The Minotauress

was more annoying.

'Jaysus!' Dicky exclaimed. 'That's one tough door!'

'Shee-it,' Balls muttered. He sat down against the porch rail, to rest after the exertion.

'More of the same,' the Writer offered. 'The deception of appearances: a security door on a house that looks worthless.' The Writer looked directly at Balls. 'You might want to pause to take heed.'

'What'cha mean?'

The Writer shrugged. 'Expensive windows and an equally expensive security door? The owner may well have more precautions waiting inside.'

'Ya mean like maybe a security guard or somethin'?' Dicky's pea-brain speculated.

'Sure. Or some other counter-measure.'

Balls wasn't affected by the possibility. One hand hefted the pick-handle, the other hefted the pistol. 'Here's yer counter-measures, Writer. Now... Inside. You two first.'

The Writer and Cora led on, Dicky and Balls backing them up with flashlights. One of them flicked a wall switch but nothing happened.

'Shee-it. Crafter must'a had the ‘leck-tricity turnt off.'

Flashlight beams crisscrossed over the ornate foyer and sitting room, carving slices of more statues and busts, and brooding faces that seemed to scowl at them from framed paintings.

'This place is creepy as shit!' Cora whined. 'And... I need some meth!'

'Shut up,' Balls told her.

'There are plenty of candles,' the Writer observed of the many globed candle sticks along a spacious fireplace mantle and various wall sconces.

'Daggit!' Balls complained. 'I ain't got a lighter.'

'Me's neither,' Dicky admitted.

The Writer sighed through a cringing hope. 'Well, it just so happens that I do and, Mr. Balls? I would be forever in your debt if you'd cut my bonds. Naturally I give you my word I won't try to escape. I'd be more than thrilled to light all these candles and—to be perfectly honest, sir?' The Writer's shoulders slumped. 'I'm dying for a cigarette.'

Evidently Balls appreciated being addressed as 'mister' and 'sir.' He snapped open his Buck and cut the Writer's lashes.

'You have my unflagged gratitude.'

Balls grinned, showed the pistol again. 'Any funny business and I'se'll blow a hole in yer back bigger than Dicky's head.'

The Writer nodded. 'I have virtually no doubts as to your credulity.'

'I like the way he talks, huh, Dicky?' Balls noted.

'Dang straight. Must'a gone ta collerge.'

'Harvard,' the Writer elucidated. 'Not just any college.' He lit a cigarette, then proceeded to light the candles about the sumptuous room.

'Do mine now, please!' Cora pleaded. She was hopping up and down with her back to Balls, showing her lashed wrists. 'Please, Mr. Balls, sir! Pretty please!'

'Shut up,' Balls smirked, then rammed his bootsole against her rump and sent her toppling across the room. 'And quit whinin' else I'll sit on yer face'n shit in yer mouth while's I'se crankin' holes in yer belly with my manual drill.'

Dicky blurted a laugh.

Once the Writer had lit a dozen or so candles, all eyes roved the sitting-room, in awe.

Someone said, 'Shee-it my drawers.'

The room's candle-lit darkness seemed alive with glittering. Several chandeliers hung overhead, catching the light, while from nooks and shelves sat more crisp-cut crystal. Many of the candlesticks were of silver and gold, and much of the furniture—hundreds of years old—was inlaid with more shiny gems. Even some of the Iranian throw rugs were stitched with myriad gemstones.

'It's all of Crafter's hair-looms,' Dicky whispered.

'Just like Tooler said was here... '

Even Cora, dragging herself up with her hands behind her back, looked stunned at all the treasures about the room.

'This Crafter man,' said the Writer. 'He's quite a collector.' He stooped to inspect a William and Mary table, and several armoires and rare-wood chairs. Many pieces were crafted from inlaid satinwood, mahogany, and teak. Half-tables and vase stands sported neoclassical motifs and fine hand-carved traceries. A serpentine settee that should've been in a museum sat mid-room, and along the walls were window seats with scrolled arms and tiny servant bells dangling. 'Most of the furniture's Hepplewhite and Sheraton. There's a fortune in this room alone,' and next the Writer perused more of the busts and paintings. 'Hmmm.'

'What's that, Writer?' Balls asked.

'Just like outside. Alexander Seton and Phillipe Marquand are in appropriate company. Two different portraits of Cagliostro, one of de Sade, busts of Ludwig of Flanders and Cristoph Vocolai—all well-known practitioners of the occult arts: satanism, black magic, sorcery.'

Balls frowned through the following hush, which was then severed by still another loud whine on the part of Cora, 'Let's get out'a this shitty place! It looks haunted.'

Balls pointed a finger. 'Cora. If'n ya say one more thing, I'll punch ya in yer peter- sucker.'

'But—'

WHAP!

Balls' fist smacked Cora right in the lips. She squealed and went reeling.

'That means keep it shut.'

Dicky's big pumpkin face looked around with some apprehension. 'This joint is kind'a creepy, Balls.'