The Minotauress Page 13

  A guillotine blade of sunlight carved into the room from the gap in the shade; it lay directly across his eyes, firing a headache of legendary proportions. I'm SO hungover, he realized. Last night at the bar he'd consumed much—probably as much as Dylan Thomas on a good night. He moaned out of bed in his underwear, preparing to head for the shower, when something caught his eye...

  It was on the shade over the window.

  Someone must've been in my room last night, he thought, but then rejected the conclusion when he found the door locked.

  A new graffito, however, had been added to the others on the shade. It read as thus:

  You live alone. You

  dial your number by mistake

  and someone answers.

  It appeared to be written in the ink of his own black Sharpie, and—Hmm. Is that my handwriting? He thought so. The haiku was properly seventeen syllables and possessed the correct five-seven-five beat. Ultimately, though...

  Why would I write that? he wondered. Well... Faulkner wrote parts of THE FABLE on his wall. Why can't I write a haiku on a dirty shade?

  The problem was he didn't remember writing it. And if he'd written that?

  The Writer scratched his shorts.

  What else might he have written that he didn't recall?

  He rushed to the Remington Model No. 2 and fixed his eyes on the page that had been hanging out of the platen for a month.

  WHITE TRASH GOTHIC

  CHAPTER ONE

  There was a knock at the door. When Nikoff Raskol opened it, he espied a baleful purview of imprecations, an apophysis of dolorous spiritum—perforce: the Nietzschean Abyss. He'd dreamed of utter blackness, of dripping sounds, and screams, and it was all those things that he found himself looking at beyond the transom of his solitary motel room. The blackness that was somehow fulgent, in which traversed the fallow masses with faces like poultices and acuminated grins. His heart beat in mordant rubato when the gracile hand—certainly that of some outerworldly woman—reached out from the festering clough and took his own. He thought of light's absence in the flesh, he thought of ataxia undiluted.

  Indeed, he thought of lost worlds.

  The hand tightened about his. He was beseeched by eyes wide and lambent as diminutive moons, and the voice resounded as if from the highest precipice of the earth, to offer, "Come. Come with me... and see... "

  Nikoff Raskol, then, followed her out of the room into the living dark.

  The Writer's mouth fell open in a gag of joy. He nearly collapsed. "It's brilliant," he croaked. "It's Francois Truffaut and Thomas Hart Benton and James Joyce all rolled up into one, with a pinch of Sartre and a dash of Hegel. It's Descartes' proof that the mind is independent of the body, and Locke's affirmation that the test of truth is the comparison of thought and fact!" Tears formed in the Writer's eyes, and he fell to his knees. "My God... It's better than the opening of Kafka's Metamorphosis... "

  The Writer was charged now, he was kindled by a creative fire that in all his years of writing had never burned him so intensely. His writer's block was over now. This was the leap that had hoisted him over humanity's hurdles to drop him headlong into the rich, hot blood of his Art. Now, the rest of the book was as easy to see as his own shadow.

  Dylan Thomas was right, the thought arrived quite like an epiphany. I wrote this last night—the finest opening of my career—and I was DRUNK!

  He showered and dressed, his mind reeling in the exuberance that comes with sheer genius. He knew that he could sit right down this instant and keep going, probably bang out thirty or forty pages by tomorrow.

  But he didn't do that.

  Instead, he went straight to the bar.

  To celebrate!

  (VII)

  Dang, the old ones take fer-ever ta git their peter's off! Cora Neller thought, mouth stuffed. She looked munchkin-faced there on her knees in the little cubby outside. It was next to the room where they stored the beer kegs. She knew that's what they kept in there because she blew the beer-delivery guy every Tuesday when he was filling the next week's order. At least the beer-guy always came quick (just with a bit more volume than she cared for) but the old barkeep whose name nobody knew? The old fuck's probably seventy! she suspected. Bet I'se been tootin' his old pipe twennie fuckin' minutes! Nevertheless, she continued to suck because the old stick slipped her free drinks every so often, and looked the other way when she cruised the bar for johns. His penis wasn't stuck in her mouth, it was sort of just laying there as she drew her lips back and forth over its ancient meat. She thought of a rubber full of pudding but covered with raw chicken skin. Keeping her mouth full of a sufficient ration of saliva was a problem, too. Cora was a meth-head and clinical alcoholic, the former being her vice of choice, but it had the regrettable contraindication of debilitating the activity of her saliva ducts. In addition—and at less than ninety pounds—she didn't eat much. Poor nutrition equals poor saliva production. And, if truth be told, Cora consumed more calories in human semen per day than in food.

