Use the pain, embrace it. You are no longer Herald; you fucking killed him so make it worth it you rabbit killing bastard. Feel the hate and let it power you. Let it seethe and ooze from your every pore. You’ll say what you mean, and mean what you say. You’ll take what you want, and do what you must, no remorse. No love, just pure hate. From here on out you shall be known as, Rab.
A year later at a club in Mexico, drunk with several half nude women slurping all over him, their hands in his pants, their heads under the table, grabbing whoever and whatever the fuck he wanted—he ran into Jon. A friend from high school, he barely recognized him. Once his nerd companion, now smoking with style, Jon had become a handsome dude. He worked at VlexCom; just started as a beginning coder at the up-and-coming corporation. They partied together from then on out and Jon brought him back to his senses, mostly—and got him a job a year later after his savings had finally evaporated. And although Hate the Demon had descended back into the shadows of his mind, he continued hardcore with the drugs; he was so good at his new job no one said a word. Recognition came quickly.
The thought of her voice, that first word to him in Spanish: Hola. That’s all he needed to set himself straight again. He used the thoughts now, didn’t let the thoughts use him. He remembered her face and how she held his head when he got tired, beyond tired, dead-fucking tired. He remembered how she didn’t let him have it, and he respected her for that.
Passing the club which looked so different, filthier in the daytime, Herald dodged the morning crowd. He blended in well, not sticking out like a gringo. Bien crudo, people squinted at the bright-yellow 11 a.m. light, Sunday morning, hungover in search of the best—and most caliente—menudo they could scavenge.
A block further, crossing the street, a cabbie beckoned him, they couldn’t be fooled; they could spot an American from miles away in a dust storm. But at least it was day and they weren’t touting donkey show, ven, come see, donkey. A store owner with an armload of Rolex watches tried to entice him but Herald walked on, still undeterred. Nearing the corner, he slowed.
No turning back now. She won’t be here. Just go back to work. And show ‘em all. A glint of Demon’s polished horn reflected in his eyes. A few weeks more and done. They asked for it.
But there she was. Sitting on her hands, alone and for the first time he saw her in the daylight. She looked beautiful, darker than he remembered. He could tell her hair had been dyed before, tinged with orange throughout, not totally black like he saw in the club. The lengthy top of its finely wound curls fell to the side almost completely covering her mark. Herald expected his anxiety to be high but as he neared her it diminished to nothing, and he knew again, there was something special about her. She made him feel at ease and he could be himself. As he approached she looked up and smiled with all teeth as if she wanted to jump him; and he felt the exact same way. They had made the agreement and stood in front of one another once again; both glaringly elated about it.
“Hi,” she said. Her voice soothed his nerves.
“Hi.”
She had a drink waiting for him at the seat beside her. It was a tall soda bottle, like those from the 80’s, with a worn orange and green logo. She had one too and she hadn’t yet touched it, waiting until he arrived. He sat and they merged smiles and their eyes got stuck once again. Smiling so bright, they eventually started laughing to un-stick each other’s love-bird gaze. They took a drink. It was hot enough on the sunny side of the street and the ice cold overly-carbonated soda hit the spot, fizzing all the way down. At the same time, “Ahhhh.”
She was casually dressed again. Same shorts or so it appeared, but a tight purple top. The daylight accented her figure and she looked more curvy than the club light had revealed, although still not very. Herald saw perfection. He could feel it—attraction. And they didn’t feel the need to converse before finishing their sodas. Just being together was enough.
“Ra—aab I, um, bery, —happy you come,” Ana said. Once again she melted his ears with her voice. His vision of Anxiety’s death was utterly pleasing. He leapt from Herald’s right shoulder onto the hot red brick suelo, bursting into flames while slivering its last pitiful squirm, falling with a final wailing hiss into the sewer grate. Fear, that vulgar fuck, deserved even worse. Unable to control his own actions he tore threads from Heralds dark-green button shirt and constructed a noose around his bubbling blob of barely a neck. He leapt venting a long grunt before yelling one final cuss then disappeared into oblivion with the echoing SNAP of his neck. Herald cracked a smile.
She’d studied English all day Saturday and had many phrases picked out, but it was a good few minutes while they sat looking at each other before any real conversation began. As well, she was seeing him in the light for the first time. He had on tan faded shorts and this time a white undershirt under a long-sleeve shirt, open and un-tucked, sleeves rolled. She noticed his face had acne scars long since healed. And he was no longer white enough to qualify for a black-light advertisement. His eyes didn’t look like bruises anymore, and he’d gotten a bit of a tan; he looked healthy. And she saw his large forearm tattoo, noticing how it was painted to cover heavy scarring. She slowly pulled off his dark-red bandanna and his long black bangs fell to the sides. She realized—although perhaps not exactly why, or why so suddenly—that she liked every detail of his character. With a tinge of green his ocean blue eyes ran deep, and they drew her in; and she desperately wanted to know more.
