The Minotauress

"Don't talk shitty to him now, Balls," Dicky warned. "Snot don't take no shit, and remember, he is payin' us... "

Balls' eyes darkened below the John Deere hat, his black goatee tightening in some resentment. "Shee-it, Dicky, he's got tits bigger'n his wife's, and he ain't payin' us what we'se worth."

Dicky seemed nervous, a trait that had been growing on him since he and Balls had become "partners" in this venture of commerce and  other less-seemly ventures. "Yeah, well, Balls, ya know, a hunnert a week just fer five twennie-five gallon runs ain't bad—"

"It's piss, Dicky. Clyde Nale lets us haul a hunnert gallons per run. Why not this guy? Don't never let a man take ‘vantage of ya. That's the first thing I learnt my first day in the joint," and then Balls, Webley .455 stuck in his belt, walked determinedly across the clearing which housed McKully's largest operational still.

Balls liked the smell of a backwoods still: the sharp vapors of the diamond-clear liquor itself, and that tinge of burnt corn. Piles of corn lay about, and pyramids of empty gallon jugs. Coils of copper tube hopped from one tank to another, and beneath the main tank a hefty fire crackled.

Beside a chicken coop, a '64 Ford Fairlane station wagon sat up on blocks, its hood up. A man who looked like a 100-year-old version of Larry on the Three Stooges was idly scraping rust off the battery terminals with a stiff wire brush. A dirty little girl, early teens, filled plastic jugs with moonshine from a large drum standing on props. Greasy blonde hair hung over her face. Skinny legs and arms but a distended belly told Balls she was dirty in more ways than one. Beside her, a mangy baby sat into the dirt, in brown-stained diapers. When it began to cry, the girl leaned over and poured some moonshine into its mouth. "There, there, Little Snot, jest you have a nip. It'll settle ya down," and then she went back to filling the jugs. But Balls' crotch stirred a bit when she'd leaned over, the baggy overalls drooping below her chest. Balls saw nipples like cherry tomatoes.

Dicky's belly jigged when he trotted up. "Howdy there, Mr. McKully!"

McKully glared. "Boys. Yer early. I like that," but he pronounced like as "lak."

"A‘corse we'se early," Balls said. "'Cos we'se efficient'n reliable. Gotta be ta be the best ‘shine runners in the state."

McKully thumbed closed his left nostril, tilted his head, then fired a streamer of discolored mucus upward, and damn if he didn't hit a sparrow sitting on a limb. The bird chirped in surprise and fell, and as it tried to shake off its new, ungainly hood, McKully squashed it under his bare sole.

"We'se supposed ta be impressed there, Mr. McKully?" Balls laughed. "Killin' a pissant little bird?"

McKully jabbed a finger so hard into Balls' chest, Balls almost fell backward. Dicky winced, thinking Aw, no, Balls, now what'cha have to say that fer?

"I could tell even ‘fore you got outa the car that you got-cher dander up, boy," McKully's voice vibrated. His atrocious breath seemed to hang like fog. "I ain't got time fer punks—"

"Aw, no, Mr. McKully, Balls, see, he were only jokin'," Dicky jabbered.

"—and if you two baby-blowers are the best shine-runners in the state, I'll grow a square asshole and shit a television," McKully finished. He fired more snot out a nostril—he did that a lot; that's why they called him Snot—then he turned and lumbered back to the table. "You boys are fired. Get out'a here."

Dicky looked apoplectic. "Aw, jeez, sir, don't do that—"

"I don't like yer buddy's attitude," McKully said. "Never did. Bad attitude means trouble in this business. I don't need fellas with bad attitudes. I just need fellas who're bad."

Dicky frowned at his friend. "Come on, let's git. You done fucked this all up."

"Dicky, trust me... and watch," Balls assured. He strode cockily to McKully's checkers table. "That's a right fucked-up of ya, Mister McKully."

Just as McKully would sit back down, he turned with a surprising agility and jabbed that big dirty finger right back into Balls' chest, smudging his t-shirt which read THE THREE COMMANDMENTS: TITS, CLITS, & ICE COLD SCHLITZ. "Well I don't rightly give a fuck if that's fucked up'a me, boy. I don't like yer face, so's I don't want-cha workin' fer me no more. Now git off my land"—McKully jabbed the finger yet again—"and if you don't like me jammin' my finger in ya... then do somethin' about it."

Balls grinned, hands on hips (a favorite pose). His eyes flicked down once very briefly in the direction of that big Webley pistol sticking in his belt.

McKully laughed. "And don't think I don't see that gun there, boy, but do I look worried? You go ahead and make a move. I'll bitch-slap you with that gun in less time than it takes me to spit. Then I'll pull yer dick off'n give it to my daughter's baby fer a fuckin' pacifier."

"Come on, Balls!" Dicky called out from safe distance. "Let's just go... "