The Minotauress (43 page)
Authors: Edward Lee
««—»»
"What the hell is
this!
"
this!
"
Dean grunted, then slowly opened his eyes. He'd fallen asleep on the couch, hadn't he? Yes, after a few shots of Johnny Black to mellow out. And now—
"What the hell is
this!
"
this!
"
—his beautiful wife Daphne was screaming in his face.
"What the hell is what?" he griped. "Christ your voice is louder than a truck horn."
"
This!
" It was a disk she held between her fingers, the size of a hockey puck.
This!
" It was a disk she held between her fingers, the size of a hockey puck.
A can of Skoal.
"It was on the coffee table!" she continued to yell, "next to your
whiskey!
"
whiskey!
"
Still groggy, Dean shrugged on the couch. "It's a can of dip. So what? What are you bitching about?"
"So what? Is that what you said to me?" Rage pinkened her face, her eyes bulging like a cartoon. "Bitching?" She threw the can at him; it bounced off his chest. "You
promised
me that you'd never use that shit again! You
promised
me when we got married! It's filthy! It's dirty! Only rednecks and slobs use that stuff! It's—"
promised
me that you'd never use that shit again! You
promised
me when we got married! It's filthy! It's dirty! Only rednecks and slobs use that stuff! It's—"
"It's time for you to
shaddap,
" Dean replied, and in a reflex like instinct, he—
shaddap,
" Dean replied, and in a reflex like instinct, he—
CRACK!
—slammed his fist into the side of her face. Daphne flew backwards, turning, her Bally shoes flying off her feet. As the inertia transferred from fist to face, Dean saw her eyeballs criss-cross. She thumped to the floor, unconscious.
Yadduh yadduh yadduh,
Dean thought.
That's all they do, run their mouths, bellyache, bitch.
He poured another shot of Johnny B., slugged it back. That he'd just knocked his wife unconscious didn't faze him, nor did the potential assault and battery charges. "Fuck it. Women." He picked up his can of Skoal, put a pinch between his lip and gum.
Dean thought.
That's all they do, run their mouths, bellyache, bitch.
He poured another shot of Johnny B., slugged it back. That he'd just knocked his wife unconscious didn't faze him, nor did the potential assault and battery charges. "Fuck it. Women." He picked up his can of Skoal, put a pinch between his lip and gum.
There it is!
he thought.
he thought.
Nicotine rush abuzz, he looked down at his very unconscious wife. In her fall, she'd landed on her belly, her classy creped black skirt flipped up. Beneath the see-through pantyhose, her ass sat there like a pair of succulent dumplings.
"Fuck it," Dean said to himself.
Back in the old days, back on the ranch in DeSmet, Dean's far larger than average reproductive member had taken up residency in many a backdoor. But he'd never done "the anal thing" with Daphne. He'd never even broached the subject, knowing his wife regarded the act as unnatural and degrading.
"Fuck it."
He knelt, yanked the pantyhose right off like peeling a condom. Saliva tinted brown with high-grade nicotine dribbled from his mouth and fell precisely into the furrow of her creamy buttocks.
Dean plugged The Captain right in, and plungered her "star" but good. Spitting in her ass-crack seemed sufficient foreplay—all any woman deserved—he just went to town for a quick one. After all, the bitch hadn't put out in two months!
Dean's spooge drained in volume. He thought of squeezing the innards out of a fat lizard's mouth.
"There's one for ya, sweetheart." He wiped his sullied cock off on the pantyhose, then leaned back against the coffee table and took another hit of the good Mr. Black. Eventually Daphne revived, raised her head sluggishly, and brought an errant hand back to her buttocks.
"What... What did you
do?
" her words slipped out, incredulous.
do?
" her words slipped out, incredulous.
"You looked like you were running a fever," Dean replied, then ejected a thread-thin stream of tobacco juice between his teeth. The stream landed on the plush beige carpet. "So I took your temperature. With a
big
thermometer."
big
thermometer."
