A Mexico City Soundtrack:
Hecho En D.F.
(Work Created in La Ciudad de México)
24 Horas en la Gran Ciudad
“To go wrong in one’s own way is better
than to go right in someone else’s.
In the first, you are a man, in the second,
you are no better than a bird.”
-F. Dostoevsky
16 de Septiembre
0300 hr. Ciudad de Mexico
(The Damned) Alone Again Or
The Salesman’s heart raced with panic. A plastic bag was drawn over his head, flattening his nose, pulling his facial features back into a grim mask of comedy. He gazed down at the grease stains on the trailer floor, through the slits of swollen eyes. The other men took hold of his arms and legs now. He coughed, choking on blood. Plastic flexed in and out of his sucking mouth, to no avail. His legs were yanked apart. Then came a voice, muffled, distant, and demanding something in rapid Spanish. It was all happening so fast. Yet at the same time, the Salesman felt as if time were slowing, brakes screeching and grinding, like a locomotive coming to a halt. A baseball bat arced through the air, then fell, smashing into the Y-shaped intersection of the Salesman’s crotch, dead center. He lost consciousness.
* * * *
15 de Septiembre
0630 hr. Ciudad de México
TACOS: Reclusorio Norte (click image below)
* * * *
15 de Septiembre
0700 hr. Ciudad de México
The Salesman:
The red Volkswagen Jetta glided down Avenida Insurgentes towards the Colonia Roma. Athenas (Athens) was behind the wheel, the Salesman sat in the passenger seat. Athenas wore a silver miniskirt and a top with a large glittery silver star on it, stretched tightly over her full young breasts. Her long red hair was parted into two ponytails on the sides of her head. The Jetta wound its way through the tree-lined streets of the Colonia Roma, beneath a charcoal grey Mexico City morning sky. Athenas’ eyebrows slanted into an expression of concentration. She inhaled on her cigarette, with pouty bubblegum-blue painted lips. Platform heels worked the pedals as she downshifted. Her toenails were neon blue. She took the cigarette between two French-manicured fingertips of one hand, and grabbed the wheel with her other. She exhaled a cloud of smoke out of the half-inch gap of driver’s-side window. She glanced over her shoulder at the stop sign, then drove on through the intersection. Athenas bounced her head of red curls up and down, to the rhythm of “Plastilina Mosh” blaring over her Kenwood system.
“…Mister P… M… O…S…H… Mister P… M… O…S…H… Mister P…”
The Salesman stared at the road ahead through dark sunglasses, with a look of indifference. He held up two fingers, like a peace sign, towards Athenas without looking at her. She quickly tapped her ashes into the ashtray, and passed him the cigarette.
“Ten, mi amor…” she said, her voice barely audible over the music, but with a look that could have broken any man’s heart. Blue eye shadow set off the blue of her eyes. They beamed with love. Athenas was 22-years old, but she looked much younger, especially with her hair in ponytails. The Salesman took the cigarette without returning her glance. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled against the windshield in front of him with a cloud of smoke. His jaw muscles rippled beneath his skin, as he began to grind his teeth again. He closed his eyes. His senses were heightened, sharp, and prickly-pinned. He thought that he could just barely feel the perpetual motion of the second hand on his Rolex Submariner, turning above his left wrist. It was giving him a headache. He opened his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose. His chest was tight. His heart pounded through his ribcage disturbingly fast. He took another draw on the cigarette, turned the volume on the stereo down a little bit, then reclined his seat back, staring up at the roof. He reached over and gently stroked the inside of Athenas’ bare right thigh, as if to apologize for his distant mood. Athenas smiled, relieved. She had been worried that he might be angry with her. She took his hand, gripping it tightly.
“Te quiero, mi amor…” she said.
Athenas pulled over in front of the two-story blue colonial building, across the street from a park. She kept the motor running.
“I love you too, baby,” he replied in Spanish, still staring at the roof. Johnny hopped out of the Jetta and shut the passenger door behind him. He ran around the back to the open trunk. He removed two large brown paper bags, then shut it. “I’ll see you tonight! Or call me on the cell this afternoon. I love you, Baby!” he shouted over his shoulder, as he jogged toward the building. He clutched the two bags to his chest with one arm and balanced them on his knee, as he unlocked the door. He could hear the sound of Plastica Mosh growing fainter, as the Jetta turned left at the corner, disappearing behind him. He eased the door open with his free foot.
Johnny liked the Colonia Roma almost as much as he liked his own neighborhood, the Colonia Condesa. The building was at least a hundred years old, it looked like a New York “brownstone”, yet it reminded Johnny of San Francisco. It had a Victorian look to it, the weather-scarred bay windows, the faded blue paint, the wood floors, the high ceilings and doorways. If Johnny didn’t know better, he would swear that he was standing a couple of blocks off Fulton Street, or maybe even the Haight… He climbed the staircase and walked down the hall to the door marked ‘B’.
* * * *
15 de Septiembre
0720 hr. Ciudad de México
Across the hall from the door marked ‘B’, lived a sixteen-year-old prostitute, behind the door marked ‘C’.
The DJ knelt on the floor, sitting on his heels, at the foot of Rosa del Mar’s bed. He wept, bitterly. The morning sun peeked through the yellow-stained lace curtains, with two shafts of cigarette smoke-filled light. They casted a pair of bright circles on the DJ’s naked body, illuminating the tribal design tattooed on his left shoulder. The apartment was tiny. There was a stove, a small refrigerator, a bathroom with horrible plumbing, and an unspeakable shower. Clothing was strewn everywhere. The walls had once been painted white, but now they were grease-streaked and faded beige. A beat-up Pioneer bookshelf CD player was buried under a pile of towels and lingerie, on the floor next to the bed. Cheap posters of Alejandro Fernandez, Enrique Iglesias, Leonardo Di Capprio, and Brad Pitt decorated the wall above it. The bed was massive. It occupied nearly two-thirds of the room. It sat frameless and unmade, on the decaying hardwood floor.
Rosa del Mar sat on top of the bed with her legs crossed Indian-style. Her imitation Chinese dragon robe hung loosely open, exposing her small firm breasts, and the prominent cocoa-colored nipples underneath it. Her skin was dark and flawless, her face, strikingly beautiful. Her thick straight Indian hair was cropped into a very chic wedge, accenting her delicate neck and almond eyes. She had the countenance of an Egyptian queen, Nefertiti, Hatshepsut, or Cleopatra perhaps. She was a lovely mixture of earthy elements, henna, honey, cinnamon, and sable. Rosa del Mar propped her cigarette against the rim of the ashtray, sitting next to her bare right knee. The DJ was still sobbing into his folded arms at the foot of her bed. He was clutching two pairs of her panties in his trembling fists. His knuckles were bone white.
