The Minotauress

wet'n shiny. And I don't mean black like a nigruh. I mean black like... black. Like road tar or somethin'. And she were layin' on a big fluffy bed, friggin' herself.'

'What?' Balls asked for reiteration.

'She was playin' with herself. Feelin' herself up'n rubbin' her cooter. That's what I seed when I looked in. The first bedroom. She were workin' herself up inta a swivet, too, and just 'fore I come back down it looked like she was tryin' ta stick her whole fist in herself. That's what I saw.'

Balls sputtered through a frown. 'A gal painted black fistin' her own cooze. You're high, Cora. You've sucked so much dick ya got jizz fer brains.'

'If'n ya don't believe me, go look fer yourself!' she countered. 'But first ya best keep your end'a the bargain. Untie me'n lemme git out'a here, like ya promised.'

'Shore, baby—'

WHAP!

Balls bopped her in the back of the head with his homemade blackjack, and once again Cora collapsed.

Balls jerked his head toward the stairs. 'Dicky, git upstairs'n take care of this. Don't know what the fuck Cora's talkin' 'bout but I'se guess there really is a chick up there. So's you go punch her lights out'n tie her up.'

Dicky's jaw dropped. 'Why me, Balls?'

''Cos I said so. What, you's afraid of a splittail?'

'Naw, but... It's dark up there, and—'

'Just git on up there like I tolt ya.'

Dicky's hooded eyes shot to the Writer. 'Send him!'

'Shee-it, Dicky. He's a writer. Writer's are pussies.'

The Writer interjected, 'I'll admit, I am—to use your colloquialism—a pussy, but please know that not all writers are. Ernest Hemingway, for instance, was a boxer, a combatant in the Spanish Civil War, and a certified bull fighter. More recently, I'll mention the indisputable machismo of popular literary novelist John Irving. He would read Shakespeare and Percy Shelley in redneck bars, and when the patrons laughed at him? He'd give them all quite a pranging.'

Balls stared. 'Shut up. And Dicky? Git'cher ass upstairs and take care'a that splittail now.'

'Aw, but, Balls... '

'Be a man, goddamn it!' then—

FWUMP!

Balls gave Dicky a hard kick to the pants.

'Awright, awright!' Dicky hurried for the stairs.

'And be quick about it. I'se don't wanna be here all night—'

Dicky, however reluctantly, disappeared up the stairs.

Balls gave the Writer a shove. 'Come on, Writer. Let's git more loot loaded up.'

(V)

Ain't fair, Dicky thought. It should'a been the Writer... His flashlight played over the wall, but then he quickly turned it off when he noticed the wedge of light in the gap of an opened door. That must be it...

Dicky mounted the landing as quietly as a clumsy fat redneck slob could, then edged toward the door.

A clock kept ticking but along with it he heard moaning, or at least he thought he did. Could Cora be right? Was there really a naked woman in there, masturbating? He didn't know what to make of the 'painted black' part but—

I'se'll just barge right in there and bust her in the chops, he resolved. Dicky was, for the most part, a monumental coward, but he wanted to make Balls proud. I'll show him I'se got what it takes, too...

But before he could summon the courage to actually do it, a voice seemed to float out of the room, a quiet yet wanton woman's voice...

Come in, young man, and bestow me...

Dicky really didn't know what 'bestow' meant, nor was he terribly convinced by the nature of the voice. It was more like words in a dream, not words actually detected by his ears.

How could this be?

Bestow me with your youth... and your surging virility...

Dicky froze against the wall.

I can smell your manfulness, I can smell your sperm...

Dicky didn't realize it but the bizarre flutter of psychic vocalization had put him into a trance. Like a fat zombie, then, he pushed the door open and stepped in.

Lamp light raved, overly bright, like the bulbs burning too hot, and of course it never occurred to Dicky now— in his half-wit trance—that there could be no lamp light in a house with the power shut off.

I am the Night-Mother and the Queen of the Labyrinth, a shadow rising from the bed informed him. My cunt beats with your paltry heart, and your soulless lust and my evil are predestined to fuck...

Kind of an odd thing for a maid to say, but then Dicky saw that it was no maid that rose smokelike from the high, four-poster bed. But it was a woman, all right, as voluptuous a woman as he'd ever seen, even in Hustler. High melon breasts; protruding, poker-chip nipples; a flawless hourglass contour. Long sleek legs rose to a hairless pubis dark and shiny as chocolate icing, and the flat stomach seemed to shiver around the slit-like navel. Yes, like the body of a Hustler centerfold save for one