The neons flickered, I finished and she ran off crying. Sure, I hadn’t showered in weeks. I probably smelled like a dozen dead babies left out in a (turtle shaped) pool of vinegar. At noon. In the middle of the desert. You get my point. Also, just to make sure, the “salchichón tiene el ajo estilo milicia” I had stolen the night before turned my digestive system into an environmental crime scene. Picture that: sweet onions meet Grandma’s Apocalypse. You know what I’m talking about. I swear, those things were borderline works of art. But I digress.
Ever heard of Poco Colima whores? That girl was a fuckin’ Poco Colima whore. They’re said to be so tough,vagina dentata takes on a literal meaning for them. Apparently, no man has ever slept with a Poco Colima whore twice and lived to tell the story. Sending mine crying made me feel like GG Allin for a whole minute.
Also, I had a plan B
I put my crusty pants back on, zipped up and scanned the place for the local pusher. Took me 2 seconds. The guy sported an honest to goodness rat tail. I tried as hard as I could, forgiveness was out of the question. The beast was 8 hairs wide and skunk-style bleached. I grew angry. Something had to be done.
I walked up to the guy, placed the barrel of my revolver in his mouth, grabbed his testicles with the other hand and looked straight into his eyes. For a long, glacial moment. ”You gotta do somethin’ about the rat tail, man.” I let the words sink in before I went on: “…else I’ll rip your balls off and DISAPPEAR LIKE A MOTHERFUCKING NINJA IN THE NIGHT!”
I could tell he was impressed.
That’s when I made my move. I seized the day. I surfed the momentum. I fucking stole all his weed and ran. I ran out of the bar, through the back alleys. I ran until my chest burned, I ran til I puked. As far from Poco Colima as possible, out in the desert, I ran barefoot, forgot to steal a car, forgot everything. I didn’t give a fuck, I had the weed.
When I finally slowed down, the sun was rising, I’m pretty sure I had shat myself again.What came next can’t be called sleep:
I looked up at the pale sky, it was full of bright stars and shifting spirals. My hands and my feet went numb, then I passed out.
I passed out hard. It was a long, dark, dreamless thing.
Four days went by. I woke up half buried in the sand, still clutching the bag of weed, my anus burning. Fuck waking up. I could hear the vultures fight over who would get to eat my eyes. At that moment I wished I hadn’t left my revolver behind.
I reached for the paper in my breast pocket, rolled a nice fat one and stuck the fucker up my right nostril before lighting it. Yeah, I do it like that.
When the smoke hit me, it was everything I expected it to be, and more. 30 seconds later I didn’t remember my name. I stood up, pointing a dirty finger at the rising sun, my whole being filled with some unshakable conviction, don’t remember what it was. I turned around, walked a couple of steps toward my own shadow, then I blacked out again. Woke up some time later in the middle of a poker game at Miguel’s casino. A game I was winning. Life is fucked up.
I’m never paying for a Poco Colima whore again.
Read Chapter 3!
Tonight for the Double Extreme Household Pro Plus Match thing, we’re having, in the left corner, a pube (don’t ask me how I obtained it) and in the right corner, an almost empty glass of brandy. I already know who will emerge victorious, but let’s still look at the stats just for the fuck of it.
