Authors: Edward Lee
The Minotauress (8 page)
Dicky read it as best he could, got a headache, and left the bathroom.
Doreen, one of the bar's working girls, attempted to entice potential customers by playing Nine Ball with herself. She leaned over extra-long to take shots, allowing her low-cut top to droop so that anyone looking could see her breasts, but nobody ever looked.
Poor stupid gal just don't get it,
Dicky thought. Her breasts dangled like two stuffed white socks, with a cow teat at the end of each. Another prostitute, Cora Neller, was rack-skinny from meth—and from the booze she chugged to take the edge off when she didn't
have
meth. Her legs looked like flesh-covered dowel-rods sticking out of her cut-off jeans. When she sat down and crossed her legs, patrons often groaned, for there was so much gap-space inside her cut-offs that her vagina could be fully viewed: flaccid lips surrounding a scary black hole, like a hundred-year-old man's agape mouth. "Hey, Cora!" someone yelled. "Don't'cha git too close to the pool table. Someone's liable ta mistake ya fer a cue stick!" The whole bar ripped laughter; in fact, Doreen laughed so hard, her dentures fell out and landed in the corner pocket. "Fuck all'a ya, ya queers!" Cora shouted back. "You's kin all suck my Daddy's ass-hair!"
Poor stupid gal just don't get it,
Dicky thought. Her breasts dangled like two stuffed white socks, with a cow teat at the end of each. Another prostitute, Cora Neller, was rack-skinny from meth—and from the booze she chugged to take the edge off when she didn't
have
meth. Her legs looked like flesh-covered dowel-rods sticking out of her cut-off jeans. When she sat down and crossed her legs, patrons often groaned, for there was so much gap-space inside her cut-offs that her vagina could be fully viewed: flaccid lips surrounding a scary black hole, like a hundred-year-old man's agape mouth. "Hey, Cora!" someone yelled. "Don't'cha git too close to the pool table. Someone's liable ta mistake ya fer a cue stick!" The whole bar ripped laughter; in fact, Doreen laughed so hard, her dentures fell out and landed in the corner pocket. "Fuck all'a ya, ya queers!" Cora shouted back. "You's kin all suck my Daddy's ass-hair!"
"Yeah!" someone shouted back, "like you been doin' since you was
four!
"
four!
"
This was the cream of the crop at the Crossroads.
Dicky plopped his girth on the stool right next to Balls.
"Hey, Balls."
"Shee-it, man. Yer late. Thought ya lost yer confer-dance in me."
"Naw, after I'se got off work 'bout six, I hadda take me a long nap—"
"Shee-it. All that hard work warshin' cum-rags at the jack shack's got Dicky all wored out, but you ain't gonna have to work
there
no more." Then Balls cracked a sneering smile and slapped Dicky on the back.
there
no more." Then Balls cracked a sneering smile and slapped Dicky on the back.
"You got it?"
"I tolt ya I'd git it, didn't I?" Balls slipped an envelope over—a
fat
envelope.
fat
envelope.
It took a few minutes but Dicky counted the money, his hands trembling. "Well shee-it in a picnic basket, Balls! I just cain't believe it!" There was twelve hundred dollars in the envelope, in mostly ratty fifties and twenties.
Balls nodded. "So's when'll you git'cha that new trannie?"
"I'll pick it up tomorrow'n have it dropped the next day."
"And then the day after
that,
you'n me'll be runnin' moonshine, right?"
that,
you'n me'll be runnin' moonshine, right?"
"Right!"
"As
partners.
" Balls shot Dicky a solemn glance. "Right?"
partners.
" Balls shot Dicky a solemn glance. "Right?"
"
Dang
right, Balls!" Dicky was nearly crying in his joy. All that money in his hand? What a fine friend Balls was, and not three days out of the poky. That brand-spanking-new M-22 Rock Crusher would make his motorhead dreams come true. A 427 El Camino with a radical trans was just the ticket.
That fucker will
fly...
Dang
right, Balls!" Dicky was nearly crying in his joy. All that money in his hand? What a fine friend Balls was, and not three days out of the poky. That brand-spanking-new M-22 Rock Crusher would make his motorhead dreams come true. A 427 El Camino with a radical trans was just the ticket.
That fucker will
fly...