Rosa del Mar sighed. Her eyes flashed wickedly for a moment, as she smiled to herself with contentment. She enjoyed Ian’s obsession, and the power he had given her over himself. Her plump lips pursed into a little moue of indecision. He could be like this for a while, she thought. Not that she really minded, she just needed to get some rest. It had been a very long night. She was ready to go to sleep when she came home at six this morning, but she found Ian camped out in front of her door, standing vigil. She would never turn Ian away though, no matter what time it was. He gave her far too much money for that. Besides, Ian was in love with her, desperately, and he was very attractive and popular. After all, he was the famous “Englishman”, the DJ from Medusa’s, and everybody was in love with Ian, everyone except Rosa del Mar.
At first Ian’s obsessiveness repulsed Rosa del Mar. She could never respect a man who could shamelessly throw himself at the feet of a woman the way he did. His maudlin displays of emotion were completely foreign to her, beyond the realm of her experience. But after a while, she became wont to his strange ways. His behavior did something for her. She began to take pleasure in it, to feed on it. Soon the pleasure became dependency, and then finally, unshakeable addiction. She would jones like a fiend for his attention, if he didn’t show up for a day or two. An almost unbearable feeling of loneliness and depression would descend upon her when he wasn’t around. She would scream, break things, throw tantrums in her empty room. She would laugh and then cry, hysterically, wondering where he could be, what might have happened to him, and why she cared so very much. She found that she needed Ian’s bullshit, just to get out of bed in the morning and face another day. His drama was her strength. Yet when he returned, she would torment him all the more, with renewed vigor and cruelty.
Rosa del Mar’s work drove Ian nuts, loco. He couldn’t bear the thought of another man touching her. He begged and implored her to stop, to quit, and walk out on the agency that she worked for. He wanted her to move in with him, so he could take care of her, forever. But she always refused, not that she didn’t want to move in and be closer to Ian. It’s just that she would never allow a man to have that kind of power over her. Between the two extremes, she preferred the situation as it was, even though she absolutely despised her work. She just wasn’t in love with Ian, she would say, and she would never dream of being with a man if it weren’t for love… Strange? Welcome to Mexico City.
She cocked her head sideways, watching him writhe in agony. Her deft little fingers began to roll a joint. She licked the gum strip, folded it over, and gave it a twist. She placed the joint between her lips and lit it, cupping her small hand over the flame. She inhaled deeply, held it, then exhaled a slow cloud of smoke at Ian’s bald head. She smiled.
“Ian…” she called his name, musically, barely above a whisper. Her voice was throaty and sensual, just one more maddening little brick in Ian’s wall. He didn’t respond. His head was still buried in the rumpled sheets. Rosa del Mar removed her robe. She leaned back onto her elbows and spread her legs open. She tilted her head to the side, to take another hit from the joint between her fingertips.
“Míjo, look at me…” she whined, in Spanish.
Nothing.
She sighed with impatience, then extended one leg, placing the ball of her foot on the top of his head. The stubble was soft. It actually turned her on a little bit, though she’d never let him know it. She had grown very fond of that velvety pubescence, moving and rubbing between her thighs. She gripped his scalp with her toes and pushed back, forcing him to look up at her.
Most women would use the word “beautiful” when they described Ian. His deep amber-colored skin, pale green eyes, thick lips, yet very defined jaw, nose, and cheekbones were all very pleasing to the female eye. He was a perfect mixture of the best from both of his parents. His father was Jamaican, his mother was English, and Ian turned out to be quite the lady-killer. At Medusa’s, he had obtained somewhat of a minor celebrity status. Everyone wanted to know him, to be his friend. He was constantly surrounded by the most beautiful and wealthy women in the Distrito Federal. Many of them pursued Ian sin vergüenza, without shame. Ian always remained the consummate professional though. He handled himself with an extreme amount of control. Yet when it came to the little sixteen-year-old Rosa del Mar, Ian was an absolute wreck, a raving lunatic.
Their eyes meet. His pupils were dilated to the size of diez centavo coins. She could tell he still had plenty of Xstasy in his system, probably some Red Microdot too, she figured. (Pretty much the norm for anyone involved in the D.F.’s upper echelon nightclub scene. A steady diet of MDMA, and LSD-25, basically come with the territory.) The combination always made Ian very emotional. His gaze moved from Rosa del Mar’s eyes to her open vagina. His mouth dropped. He groaned with pain and defeat, as his head fell back to the mattress. He closed his eyes.
“Ian, listen to me…” said Rosa del Mar. She scooted all the way to the edge of the bed, bringing her sex within a scant few inches of Ian’s face. She leaned back on her elbows again. “Either you smoke this and get Pacheco with me…” she took another hit, as she opened and closed her legs like a butterfly. “…or you fuck me, right now. If not, I’m going to sleep. I have an appointment at one today, so if I’m going to stay awake, you better give me a reason to, chico. ¿Me entiendes?” She smiled sadistically.
“Must you always speak so dirty?” said Ian, in weak heavily-accented Español. He sat back up on his heels. His naked body was covered in perspiration. He pulled away from the bed, still clutching the two pairs of panties, one red, one black. He wiped his forehead with the back of one hand. He swayed from side to side. His eyes widened. He looked at her accusingly. A tiny, naked little fat man with wings, flew across the space between them, but Ian ignored him. It was just the Red Microdot surging with his emotional tide. Rosa del Mar kept opening and closing her legs like an iron butterfly, as she continued to puff on the joint. Ian was seeing trails from the motion. He slowly raised the red panties to his nose, never taking his eyes off her face. He took a deep breath, sniffing them thoroughly. He flushed crimson with anger. He clenched his teeth. An inhuman gurgling sound began to emanate from his throat, as he rose to his feet.
