The Minotauress

Balls' face set. "Listen, Cora. I'll'se make a deal with ya. We needs ta know what we're up against, so you go upstairs and take a peek, see who's up there, then come right back down. You do that, and I'll untie yer wrists and let'cha go." Then Balls cocked a brow. "And if'n you don't do that, I'll cut'cher head off and piss out'cher mouth, then I'll scalp yer dirty pussy'n wipe my ass with it next time I take a corn-shit."

The Writer had to chuckle. "Not exactly an affable alternative, hmm?"

"Shut up." Balls whipped out his Buck knife and flicked it open, eyeing Cora.

Cora sighed. "I should'a never offered that old man a blow job back at the bar." She blinked, took a deep breath, then began to walk very slow up the plushly carpeted steps.

From upstairs, they could hear the TV channels being changed. CNN switched off, replaced by some man with a German accent saying, "But... this room has other qualities—in 1436 it was here that Prince and Princess Von Hart had their throats cut while they were sleeping." A woman's voice: "Their throats cut?" The German man: "Yes, madam, but that was in 1436. Will you excuse me?" and then the channel switched to a baseball game, "David Cone has just won his next shut-out for the Yankees! What another tremendous acquisition by George Steinbrenner, folks!" and next, a commercial, "Not available in stores! Call now while supplies last! Get the patented Therm-O-Fresh Food Saving System for just four easy payments of $49.95. That's right, just $49.95!"

The Writer rolled his eyes.

Then the TV switched off.

Had Cora been discovered by the unknown sentinel? Balls pulled out his pistol, and Dicky very courageously suggested, "Fuck it, let's just leave her, Balls. We'se can git out'a here while Cora's still upstairs."

"No way, Dicky. You seen the loot in this joint. We ain't splittin' till our kick is full up."

The three of them waited, pinned by shadows against the wall. A clock ticked somewhere. The Writer noticed again the other door behind him, with the cross on it, and without thinking he opened it. Cinderblock steps descended into darkness, and an awful smell assailed his nostrils.

"Shee-it, what's that stink?" Balls complained.

"It's coming from down there, presumably a basement."

Dicky saw the cross. "Just like the ones outside goin' ‘round the whole yard."

"It's interesting," the Writer reflected. "An occult afficionado... using crosses as some kind of transitive emblem."

Balls shot the Writer a funky look. "Close that fuckin' door. The stink's pissin' me off."

The Writer quietly reclosed the door, then went back to listening for any noises from upstairs. Then—

Tiny footfalls were heard padding fast down the stairs carpet.

Cora ducked around the hall. She looked more perplexed than anything.

"Well?" Balls asked. "You see who's up there?"

"It's a gal, weird-lookin'," the addict-prostitute enlightened them.

"A gal? Old, you mean?"

"Naw, don't thank so." Cora's eyes thinned. "And she looked weird 'cos she was all, like, black."

"A colored gal, you mean," Dicky presumed.

"Guess Crafter's got a maid," Balls supposed.

The Writer frowned.

"Naw, naw," Cora insisted. "I mean she was all black and wet. Like she been painted with black paint. And she was buck nekit."

Balls sighed. "A nekit woman painted black, huh? Shee-it. What else could I expect from a meth-head? You're seein' things, ya asshole."

"I am not!" Cora objected, almost too loud. "She was painted black, she was all wet'n shiny. And I don't mean black like a nigruh. I mean black like... black. Like road tar or somethin'. And she were layin' on a big fluffy bed, friggin' herself."

"What?" Balls asked for reiteration.

"She was playin' with herself. Feelin' herself up'n rubbin' her cooter. That's what I seed when I looked in. The first bedroom. She were workin' herself up inta a swivet, too, and just 'fore I come back down it looked like she was tryin' ta stick her whole fist in herself. That's what I saw."

Balls sputtered through a frown. "A gal painted black fistin' her own cooze. You're high, Cora. You've sucked so much dick ya got jizz fer brains."

"If'n ya don't believe me, go look fer yourself!" she countered. "But first ya best keep your end'a the bargain. Untie me'n lemme git out'a here, like ya promised."

"Shore, baby—"

WHAP!

Balls bopped her in the back of the head with his homemade blackjack, and once again Cora collapsed.

Balls jerked his head toward the stairs. "Dicky, git upstairs'n take care of this. Don't know what the fuck Cora's talkin' 'bout but I'se guess there really is a chick up there. So's you go punch her lights out'n tie her up."

Dicky's jaw dropped. "Why me, Balls?"

"'Cos I said so. What, you's afraid of a splittail?"

"Naw, but... It's dark up there, and—"

"Just git on up there like I tolt ya."

Dicky's hooded eyes shot to the Writer. "Send him!"

"Shee-it, Dicky. He's a writer. Writer's are pussies."