The Minotauress

Suddenly, the skinny wreck of a girl looked doleful. "Ya know? I gotta step sister turns tricks up in bumfuck South Dakota where the meth is all over the fuckin' place and cheap. She tolt me I could come up there'n turn tricks with her'n we'd have a great time, man. But I never went." She looked around, more at the predicament than the location. "Shore as shit wish I did."

"Let's look at the glass as though it were half full, not half empty, Miss," the Writer advised.

"Whuh—what glass?"

The Writer sighed. "Let's not give up hope. We may be able to get out of this."

The skinny girl frowned. "What we gonna do?"

"It seems logical to me that for as long as we make ourselves useful to them, we extend our lives, and in that time... an opportunity for escape may strike."

She fidgeted in place. "Aw, man, I fuckin' hope so 'cos if I don't get me some crystal soon, I'll start throwin' up my brains... "

The comment shocked the Writer. "Let's, uh... hope that doesn't happen."

"That's what jones-ing from meth feels like, man. Ya start upchuckin'‘n it feels like yer brains're gonna fly out'cher mouth, and ya wish they would 'cos it's so bad, ya wish ya could just up'n die."

"Ah... how regrettable... "

As the Writer tried to think of a possible solution, something nicked his attentions: the door-knocker. It had been mounted on the ornate door's center stile, an oval of tarnished bronze depicting a morose half-formed face. Just two eyes, no mouth, no other features. He at once considered the potential literary symbol: Man, human features eroded by a corrupt universe, leaving him speechless. The existential mask...

"And who was that awful guy who knocked us out in the first place?"

The Writer blinked away the abstraction, feeling spiritually drained. "Oh, the old man at the bar, ‘Lud? He's a Christian phenomenalist, if you can believe it."

"Huh?"

"Shhh. Here they come."

The one called Dicky trudged up the porch steps, poker-faced, while the one called Balls... came bearing a long, stout piece of polished wood.

"Step aside, Writer. I'se gonna bust that front door down with this here hickory pick-handle. It's one'a the few thangs my shit-head Daddy left to me that weren't worth less than a rummie's shorts." Balls poised the handle with authority. "Oughta have that door open in 'bout two swipes."

Forty swipes later, and after an undo cacophony, the door finally split down the middle. The Writer winced at the noise, then winced harder when he noticed tufts of hair sticking out of Cora's armpits. He couldn't decide which was more annoying.

"Jaysus!" Dicky exclaimed. "That's one tough door!"

"Shee-it," Balls muttered. He sat down against the porch rail, to rest after the exertion.

"More of the same," the Writer offered. "The deception of appearances: a security door on a house that looks worthless." The Writer looked directly at Balls. "You might want to pause to take heed."

"What'cha mean?"

The Writer shrugged. "Expensive windows and an equally expensive security door? The owner may well have more precautions waiting inside."

"Ya mean like maybe a security guard or somethin'?" Dicky's pea-brain speculated.

"Sure. Or some other counter-measure."

Balls wasn't affected by the possibility. One hand hefted the pick-handle, the other hefted the pistol. "Here's yer counter-measures, Writer. Now... Inside. You two first."

The Writer and Cora led on, Dicky and Balls backing them up with flashlights. One of them flicked a wall switch but nothing happened.

"Shee-it. Crafter must'a had the ‘leck-tricity turnt off."

Flashlight beams crisscrossed over the ornate foyer and sitting room, carving slices of more statues and busts, and brooding faces that seemed to scowl at them from framed paintings.

"This place is creepy as shit!" Cora whined. "And... I need some meth!"

"Shut up," Balls told her.

"There are plenty of candles," the Writer observed of the many globed candle sticks along a spacious fireplace mantle and various wall sconces.

"Daggit!" Balls complained. "I ain't got a lighter."

"Me's neither," Dicky admitted.

The Writer sighed through a cringing hope. "Well, it just so happens that I do and, Mr. Balls? I would be forever in your debt if you'd cut my bonds. Naturally I give you my word I won't try to escape. I'd be more than thrilled to light all these candles and—to be perfectly honest, sir?" The Writer's shoulders slumped. "I'm dying for a cigarette."

Evidently Balls appreciated being addressed as "mister" and "sir." He snapped open his Buck and cut the Writer's lashes.

"You have my unflagged gratitude."

Balls grinned, showed the pistol again. "Any funny business and I'se'll blow a hole in yer back bigger than Dicky's head."

The Writer nodded. "I have virtually no doubts as to your credulity."

"I like the way he talks, huh, Dicky?" Balls noted.

"Dang straight. Must'a gone ta collerge."