“Oh…you…bloody…little strumpet!” he shouted in English. Rosa del Mar’s eyes flashed with excitement. She gently bit her bottom lip. “These!” he cried in Spanish, shaking the red pair of panties at her furiously. “These are the foul little panties you were wearing last night. Aren’t they!?! Oh God!!! I just know they are. I can smell it! They smell of sex, sex, so much sex that they’ve been befouled. They are encrusted, with those nasty, greasy, sex oils! Ooooohhh… and those wretched lubricants of yours, I know they played a part in this abomination too. Oh God! I should kill you, that’s what I should do. You’re making me crazy. I’m having a fucking breakdown. Whore! Whore!! Whore!!! Bloody Strumpet!!!!” he shouted in English, as he threw the panties at her. Rosa del Mar sprang to her feet on the bed, to bring herself to Ian’s height. Her eyes narrowed, gleaming with malice. Her chest puffed out like a gamecock. Her hands were on her naked hips.
“Entonces que, vete a la verga! Get the fuck out of here then, if you can’t handle it!” She snapped her finger and pointed to the door.
* * * *
15 de Septiembre
00700 hr. Ciudad de Mexico
Just behind the door marked “B”, the clock struck seven, it was time for tea. The cook scurried about the empty flat, shirtless and barefoot, in faded 501 jeans. His movements were very quick, avain, chicken-like. His uncombed blonde hair stood on end, somewhere between a Beethoven and Einstein, as he crawled along the length of the twenty-five foot extension cord on the floor. He checked every inch of it, from the surge protector in the living room, to the five hundred watt mercury vapor flood lamp sitting on the bathroom floor. He was mumbling to himself.
“Okay okay okay okay, two plugs two plugs, fridge good, fridge is plugged in yaaaaasir, and what do we got here? Stereo, uh-huh, and there we go, yeah baby, laboratory mainline, main-line yaaaaaasir, and she leads all… the way… to… the bon-yo, okay okay, let’s git this sonofabitch shut down then, Igor.”
The chord terminated at a dimmer switch, which then continued on to the floodlight. The light was pointed up at the bathroom ceiling. The little cage was removed from the front of it, and the glass plate over the bulb was painted black. Around it a stand was built out of eight gauge Romanex wire, to hold the twenty two thousand milliliter flask in place, directly over the light. The cook chuckled, smugly, as he looked over his little invention. Only amateurs cook with a flame, he thought to himself, and he was no amateur, no sir. Flame is dangerous. Plus, glassware is not cheap either, and you can crack your flask with a high flame. He turned the dimmer switch all the way down (the switch serving as a temperature control) and killed the heat to the flask. The cook examined the top of the flask, where the two foot tall glass Allen Tower (colling tower) rose out of it. 3/8 inch clear rubber tubing extended from the top left, and bottom right corners of the Allen Tower. The bottom tube ran to the cold water line under the sink. The cold water flowed through the tube, into the Allen Tower, spiraling its way up the internal glass tubing, cooling the steam rising up into its hollow shaft from the flask, causing it to condense back down. The flow of water then exited at the top left corner of the tower, where the second 3/8 inch tube carried it over the shower curtain, and down to the drain on the shower floor. The cook reached under the sink and shut off the cold water. He crawled over to the toilet and began to pull on the six foot long 1/2 inch exhaust tube, that ran from the exhaust port on top of the Allen Tower, down into the toilet, back behind the pee trap, and into the piping. It carried the fumes from the flask safely out of the room. He pulled the tubing completely out of the toilet.
“Ok baby, there we go, there we go, the Enterprise is a’ shuttin’ down…” said the cook, as he dried the tubing off with a towel. He worked extremely fast and efficiently. Sweat rolled down his thin neck. It flowed in large droplets over his narrow back and bony spine. Below his neck, the word “Peckerwood” was stretched from shoulder to shoulder, tattooed in bold Celtic lettering. Beneath it, a very large and detailed Mustang Mach One drove through a field of skulls and flames, piloted by a sinister looking Killer-Clown, with a carnivorous smile. At the small of his back, just above the waistband of the faded 501’s, the word “Fester” was tattooed in big black letters with rivets in them, as if they were made of iron. From the front however, the cook didn’t look quite so hardcore. Actually, with his messy blonde hair and skinny frame, he looked like David Bowie in “The Man Who Fell To Earth”. The cook lifted the Allen Tower off the twenty-two thousand milliliter flask, and set it on a stack of towels. The pungent smell of cat urine began to fill the bathroom. He smiled.
“My my my… Looks like we’re ready to go here baby, yep yep, no doubt about that, just look at all dem’ pretty little crystals, oh yeah baby, now that’s what I’m talking about, Igor, that’s what I’m talking about…”
The top of the flask was frosted with a delicate ring of light purplish colored hydrogen crystals. The cook was still on all fours, as he inspected the flask from top to bottom, with his face no more than a quarter of an inch from the glass.
“Okay, okay, okay, that looks about right, uh-huh, I think we have just about cooked all that ephedrine out’a yo funky ass, yes I do, 19 motherfuckin’ hours of a’ percolatin’ and marinatin’ and I do believe that’s about all she wrote there, Igor, yaaaaasir…”
Fester hopped up and ran back into the living room, his bare feet slapping on the meticulously scrubbed hardwood floor. He leaped into the air, clicking his heels together in good Irish fashion. The apartment was basically empty. There was a brand new six foot long G.E. deepfreeze, against the wall by the door. A Kenwood CD player sat on top of it. Assorted glassware and supplies were stacked next to it, and a green military sleeping bag was spread out on the floor beneath the bay windows. Fester dug through his supplies. Three seconds later he was running back to the bathroom carrying two pint-size glass jars, a shot glass, coffee filters, a Pyrex pie dish, razor blades, tin foil, a lighter, bottled water, and a little acetone. He quickly laid everything out in perfect order and sat Indian-style on the bathroom floor, in front of the flask.
“Alrighty Igor, this is it, this is it baby, proof’s in the puddin’, the proof is in the puddin’, yaaaaaasir, now let’s test this sonofabitch out here…”
Fester removed the twenty-two thousand milliliter flask from the stand and set it on the floor. He carefully tilted it down and poured himself a shot glass full of the pasty mixture. He set the flask aside. He opened one of the empty one-pint glass jars, and dumped the shot into it. He then measured out two shot-glass fulls of water, and poured them into the jar as well. He closed the jar and began to swirl it around.
“That’s it baby, round and round and round she goes, swirl it up Igor, swirl it up, then we’ll take that phosphorous off yo ass, uh-huh…”
Fester took a coffee filter and placed it inside the other one-pint glass jar. He then poured the contents of the first jar into the coffee filter. Once all of the liquid had passed into the second jar, he took the filter, now containing the red phosphorous, and set it aside.
