The Minotauress

They all squinted further.

'Well, dang if'n he ain't right,' Cora said.

'Don't that beat all?' Dicky added.

The mosaic formed a face below which ornate letters read ALEXANDER SETON.

'Who the fuck's he?' Balls asked.

'The most notorious of all alchemists,' the Writer explained. 'In 1604, Seton is said to have turned lead into gold.'

'Bullshit,' Balls scoffed, but after another moment of staring at the puzzle-piece face, he turned away.

The Writer smiled, amused. 'Looks like the house you gentlemen picked to break into... belongs to a dedicated occultist.'

'Occult?' Dicky asked, a spike in his voice. 'You mean, like, devil-worship'n shit like that?'

'Um-hmm... '

'Fuck this, let's leave!' Cora shrieked again. 'And, Balls. Come on! Untie my hands!'

'I'd appreciate the same,' the Writer said.

'Stay here, both'a ya,' Balls ordered, and took Dicky down off the porch out of earshot.

Dicky's bulbous face was pink with stress. 'Shee-it, Balls, this caper's gone all fucked up.'

'Tell me about it, Dicky. Just our luck to rip off a fuckin' U-Haul that's gots two people in it who can identer-fy us.'

'And this fuckin' house, man. What's this guy talkin' 'bout devil-worshipers' turnin' lead inta gold'n shit? I cain't make heads'ner tails'a this.'

'Neither can I, Dicky.' Balls rubbed his hands together. 'But at least we'se gonna make a score. You heard that Writer dude. Italian marble,' but—oh, goodness, he'd pronounced the word Italian as 'Eye-taller-un.' 'Bet Crafter's house is et up with it, so's we'se gonna take it off his hands, and shit knows what else's in there.'

'Yeah, man, shore, but—' Dicky cast a fretting glance toward the porch. 'What we gonna do with them two?'

'Well, I reckon we'll make 'em help us load the U-Haul, and then I reckon we'll kill 'em.'

(IV)

The Writer found his existential resolve being tested, yet at the same time he found he had passed the test. The fact was, by the greatest fluke, he'd been accidentally commandeered by two redneck thieves in the process of committing a criminal act; hence, his future looked rather dim, for more than likely once the criminal act was completed, these two characters would have little choice but to dispose of him.

On spiritual grounds, the Writer was... okay with that, for he'd lived a full and aesthetically enriched life. His only regret?

I'll never be able to finish White Trash Gothic...

'Those two crackers are gonna up'n kill us,' Cora whispered to him.

'Believe me, miss. Even the most brief reflection has illuminated me to that probability.'

Suddenly, the skinny wreck of a girl looked doleful. 'Ya know? I gotta step sister turns tricks up in bumfuck South Dakota where the meth is all over the fuckin' place and cheap. She tolt me I could come up there'n turn tricks with her'n we'd have a great time, man. But I never went.' She looked around, more at the predicament than the location. 'Shore as shit wish I did.'

'Let's look at the glass as though it were half full, not half empty, Miss,' the Writer advised.

'Whuh—what glass?'

The Writer sighed. 'Let's not give up hope. We may be able to get out of this.'

The skinny girl frowned. 'What we gonna do?'

'It seems logical to me that for as long as we make ourselves useful to them, we extend our lives, and in that time... an opportunity for escape may strike.'

She fidgeted in place. 'Aw, man, I fuckin' hope so 'cos if I don't get me some crystal soon, I'll start throwin' up my brains... '

The comment shocked the Writer. 'Let's, uh... hope that doesn't happen.'

'That's what jones-ing from meth feels like, man. Ya start upchuckin'‘n it feels like yer brains're gonna fly out'cher mouth, and ya wish they would 'cos it's so bad, ya wish ya could just up'n die.'

'Ah... how regrettable... '

As the Writer tried to think of a possible solution, something nicked his attentions: the door-knocker. It had been mounted on the ornate door's center stile, an oval of tarnished bronze depicting a morose half-formed face. Just two eyes, no mouth, no other features. He at once considered the potential literary symbol: Man, human features eroded by a corrupt universe, leaving him speechless. The existential mask...

'And who was that awful guy who knocked us out in the first place?'

The Writer blinked away the abstraction, feeling spiritually drained. 'Oh, the old man at the bar, ‘Lud? He's a Christian phenomenalist, if you can believe it.'

'Huh?'

'Shhh. Here they come.'

The one called Dicky trudged up the porch steps, poker-faced, while the one called Balls... came bearing a long, stout piece of polished wood.

'Step aside, Writer. I'se gonna bust that front door down with this here hickory pick-handle. It's one'a the few thangs my shit-head Daddy left to me that weren't worth less than a rummie's shorts.' Balls poised the handle with authority. 'Oughta have that door open in 'bout two swipes.'

Forty swipes later, and after an undo cacophony, the door finally split down the middle. The Writer winced at the noise, then winced harder when he noticed tufts of hair sticking out of Cora's armpits. He couldn't decide which