The Minotauress

so's we use the machine ta git 'em out ‘fore they git too big. Ya git 'em early and I'se swear they ain't no bigger'n a popcorn kernel—ya know—before ya pop it. Mrs. Gilman showed us hows ta do it—only tricky part is ya gots ta git the tube right up inta this special place called a—dang—I'se cain't remember. She called it a servo? Or was it a servik—'

Outraged, the Writer offered, 'Your cervical canal?'

'Yeah!' she beamed. 'That's it! Ya gots ta git the tube up in that'n then push a little,' and all the while her fingers manipulated the tube until—

'Uhh! I gots it!'

The Writer watched appalled, face sagging, as Beatrice turned on the Therm-O-Fresh vacuum machine. It hummed like a old-style aquarium pump, then seemed to admit a faint whine as if encountering resistence, and then—

'There!' she announced.

In an eye's wink, the tube filled with blood. Beatrice turned the machine off, extracted the tube, and got up.

The Writer's face continued to sag in uncomprehending horror. The girl detached the other end of the tube, then held it over the sink. When the tube failed to empty, she blew into its clean end and—

splat!

—something jettisoned into the sink, along with a modest spatter of blood.

'There it is. See?' She plucked something tiny up with her fingers and placed it in her palm. The Writer only ventured a second's glance, saw something like a blood clot with a disturbing configuration. A human spitball, he thought.

'Costs a lot less than goin' to a doctor,' the blonde continued, 'and it sure beats the hail out'a the hanger. And best part of all is it don't hurt none... '

The Writer gasped at a well of blood running down her thigh.

'Aw, that ain't nothin',' she assured. 'The bleedin' stops right away. I'll just stick ta blowjobs'n ass-fuckin' tonight, and I'll'se be good as new tomorrow.' She flapped her hand into the toilet, flushed it, rinsed the sink out, and then gathered up the machine. 'Some'a the gals keep theirs—'

'Kuk-kuh—keep?' the Writer gasped.

'Yeah, they'se keep 'em in a jar'a alcohol. Jennie's got like almost twennie, and some of 'em are bigger than chickpeas. Oh, and, Marcy'—she giggled, shaking her head—'she even names hers. Ain't that just the silliest thing ya ever did hear?'

The Writer could only stare, utterly obfuscated.

'Well, thanks! Good luck workin' on yer book!' and then Beatrice bounced out of the room, pantiless and quite content.

The Writer collapsed on his bed, and prayed for a dreamless sleep.

(V)

Dicky pulled up in front of the ramshackle house left to Balls by the latter's departed white trash, walking shit-heap of a father: gray wood planks and a canted roof. Jeez, Dicky thought. The place sat back in the woods at the end of a quarter-mile drive, quite remote. Dicky smelled woodsmoke, however, and something cooking that smelled damn good. I'se could use a little somethin' in my breadbasket, he acknowledged. Today they'd be driving a hundred miles into Kentucky and back again. When he stepped onto the porch, it creaked to the point that he feared his sheer weight might snap the planks. He knocked and the knobless front door swung open.

'Hey, Dicky-Boy! Come on in! Beautiful mornin', ain't it?'

More floorboards creaked when Dicky's bulk entered. Balls sat at a kitchen table, reading over mail. 'Shore is, Balls. Beautiful mornin' ta be runnin' moonshine.'

'Yeah, man. Fer Clyde Nale today, right?'

'Yeah. He's a dang sight nicer'n Snot McKully.'

Balls seemed to be addled by the mail. 'Shee-it my drawers. Ain't nothin' good never comes in the fuckin' mail. Probation shit, bill-collector shit, and a bunch'a fuckin' bills my Daddy never paid. No wonder there ain't no ‘leck-tricity.'

'Dang. Sucks.'

Balls flapped another letter down in disgust. 'And a county property tax bill! Four hunnert bucks! Fer this shit-house?'

'What'cher dander up fer, Balls? You'll have that and a shitload more once we make this run for Nale'n then clean out Crafter's place.'

'You's right, Dicky,' Balls calmed down. He cracked a laugh. 'The fuck I care!' One last piece of mail remained, an ad flier. Balls squinted at it. It was a special offer for something called the Therm-O-Fresh Food Saving System. Balls just shook his head and threw it out, along with the rest of the mail.

Dicky sniffed the air, looking to and fro. The woodstove was off, and the thirty-year-old oven was dead. 'I smell somethin' damn fine, Balls. What'choo cookin'?'

'Out back, Dicky. I'se steamin' a pot'a crawdads. Gotta creek out the woods that's loaded with 'em.'

'I ain't had me crawdads in a coon's age!'

Balls rose and cracked his hands together. 'Well then let's go eat 'em, then get on our way to Clyde Nale's. ‘Sides, I gots one last chore ta do outside ‘fore we leave.'

But when Dicky turned toward the back door, he stopped. Clothes were strewn about—clothes that clearly did not belong to Balls. A pair of drab brown slacks, a brown hat that said WENDY'S on it, and a shirt with a WENDY'S patch as well. There was also a pair of panties and a bra.

'What the hail? You gotta chick here?'

'Sort'a,' Balls said and smiled.

Dicky noticed something else now. Some stains of some kind darkened the floor, and there seemed to be a minor litter of some little... curly things. One thing more: a pair of pliers and a ballpeen hammer.

Dicky stooped, picked up one of the curly things. 'Balls? The fuck? This is a toenail!' he exclaimed and