The Minotauress

cranker in the world... '

CHAPTER TWO

When most seventeen-year-olds were playing sandlot baseball, contemplating their futures, driving their first car, Dean Lohan was inserting his arm up cow 'coozes' all the way to the shoulder, to properly place the frozen semen pellet. But actually it wasn't just one arm, it was both. His other arm, also to the shoulder, slid up the rectal tract, to dilate the spermatic inlet through the intestinal wall. This meant that young Dean's right cheek was firmly placed against the ungainly area of space that existed between the cow's anus and vagina. And Dean performed this less than eloquent procedure thousands of times.

Pretty hardcore.

And so too: When most fifteen-year-olds were delivering newspapers or mowing yards, Dean Lohan was, without an official work-permit, employed at the Johnson Meat-Packing Plant: gutting cattle summarily, often when they weren't quite dead; hauling out bovine innards like loops of rope and then squeezing out the grassy cream of excrement with his bare hands; and hosing out the rendering gutters flowing deep with offal, blood, and skin. Young Dean never so much as flinched. And when batches of ground beef went bad, it was Dean's job wash off the slime and then mix it with the good ground beef, which was later sold to local fast-food restaurants and retirement homes at a cut rate that provided a kick-back to the plant manager.

And when most twelve-year-olds were watching Scooby Doo and playing with army men, Dean Lohan, was squirting his first seminal drops into the mouth of a rather precocious honey-haired girl named Marthie, who was two years his senior. Marthie, who had evidently learned well from a number of relatives including her father, swallowed without so much as a frown. Dean's young penis, too, delved deep the depths of Marthie's vaginal barrel on many an occasion.

And little Marthie came like a fucking freight train each and every time.

Even when he was too young to really know was sex was, Dean Lohan was a sex machine.

He was also the school-yard bully, sending many a classmate home crying through black eyes. Why? For the hell of it.

He'd partaken in his first 'titty-fuck' at age thirteen, his first act of sodomy at fourteen (which had left a young lass with bloody stool for a week), and at sixteen he was copulating with two girls at a time, then three, then four.

Handsome, endowed, and tough as the earth he'd stomped on his father's ranch, Dean Lohan became the man every woman wanted in DeSmet, South Dakota, even before he was legally a man at all.

Whatever it was that lit a fire under a girl's ass, Dean did it right. And there was something else he did right—something, in fact, he did better than anyone else not only in South Dakota but in the entire world.

Dean Lohan could crank a horn out of a steer's head faster than other men could spit. And he performed this act—with no remorse and with no hesitation whatever—on not hundreds but on thousands of farm-raised steers.

The strange sound was as familiar to him as the sound of summer rain to normal boys...

kreeeee-CRUNCH!

—and out that horn came, like pulling a sweet potato from moist earth.

Dean didn't care. Not about the animal, not about the pain, not about the torment nor the objective cruelty of the act. He just did it. He cranked those horns out of those steer heads a mile a minute. It was his job, and Dean Lohan quailed at no task.

He was a horn-cranker.

Some towns had oyster-shucking contests, or pie eating contests, but DeSmet, South Dakota, had something far more unique. In 1988, at the age of eighteen, Dean entered the annual state horn-cranking contest, not only competing against the best in the land but against the very man who'd come in First Place in this esteemed competition for nine years in a row.

His very own father.

Muscles bulging, mind set, and torque-plier in hand, Dean had embarked on this gladiatorial event. The most horns cranked fully out of their seats within a one-minute time-limit would be declared the victor. The previous record was forty-three.

That's a lot of horns to crank.

The sun blazed and the crowd cheered, and the day was split open by the hellish howls of the steers being de-horned.

Spittle-speckled and arms gorged with blood, the end of the day found Dean the easy winner. The coveted trophy—two genuine gold-plated horns—was passed to him by a teary-eyed woman in a red, white, and blue swimsuit and a MISS HORN-CRANKER banner as the audience went mad in their applause.

Dean not only won this year's state contest, he also set a world record. In sixty seconds he had expertly divorced an even fifty horns from the steer-heads they'd naturally grown in.

Hence, Dean would have his name in Guinness for some time to come—decades, in fact. His father, teary-eyed himself, embraced Dean after the match. 'Boy,' he sobbed. 'Would you lookit that pile of horns? My God, you've made me the proudest father to ever walk the earth.'

Exuberance surged through Dean's chest. He shed a tear or two himself, seeing his father so happy, and when he turned to the crowd and waved, their applause threatened to rock the entire county.

I'm the best horn-cranker... in the world, he realized.

Later, he fucked the dog-shit out of MISS HORN-CRANKER. Indeed, he fucked her so hard she fully lost consciousness in the backseat of Dean's finely rebuilt '72 Mustang Fastback. Then he swigged a beer, pinched some Skoal, and fucked her again.

For the hell of it.

««—»»

'What the hell is this!'

Dean grunted, then slowly opened his eyes. He'd fallen asleep on the couch, hadn't he? Yes, after a few shots of Johnny Black to mellow out. And now—

'What the hell is this!'

—his beautiful wife Daphne was screaming in his face.

'What the hell is what?' he griped. 'Christ your voice is louder than a truck horn.'

'This!' It was a disk she held between her fingers, the size of a hockey puck.

A can of Skoal.

'It was on the coffee table!' she continued to yell, 'next to your whiskey!'

Still groggy, Dean shrugged on the couch. 'It's a can of dip. So what? What are you bitching about?'

'So what? Is that what you said to me?' Rage pinkened her face, her eyes bulging like a cartoon. 'Bitching?' She threw the can at him; it bounced off his chest. 'You promised me that you'd never use that shit again! You promised me when we got married! It's filthy! It's dirty! Only rednecks and slobs use that stuff! It's—'