Dicky simmered down, as some logic seeped into the conversation. "Hey, Balls... If you're flat broke after gettin' out'a the joint... how'd you come up with twelve-hunnert bucks faster than shit through a buzzard?"
Balls grinned. "Aw, now, don't you worry 'bout that none, Dicky-Boy." Balls snapped his finger at an ancient barkeep in suspenders. He wore a ballcap with a patch that read: LIQUOR IN FRONT, POKER IN BACK. "Hey, bartender! I gotta stand on my head'n flap my balls ta git a pitcher in this joint?"
The barkeep frowned his way over. "You look like a con, son. I gots ta see some green first."
"Shee-it," Balls muttered through his grin. He snapped a twenty down.
Then the barkeep noticed Dicky. "Aw, shee-it, Dicky, I didn't see ya walk in. Damn shame what happened at yer place."
Dicky scratched his head. "My
place?
"
place?
"
"Yeah. June's jack shack. Ain't that where ya work?"
"Uh, well... "
"I guess ya ain't heard. 'bout seven o'clock, some fella walked in there and knocked the place over."
"Ya don't say?" Balls offered.
"Shore as shit," the keep replied. "Took the whole week's till, he did."
Dicky was astonished. "Yer shittin' me. Man, I was workin' there myself earlier."
"The fucker had a big gun too, and terrorized the livin' shit out'a all them poor girls. Made 'em all strip nekit so's he could gander their pussies'n tits."
"What a scumbag," Balls offered. "World's goin' ta shit, I'll tell ya."
The keep nodded in earnest. "And before he left, ya know what he done? He put his gun to poor June's head and made her stick her finger up his ass'n jerk him off."
"The lowdown bastard!" Balls offered.
"I cain't believe it," Dicky lamented. "And he cleaned the place out?"
"The whole week's till, like I said. Two grand's what June tolt me. Then he got clean away."
"Well, shee-it, with all them girls workin' there, they must've got a good description of the guy."
"Nope," assured the keep. "Dirty som-bitch were wearin a Wendy's bag on his head with eye-holes cut out. Don't that beat all?" and then the keep walked off to get them a pitcher.
Wait a min...
Dicky's head slowly traversed on his fat neck to look right at Balls. "
You?
" he whispered.
Dicky's head slowly traversed on his fat neck to look right at Balls. "
You?
" he whispered.
Balls' grin flashed like a switch-blade in the sun. He nodded, and gestured his waist. He pulled his T-shirt up for just a second, and stuck in there under his belt was a
big-
ass pistol, a Webley .455.
big-
ass pistol, a Webley .455.
"Jimminy
Christmas,
Balls!"
Christmas,
Balls!"
"Shhh. Some piece'a work, huh? I knew my Daddy'd be good fer
somethin'
one'a these days. See, this piece under my shirt's about the only thing he left me worth more than a pack'a butt pimples."
somethin'
one'a these days. See, this piece under my shirt's about the only thing he left me worth more than a pack'a butt pimples."
Dicky leaned over, keeping his voice low. "You pulled a heist in broad daylight?"
"Why ya think they call me Balls?"
The keep returned with their pitcher. Balls filled two mugs and slid one to Dicky. "Cheers, buddy."
Dicky raised his mug with a great pumpkin grin. "To our new partnership! Man, we are gonna
make
some money whens I get my rod on the road!"
make
some money whens I get my rod on the road!"
Their glasses clinked.
Three fat young men with buzzcuts sat on the other side. "Hey, ya old putz!" one shouted to the barkeep. "Git us another pitcher, and don't make us wait till we're old as you. And also give us an order of Redneck Steak Tenders."
The barkeep smirked. "Comin' right up... "
Balls seemed cruxed. "Hey, Dicky... what the hail's Redneck Steak Tenders? I ain't never heard'a that."
"Cheapest thang on the menu."
"Yeah? Well why not we'se git
us
some? I'se love a good steak, ‘specially if'n its cheap."
us
some? I'se love a good steak, ‘specially if'n its cheap."
"Naw, Balls. Trust me." Dicky pointed to the keep, who threw a handful of soda crackers onto a paper plate. Then he shot a dash of A-1 Steak Sauce on each cracker. "There ya go, fellers," he said to the fat brothers.
