Self-Storage

The minotaur in the self-storage depot was the wrong way round – the face of a man on the body of a cow. “Milk me, please,” he asked Jay, fluttering his eyelashes.

“Er, sorry – “ Jay replied, “I can’t.  I’m looking for the exit.”

“Please milk me,” he said.

“Sorry, I – My girlfriend’s waiting for me in the car. I have to get back. We just came to drop off a sofa. Don’t want it cluttering the place up.”

The minotaur raised an eyebrow.

‘Did she give you string?’

‘What?’

‘A roll of twine to find your way out’

‘No’

‘Then she dropped you off.  Didn’t want you cluttering the place up.’

Jay looked around – surveying the twisting corridors and identical doors. The minotaur snorted impatiently.

“Milk me, please.”