They ordered some tacos and conversed for a while; both more able now. Herald had brushed up on Spanish Saturday night and took it with him into his dreams. He even surprised himself. He told her his name, and that he was going through a life change, and had finally tossed the stupid old nickname (although he didn’t yet dare tell her who’d given it to him). He told her that he wanted her to be a part of his change, and his life. She stood up and leaned across the table and planted a huge kiss on him, and suddenly and loudly enough she told him.
“Te quiero!” She just couldn’t hold it in any longer. She repeated it in her best English. “Herald, I lub—you.” A few claps came from behind. The crowd cheered. People stood up. Flags raised and trumpets blared. But not really—except in his mind. Herald felt an overflow of emotion, and the good feelings flowing toward them from the few other patrons at Tacos de Paco. He had solid control over his mind, more than any day yet, and today he had something more special than anything—a reason to live. Love squashed the hate, and new power that came with that. He hugged her tight.
Deep healing took place for Herald that day, and Ana found the one she had been waiting for. The rest of the day was perfect.
20. Hot Sauce
In the corner of his eye he saw a man duck out from the elevator to his right. He wore a tan blazer and dark blue jeans. Only one man he’d ever known had to duck to exit an elevator, and he knew after seeing him from behind, his curly brown hair, it had to be. What was Jerry doing at VlexCom on a Saturday afternoon?
“Jerry,” Jon yelled catching his attention from behind; it was Jerry. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh hey Jon. Not supposed to say—a nondisclosure or whatever they call it. They said I could lose my shop if I, disclose anything.”
Jon’s curiosity stumbled, his eyes popped and his mind yelled, what else? A nondisclosure agreement—with VlexCom—and JERRY? His mind was still spongy from the conversation he’d had with Herald on the top floor minutes earlier, and this further scratched at the fabric of his previously solid reality. “What?”
Noticing Jerry’s circumspect—something else irregular, surprising for his character—he mimicked, also looking around the immense first floor lobby. It was mostly empty, usual for a Saturday afternoon. No one concerning or out of the ordinary: the usual scattered security guards dressed like ready-to-deploy Navy Seals, a lady in a brown jumpsuit was dollying some deliveries, the doorman practiced the usual sleep-while-standing act he’d mastered so well, and Horice at the front desk watching the game on his
new holophone under a wall of holographic world-time clocks. A thought entered his mind, and he noticed what Jerry was looking at.
“Jon, I’m sorry, I—”
“How about a beer Jerry? Rita’s?” Jon asked quickly, noticing the security camera he was eyeballing. It crept their way, tugging at Jerry’s newfound paranoia.
But, he was always up for a beer and agreed instantly. “Sure, meet ya at four.” He nodded flicking an eye at the camera, as if to explain any discourtesy, and strolled out of the building.
Thought races commenced in Jon’s mind—something he was getting more acquainted with as of late. He had been jerked in a few directions so far. Herald, suddenly going by his real name, one he hadn’t heard him use since freshman year before they lost touch; his haunting end of the world predictions; Nancy bugging him—while getting spanked oddly enough; and now Jerry, at VlexCom with a nondisclosure agreement. He knew Jerry didn’t mess around with his business, so if there was some sort of agreement with a threatening stipulation, that would explain Jerry’s sudden prudent behavior. It must be a hell of a deal for him, because his business is already booming. Then he remembered something else. Jerry mentioned lots of orders from Herald at the club. Was Herald just playing it off and actually sending other people to pick up orders for—more adult toys? That would be pretty ridiculous.
Beers have a way of bringing things out. Soon we’ll get to the bottom of this, he thought. But first, stop by and check on Jodi, and he followed Jerry out, twenty steps behind, then went in the opposite direction.
Rita’s Place was a quaint corner restaurant that’d been around for decades. A family business, the owners long had a passion for the hot and spicy. They were known for three things: beer, tacos, but mostly the caliente salsa. They had some of the hottest homemade salsas in the world and had won numerous awards. Their variations had creative and deterring nicknames, but that didn’t prevent mass masochistic endeavors; their customers consumed the fire regularly. Yet technology had improved drastically over the past few years refining the processes. Crossbreeding peppers and purifying the extract was their obsession. The latest result, and claim of Rita’s, was a new breed of chili pepper, The Kalifornia Kalamity. It bolstered reaching over two million on the Scoville scale. People came from around the world to the modest and mostly unchanged cable-TV featured joint, many times to settle a score, or for the yearly competitions. And many left in tears, or worse.
Coincidentally they entered together. They passed the wall full of celebrity pictures and awards, and shelves like a library overloaded with salsa bottles of every possible name, and took a booth at the back. The view wasn’t great, just a tall wooden fence strung with white lights, but a booth was more private than the upper deck, bar area, or round tables. A cute blond waitress surprised them from the side and they placed an order: a few beers and some tacos.
