The Minotauress

'Only from a few history of metaphysics courses I took in college to accommodate my double major in Philosophy. It's really no different from any manner of folklore; we don't study it because we believe in it, we study it to analyze an aspect of our intellectual evolvement. Before mankind was smart enough to think rationally, we made up stories and superstitions to explain the things about our existence we didn't understand. It's all quite silly when you get right down to it. It makes the human race look like a bunch of buffoons.'

'A bunch'a balloons?' Dicky questioned.

'Never mind... '

A groan resounded from the corner. Cora was rousing. She blinked, shaking her head, and managed to hitch herself up to sit against the wall. 'The hail? That mean fucker knock me out again?'

'Shore did, Cora,' Dicky told her. 'Balls don't like it when chicks talk too much.'

'Fucker,' she muttered, blinking out the rest of the stars. 'And where is he anyway?'

'Upstairs, checkin' things out.'

Only now did the malnourished prostitute notice the foul stench. 'Aw, shit. Smells like—' and then she shrieked when she saw the dead woman hanging on the door.

Dicky and the Writer both ground their teeth and clapped their hands over their ears.

'What the hail is this? A horror dungeon're somethin'?'

'A modern equivalent, you could say,' the Writer replied.

'What's goin' on down here?' she pleaded. 'I can't stand this! Dicky, please! Cut my wrists loose!'

Dicky hemmed and hawed. 'Aw, shee-it, Cora. I cain't do that.'

'Why!'

'Aw, ya know... Balls'd get a right pissed.'

'Fuck him!' she spat. 'Let me go! Ain't right fer you ta keep me tied up like this! And that stink is killin' me! Let's all get out'a here! Lemme go!'

'Just be patient, Cora. Balls'll let'cha go soon.'

The girl squirmed where she sat, trying but failing to snap her bonds. Then she began to sob.

'She's harmless, Mr. Dicky,' the Writer suggested. 'It can't hurt to untie her.'

'Naw. Balls'd pitch a fit, he would.'

Now she was panting, 'Dicky! Dicky! Lemme go and I'll'se let'cha fuck me... '

Dicky shuffled his feet. Aw, naw... '

'Look, look,' and then Cora was cumbersomely pulling her shorts down from behind. 'Just you take a look at my beautiful pussy and then you'll'se be dyin' ta fuck it!' and with that promise, she squirmed some more and managed to get the shorts down to mid-thigh. 'Take a look at that!  Ain't that just a scrumptious-lookin' cunt?'

Dicky and the Writer both nearly howled at the sight.

'Dang, Cora, that's the blammed ugliest snatch I ever saw!' Dicky complained. 'Looks like two dead rats pushed together. Don't be flashin' that shit.'

'Well then... how's 'bout my ass?' she tried next. 'You's kin fuck it ta high heaven! Take a look!' and then she rolled over and stuck her bare rump in the air.

This time Dicky and the Writer did howl. Cora's buttocks strained open, revealing an anus that looked more like a clot of steel wool... with a hole in it. Hair grew rampant in the rank cleft, tracing all the way up past her tail bone.

Dicky yelled, 'Fuck, girl! Pull them shorts back up or I'll kill ya! Ya done fucked up my sex drive fer a year!'

Cora collapsed to more sobs. The Writer sighed in relief, now that he didn't have to look at the ghastly cleft. I'll bet she doesn't make very much as a prostitute... .

Cora bawled for several more minutes, hitching the shorts back up but eventually her eyes roved back to the pallid corpse on the door. She stared, her mouth falling open. 'My fuckin' gosh—I know that bitch... '

'Ya do?' Dicky said.

'Aw, yeah, I used ta see her a lot back when I were turnin' tricks up the truck stop. She kicked my ass one night 'cos I was low-ballin' truckers fer blowjobs... the bitch.'

Dicky laughed. 'So's she's a whore, too?'

The Writer looked closer this time. 'Given the obvious heroin needlemarks and the LOVE DEPOSIT tattoo, it's probably safe to say that she's not a church organist.'

'But what the fuck happened to the dirty skank?' Cora queried.

Dicky was all too proud to explain. 'A sorcerer sacker-ficed her to the Devil, so's he could open a doorway to places where demons hang out. That's where that black chick upstairs come from.'

The Writer winced yet again. 'Actually, Mr. Dicky, it's just superstitious nonsense of Crafter's. No demons really came through that door, no woman painted black. Like I postulated previously, we think we all saw something supernatural but in truth it was just an example of shared hallucinations.'

Then, from upstairs:

BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM!

Cora shrieked.

The Writer ground his teeth again.

Dicky pissed his pants and yelled, 'Balls is plum shootin' someone!'

They could hear the mad footsteps thundering downward, then the fist banging on the door.

'Dickyyyyyyyyyyyyyy! Open the fuckin' door!'