The Minotauress

'Dang!' Dicky exclaimed.

'That's what I'se call hosin' a bitch down hard,' Balls added. Their flashlights beamed on the quivering, sperm-cloaked form. 'Is it dead?'

'No,' the Writer ventured. 'The potent brew of supernatural sperm seems to have subdued the Minotauress to a comatose state. I can only presume that the word our ally wrote on her abdomen triggered some sort of paresis spell.'

The Spermatogoyle stepped back as if winded, then bowed to Balls in veneration. The bastard daughter of Pasiphae had been rendered innocuous.

The Writer seized the moment for a metaphysical summation. 'The ultimate allegorical showdown between male and female: virility versus fertility. As in quality speculative fiction, the themes become tangible living things. It's clear that in the realm of the occult, abstractions such as symbolism are as concrete and objective as the physical in our realm. Notions are represented by sentient entities.'

'That's the reason the big dick's cum took the wind out'a the bitch's sails?' Dicky asked, confused.

'No doubt, Mr. Dicky. The symbol of masculinity reigns supreme.'

Balls shot the Writer a funky look. 'That's the dumbest-ass thing I ever heard!'

The Writer lit a cigarette and shrugged. Sounded good to me...

Balls opened the front door. 'You done great,' he said to the ludicrous bipedal sex organ. 'Go have yerself a run around the yard. You deserve it.'

Enthused, the Spermatagoyle leapt through the doorway to revel in the twilit night.

'What now, Balls?' Dicky asked.

'Finish loadin' Crafter's shit in the U-Haul and split, I reckon.'

'What a night of great adventure,' the Writer commented. 'And now, it would seem, great profit for you gentlemen.'

But Balls seemed seized by a contemplation. He scratched his goatee, looking down at the incapacitated Minotauress. 'Shee-it, guys... '

'A conjecture, Mr. Balls?'

'Dicky! Go out ta the car'n fetch some'a them Flex-Cuffs you gots from yer uncle.'

'What'cha need them fer?'

'Just git 'em... '

Dicky lumbered out the door and returned momentarily with said Flex-Cuffs.

Now Balls walked eagerly about the candle-lit room, rubbing his hands. 'Ya know what's worth more than all the ‘spensive shit in this house, Dicky?'

'What, Balls?'

'That,' and Balls pointed down to the afflicted Minotauress. He quickly Flex-Cuffed the creature's ankles and wrists. 'We'se gonna be millionaires!'

'Yeah?'

'Shee-it, Dicky! Use yer noggin! We'se gonna sell this big-tit bitch to a circus or zoo or somethin', make a fortune!'

'Quite an industrious endeavor,' the Writer said. 'Or perhaps start your own exhibition, traveling from city to city to sell tickets to the public. I suspect people would pay handsomely to see such a spectacle.'

'Hail yeah!' Balls whooped. 'And ya knows what, Writer? We ain't even gonna kill you now! Dicky and me? We're gonna make you a partner!'

'My gratitude knows no constraint,' the Writer said.

'Come on, boys! Lets get this bull-headed ‘ho loaded!'

The three of them pitched in to carry the spermatically enslimed Minotauress outside to the U-Haul. Balls secured the latch, and the sound of the door closing echoed through the night. The Writer glanced errantly into the back property and saw the Spermatogoyle chasing squirrels amongst the gravestones.

'Time ta blow this pop-stand!' Balls celebrated.

Dicky got behind the wheel while the Writer squeezed in next to Balls. The big engine revved, fracturing the night's stillness; then Dicky put the Hurst in first and drove out the front gate.

The car passed fine but as soon as its back bumper cleared the entrance—

'The hail?' Dicky remarked.

The El Camino stopped short as if it had run into a wall.

Balls glared. 'Don't tell me you just dumped yer brand-new trannie ‘fore we'se can even get out'a here!'

Dicky tried to continue forward but the hot-rod only spun its wheels.

'I know what the problem is,' the Writer volunteered. 'The salt.'

'The what?' Balls questioned.

'What we observed previously. The property is completely surrounded by a line of hexed salt, what an occultist would refer to as a warding barrier or a totemic boundary. Presumably anything hellborn can't cross it. That's why the car stopped. The salt functions as a force field, so to speak. Once it detected the presence of the Minotauress in back, the field activated, causing the creature's mass to be repulsed.'

'Well what the hail we gonna do now?' Balls complained.

'Mr. Dicky? Back the car up, please. I'll be right back.' The Writer disembarked, and when the vehicle had backed up past the salt-line, he got down on his knees and pushed the salt back with his hands. 'Try driving through now,' he called out.

The car rumbled past the gate, encountering no preternatural resistance. The Writer quickly redistributed the salt back across the entrance and hopped back in the car.

'I think that should do it,' the Writer announced.

Dicky paused before pulling off. 'Hey, wait a minute... What about the dick-demon?'