Her words wheezed with her breath. "You-you-you—SODOMIZED me! How-how-how—COULD you?"
"Easy. My dick was hard and your ass was on the floor."
She began to crawl up, teary and outraged. "I'm-I'm-I'm gonna call my father, I'm gonna call the police, I'm gonna press charges—"
Dean just calmly shook his head.
Sometimes they just don't get it, do they?
Sometimes they just don't get it, do they?
He grabbed her not by the hair but by the
face
, taking a handful of already bruised cheek, and lifted her to her feet. She squealed like a mouse in a vice the whole way up. "No," he said, "the only thing your
gonna
do is cook me some dinner. Now." He shoved her recklessly into the kitchen. "Something good, otherwise I'll have to get violent"—
face
, taking a handful of already bruised cheek, and lifted her to her feet. She squealed like a mouse in a vice the whole way up. "No," he said, "the only thing your
gonna
do is cook me some dinner. Now." He shoved her recklessly into the kitchen. "Something good, otherwise I'll have to get violent"—
—and then it happened again, the cacophonous drone in his head like water pouring into a sewer inlet and his vision shifting through cloud-blossom blurs and his heart like a water balloon about to pop—
—again—
—again—
—here they were.
The Jig-Jags.
"What the hell is
this?"
this?"
Dean was staring at her. He'd fallen asleep on the couch, waiting for Daphne to get home from her meeting, and he'd wakened when she entered. He was just staring at her.
My God,
he thought.
My God,
he thought.
"You
promised
me that you'd never use that shit again! You
promised
me when we got married! It's filthy! It's dirty! Only rednecks and slobs use that stuff! It's
disgusting!
"
promised
me that you'd never use that shit again! You
promised
me when we got married! It's filthy! It's dirty! Only rednecks and slobs use that stuff! It's
disgusting!
"
Dean sat in turmoil, his consciousness revolving like a ferris wheel on high-speed.
I didn't buy that can of Skoal... did I?
I didn't buy that can of Skoal... did I?
"How can you betray me like this!" Daphne's soprano shriek continued to unwind. "How many other promises have you broken?"
"Honey, I—"
"Don't lie to me, you bastard!"
"Honey, I—"
"Christ in Heaven, I work my ass off day in and day out while you sit in here chewing tobacco like some common redneck! You're not in South Fucking Dakota anymore, Dean! The joyride's over! We agreed! I pull the weight around here, I make the money! We can't depend on
your
pissant salary! You're the one who's supposed to keep this place cleaned up."
your
pissant salary! You're the one who's supposed to keep this place cleaned up."
Dean's hands spread. "It's clean—"
"It's a SHITHOLE!" Daphne cracked. "It's FILTHY. Ever heard of a vacuum cleaner? Ever heard of a mop?"
"Sweetheart, I—"
"Just shut up! My God, I'm doing everything I possibly can to make this pitiful marriage work!" Her voice raced around the room like a mad ferret. "It would really be nice if JUST ONCE, you'd help me out! But, no! You're too busy sleeping on the fucking couch and chewing that goddamn redneck tobacco!"
Daphne stormed off down the hall. Dean, entrapped by terror, raced after her. "Honey, please! I'm sorry! I'll clean the house better tomorrow, I promise! And I swear to God I don't know where that can of—"
The bedroom door slammed in his face so hard the entire house shook.
««—»»
DESMET, SOUTH DAKOTA
"Name?"
Arianne's skin crawled. "Arianne."
The fat-faced cop scowled. "Last name?"
"Zausner."
"Current place of residence?"
That was a good one. "Uh... I used to live at the Callisto-Brownsroad Trailer Court."
"
Current
place of residence?" the fat cop repeated
Current
place of residence?" the fat cop repeated
"My car!" Arianne blurted and just thought
Fuck... I'm fucked now.
Fuck... I'm fucked now.
The desk sergeant, whose name tag displayed A.T. LASS, filled out the rest of the booking report. This would be her third bust for solicitation—it didn't matter that the johns had ripped her off. She was crazy; whenever she smoked a piece of ice, she went out of her mind.
