The Minotauress

'And-and... what 'bout that black fella?' Dicky asked. 'Did he snap yer neck?'

Balls frowned. 'No, ya A-hole! If he'd snapped my neck, I wouldn't be sittin' here tellin' ya the story, would I?'

'Uh, oh. No,' Dicky said.

'The black fella lets me go'n starts laughin', sayin' ‘Git on outa here, kid. You've had yer fun for the night. Don't be peepin' in folks windows no more. You're liable ta get shot.' I beat feet out'a there so fast I think I must'a run a mile in ten seconds, I did, but damn near every step'a the way I could hear them laughin' at me... '

Dicky stared through the next pause. 'Shee-it, Balls. That's some story.'

'Yeah, a fucked up story... and the mores I think about it,' Balls cerebrated, 'the more it tells me that I'm fucked up. That there's somethin' wrong with me.'

Dicky's dim eyes fluttered. 'You? Sounds ta me like the one there's somethin' wrong with is Mrs. Houser.' Then he gave a nitwit chuckle. 'Wantin' ta get beat up by black fellas'n eatin' jism off a wall don't sound exactly normal ta me.'

'Naw, naw, Dicky,' Balls complained with some aggravation. 'You ain't gettin' what I'm sayin'. It ain't about her—all women eat cum off the wall'n like ta get beat'n fucked by black fellas with giant dicks, just 'cos they'se all low-down dirty whores. I'm talkin' 'bout me. When I thunk she was really gettin' murdered... I stayed at the winder ta jerk off! And even now, most times when I'se havin' a wank... I'se still think about that picture of the guy with the Beatles haircut jamming that gun up the gal's bloody pussy. If'n I look at Playboy—shee-it. That don't turn me on none at all. I think about the girl with the gun up her snatch. I don't think about regular stuff, I think about fuckin' girls up, and ya knows what? I don't care! If someone really was murderin' Mrs. Houser, I still wouldn't call the poe-leece. I'd be standin' at that winder beatin' my meat anyways.'

Dicky's eyes rolled in the fat face. 'Dang, Balls. You're one fucked up piece'a work,' then he slapped Balls' back and laughed.

Balls smirked over his beer. 'Beats the shit out'a me why I'se always think about shit that makes ever-one else sick.'

Dicky's simple gray matter couldn't handle these subjectivities. 'Aw, man, you's're just drunk—forget 'bout all that.'

'But I'se serious, Dicky. Average dude looks at a hot splittail, he thinks ‘man I'd love to hump that hot bitch,' but I think ‘man, I'd like to piss up her ass whiles I'm pushin' her head in a wood- chipper or string her up by the neck buck nekit and beat off whiles I'm watchin' her twitch.''

Dicky just shook his head, in queasy disbelief. 'Balls, as long you ain't really doin' it, it don't matter much 'bout thinkin' it. Now this crazy talk'a yours is damn uglier than my grandma's ass when she had all them bed sores. We gots cool shit comin' our way, man. We got ‘shine ta run and that old guy's house ta knock over, and money to be made! And we'se only twennie! We'se gonna be bird-doggin' chicks'n bangin' beaver whiles our wallets're full'a cash. So forget 'bout all that other shit—' Dicky smirked up at the TV—'it's that dang homo psycher-path stuff on TV's got you all fucked up.'

Balls shrugged uneasily. 'Yeah, I guess yer right,' and, of course, he pronounced right as 'rat.'

Dicky's girth rose from the stool. 'I'se gonna go contribit to the Luntville water supply. Why'n'chew order us up another pitcher?'

'Shore... '

Dicky wobbled off. When Balls ordered another pitcher, he and the keep looked up at the television at the same time. It was a commercial: 'Try the new Abiciser!' an attractive blond in a red bikini enthused. 'If you don't have abs like these in thirty days, return it for a full refund!' and then the camera zoomed in on her flat, bare belly and slit-like navel. There was even some camel-toe printing against the bikini bottoms, the sight of which caused half the men in the bar to woop.

The keep chuckled. 'Wouldn't mind fuckin' that ‘un till she's seein' stars, huh?'

Balls shrugged. Shee-it, I'd rather yank her intestines out her asshole with a gaff pole, then cut off her head'n fuck her neck...

The commercial ended, replaced by still more gruesome news of this ghastly killer in Milwaukee. '... when police first entered the apartment, they arrested Dahmer immediately after noticing a pair of severed hands wired together, hanging in a closet. Later, according to hazmat and fire officials, the partially dissolved remains of at least one victim were found in a fifty-seven-gallon industrial drum full of corrosives. In the bedroom, several more body parts were discovered lying on top of Dahmer's bed, which had been covered in plastic dropcloths... '

Dang, Balls thought. He just couldn't figure it. When he glanced right he noticed that dullard in the white shirt still sitting there, looking up at the TV. 'Hey, buddy? They say anything 'bout what caused him ta be that way?'

The guy in the white shirt seemed thrilled that someone was talking to him. 'Well, one forensic psychiatrist from John's Hopkins has already labeled Dahmer as a sexual-sociopath.'

Balls smirked. 'That must mean he's crazy, right? Only a crazy person could pull shit like that?'

'Actually, no. Some killers of this ilk display psychopathic symptoms, but that's not the case with this Dahmer man. While it's true that a number of serial killers become inclined toward sexually motivated homicide due to catastrophic childhoods rife with neglect, perversion, sexual abuse, and battery, others have had a childhood experience that would be deemed as normal. The verdict's still out on Dahmer, of course, but it is interesting. Experiences and observations, particularly in the formative and adolescent years, often have a dramatic impact on a young mind, which all leads to transitive behavior in adulthood. Naturally, negative experiences and observations will have a negative impact. So where does that leave the serial killer who enjoyed a positive childhood indoctrination?'

'Huh?'

The guy in the white shirt raised a finger. 'There's just as much evidence that proves environment need not have any bearing on certain mind sets. In other words—and this is just one of the current theories—a certain percentage of these so-called serial killers are possessed of no psychological defect and experienced nothing