“Waste not want not baby, best to hang on to all the phosphorous we can git our hands on, we can always use it again, just twenty percent weaker that’s all, that’s all, people just don’t want to recognize that they’re working with the real motherfuckin’ pros here, know what I’m sayin’ Igor? That’s what I’m talking about, motherfuckers…”
Fester took the pie dish and set it on the wire frame, over the floodlight. He emptied the glass jar into it, then added just a splash of acetone. He turned the dimmer switch up a bit to start it cooking. At the first sign of smoke, Fester removed the dish, set it on the floor, and turned the dimmer switch off. He lit up a Marlboro red while he waited for it to cool. With a cigarette hanging from his lips, and sweat pouring from his sallow face, Fester began to scrape the dried film off the dish with a razor blade. He dumped it all onto a piece of tin foil and set his cigarette up on top of the sink, balancing it on the rim. It began to burn a small yellowish stain on the surface of the porcelain. Fester took the foil and began to heat it with his lighter, as he held it beneath his nose. He closed his eyes, inhaling the fumes. He exhaled with a sigh of pleasure.
“I am just too motherfuckin’ good Igor, too mother-fuckin’-good!!!” There wasn’t even the slightest smell of ephedrine. The batch was ready for the next step. And since Johnny hadn’t shown up with the lye yet, Fester figured that it was a good a time as any for a nice spot of tea…
He ran back into the living room and dug a Ziploc freezer bag out of his box of supplies. It contained a good pound and a half of last week’s batch of Ice. He eyeballed himself a nice healthy half gram into his metal ladle spoon, and put the bag away.
“Let’s get it on…” sang Fester. He broke into a fit of cackling laughter. He dropped his Kix “Light My Fuse” cassette into the Kenwood, and hit the rewind button. He placed the stereo on the floor, facing the bathroom, then grabbed a U100 syringe, his spoon, the remote control, and ran to the toilet. He dropped his pants around his ankles and sat down. Fester placed the remote control on the floor, as he prepared for his morning ritual. He picked up the bottle of distilled water, and slowly began to draw theirty five units into the syringe. He put the bottle down and took up the ladle spoon, with the half gram in it, holding it steady in his left hand. He inhaled deeply through his nose, and exhaled slowly, feeling his heart begin to race with anticipation.
The thirty-five units of water sprayed from the syringe in slow motion. Not a drop spilled. It swirled beautifully around the little mound of crystals as the miniature iceberg crumbled into the Arctic Sea. Fester flipped the rig upside down, and began to smash and then stir the mixture with the bottom of the plunger. He placed the rig on his knee and pulled a cigarette from his pack of Marlboros on the floor. He bit the filter off, threw the cigarette away, and began to scratch the paper away with his thumbnail. He dropped the filter into the ladle. It began to swell and expand. He took the syringe, placed the bevel of the needle onto the swollen mass, and pulled back on the plunger with his thumb. He set the spoon on the floor then took hold of his penis with his left hand, stretching it out tight. He carefully aligned the needle with his right hand, placing it directly over the dark blue vein running down the top of the shaft. He applied pressure. The needle broke through the skin, sliding into the flesh. A tiny flag of blood swirled into the bottom of the outfit. Fester drove the plunger home. The burning sensation began. He pulled the syringe free, threw it into the trash, and hit the play button on the remote control with his big toe.
“Someone start a fire…in my electric chair…”
Fester’s eyes rolled back into his head. His arms fell limp at his sides, as he released his penis with a long throaty moan. Aaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh…
“Baby cross my wires, and light up my hair…”
His bowels completely let go, as a large foul-smelling speed turd, plopped into the toilet beneath him.
“Overload my circuits, let me feel the juice…”
Fester’s penis swelled, engorged with blood, and began to pulsate spastically. His testicles began to tighten as well.
“…from the whites of my eyeballs, to the soles of my shoes…”
A torrent of fireworks exploded through his brain. His body shook with the concussion of synaptic overdrive. His jaw chattered uncontrollably. Little drops of saliva sputtered from his trembling lips. A growling sound rose from his throat, as he seized his rigid penis and began to masturbate furiously. His hand moved up and down the shaft in a dick-skinning-blur…
“…BLOW MY FUSE!!!”
* * * *
15 de Septiembre
0700 hr. Ciudad de Mexico…
“Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it means when you have absolutely nowhere to turn?”
The Traficante looked up from his translation of Crime and Punishment. He smiled. He crossed his legs in the patio chair, and placed the fingertips of his hand to his troubled brow. He closed one eye, as he felt the beginnings of a migraine approaching. He reached over for his cup of lemon tea, on the glass coffee table beneath the umbrella. He took a sip from it, as he returned his gaze to the text.
“…for every man must have somewhere to turn…”
“Si. Si, es cierto,” he whispered to himself. He tossed the paperback onto the table, unable to concentrate anymore. There were simple too many things on his mind. He removed the pair of gold-framed Cartier glasses from his face. The world at once transformed from a soft tan, to a dismal, contaminated Mexico City grey. The Traficante despised the polluted skies of the Distrita Federal. He longed to be back on the Caribbean Coast, Al Lado Del Mar Turqueza, beside the blue, blue sea. But this is where the money was. This was his home now, the largest city in the world. Her twenty million lost souls searching, striving for a better way of life, above the ruins of Tenochtitlan.
“Ay, Diosíto mio…” He sighed, as he reclined deeper into the soft, yellow and white striped chair. He ran a hand through his very well-groomed, short, black hair, squeezing his scalp. His temples were touched with grey. He was dressed in white Nautica shorts, sandals, and a grey sweatshirt that read “Hugo” across the front of it. He put his glasses back on. The morning was in a dead calm. Not even the slightest breeze stirred. The vast yard and the gardens beyond the patio were enshrouded in silence. No insects, no birds, nothing broke the still. The pool was flat, glassy. It reflected the Roman columns and bougainvilleas in perfect detail, upon the dark surface of the water. There was an almost tactual tension in the air, like the weather before an earthquake, or a thunderstorm perhaps. The world seemed faded to the Traficante lately, blanched, and on the wane. It felt as if the very life were being sucked out of all things living and growing in La Ciudad. Every shade of blue, or green, was now replaced with drab and iron-grey. The air was grainy, like in a silent picture. The grounds, smudged, smeared with ash, nothing felt clean. Nothing…
And she was to blame, Ana Lilia, “la cochina”. She was the unclean one, the one who brought the misfortune to this house. She had tainted his luck and caused the crucial lapse in his judgment, with her vile infidelity. Beneath the morning edition of “La Prensa”, sitting on the coffee table, the butt of the Traficante’s 44 Desert Eagle was just barely visible. Somewhere, deep within the cavernous estate, the Traficante heard the faint sound of a door closing. He looked down at the 18 karat “Concord Impresario” on his left wrist.