  "Jaysus, Cora," the barkeep's voice creaked from above. "This is damn near the worst cock-suck I'se ever had. My fuckin' dead grandmother could blow me better'n you."

  She wanted to bite down on the sodden tube of flesh but thankfully thought the better of it. Don't piss the old fuck off, she warned herself. 'Cos if'n you do he's'll never let'cha turn tricks here again...

  Anyway, as aforementioned, she was a meth-head and a drunk. Way she worked it is she'd play the bar till closing, hitting up the tighter customers for ten-dollar blowjobs and booze. Doreen, the other bar-whore, got fifteen, the little shit. But Cora would get shit-faced to take the teeth out of the meth-withdrawal, then after closing she'd score. The kick in the ass was that prices were going up now. Fuckin' inflation! she thought, still chugging away. A bag of Snort was fifteen bucks now, and Ice was twenty. It's that fuckin' George Bush, she knew. Keepin' us good junkies down. First Reagan and then THAT asshole! Cora wasn't terribly politically minded, of course, but she overheard the bar-talk all the time. There was some new guy going to run for President next term—a Democrat—and not only was he from the South, he was handsome. Hilton? she quizzed herself. Naw, it's Clinton! she finally got it. I shore hope he wins. She'd seen him on TV once, and she knew in a glance that she'd clean out his pipes any time he wanted, and for free even.

  "Aw, shee-it, Cora!" the barkeep griped and slid the floppy penis out. "It'll take you a hunnert years ta git me off." He turned around quickly and next thing poor Cora knew, his withered ass was in her face. There were moles on it that looked like hairy Raisinettes. "Just give my asshole a tonguin' whiles I jerk off."

  Cora was appalled. "Aw, come on! That ain't right!"

  "It's that ‘er no booze, sweetie. Yer choice."

  Cora sighed, then thumbed open the crease-ridden crack and began to lick.

  "Yeah. We'se finally found somethin' you do right," said the keep, naturally pronouncing the word right as "rat." Cora's face felt as though it were trying shrink behind her skull. To make the circumstance worse, the barkeep wasn't much for washing, nor—as she could now attest firsthand—was he particularly thorough about the manner in which he wiped. She could hear his masturbation, a sound like someone flapping a raw steak repeatedly on a table.

  Her tongue roved through a creamy glaze and other less seemly debris. Bumps of some kind, too, seemed to encircle the puckered anus. In actuality, they were rectal warts, but it was all for the best that Cora didn't know that. At any rate, this was just a day in the life of a backwoods whore. No big deal. And as she continued, she did find solace in one consolation: ‘Least I won't have ta taste the old fucker's dick-snot.

  Just as Cora had thought that, the barkeep spun around and jammed the now three-fourths erect penis into her mouth where he deposited an appreciable amount of semen.

  "Ummmm... That's the ticket. Not a bad load fer an old man, huh, hon?"

  Cora's eyes locked shut and she leaned back and let the penile slime slide down
her throat.

  "From now on, we'se'll do it that way ever' time, Cora," he informed, buckling his trousers. "Now I'd best git back inside. The Harkins boys'll set fire to the bar if'n their mugs're empty more'n five minutes," and then he loped back inside.

  The smirk on Cora's face felt like a clay mask that had been baked on. Like that familiar emblem denoting drama: one smiling mask tilted next to one frowning. Cora was the frowning one, and probably would be for a while. The smell coming off her lips made her tempted to cut off her nose.