"Awright!" one reveled.
"Yeah, I'se thank I'll pass on that," Balls said.
The barkeep wandered back over, and pointed up to the TV. "You boys been listenin' to this crazy shit on the TV? This feller in Wisconsin?"
"Naw," Balls said. "Ain't really seen TV fer a while."
Dicky rubbed his chin. "Ya know, I think I
did
hear somethin', some crazy guy or some such."
did
hear somethin', some crazy guy or some such."
The keep leaned forward. "A
serial
killer they'se callin' him. Name's Dahmer, a queer-boy from up north. Kilt
lots
'a dudes they say."
serial
killer they'se callin' him. Name's Dahmer, a queer-boy from up north. Kilt
lots
'a dudes they say."
"Kilt 'em?" Balls asked. "How?"
"Some'a the worst shit you can imagine, son. He'd go inta one'a these faggot bars and start swish-talkin' with some feller, and a‘course, the feller thinks he's gonna get a fudge-packin' like they do but, see, what this Dahmer dude did was slip mickeys in their drinks ta git 'em all disorientered, then he'd take 'em back to his place."
"Yeah?" Balls goaded. "And then he fudge-packed 'em?"
"Aw, yeah, he shore did but not ‘fore doin' a shitload'a sick shit first. Lotta times he'd just plain kill 'em, and
then
pack their fudge. And other times he'd
cut parts
off 'em, and then he'd cook it and eat it. Cops found heads in the fridge, body parts all over the place, pair'a ears in a bread box."
then
pack their fudge. And other times he'd
cut parts
off 'em, and then he'd cook it and eat it. Cops found heads in the fridge, body parts all over the place, pair'a ears in a bread box."
"Shee-it!" Balls exclaimed.
Dicky smirked with distaste. "And you say he
et
parts of these fellas?"
et
parts of these fellas?"
"Damn straight. Admitted it. Ate a fella's whole bicep, he did, and some leg-meat cut right off the bone. Broiled it. Ate some'a their
brains
too."
brains
too."
"Fuck!" Balls exclaimed.
"And ya gotta figgure, if he ate
brains,
and he was
queer,
you know damn well he must've eaten some'a their peckers, too."
brains,
and he was
queer,
you know damn well he must've eaten some'a their peckers, too."
"Bet he slapped 'em right down on a grill'n cooked 'em like hot dogs," Dicky speculated.
"Bet he did," Balls added, intrigued.
The keep wagged a finger. "But that ain't the worst, boys. Some'a these fruiters he'd pick up? He'd drill
holes
in their heads, to take the fight out of 'em so's he could butt-fuck 'em all night long—sometimes fer even
days
—and the feller couldn't do nothin' about it."
holes
in their heads, to take the fight out of 'em so's he could butt-fuck 'em all night long—sometimes fer even
days
—and the feller couldn't do nothin' about it."
"Jay-sus
," Dicky remarked.
," Dicky remarked.
The keep gave a curt nod. "Just goes ta show, boys. The devil comes in all shapes'n sizes," and then he wandered back to his beer taps.
Balls and Dicky stared up at the TV.
"Damn," Balls muttered. "He drilled
holes
in their heads. That's some cool shit, ain't it?"
holes
in their heads. That's some cool shit, ain't it?"
Dicky looked aghast. "Cool? Balls, that's some right sick-in-the-head shit is what that is."
Balls raised a brow but said nothing, still staring up at the TV.
"But ya know what I don't git, Balls?" Dicky ventured. "What's a fudge-packin' murderer got to do with
cereal?
"
cereal?
"
"Hmm. Don't rightly know. Maybe that's what he fed these fruiters after he took the zing out of 'em with the drill."
A voice to their right cut in: "Actually a
serial
killer is a modern law-enforcement label that's used to differentiate from mass-murders and spree killers. The individual will kill a
series
of persons, generally over an extended period of time, functioning normally in between victims. It's not uncommon for serial killers to work everyday jobs, own homes, and even have families."
serial
killer is a modern law-enforcement label that's used to differentiate from mass-murders and spree killers. The individual will kill a
series
of persons, generally over an extended period of time, functioning normally in between victims. It's not uncommon for serial killers to work everyday jobs, own homes, and even have families."
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