7:10
Did she really dare? Did she have such audacity? Could she honestly believe him to be so weak, so preoccupied that he wouldn’t suspect, have her followed, and know every single detail of her scandalous liaison? Why? Why now, during the most perilous of times for them all, when everything depended on his command over his wits, and his ability to make some very critical and strategic decisions? The kingdom was collapsing, he could feel it. The empire he had carved with his own two hands was poised to fall. Perhaps it was his karma, he thought to himself. Perhaps it was now time to atone, for all the years of excess and prosperity…
“Behold, I am against thee, saith the Lord of hosts,” said Eduardo in Spanish, quoting the book of Nahum, “and I will discover thy skirts upon thy face, and I will shew the nations thy nakedness, and the kingdoms thy shame.”
He stood, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply through his nose.
“And I will cast abominable filth upon thee, and make thee vile, and will set thee as a gazing stock.”
He took the Desert Eagle in his right hand. He cocked his head sideways, examining the enormous chrome firearm in the morning light.
“And it shall come to pass, that all they that look upon thee shall flee from thee, and say…”
He racked the large slide, and chambered a round. He sighed.
“Nineveh is laid waste: who will bemoan her?”
He walked toward the ornate French doors. He had an expression of absolute serenity on his face. He smiled, like a Buddha…
* * * *
THE TRAFICANTE:
Eduardo was a bohemian by nature. He was born into a family that had been chasing precious stones around the globe for three generations. The Rausch family owned one of the most exclusive jewelry businesses in Geneva, Switzerland. All of the sons from the second generation held posts as buyers, representing Rausch and Company at some of the most renowned precious stone markets in the world: South Africa, India, Thailand, Burma, Sri Lanka, Zimbabwe, and Columbia. Hans Rausch, Eduardo’s father, was part of the first generation of the Rausches born abroad. Though he spent his childhood in Cartagena, Colombia, he was educated and enculturalized in Switzerland. He went to boarding school in Geneva. He spent his summers working alongside the polishers and stonecutters at the family business. He attended the University of Basle. When he returned to Colombia, at the age of 25, he was a promising gemologist and engineer. Irena Garcia, Eduardo’s mother, was the youngest daughter of Ismael Garcia, of Garcia Mining. “Minas y Piedras Preciosas de Garcia” (MPPG) had been a substantial mining operation in Colombia for four generations. They had been supplying Rausch and Company with uncut emeralds for over 30 years. The match was smiled upon by both families. On March 27, 1957, Eduardo Hans Rausch Garcia was born in Cartagena, Colombia. His future seemed to be etched in stone.
Eduardo was educated under the strict supervision and watchful eye of his father. In the enlightened tradition of his cosmopolitan Swiss roots, Eduardo had a firm command over German, French, and Italian by the age of ten. Academically, Eduardo showed all the promise and the makings of a model Rausch. The problem was, as it always is for those so well-groomed and predestined, Eduardo’s interests laid elsewhere. Rather than spending his summers in Switzerland, observing and learning in the Rausch family tradition, he traveled with his grandfather, Ismael, into the mountains, transporting uncut emeralds back from the Garcia family mines. Eduardo adored his grandfather. He was in awe of the man. He idolized the pistol-carrying, machete-wielding “esmeraldero” like a god.
Ismael Garcia was a rugged, cunning, and vigorous man of 57 years at the time. He was a throwback to the older generation, of gun-running, double-dealing, bribery, and smuggling. Even the very legal and routine transport of uncut stones to the coast was treated like an all-out smuggling operation. Ismael Garcia trusted no man, and he taught his grandson to be the same. He instructed him in the delicate business of working with government officials, police check-points, and greedy military patrols. He explained how one must know when it was time to deal with them, or time to lay low, conceal one’s self, and work around, and avoid them. He nurtured Eduardo, showing him the progressive art of camouflage, guiding him through the use of cover and concealment. He indoctrinated the boy into the religon of light and noise discipline, and how to navigate the mountainous jungle by night. He taught him about diversion, bating, and diversification, the stratagems designed to ensure the most important thing in this life, the safe passage of the payload. He exposed young Eduardo to the basics of smuggling and the transportation of illicit cargo, skills that would always be in high demand in Colombia in the years to come. Eduardo was a very apt pupil. Ismael was extremely pleased and proud. Eduardo took to the jungle like flies to a steaming turd, bug-eyed and full of wonder, reveling in every twist and turn of its magnificent landscape. He developed a profound love for the emerald-green world, a love that would endure for a lifetime. Eduardo would forever look back on those days as the happiest of his life.
At the age of 18, Eduardo entered the university. Despite his father’s wishes for him to go to Europe and attend the University of Basle, Eduardo enrolled en La Universidad de Bogotá. He did, however, concede to declare an “especializacion” in international trade and export, which seemed to put his father at least somewhat at ease. 1975 was a magical year at the University of Bogotá. The air was charged with hope, the promise of change, reform, and prosperity for the Colombia of the coming decade. Eduardo flourished in the capital city. He truly found himself in Bogotá. He could feel the pulse of the nation. Great things were on the horizon, and he would play a part in them, somehow…
Then came the changes.
On February 10, 1976, Hans Rausch chartered a single engine Cessna Centurion in Cartagena, and departed for Cali. He was on his way to look into a possible purchase of some stones of exceptional quality for Rausch and Company. Neither he, nor the plane, ever arrived in Cali. Hans Rausch was never seen nor heard of again.
In September of 1976, Eduardo read, One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. He became a devout disciple.