  She stood up and dusted herself off. The knobby knees on bone-thin legs looked like banged up faces. But at least some drinks were covered now. It was still early, but with a little luck she'd be able to pull a couple of tricks before last call, then she could score some snort or ice.

  She jerked her head at the sound of crunching gravel. Headlights swept the trees behind the bar, then in rattled an old beat-to-holy-hell pickup truck the color of tomato juice. It parked clumsily along the back, pulling a U-Haul trailer.

  Please! Cora begged the Fates. Be a young guy!

  An old guy got out of the truck: workboots, overalls, and a plaid shirt with sleeves and collar buttoned. His face was nebulous: another old generic redneck. His boots crunched up toward the rear entrance.

  "Well, howdy there, darlin'!" came a spirited greeting.

  Cora tried to sound as spirited, "Hey, there! My name's Cora! What's yers?"

  "Lud. Pleased ta meet'cha."

  Cora tried to stand cutesy-style, hoping the barkeep's ass-smell wasn't wafting far off her lips. "Ain't never seen you here before."

  "That's 'cos I ain't never been. Not much inta drinkin' establishments, but, see, each year I'se take a road trip from Maryland ta Georgia'n back, tryin' ta bring folks ta the call."

  "The call?" Cora had no idea.

  "God's call, hon—"

  Aw, FUCK! A holy roller...

  "—and I ain't et all day so's I were hopin' I could git me some food ta go. They serve food here, hon?"

  By now, Cora's interest had grown non-existent. "Well, they gots burgers mixed with deer meat that's real good."

  The old man's eyes sparkled. "That couldn't be dandier. I'll get me a ta-go burger'n be on my way—but, hey?"

  Cora was about to go back in. This old Bible-thumper ain't gonna want a ten-dollar cock-suck...

  "I ain't in that much of a hurry," he continued. "What say you tell me what'cher doin' out back here all's by yer purdy l'il lonesome?"

  "You ain't gonna be interested, mister," she said. Why not just go and say it? "I'se lookin' fer a fella who wants ta pay me ten bucks ta suck his dick or twennie—no, fifteen—fer a fuckin'."

  The old man's face lit up with enthusiasm. "Is that all? Well, my word, hon. I'd say you got yerself a deal. In fact, as purdy as you is? I'll pay ya forty."

  Cora's heart fluttered. He called me purdy! And, boy, had she gotten this guy's number wrong. Some holy roller, soliciting prostitutes. But Cora nearly had tears in her eyes. Not only had the old goat complimented her—an event quite rare in her life these days—but she hadn't bagged forty bucks on a solo trick... ever.

  "Well, let's go, sugar!" she said and grabbed his large, work-callused hand. "We'se kin git cozy in yer truck'n I'll'se make yer balls clap together they'll be so happy."

  The old man laughed good naturedly. "But the trailer's bigger inside, and I'se got a bed back there. That okay with you?"

  She gave his crotch a rub and hugged him. "Anything you want," and—wouldn't you know it? She'd pronounced the word anything as "enna-thang."

  This man—Lud—pulled a metal latch on the trailer's door up and out. From a loop on his belt he produced a metal flashlight, and even the most inept reader now will deduce that said flashlight would soon be introduced to the back of Cora's skull.

  Whew! the emaciated prostitute thought when the trailer door swung open. It smelled gross inside.

  "Take a looky, hon," the man said and shined the flashlight in, but when Cora leaned forward to do so, one big callused hand came around the side of her face and sealed her mouth shut.

  Inside, she saw a naked woman bound, gagged, and disturbingly motionless. In the flashlight beam this woman's skin looked gray as modeling clay.

  Also in the trailer lay two severed legs and two severed arms. And a case of Shasta Cola.

  When Cora screamed, of course, the sound was stifled by the old man's hand. Then she heard his voice, which seemed echoic, like in a movie where gods were delivering dialog.

  "God gave us brains to determine our purpose by His will, sweetie, and he is a mite forgivin' God. Hear me now, and ‘member that we'se all been born in original sin since Eve bit that blammed apple, which covered the world with darkness and were took over by the fallen angel Lucifer. But God, see, is the light we'se use ta see through that devilish darkness."

