpleasant. "Naw, Clyde, thanks, but we'se wanna git this run done."

  But Balls had paused at the car door. "A what party?"

  "Hock Party, son. It's a roarin' good time, it is," Nale tried to entice. "Five bucks a head? Come on, boys. Ya got touch'a the kike or what?"

  "I'd like ta see me this Hock Party," Balls spoke up, always curious and willing to broaden his life's fund of knowledge.

  "Balls," Dicky complained. "Let's just git—"

  "Winner gets half the pot," Nale prodded, "and the pot's up ta damn near a hunnert."

  Balls liked a good gamble. He whipped out two five-spots and pushed it to Nale. "Come on, Dicky. Like it or not, we'se in. Let's check it out."

  They followed Nale up the short road to his weathered, gray farmhouse, and before they were even there, Balls could hear something of a commotion around the back. Balls asked Dicky aside, "It's—what?—a spittin' contest, right? Which ever fella spits the farthest wins?"

  Dicky smirked. "No, Balls. It's not... that... "

  Clyde Nale just laughed.

  But Balls saw what it was a moment later as he came around the house. Tarnations... This is some show!

  A barefoot girl with lank-brown hair so greasy it looked like black udon noodles sat tensed in a fold-down lawn chair. Probably thirty but beat. She was skinny yet with what looked like ample breasts pressing the front flap of the standard farmer's overalls she wore. Twenty feet in front of her was a line drawn in the dirt, and behind the line stood roughly twenty hillbillies of all ages and sizes. They were taking turns...

  "Come on, Jedder!" someone yelled.

  "Give it'cher best spit!"

  "Open wiiiiiiiide, Ida, honey!"

  The hayseed with the unlikely name of Jedder stepped to the line, took a few moments to loudly clear his throat, then hauled back and spit in the air.

  The girl sat, head craned back and wincing, eyes squeezed shut. She stretched her mouth wide open.

  "Aw, fuck!" Jedder's expectoration hit the girl's upper arm. Balls, meanwhile, took note that the girl's overalls were daubed by dark spots which, on closer examination, turned out to be wads of phlegm.

  Balls turned to Clyde Nale. "You mean—"

  "First fella to get a loogie right in her mouth gets a blowjob from Ida and wins half the pot."

  Groaty, Balls thought. But I LIKE it. "And the chick gits the other half."

  Nale smirked as if slighted. "Naw, son. The house gits the other half. Ida gits paid in free moonshine. A hardcore alkey's what she is."

  "Dang, Clyde. Who's got a touch'a the kike? A gallon'a shine don't cost you more'n few bucks to make."

  "Not a gallon, a pint," Nale corrected, shaking his head.

  "Shee-it," Balls chuckled. "That's low-down... ," but, he finished in thought. I LIKE it.

  Nale clapped his hands, rallying. "Come on, fellas! Drag up some dark ones! Make it fun!"

  Alas, many slang-forms existed which were much more interesting than such clinical terms as "expectorant," "sputum," and "congestion": Loogies, Goobers, "lungers," Irish Oysters, Chest Pudding and, the author's personal favorite, Redneck Custard. This is what the next four dutiful contestants went to exerted and quite audible efforts to cull from their lungs, each with the verve of racing dogs waiting to chase that rabbit. One by one, then, they took their turns... spitting...

  "Aw, shit... "

  "Dang... "

  "Ain't that a kick in the dick?"

  "Closest one yet! Chew see that 'un, Clyde?"

  Regrettably, three of the next four "shots" arched short, splatting Ida's thighs or shins, while the fourth creamed her cheek.

  "This ain't horseshoes, Tucker!" Nale guffawed. "Nice try, though," and, of course, he pronounced the word nice as "nass."

  Balls watched, arms crossed, reflecting to Nale, "Ya know, Clyde. That's harder'n it looks, I'll'se bet."

  "You bet right."

  "If'n a fella does manage ta drop one in her pie-hole, seems right he should get ta fuck her instead'a settlin' fer just a blowjob."

  Nale cast an admonishing glance. "Son? Would you wanna fuck a hill girl covered with hillbilly spit?"

  Balls chewed the question. "On second thought... "

  "Yeah."

  Nale clapped harder now—it was Dicky's turn. The hesitant, overweight rube stepped to the line, then feebly cleared his throat.

  "Come on, Dicky!" Balls encouraged. "Dig up a deep one, boy! Make yer mamma proud!"

  "You's heard him, Dicky!" Nale appended. "Pretend yer diggin' fer clams... "

  Dicky's throat grated a few more times until he had a mouthful of something substantial enough to give it the All American Try, then—

  P-tooie!

  But, lo, Dicky's effort fell a yard shor
t of Ida's feet; the crowd cracked up laughing.

  "Aw, Dicky! Ya wussy," Balls complained.

  The girl, however, lolled her head dismally toward Nale. She looked exhausted as if she'd just climbed a tree with a knapsack full of bricks "Fer fuck's sake, Clyde. We'se goin' on the sixth round... "

  "Cain't back out now, Ida," Nale scolded. "You's the one who vollern-teered—the boys'll spit till there's a winner. Just be glad you wasn't poor Verna coupla weeks ago." He looked to Balls. "Was windy that day. Fuckin' party went on four hours, it did, ‘fore Jimmy Jack Wallace finally put one in. Verna didn't have a dry spot on her. Had ta use a squeegee ta git all the hock off." Then Nale nodded sternly. "Your turn, son."

  "All's right, lemme show non-hockin' lightweights how ta spit inna gal's mouth."

  Balls posed at the line, and dredged up a deep one.

  P-tooie!

  The crowd hushed as Balls' expectoration—which looked like a mouthful of condensed cream of asparagus soup—arced high in the air. All eyes rose up, then trailed down, like spectators at a tennis match.