In October of 1976, Eduardo declared an especializacion in literature. He wanted to write, desperately. He could feel a novel swelling within his belly, threatening to burst him wide open. Eduardo began to immerse himself in literature from around the world. He would study by day, read all evening, then write into wee hours of the morning. He turned away from all of his relationships with other people. He rarely ate. He lost his appetite for sex. He read Cervantes en Español, Dante en Italiano, he kept his French sharp on Proust, Hugo, and Camus. He explored Nietzsche auf Deutsch, and embraced Kafka within the depths of his soul, weeping over his diaries, feeling a kindred bond unlike anything he had ever known. Eduardo became a Joycean and a Dostoevskian. He lost his heart in Hemingway’s Pamplona, Venice, Cuba, and along the Austrian front. He contemplated the runaway train of the human condition, with Orwell and Huxley, relating to the decision of “John” (the savage) with every fiber in his being.
On January 29, 1977, Eduardo finished his first novel, En La Ciudad de las Esmeraldas (In The Emerald City), a satire about Colombian politics.
On May 12, 1977, Ismael Garcia died of a heart attack in his hotel room, while on vacation in Panama. (Realistically, he had been strangled to death in a Panama City whorehouse, where he was set up and robbed by a prostitute and her boyfriend. A very tough ending, for a very tough old man.)
On July 7, 1977, Rausch and Company pulled out of Colombia. Eduardo had never been close to the Rausch family. His ties and connections to his relatives in Switzerland quickly diminished after his father’s death. He would never communicate with them again.
On November 9, 1977, “Minas y Piedras Preciosad de Garcia” was declared bankrupt. (Realistically, Eduardo’s uncles, who had been embezzling money from the company for years, finally sold off the last of the capital equipment and the mineral rights. They pocketed the money, of course.)
On December 1, 1977, Eduardo had to drop out of the University of Bogotá. He returned home to Cartagena, to look for work, and to take care of his mother.
In February of 1978, Eduardo met the boys from Medellin…
They had known his grandfather. It turned out that Ismael had been involved in a little more than just uncut stones.
They needed someone who could pass for a German, to make a trip to the Bahamas. Eduardo made three. Though he would always have a passion for literature, Eduardo would never write again. He would be thoroughly and irreversibly bound to the drug trade for the rest of his life…
* * * *
15 de Septiembre
0720 hr. Ciudad de Mexico
The prostitute inhaled deeply on the joint. Her eyes gently rolled back and fluttered for a second. She held the smoke. She looked down at the DJ’s sweaty brow and wild gazing eyes. Most of his head was eclipsed by her crotch. She sat, naked on his face, pinning him down with all of her weight. Only his wide eyes and forehead were visible in the V-shaped space between her thighs. She smiled, leaned her head back, and exhaled a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. She looked back down at Ian. She had finally broken him again.
“Well..?” she said, “are you going to calm down now, Ian?”
“MMMghhhhh… Hmmghhhh… Mmmmgh… Mghhhh!!!” groaned Ian, into the crack of Rosa del Mar’s ass. He was unable to move his lips under the full weight of her body, pressing down onto his face. He was hyperventilating, fighting for each short, panic-filled breath through his nose. His rapid pulse rushed the LSD-25 to its vertex. He began to peak. His grasp on reality was slipping fast. Ten… Nine… Eight… “Oh God.”
She laughed. Seven… Six… Five… “Oh God. Oh God.”
“Does that mean you’re going to behave then, míjo?” she said. Four… Three… Two… “God.”
He nodded his head, spastically. His pupils were severely dilated. One… Zero… Liftoff… Thou… art… God… He was unreachable now.
“Mmmmmm… Bueno,” she sighed. She slowly lifted her weight from his face. She slid herself down onto his chest, over his abdomen, until she was laying on top of him, with her face just inches from his. She flicked the joint onto the floor. He smelled of her sex. She licked his wet chin, then kissed him softly on the lips.
He didn’t move.
She looked into his tormented eyes. He was obviously very, very high, and probably having quite a bad trip now, thanks to her. He seemed like a little boy suddenly, a sick little boy in the throws of a high fever. Rosa del Mar’s heart wilted, she ached for him, deep within her womb. Her expression softened. Ian couldn’t speak. He continued to stare right through her, light years off into space, into oblivion. She began to stroke his head gently, motherly, with her tiny hand.
“Oh míjo…” she said. Her voice cracked. Her bottom lip quivered. “Why do you love me? Why, when I am so evil to you, baby? And now I’ve made you sick again. Oh, Mary. Oh, mother of God, send me to hell for what I have done… Ian?” She made the sign of the cross over him.
He didn’t respond.
His eyes were fixed on the ceiling. She laid her head on his chest and began to cry. She kissed the soft patch of hair, and began to lightly caress it with her little fingers. She sniffled.
“I’m sorry, my love,” she said, “I want to love you, míjo. And I do want you to love me. Es que… Es que… I hate myself, Ian. I hate my life. I hate it so much. I don’t even want to live anymore. I want to die. But… even if I did want to live, I could never live without your love, Ian. I could never live without you in my life, cariño. I need you. I need you…”
She closed her eyes, and slowly drifted off to sleep, curled up on Ian’s chest. Her little naked body was dwarfed by his size. Ian laid motionless, catatonic, as he stared off into firey, liquid space. He hadn’t heard a word she’d said. The sound of footsteps on the hardwood floor echoed down the hall, outside the door.
* * * *
15 de Septiembre
0725 hr. Ciudad de Mexico
The Salesman walked down the hall and stood in front of the door of apartment “B”. He sat the two large brown paper bags down on the floor. Johnny flipped through his full ring of keys, impatiently searching for the right one. He glanced up at the door for a second, then paused. It was slightly ajar.
“Oh for crying out loud, Fester…” he said under his breath, shaking his head in disgust. “Can we at least show a little bit of caution here? Jesus.” He picked up the two brown paper bags off the floor. “We’re only sitting on about 15 years in a Mexican prison in here, you idiot…” He pushed the door open with his foot and walked inside.
* * * *
15 de Septiembre
0725 hr. Ciudad de Mexico
The Traficante quietly meandered across the long stretch of light green Italian marble, heading towards the double staircase in the foyer. He held the Desert Eagle casually in his right hand, as if it weren’t even there. It could have just as easily been the morning paper, or an issue of People en Español. It brushed lightly against his thigh as he ascended the left staircase. Eduardo was at peace now. He had let go. He had really let it all go. The decision was very logical. Why continue this torment and confusion? To end his pain, he would simply remove the thorn that was causing it. From the moment he had stepped back into the house, he knew he was going to kill Ana Lilia. And for some strange reason he was completely at ease with it. He envisioned her head exploding, like a sandia
, watching his troubles disintegrate with it. He turned left at the top of the staircase, heading for the bedroom. The double doors were wide open. He stepped inside. The water was already running in the shower. Ana Lilia was standing at the foot of the large four-poster bed, with her back to him. She was naked, except for the black bra. Eduardo stood behind her, watching silently.