Her memory felt like a sheet of skin shorn by razors; she could only see through the minute red lines. She'd pulled up at the GORTYN'S WOODLAND TAVERN, swearing to herself
No ice tonight, no ice. I'll just have a few beers and turn a few blowjobs.
The promise had corroded as quickly as her future. Her first john had offered her a piece of ice in trade, and that had been it. Next thing she knew she was flying. She was on her back in the woods behind the tavern with her feet jacked up in the air and a line of men standing in wait, each with a sawbuck in their hand. By the end of the train her pussy felt like an overflowing sauce pan full of Sperm Stew, and her purse was empty as chuckles faded through the trees. That's when the police had found her. A fat line of semen ran down the inside of her leg when she was hauled up, covered with a raincoat, and Mirandized. They let her sit in the tank for eighteen hours (that's how good the ice was around here; the Callisto-Brownsroad Court was the location of the town's biggest meth lab, and it was real funny how the cops had never busted the place), then she lay for a few more, wracked in withdrawal. If she'd had a gun in her hand, she would've blown her brains out onto the cell wall, no hesitation.
No ice tonight, no ice. I'll just have a few beers and turn a few blowjobs.
The promise had corroded as quickly as her future. Her first john had offered her a piece of ice in trade, and that had been it. Next thing she knew she was flying. She was on her back in the woods behind the tavern with her feet jacked up in the air and a line of men standing in wait, each with a sawbuck in their hand. By the end of the train her pussy felt like an overflowing sauce pan full of Sperm Stew, and her purse was empty as chuckles faded through the trees. That's when the police had found her. A fat line of semen ran down the inside of her leg when she was hauled up, covered with a raincoat, and Mirandized. They let her sit in the tank for eighteen hours (that's how good the ice was around here; the Callisto-Brownsroad Court was the location of the town's biggest meth lab, and it was real funny how the cops had never busted the place), then she lay for a few more, wracked in withdrawal. If she'd had a gun in her hand, she would've blown her brains out onto the cell wall, no hesitation.
"Three-Time Loser now, Arianne," the sergeant reminded her. "Three strikes and you're out. No more PBJ, no more court leniency because of your past. You're up for thirty months, no parole, no good behavior. The
county
slam, honey. It ain't no joovie hall and it ain't Club Med."
county
slam, honey. It ain't no joovie hall and it ain't Club Med."
Arianne's drawn face fell into her lap. Her tears plipped onto the floor. "I don't know what's wrong with me," she sobbed. "I can't stop, I just can't... "
The following silence smothered her. She thought of the same silence within a buried coffin. That's what she needed: to be dead, to be buried.
"You know," the bulbous sergeant remarked, "I remember you. I'd only been on the force three years when you graduated from DeSmet Senior High. You were top of the bill, honey. Top of the honor roll, 4.0 student, valedictorian, prom queen, and scholarship offers from Harvard, UCLA, and Georgetown." Rancor ran steep in his voice. "You had it all, you had what no one from this pinch-of-dung town
ever
had. And look what you did with it."
ever
had. And look what you did with it."
Kill me, just kill me,
she thought. Death seemed so much less cruel than living like this. There was no way out, though. She couldn't stop.
she thought. Death seemed so much less cruel than living like this. There was no way out, though. She couldn't stop.
"What happened?" the sergeant asked. "What turned you into a meth-head whore?"
Dean,
she thought.
Dean's what happened.
she thought.
Dean's what happened.
"I don't know if I can do the dry-out," she croaked into her knees. "I don't think I can make it."
"Look."
Her spine felt like a creaking board as she raised up, blinked, and looked at the booking sergeant. His fat fingers spun the arrest report around for her to read.
He hadn't filled it out.
"One more chance," he said.
Then he dropped a plastic bag full of chunks of crystal methamphetamine on top of the blank report.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"But nothing's free, you know?" He stood up and lowered his starched-blue police trousers. "You know the game, right?"
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