The Minotauress

The car sped around winding, tree-lined roads, cruising through the dim night. They were on their way back to Luntville. But what would happen now?

"How ‘zactly do we go inta the freakshow business?" Dicky raised the issue.

"Dang, Dicky. I don't know." Balls looked to the Writer. "You's the one with all the brains. Thank'a somethin'."

"Oh, I'm confident that with a solid business plan, we'll be making money in no time. Just let me do a little marketing research, find some carnival schedules, etcetera."

"Et what?"

The Writer smiled. "Leave it to me."

Of course the Writer had no true intention of going into the freakshow business. I'm a novelist, not a carnival barker. He'd simply go along with the plan until he could escape these two dimwits and get back to his work in progress. Yes, he thought with an unsurpassed creative elation. White Trash Gothic...

Next, Dicky scratched his head in another contemplation. "I was just thankin'. What we gonna do if that dick-demon's cum... you know... wears off, and maybe that special word it wrote on the bull-gal's belly loses its kick?"

The Paresis Spell, the Writer mused. And it was a good question. How long would it keep the Minotauress subdued? "I can't say with any authority, but you men did seem to secure her sufficiently. Plus, I'd imagine the latch and hinges on the U-Haul are quite sturdy."

"Aw, shee-it," Balls dismissed. "You boy's are worryin' like a couple'a chicks. Dicky, them Flex-Cuffs are as good as steel cable. Even if the big dick's mumbo-jumbo does wear off, ain't no way that bitch'll snap those cuffs."

Dicky seemed pacified by the response, but then his face turned concerned in the dim dashboard light. "Dang. We ain't doin' squat less'n we get some gas, and I'se mean like right now."

Balls glanced down. "What'cha got fer a brain, Dicky? The tank's on E!"

"Yeah, sorry. I were so excited 'bout knocking over Crafter's place, I didn't check it."

"Man, you're about as smart as the loaf'a pumpernickel that dead ‘ho popped out her pussy! We ain't even halfway back to town yet!"

"Relax, gentlemen," the Writer cut in. "There's a filling station right there."

CRICK CITY EXXON, the glowing sign read. OPEN 24 HOURS!

Dicky pulled in. "Fuck, I left our cut from Clyde Nale's run at the house. You got any dough?"

Balls fished in his jeans' pocket. "Dang. I got's nothin' neither." He nudged the Writer. "Don't tell me you're broke too."

The Writer checked his pockets and ankle belt. "I'm afraid I spent the last of my cash at the bar—"

"Fuck!"

"But take heart, gentlemen. I do have my credit card."

"Come on, let's go—"

"Hey, git me a bag'a Funyuns while's yer in there," Dicky called after them. "And a Mr. Pibb, but not that diet stuff."

Dicky, lo and behold, had pronounced the word diet as "dat."

Balls and the Writer approached the pump, but a sign told them: PAY INSIDE AFTER 10 P.M. A bell rang when they entered the brightly lit mini-mart. Balls parted at once to pull several bags of Funyuns off the shelf, and get drinks. The Writer's eyes slid across a magazine rack comprised mostly by x-rated fare, with names like Poppin' Mammas! and Gobblin' Grannies! and Tinkle Drinkers! Next, he noticed a revolving rack of used paperbacks and he perused the titles, hoping for a gem. Satan's Lovechild, Nazi Nuns in Heat, Lusty Lesbo Love Party. The Writer nearly shrieked when he saw one of his own books, The Red Confession, next to a book entitled, Farm Girls Just Want To Have Fun.

He looked over his shoulder, then quickly placed his book on the top of the rack.

"Can I help you?" asked a drab, pimply faced young man behind the bulletproof cubby.

"Yes, please. We'd like to fill it on Pump 1," and then passed his credit card through the slot. "And, also, my friend's getting some snacks."

The boy ran the card through the machine, then passed it back.

"You can start pumping now."

"Thank you."

The Writer went back outside into the humid night, reflecting all that he'd experienced. He fumbled with the pump, not well-versed in such procedures, put the nozzle in the hole, then squeezed, but nothing happened. Am I doing something wrong here? he wondered. When he looked back up at the pump, the tiny screen read: SEE CASHIER.

The Writer walked back inside. Balls stood at the magazine rack, thumbing through a glossy publication with the odd title, Crazy For Crackers!

"Hey, Writer? You like graham crackers?"

The Writer stalled. "Why, yes, I supposed so... though it's been some time since I've had any. Why do you ask?"