Ana Lilia reached up and let down her long, curly, black man of hair. She shook it out. It fell like a pendulum, in slow motion, gently sweeping over the small of her back. She leaned forward, bending over just slightly. She reached back with both hands and unfastened her bra. She was an exquisite creature, Ana Lilia, soft, long, and elegant. Eduardo stared at the gap between her thighs, and the heart breaking curve of her perfect ass, rising above. Any red-blooded man would chew his own left foot off, just for the sublime crack of it. He closed his eyes. Sometimes Ana Lilia didn’t even seem real to the Eduardo. She was far too beautiful to be real, and he heated her for it. It was a beauty that must be destroyed, for it had surely destroyed them all this time. He took a deep breath and gathered his anger. He imagined a foul and foreign phallus, penetrating her, again and again without ceasing… Ana Lilia tossed the bra onto the bed in front of her. Eduardo opened his eyes. He was convulsing with rage now. He broke into a sprint, running at her. He leapt headlong into the air, shrieking like a madman.
“Puuuuuuuuuuuutaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!”
* * * *
15 de Septiembre
0726 hr. Ciudad de Mexico
The Salesman walked through the open doorway and into apartment “B”. He immediately noticed that the hardwood floor had been stripped and buffed since he was here last, yesterday afternoon. The whole room smelled of Pinol and Fabuloso cleaning products. Johnny smiled. He kicked the door closed behind him with the heel of his foot.
BLAM!!!!!!!
Johnny’s legs withered. They crumbled beneath him. He dropped both bags and fell, amazed, onto the floor. He hadn’t realized that he’d been shot. The 9mm round clipped Johnny in the tricep, entering and exiting three inches above his right elbow. It punched a clean hole in the large bay window, on the far left side of the room. It traveled across the street, through the open second-story window of the brown colonial apartment building, and impacted into Señora Gonzalez’s pet iguana, “Papi Chulo”. It knocked Papi Chulo off the back of the couch in a bloody splatter. Señora Gonzalez screamed, curdling the blood of her three-year-old granddaughter, who was eating a Jell-O parfait at the table. They both made the sign of the cross over themselves and began to weep. Papi Chulo had died instantly…
Johnny rolled onto his back, clutching his arm. Blood began to flow liberally from the wound, making a gory display of his long-sleeved white shirt. The oversized collar, and the open French cuffs gave Johnny the appearance of a duelist wounded by a cutlass slash.
“Arrrrrrgh! Shit!!!” shouted Johnny. He raised his hand to his face, staring at the blood with disbelief.
“Johnny?!! Oh shit, Johnny!!! I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…” said Fester, with wide, blinking eyes. His jaw spasmed uncontrollably. He stood next to the deepfreeze by the door. His pants were around his ankles. In one hand he held Johnny’s smoking Beretta 9mm, in his other, a roll of toilet paper.
“Oh hell, Wood… I didn’t mean to shoot you, brother. You just scared the shit outta me, kicking in the door like that. I’m sorry, Wood… I’m sorry, I-”
“Stop calling me Wood, you idiot!” shouted Johnny. He gripped his hand over the wound again, applying pressure. He groaned with pain. “God damn it, Fester! You fucking shot me, you asshole!” He rolled onto his side and tried to sit up. “Ow! Mother-fuck!!!” he yelled. The pain was sharp and intense. “Well, don’t just stand there, Fester, help me, for fuck’s sake!”
Fester’s eyes darted wildly, as he tried to decide what to do. He still hadn’t even had a chance to wipe his ass yet. He looked at the pistol, then at the roll of toilet paper in his left hand. He looked down at his pants bundled around his ankles, then back at Johnny…
“Fester!” snapped Johnny.
Fester looked back down at his pants again. He quickly began to struggle his way out of them, stepping on the pants’ legs with his feet. High-stepping, jerking and twisting, he finally freed himself. Johnny was still trying to sit up. He was talking to himself, rambling, from the combination of being spun out of his mind on “Ice” for five days, and the onset of minor shock.
“Ok. Ok. I’m ok… I’m hurt, but I’m not gonna die. I just have to calm down and stay cool. I can handle this. I can salvage this. Everything’s cool. I just have to clean myself up, that’s all. It’s all good. I can handle this…”
Fester was stark-raving naked now. He put the pistol and the roll of toilet paper down on top of the deepfreeze. He scampered over to Johnny on grasshopper-like legs. He squatted down behind him, and slid his arms under Johnny’s armpits. He tried to pull him to his feet.
“Ow!!! Shit, oh shit, Fester. Easy, easy man!” shouted Johnny. He plopped back down onto his ass, on the hardwood floor. Fester had lost his grip.
“Sorry about that, Bubba. Ol’ Fester’s gotcha this time though, yaaaaasir. Come on now, I know it stings a bit, but ya gotta give us a good push with them legs there. Then we’ll getcha over to the bathroom and fix ya up good, okay?” said Fester. He slid his arms under Johnny’s armpits again. Even though Johnny’s attention was mostly consumed by the pain in his arm, he could clearly feel the abrasive scratch of Fester’s pubic hair on the back of his neck. “Don’t worry, Johnny, Uncle Fester will have ya as good as a new baby, in no time flat…” He began to pull Johnny up again.
“Yo… Yo! Stop..!” said Johnny. “Get your god-damned nuts off the back of my neck, you bastard!!” He fell to the floor again.
“OW!!!”
Fester tried to pick him back up.
“Aw, Johnny, come on now. This is no time to be talking like that… I’m trying to hep’ youuuuuu… It ain’t my fault I’ve got pipe, brother. Know what I mean? Hee hee hee!” laughed Fester. He squatted down lower and wrapped his arms around Johnny’s chest this time. A rush of feculent air rose up around them. “One… Two… THREE!” said Fester. He pulled Johnny to his feet.
