The Minotauress

'Yeah. Cool, huh?'

Dicky's face darkened with rage. 'Someone could'a seen! What if a cop drove by when you was pullin' that stunt?'

'Aw, shee-it, Dicky. The parkin' lot was empty and there weren't another car on the street. Relax.'

'Relax?'

Dicky sped as far away from the incident as he could without dumping the car. Within minutes they were cruising through more winding, dark roads through the woods.

The dashboard lights tinted Balls' grinning face. He rooted through the woman's purse, snatched up some bills, then threw the rest out the window. 'Dang! That beat bitch had sixty bucks on her.'

'Fuck, Balls!' Dicky continued to bellow. 'What the FUCK did'ja do that fer?'

Balls shook his head. 'I don't rightly know, Dicky. It just come inta my head to do it. ‘Sides, I had ta pee bad and I'se thought it might be interestin' to do it on them little girls.'

'Interestin'! We could get throwed in jail fer that! And you's on fuckin' parole anyway!'

'Aw, ferget it.' Balls busted open the bag. 'Here. Have a cheese doodle.'

'I don't want no fuckin' cheese doodle!' Dicky glared in disbelief. 'You are crazy, man! Crazy!'

Balls sat back, munching contemplatively. 'Naw, Dicky. I ain't crazy.' He smiled out the window, into the endless night. 'I'se just followin' my nature... '

(IV)

The Writer left the Crossroads—fairly drunk—in the vicinity of midnight. Just as he shuffled across the gravel parking lot, he was given a start by a sudden avalanche of noise, a great, clamorous chugging that reminded him of one of those ridiculous four-engine powerboats pulling up to a dock. But this was no boat, it was a vintage black El Camino. The Writer sighed in relief when the engine racket severed. It should be against the law for cars to be that loud...  Two figures disembarked amid the shadows. The Writer heard some quick redneck dialect: 'Aw, shee-it, Dicky! Yous should'a seen their faces when I'se was hosin' 'em down with my kidney juice! Oooo-eee!' Then the figures entered the bar.

Kidney juice? the Writer thought.

The moon watched him through gnarled trees when he took the narrow road out of the woods to the main street. Did he hear a wolf howl? No. Power of suggestion. Crickets trilled in a palpable throb; he thought of old Tangerine Dream records. Damn. Cigarettes, he reminded himself, and turned with some trepidation toward the Qwik-Mart. Out front a man in a suit and tie was getting into what appeared to be a Rolls Royce; the Writer immediately noted that the man had inadvertently placed his wallet on top of the car when he'd extracted his keys, then forgot to reclaim it when he got behind the wheel. He backed out and began to pull away, and the wallet slid off the car onto the pavement.

'Hey! Wait!' the Writer called out. He jogged over. At least a dozen credit cards and various ID's had slid out of the wallet as well. He scooped them all up and jogged over. The car idled at the exit, a man looking out.

'Yes?'

'You left your wallet on the car and it fell off.'

The debonair-looking driver frowned at himself. 'I must have left my wits at home today. How stupid of me.'

'Some of your credit cards slipped out but I picked them up,' the Writer said, and handed it all over to the well-groomed older man.

'Honesty is such a rare commodity these days. You're one of a choice few, and you have my thanks.' Then the man handed the Writer a $100 bill.

'Oh, really, sir, I couldn't—'

'Take it, with my compliments... ' The man's face seemed to darken as he smiled. 'What a tenuous power... The power of truth... '

The Writer stared as the Rolls Royce drove off.

The comment unnerved him, even though he knew it to be sheer coincidence. But then his shoulders slumped as he headed back for the store. A lone credit card lay in the parking lot. Damn, I missed one. The Rolls Royce was long gone now. He pocketed the card and resolved to call the 1-800 number on the back tomorrow.

In the store a tall young man with a shaved head was buying several cans of refried beans and jalapeno peppers. He wore a swastika earring, and had a tattoo on a bulging deltoid which read: ARYAN NATION. Was the man whistling 'The Sound of Music' when he left?

'You again,' the visored, old proprietor greeted. 'The Writer.'

'It's good to see you, sir.'

'Shee-it. You 'bout done with this fancy book'a yers?'

I've only written one and a half sentences...  'It's coming along. Rome wasn't built in a day, you know.'

'Rome, huh? My brother fought the Germans in Italy. After they up'n killed everything that moved, they went on leave to fuckin' Rome. Said ya needed a clothespin on yer nose to fuck the whores.'

'How... elucidating,' the Writer remarked.

The proprietor snorted. 'Said the whores in Rome were the hairiest whores he ever done seen. Even hairier than the krauts.'

'Hmm. Hirsute prostitutes... '

The proprietor frowned. 'Said they had so much hair under their arms you'd have thought they had the Black Panthers in a fuckin' headlock.'

The Writer stood speechless.

'Ya ever read the shortest book ever written?'

'What's that?' the Writer had to ask.

'The History of Italian War Heroes!' and the proprietor slapped his knees and guffawed out loud. Then he began walking toward a rear door.