The Minotauress

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.'

'Shee-it!' Balls exclaimed.

Dicky smirked with distaste. 'And you say he 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.'

'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.'

'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.'

'Jay-sus,' 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?'

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?'

'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.'

Balls and Dicky looked over at the guy who'd related the information: a clean-cut guy with brown hair, glasses, and a white shirt—a nerd. He was drinking beer by himself.

'But ain't they all crazy?' Balls asked.

'Sometimes but not exclusively. Some serial killers even have high I.Q.'s. The frightening part is they tend to not stand out. The average serial killer is typically a white male in his twenties or thirties, and he commits his crimes, often undetected for years—like Ed Gein or Henry Lee Lucas—to live out a deep-seated sexual fantasy born in some mode of dementia.'

Balls leaned over to Dicky. 'Wow, this fella knows some big words.'

'That he does—'

The guy continued, 'The term was dubbed by FBI Agent Robert Ressler in the ‘70s, during the plethora of national news coverage about Ted Bundy, who raped and murdered women and children in at least five states. He's right up there with Gein and Lucas, the Green River Killer, John Wayne Gacy, but this guy here—Dahmer—he may wind up being the most grotesque of the bunch.'

'Dang,' Dicky said. 'There's some fucked up folks in this world.'

Balls leaned over, to face the guy in the white shirt. 'Hey, buddy? You seem to know a lot 'bout this kind'a stuff. Any idea why they do it?'

'They all have essentially the same answer,' the guy said. 'They do it because, to them, it's fun.'

Balls leaned back down, thinking.

'Fun? Fuck all that shit, man.' Dicky was growing ill at ease. 'Eatin' folks, drillin' holes in their noggins—shee- it. Let's not talk 'bout it no more—it's givin' me the willies. Just let's us think about all that cash we'se gonna make when we's runnin' ‘shine in a big block 427 with a Rock Crusher trans.'

'Yeah,' Balls said, but he seemed preoccupied now.

'And weren't there somethin' you was gonna tell me tonight?' Dicky reminded.

'Huh?'

Dicky lowered his voice further. 'You said you had some score next month.'

'Aw, yeah. Early September, right.' Balls shook out of his bizarre daze. 'It's pretty righteous and a shore thing. In fact, it just might be so good that we won't have to run no ‘shine after that.'

'The hail?'

'Dicky-Boy,' Balls whispered. 'This score could be so big that neither'a us'll have to worry 'bout cash again. Ever.'

'I don't know, Balls.'

'Bullshit, Dicky.'

'A heist, ya mean?'

'Well, yeah, kind of. And it's risk-free, man. Now don't