The Minotauress

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?'

'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.

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.

'Jimminy 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.'

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!'

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.'

'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.'

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.'

'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