The Minotauress

and damn if he didn't hit a sparrow sitting on a limb. The bird chirped in surprise and fell, and as it tried to shake off its new, ungainly hood, McKully squashed it under his bare sole.

'We'se supposed ta be impressed there, Mr. McKully?' Balls laughed. 'Killin' a pissant little bird?'

McKully jabbed a finger so hard into Balls' chest, Balls almost fell backward. Dicky winced, thinking Aw, no, Balls, now what'cha have to say that fer?

'I could tell even ‘fore you got outa the car that you got-cher dander up, boy,' McKully's voice vibrated. His atrocious breath seemed to hang like fog. 'I ain't got time fer punks— '

'Aw, no, Mr. McKully, Balls, see, he were only jokin',' Dicky jabbered.

'—and if you two baby-blowers are the best shine-runners in the state, I'll grow a square asshole and shit a television,' McKully finished. He fired more snot out a nostril—he did that a lot; that's why they called him Snot—then he turned and lumbered back to the table. 'You boys are fired. Get out'a here.'

Dicky looked apoplectic. 'Aw, jeez, sir, don't do that—'

'I don't like yer buddy's attitude,' McKully said. 'Never did. Bad attitude means trouble in this business. I don't need fellas with bad attitudes. I just need fellas who're bad.'

Dicky frowned at his friend. 'Come on, let's git. You done fucked this all up.'

'Dicky, trust me... and watch,' Balls assured. He strode cockily to McKully's checkers table. 'That's a right fucked-up of ya, Mister McKully.'

Just as McKully would sit back down, he turned with a surprising agility and jabbed that big dirty finger right back into Balls' chest, smudging his t-shirt which read THE THREE COMMANDMENTS: TITS, CLITS, & ICE COLD SCHLITZ. 'Well I don't rightly give a fuck if that's fucked up'a me, boy. I don't like yer face, so's I don't want- cha workin' fer me no more. Now git off my land'—McKully jabbed the finger yet again—'and if you don't like me jammin' my finger in ya... then do somethin' about it.'

Balls grinned, hands on hips (a favorite pose). His eyes flicked down once very briefly in the direction of that big Webley pistol sticking in his belt.

McKully laughed. 'And don't think I don't see that gun there, boy, but do I look worried? You go ahead and make a move. I'll bitch-slap you with that gun in less time than it takes me to spit. Then I'll pull yer dick off'n give it to my daughter's baby fer a fuckin' pacifier.'

'Come on, Balls!' Dicky called out from safe distance. 'Let's just go... '

The seat creaked when McKully sat back down.

Balls didn't move. 'Just tell me man to man, sir, why you let us run but twennie-five gallons'a shine per run when Dicky's ‘Mino'll hold a hunnert jugs easy?'

McKully wasn't even looking at Balls. He made a checker-move. 'It's 'cos you guys ain't got the nuts.'

Balls leaned forward, hands still on hips. 'Uh, what's that?'

'You fellas ain't bad enough. Bad as in down'n dirty. That kind of bad. Get it?'

'No, sir, I shore as shit don't 'cos, see, me'n Dicky here? We'se the baddest motherfuckers in these here parts, and that you can take to the bank.'

McKully waved a hand. 'I couldn't take it to the fuckin' toilet,' but he pronounced toilet as 'toe-lit.' 'Talkin' it's one thing, boy, walkin' it's another. Shee-it, any asshole with a fast car can outrun the cops on these roads, but I need runners who can do the whole job.'

'The whole job?'

'Yeah. Like when the shit hits the fan, I need boys who're willin' to do anythin' to get out of the jam and leave no witnesses.'

'Aw, hail,' Balls began. 'Me'n Dicky, we'se can do—'

McKully's fat hand shot out to silence Balls' protest. He moved another checker. 'I need fellas who'll kill.' McKully grinned up with the pale green smile. 'Boy? You ever kill a man?'

'Shee-it, Mr. McKully. I'se killed me plenty'a men.'

'Yeah? How's about women? You ever kilt a woman?'

'Aw, a bunch of times,' Balls said, but in truth, at this particular point in Tritt 'Balls' Conner's existence, he'd actually killed no one. He'd raped some girls, sure—but they were all asking for it anyway —and he'd jacked out a number of fellas for their green, and he'd even mugged a few old ladies. But the act of murder was one crime not yet on his list of achievements.

Snot honked another nose-shot of snot. 'I think yer fulla shit, boy. But I'll'se give ya the benner-fit of the doubt. You lay a good ruckin' on a gal, and I'll hire ya back.'

Balls scratched the top of his hat. 'A... ruckin'? What's that?'

McKully glared up as if offended. 'Shee-it, boy! Yer from the south'n you don't know what a ruckin' is?'

Balls didn't know what to say. 'I'se lived my whole life here'n did two years in the Russell County slam, and I ain't never heard'a no ruckin'.'

The obese moonshiner seemed disgusted. 'Kids,' he muttered to himself. 'All right, I'll'se tell ya. A ruckin' is when ya snatch yerself a perfectly inner-cent woman and just fuck her all up'n then kill her, fer no reason. That's what a ruckin' is, son.'

'Oh,' Balls said.

'So that's my deal, boy. If you kill a perfectly inner-cent splittail, without so much as battin' an eye, and real down'n dirty-like, a real hardcore job... then I'll give you'n yer fat buddy a hunnert gallons of ‘shine to run four days a week... and quadruple yer pay.'

Balls shrugged nonchalance. 'I'll go do it right now and you'll read about it in the paper tomorrow—'

Snot McKully belted a laugh. 'Naw, naw, punk. You do it right now, wheres I can see ya do it. I needs you to show me the ruckin' so I know ya