“Arrrrrrrrrgh!!!” Johnny wailed with pain. He sprang away from Fester, gripping his wounded arm tightly. He turned to face him. His shirtsleeve was soaked with blood from the elbow down. “What is wrong with you, man?” he said. “You fucking shot me, Fester. You could have killed me. And now, look at me…! I have a gunshot wound. I am screwed, man. What am I supposed to do now, Fester? Huh? What the hell am I gonna do now!? We can’t put any of this stuff off today. I have to meet with the client at one o’clock. I have to get over to Universidad and meet the Xstasy connect by four-thirty. Then, I have to somehow miracle my ass down to the Zona Rosa, and meet our Microdot guy at five-thirty. In traffic? OW!! Damn it!” He gripped his arm tighter. Blood oozed over his fingers. He swayed from side to side, swooning at the sight of it. He hadn’t realized how much blood he was losing. Johnny’s eyes rolled upward and fluttered for a moment. He was shivering now. His mouth worked like a goldfish, but no sound came out. His voice finally caught up with him, chattering, as he rolled into a detached, distant-sounding monotone.
“The subway will be too packed, Fester, the Metro to Insurgentes will have a line all the way back up to the street level man, and then at six I’m supposed to be paying off the ‘flyer’ guys over at my place, you know, they’ve been working their asses off at UNAM and every other campus in the distrito all week, plus they’re the ones who are supposed to be out at all of the clubs tonight promoting for us, so if they don’t get paid, well there it is baby, game over, and there is no “rave”, you see sixty percent of the people who show up to one of these things get the flyer that same night, you follow me, sixty percent Fester, so in reality you’ve buried me man, you’ve buried us both, you know I have to be at the warehouse by seven, then I still have to have three separate pay points up, running, and collecting money for tickets by seven-thirty, all on different sides of town, then I have to make sure Ian’s sound equipment and the P.A. are set up by seven forty-five, plus that limey prima donna wants a sound-check at eight, like he’s some kind of rock star or something, and I still haven’t even been able to get ahold of the rat-bastard light tech, since the day before yesterday, and he’s already got the deposits, hijo de la gran puta, and I have to post the location of the pay points on the voice mail by eight, or else no one with a flyer will even be able to buy a ticket and find the party, and, of course, we still have to finish this batch of Ice here, Fester, and… and… and you shot me… Uh… Uh… I just… I better, uh…”
Johnny’s mouth began to work like a goldfish again, as he feebly attempted to form his next sentence. He went completely blind for a moment. Fester stood across from Johnny, naked, with his hands on his hips. He nodded his head. He smiled knowingly.
“You need a line, Johnny? You want me to hook you up real quick before we start working on that arm there, Killer?” His voice was full of compassion. Johnny swayed like a gaping-mouthed metronome. He still couldn’t see anything…
“Yeah… Yeah man, thanks…” he said
* * * *
15 de Septiembre
0728 hr. Ciudad de Mexico…
The image of the Traficante standing in the doorway of the second-story bedroom was blurry. Then with a slight adjustment of the zoom, the image became perfectly clear, in the viewfinder of agent Martinez’ Quark surveillance telescope. The two PGR
agents were inconspicuously hidden behind the tinted glass windows of the “Electra” appliance store delivery van. It was parked across the street from Eduardo’s house, in the quiet Polanco neighborhood.
“Ay chinga…” said agent Martinez, as he watched Eduardo leap head-first into the air. “I think Señor Rausch just might be about to commit a murder, compadre.” Agent Contreras smiled behind dark sunglasses in the driver’s seat. He had a toothpick wedged into the corner of his mouth. He took a quick sip from the can of Modelo that was between his thighs, and wiped the cocaine sweat from his forehead with the back of his chubby left hand.
“Me vale verga, güey. Que chinga su madre ella. I don’t give a fuck what happens to that whore. We stay away from this guy until he leads us to ‘La Mercancia’. ¿Me entiendes?” said agent Contreras. He took a pack of Delicados from the pocket of his white and maroon striped western shirt. He lit one.
“Órale, Jefe…” said agent Martinez, without removing his eye from the viewfinder. A phone rang. Agent Contreras shuffled through the three Motorola cell phones sitting in the console, trying to figure out which one it was. It was the scrambled line. The Comandante was calling…
Agents Martinez and Contreras worked for a seven man task force, led by Comandante Cuauhtémoc Jimenez. Over the past twelve months their little cadre had amassed a very substantial amount of money, brokering cocaine that they were robbing from several small time Mexico City traficantes. Some of them they killed, some they let walk away, minus cars, condos, and any other valuables, of course. They were moving and then selling the product through Cuauhtémoc’s PGR connection in Monterey. The operation had been running very smoothly. It was large enough for everyone to make good money, yet small enough not to attract any attention, or cause any serious ripples in Mexico City. The arrangement was near perfect, and the team worked together like an efficient, money-making machine.
The Comandante’s group had, however, placed itself on the receiving end of some very bad press lately. It seems that two months ago, in July, Cuauhtémoc’s department was conducting an investigation into a counterfeit money operation, involving three bank executives from Banco Bitel. Somehow, none of the alleged counterfeit 200 peso notes were ever recovered, and all three bankers were found dead, after being brutally tortured in the “Lucifer’s hammer” fashion.3
The bodies were discovered in a sewage pipe in La Colonia Acueducto de Guadalupe, in the northern part of the city. The rats had left their faces unidentifiable. More outcries for an end to police corruption in Mexico began to fill the newspapers, as well as the mouths of several local politicians. That’s where the heat really began.
The wealthy families of the deceased bankers, together with some very powerful and active lobbyists from Derechos Humanos, began to put together a committee to investigate the activities of the PGR in Mexico City. Arrests were anticipated, none occurred. But the pressure was in the air. Trust was at an all-time low within the ranks of the PGR. Rumors of wire taps, secret internal investigations, sacrificial lambs, and informants were all over the department. Everyone was looking over their shoulders now, with fear, because just about any PGR agent with over a year in the field, had more than their fair share of dark secrets to protect. These were
3 Lucifer’s Hammer: El martillo de Lucifer. An interrogation method. Two 8 penny nails are lightly driven into the forehead like horns. Electrodes are attached, and the interrogation begins. The victim is questioned, electrocuted, and then the nails are hammered a little deeper into the skull. The process is repeated until all the information is extracted, and the nails are finally driven into the victims’ brain. The bodies are always found with the look of the devil: eyes slammed shut, gnashing teeth bared, and the two horns protruding from the victims’ forehead.)
sdjdjd
The Expatriate
The Expatriate