The Minotauress

The Writer laughed. "It's not a company, it's a composite material—bullet-proof glass, in other words. It's indestructible, which proves even more curious. Lexan windows are as effective as iron bars, and very expensive. The owner of this property obviously wants people to think it's not worth breaking into, yet he installs Lexan to insure that they don't."

Balls muttered, "Indestructer-able?" and then the Writer jumped back and Cora shrieked when Balls pulled the big Webley pistol from his belt. "Ain't nothin' indestructer-able if'n I say it ain't!"

BAM!

Everyone jumped an inch, and Cora shrieked even more annoyingly loud. When the smoke cleared...

"Dang," Dicky muttered, scratching at the window pane. The big bullet barely scuffed the surface.

"Looks like the Writer's right," Balls admitted.

Then Cora shrieked again.

"Shut up, girl!" Balls yelled.

"L-look! There's a face lookin' at us in the next winder!"

They walked over, if a bit cautiously. Balls shined his light.

"Ain't no face. It's a—"

"A bust," the Writer said.

"Bust?" Dicky scoffed. "Ya mean like titties?"

"No, no... "

The curtains of every window in the house had been drawn but this one sported an overlooked gap, and in the gap, indeed, a face peered out. A marble face.

"Think of it as a statue head," the Writer said. "It's propped up behind the window, for decoration." When he looked closer, he went "Hmmm... "

"What'choo, hmmin' about?" Balls demanded.

"It appears to be Italian marble. Very expensive."

"Well hot dog!" Balls hooted. "Tooler weren't lyin'!"

The Writer said, "But even more curious is the brass plate beneath the bust. It says Phillipe Marquand, 1674-1728. Marquand, if I remember correctly, was a famous French medium who is said to have been able to communicate with the dead."

Balls, Dicky, and Cora all gaped at him.

"And this, over here," and the Writer led them up the front steps onto the ruined porch. "I almost didn't notice it, due to the torn screens. Shine your light up there, sir."

Balls did, and almost gasped.

Above the front door was a half-circle composed of ornate stained glass.

"It's called a tympanum. See the face?"

They all squinted further.

"Well, dang if'n he ain't right," Cora said.

"Don't that beat all?" Dicky added.

The mosaic formed a face below which ornate letters read ALEXANDER SETON.

"Who the fuck's he?" Balls asked.

"The most notorious of all alchemists," the Writer explained. "In 1604, Seton is said to have turned lead into gold."

"Bullshit," Balls scoffed, but after another moment of staring at the puzzle-piece face, he turned away.

The Writer smiled, amused. "Looks like the house you gentlemen picked to break into... belongs to a dedicated occultist."

"Occult?" Dicky asked, a spike in his voice. "You mean, like, devil-worship'n shit like that?"

"Um-hmm... "

"Fuck this, let's leave!" Cora shrieked again. "And, Balls. Come on! Untie my hands!"

"I'd appreciate the same," the Writer said.

"Stay here, both'a ya," Balls ordered, and took Dicky down off the porch out of earshot.

Dicky's bulbous face was pink with stress. "Shee-it, Balls, this caper's gone all fucked up."

"Tell me about it, Dicky. Just our luck to rip off a fuckin' U-Haul that's gots two people in it who can identer-fy us."

"And this fuckin' house, man. What's this guy talkin' 'bout devil-worshipers' turnin' lead inta gold'n shit? I cain't make heads'ner tails'a this."

"Neither can I, Dicky." Balls rubbed his hands together. "But at least we'se gonna make a score. You heard that Writer dude. Italian marble," but—oh, goodness, he'd pronounced the word Italian as "Eye-taller-un." "Bet Crafter's house is et up with it, so's we'se gonna take it off his hands, and shit knows what else's in there."

"Yeah, man, shore, but—" Dicky cast a fretting glance toward the porch. "What we gonna do with them two?"

"Well, I reckon we'll make 'em help us load the U-Haul, and then I reckon we'll kill 'em."

(IV)

The Writer found his existential resolve being tested, yet at the same time he found he had passed the test. The fact was, by the greatest fluke, he'd been accidentally commandeered by two redneck thieves in the process of committing a criminal act; hence, his future looked rather dim, for more than likely once the criminal act was completed, these two characters would have little choice but to dispose of him.

On spiritual grounds, the Writer was... okay with that, for he'd lived a full and aesthetically enriched life. His only regret?

I'll never be able to finish White Trash Gothic...

"Those two crackers are gonna up'n kill us," Cora whispered to him.

"Believe me, miss. Even the most brief reflection has illuminated me to that probability."