  The man's grip held Cora off her feet. She reeled in the air, useless breath gusting into the rugged palm.

  "Put yer trust in the Lord, hon. Though you's shore as heck a harlot'n mighty sinner... I shall redeem thee... "

  (VIII)

  The Writer felt as competent as Samuel Johnson when he sat at the corner stool. The bar around him hustled and bustled in the usual redneck chicanery though this did not distract the Writer from his relevant ponderings. The book, he thought. The book will be brilliant. No, he still did not remember writing that devastating opening passage last night, but that was fine, too. Niccolo Paganini wrote Moto Perpetuo in a drunken blackout... and that's the best violin piece in history.

  My novel, the Writer felt sure, will be the fictional equivalent. White Trash Gothic...

  Rednecks clacked balls at the table, sinking impressive shots. In the corner more rednecks howled at a wrestling match on TV. One man, with a hairlip and mullet-style haircut griped, "Fuckin' Sting! Rips off the Nature Boy again!" and then he bit a chunk out of his beer mug. Doreen, the prostitute with breasts like stuffed socks, waltzed out of the men's room and spat something on the floor. A man in a cowboy hat soon followed. Several brothers giggled as they engaged in a slap-fight.

  Fascinating human interaction on a sub-societal level, the Writer thought. It would all go into the book...

  Because it's real.

  How powerful was the power of truth? His book would be the literary definition.

  Yet another redneck sitting across from him was scratching a steel plate in his head. When the Writer glanced down at an ashtray, he noticed several teeth sitting in it, like big pills. "No, lie," the barkeep was explaining to some patrons. "Licked my ass clean, she did. Then swallered my nut like a champ. She ain't like Doreen, who spits. Fastest way ta tell a gal's got no class is when she spits out yer cock-hock." "Dang straight," someone consented.

  Yes. Fascinating, the Writer thought.

  An errant glance at the TV overhead showed him still more coverage of this Dahmer man in Wisconsin. "... was only eighteen years of age when he committed his first mutilation-murder in the township of Bath, Ohio, in 1978... "

  Him again, the Writer thought. He had little interest. Evil was relative, and the evils of the world were not what his book should be about.

  Not the evils. The verities.

  He smoked and drank, quite contentedly sorting the nomenclature of his literary bullshit, when an overalled old man with a button shirt took the stool next to him. "Howdy," he said.

  "Good evening, sir," the Writer replied.

  After the man ordered a carry-out burger and soda water, it looked like he was about to say something more to the Writer when the redneck with the plate in his head blared, "Hey, Doreen! Don't'cha know a whore ain't got no class if'n she don't swaller the nut!"

  Other patrons hooted. Doreen showed him her middle finger and stuck out her tongue, which was smeared with semen.

  "Ye of little faith," the old man muttered, shaking his head.

  "I don't think Saint Matthew can save any of this crowd," the Writer said.

  "Hmm." The ol
d man seemed impressed. "Then who said this: ‘Thy faith hath saved thee.'"

  The Writer stalled over his cigarette. "You've stumped me, sir."

  Did the man chuckle? "Interestin' choice'a words!"

  "Pardon me?"

  "Aw, nothin'. But I'll'se give ya a hint. He was the best writer of the Gospel authors."

  An uncanny bar conversation. "I'm not an expert on Scripture, but... " The best writer of the four Gospels? Then the Writer smiled. "Saint Luke, of course."

  "Good! So see? Ever-one can be saved... with faith."

  The Writer considered himself an existential Christian which, depending on interpretation, could be viewed as contradictory. He didn't feel like talking now, though. He felt like thinking. About his book. He caught himself staring at one of the billiard games, and suddenly found himself with tunnel-vision. It reminded him of Kant's Eight-Ball Theory, the landmark philosophical tenet that disproved the constancy of causality.

  "What'choo thinkin' 'bout, son?" the old man asked. "Looks like yer contemplatin' the whole universe," but he'd pronounced universe as "you-ner-vorse."