The Minotauress

Nale's.'

'Sounds fine ta me, Balls,' but as they walked away, Dicky took a final uneasy glance back at the crackling grave and the corroding mewls that seemed to issue off its smoke. Yessir. That dude really IS crazy...

Balls grabbed Dicky's arm, as if alarmed. 'Dicky!'

'What?' Dicky snapped back, alarmed himself. 'What is it, Balls? You hear someone comin'?' The sudden surprise left Dicky one tremble short of emptying his bowels in his pants.

'Naw, but is that... ' Balls sniffed the air, intent on something critical. 'Is that... an-cher- ladas I smell cookin'?' and then he roared more laughter as he and Dicky went back in the house.

««—»»

Balls and Dicky loaded their hundred-gallon run into the ‘Mino's back deck, then snapped the tarp down over the entire load. Each gallon was sold to the middlemen aka 'distributors' in Kentucky for fifteen dollars, after which they were marked up and sold to the consumer. Dicky and Balls got a buck for each jug they delivered, and it was also their duty to bring back the purchasing price, minus their cut, and give it to the 'manufacturer,' who in this case was a tired, skinny, whiskery guy in his fifties named Clyde Nale, the Number Two moonshine producer in the county. But it was solid bread that social rejects like Dicky and Balls were earning, so one had to at least give them the benefit of the doubt for having a work ethic. No welfare for these industrious young men...

'We'se loaded up'n ready ta roll out'a here, Clyde,' Dicky called over to the man who checked a thermometer in a cork float by the main vat. Various other 'staff members' came in and out of the hidden clearing, engaged in their tasks: jugging, shucking, stoking the big fire beneath the vats. Clyde Nale lumbered over to them, straining as if he had bad knees. He wore a floppy canvas hat and a stained jumpsuit like a mechanic. Shee- it, Balls thought, about to get in the car. One cracker after another in these parts. He was ready for something new, and after tonight—After we'se empty out old man Crafter's house full'a val-yer-bulls—he just might get it.

'Don't leave just yet, boys,' Clyde spake, wiping his hands off on his chest. 'Got a Hock Party goin' on up the house, five-dollar ante. You fellas are in, ain't'cha?'

Dicky's mouth took a configuration as if he'd just tasted something wholly unpleasant. 'Naw, Clyde, thanks, but we'se wanna git this run done.'

But Balls had paused at the car door. 'A what party?'

'Hock Party, son. It's a roarin' good time, it is,' Nale tried to entice. 'Five bucks a head? Come on, boys. Ya got touch'a the kike or what?'

'I'd like ta see me this Hock Party,' Balls spoke up, always curious and willing to broaden his life's fund of knowledge.

'Balls,' Dicky complained. 'Let's just git—'

'Winner gets half the pot,' Nale prodded, 'and the pot's up ta damn near a hunnert.'

Balls liked a good gamble. He whipped out two five-spots and pushed it to Nale. 'Come on, Dicky. Like it or not, we'se in. Let's check it out.'

They followed Nale up the short road to his weathered, gray farmhouse, and before they were even there, Balls could hear something of a commotion around the back. Balls asked Dicky aside, 'It's—what?—a spittin' contest, right? Which ever fella spits the farthest wins?'

Dicky smirked. 'No, Balls. It's not... that... '

Clyde Nale just laughed.

But Balls saw what it was a moment later as he came around the house. Tarnations... This is some show!

A barefoot girl with lank-brown hair so greasy it looked like black udon noodles sat tensed in a fold-down lawn chair. Probably thirty but beat. She was skinny yet with what looked like ample breasts pressing the front flap of the standard farmer's overalls she wore. Twenty feet in front of her was a line drawn in the dirt, and behind the line stood roughly twenty hillbillies of all ages and sizes. They were taking turns...

'Come on, Jedder!' someone yelled.

'Give it'cher best spit!'

'Open wiiiiiiiide, Ida, honey!'

The hayseed with the unlikely name of Jedder stepped to the line, took a few moments to loudly clear his throat, then hauled back and spit in the air.

The girl sat, head craned back and wincing, eyes squeezed shut. She stretched her mouth wide open.

'Aw, fuck!' Jedder's expectoration hit the girl's upper arm. Balls, meanwhile, took note that the girl's overalls were daubed by dark spots which, on closer examination, turned out to be wads of phlegm.

Balls turned to Clyde Nale. 'You mean—'

'First fella to get a loogie right in her mouth gets a blowjob from Ida and wins half the pot.'

Groaty, Balls thought. But I LIKE it. 'And the chick gits the other half.'

Nale smirked as if slighted. 'Naw, son. The house gits the other half. Ida gits paid in free moonshine. A hardcore alkey's what she is.'

'Dang, Clyde. Who's got a touch'a the kike? A gallon'a shine don't cost you more'n few bucks to make.'

'Not a gallon, a pint,' Nale corrected, shaking his head.

'Shee-it,' Balls chuckled. 'That's low-down... ,' but, he finished in thought. I LIKE it.

Nale clapped his hands, rallying. 'Come on, fellas! Drag up some dark ones! Make it fun!'

Alas, many slang-forms existed which were much more interesting than such clinical terms as 'expectorant,' 'sputum,' and 'congestion': Loogies, Goobers, 'lungers,' Irish Oysters, Chest Pudding and, the author's personal favorite, Redneck Custard. This is what the next four dutiful contestants went to exerted and quite audible efforts to cull from their lungs, each with the verve of racing dogs waiting to chase that rabbit. One by one, then, they took their turns... spitting...