The Minotauress

'You can start pumping now.'

'Thank you.'

The Writer went back outside into the humid night, reflecting all that he'd experienced. He fumbled with the pump, not well-versed in such procedures, put the nozzle in the hole, then squeezed, but nothing happened. Am I doing something wrong here? he wondered. When he looked back up at the pump, the tiny screen read: SEE CASHIER.

The Writer walked back inside. Balls stood at the magazine rack, thumbing through a glossy publication with the odd title, Crazy For Crackers!

'Hey, Writer? You like graham crackers?'

The Writer stalled. 'Why, yes, I supposed so... though it's been some time since I've had any. Why do you ask?'

'Check it out,' and then Balls showed him a page in the magazine. A naked woman grinned over her shoulder as her hands reached back to spread her superior buttocks. She was expertly expelling a long dribble of semen from her anus, under which another naked woman held a graham cracker.

'Bet'cha wouldn't eat that graham cracker, huh?' Balls chuckled.

The Writer's face ballooned in disgust; he rushed back to the cashier and told Pimple Face, 'I seem to be having some trouble with the pump.'

'Oh, yeah. The credit card machine's down... '

Balls sneered over. 'Come on, hoss! Git'cher shit together. We'se in a hurry.'

'Don't worry, it happens all the time. Just wait a few minutes and then try the pump again.'

Technology, the Writer thought and went back outside. He waited, leaning against the car and staring at the U-Haul in tow. No one would ever believe what's inside there...

Had he been more observant, he would've noticed the lit sign just a block down the road, CRICK CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT, but there was also something else he was unaware of:

He'd given the pimply faced guy a credit card bearing the name Reginald Hildreth, which was not the Writer's name.

Balls walked outside, smirking.

'That thing workin' yet?'

The Writer squeezed the pump handle again. Nothing happened. 'Not yet, but I'm sure it will be shortly...

(X)

There's got to be more to police work than this, Sergeant Stu Cummings thought and audibly groaned. The midnight shift in THIS hick town?

'What'choo moanin' and groanin' about, Stu?' Courtney asked. 'You do that a lot, ya know.'

'Tell me about it.'

Courtney was the Crick City Police Department's night dispatcher. She was also—if the rumors were genuine—the chief's secret paramour on occasion. Her face beamed like a beautiful beacon, in spite of the 200- pound body and 5'4' frame. She'd made a play for Stu himself once or twice, but...

I didn't leave the city for that shit, he thought. It was all the same everywhere, he supposed. His idealism hadn't worn off yet. 'Courtney, I've been here two years and I still haven't solved a crime more major than a domestic dispute or drunk driving. I'm turning to porridge in this town.'

'Well, you could'a been a cop in the Big Apple but then... you'd probably be dead by now. That or on the take.'

Not me, he thought. 'I just want some real police work, you know? This redneck stuff is boring me shitless.'

'Watch that, cutie. Rednecks got their good points too,' and then she grinned rather salaciously and winked. 'End of our shift, you'n me, why we'se could grab a bottle'a shine, check in ta the no-tell motel'n have ourselfs a fine ole time... real redneck style.'

Stu just laughed and shook his head.

He looked around the drab booking room, eyed the wall calendar, and then the clock. It was past two in the morning. Six more hours of sitting around, came the grim realization. I just want to make a difference, but that's not ever going to happen here, not in this hayseed burg...  Then, without thinking, he reached under his desk and knocked on wood.

'You do that a lot, too. Bet'cha don't even realize it.'

'What—oh, knocking on wood?'

'Yeah. I'se know what'cher knockin' for, and don't worry, I didn't tell the chief you up'n applied to another department. Ain't heard back yet?'

Stu shook his head. Two months ago he'd submitted an application for transfer, to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. He'd go from this boring Gomer-Pyle duty to busting gun-runners and pulling stings on radical militia groups. That's real police work...

'Nope,' he finally answered. 'And you know what bites me in the ass hardest? I aced the exam, then they called me in for three interviews and they all went great. The recruitment officer told me there was a ninety-percent chance I'd get hired. The only hold up was federal quotas or some shit like that. Said I'd know in two weeks if I was in.'

Courtney flipped a page of some soap opera magazine. 'When was that?'

Stu sighed. 'A damn month ago.'

'Hate to tell ya this, Stu, but most'a those ATF guys? Mostly all they do is bust stills and chase ‘shine runners.'

'Sure, Courtney, but half of those guys transporting illegal liquor also transport drugs. I'm dying to bust drug dealers. And if you do a good job,