The Minotaur Takes His Own Sweet Time - Plot & Excerpts
NO FORK. The Minotaur takes off his shirt and lets his fat tongue do the work. It’s like Widow Fisk is in the room with him. Watching. The brown crust of meringue offers no resistance. But resistance comes nonetheless. It is Tuesday, early morning, and the instant the bull buries his face deep in the butterscotch, a chainsaw roars to life across Business 220 and Danny Tanneyhill plunges his blade into the oak. When the Minotaur pauses, the chainsaw stops, too. Idles. Waits. The Minotaur licks his black lips and dives in again. And again the chainsaw revs up and bites into wood. The Minotaur cannot see Danny Tanneyhill at work, can only imagine the plumes of sawdust rooster-tailing in the morning sun and the beast that is unfurling from the oak. Nor can the overlord of Pygmalia-Blades see through the venetian blinds of Room #3, to the Minotaur and his mess. But each time one takes a bite the other makes a cut. Surely some hoodoo is under way. Some cosmic hocus-pocus. Some karmic skullduggery.
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