“Jerry, now what is this agreement you have with VlexCom?” Jon said leaning forward slightly. “You know you can trust me.”
“Right to it huh Jon? Relax a bit would ya.” He knew he could trust Jon, but first, and contradicting himself, scanned the area.
Relax? Jon noticed his cautious look around. Sitting back he grinned releasing a this-has-got-to-be-a-joke kind of snicker and rested his arm along the seat.
Jerry had been hanging out with Jon for over six months now, and knew; he was a square. Probably the most honest guy he’d ever known, likely the most trustworthy guy on the planet (if everyone was like him no one would ever lose a cell phone again—he returned at least one per night whenever they hit the clubs). And he realized when he finally saw him in company of his best friend Rab in the club: Jon was the good guy and Rab—well he couldn’t exactly place it—but possibly the opposite of Jon, his counterbalance. A different waitress came over carrying a bucket and the food, abruptly placing Jerry’s eyes under arrest.
“Earth to Jerry,” Jon said. Awestruck, Jerry just nodded, eyes frozen. She put down six beers stuffed in a white plastic bucket with the Rita’s logo on the side (a sexy chica riding a big red pepper lassoing a swollen and blistered tongue). The bucket was filled with red and normal ice cubes, and split green limes. She also set down a tray of steaming pork tacos with side toppings. But Jerry saw none of it.
“Algo mas Señor?” the curvaceous Spanish girl said. She wore tight white denim and was short, maybe five foot five, with the widest billboard-worthy smile.
“Esta bien, gracias,” Jon said in his best sober Spanish. Jerry repeated the gracias politely in his strong southern accent, followed by a whopping mam. In response she smiled big, yet not revealing her shiny whites this time, curiously noticing his size. His gaze was trapped in her tractor beam and glued to her figure as she left; her long black ponytail teased the top of her ass as she made her way to the bar.
“Damn,” Jerry said like a redwood tree trembling in a windstorm. “She’s gorgeous.” He returned to Jon remembering he was still waiting for the answer. “Well, man. Guess I can tell you. It’s, uh, actually kind of funny.” Pausing, he downed an entire beer then reached for the tacos. “I thought you ran that place anyway? Figured you would know what kinda crazy shit they’re cooking up in that place.” He spun the turntable which had about ten different sauces ultimately narrowing it down to two and pondered over which of the two he wanted to risk. Each had number labels representing the heat factor. He put down the number 6, Intestinal Rage, settling on a number 5, Colon Killer.
Jon watched, momentarily diverted, but patient enough, knowing he himself would’ve picked a number 1 or 2.
“Rab knows doesn’t he? He is the boss right?” Jerry finally continued. “He sent people with trucks. They bought at least one of almost everything I have in stock. And the anatomically correct items and molds are high dollar. They took a stockpile of movies, lubricants, and even—didn’t you notice my new signs? They cost a pretty penny but with Rab—let’s just say, business is good.”
“Quite a lot goes on there. I’m head of my team but there are many departments. Are you sure it was Rab who ordered those? Oh, and by the way he is going by his real name now—Herald.”
“Huh. Alright—the checks were signed VlexCom. I figured since you ordered a couple times—” Jerry bit into the Colon Killer laced taco then exhibited a perplexed countenance that didn’t quite fit his brute appearance. “Hold on.” His face turned beet red. He finished the taco nearly swallowing it and downed another entire beer. With a deep breath and a woo-wee he nudged the sauce aside. He realized, Jon didn’t know as much as he thought he would and wanted to get a few beers down before spilling the beans. He figured Herald, above all, knew everything that went on there. “Fuck it. Sex robots man. Big penises too, some with double rods—”
Jon burst, spraying beer all over Jerry’s face. He’d just taken his first and rather large gulp, but it never made it down the pipe. It was just the unexpectedness of it, the southern accent, the way he just blurted sex robots man so casually, red faced and sweaty.
“Shit man, what the fuck?”
Jon tried to control his spasms of laughter-shocks. Others noticed, laughing as well. The same smoking-hot waitress happened to be near. She came over and leaned in to help, giving him a little wink while she wiped him down. Jerry clumsily introduced himself meanwhile, and she appeared delighted to meet him.
“Well it’s very nice to meet you, Jerry.” She wanted to say Big Man but caught herself. “My name is Valerie.” She spoke English, with no accent, the Spanish now obviously a part of the theme, to give out-of-towner looking folks like Jerry the whole shebang. He just sat, still, while she continued to wipe him down with a cool wet cloth. He became as solid as a statue, as if panicked by the rapid onset of simultaneous events: spit beer-blast, hot waitress wiping him down, all while trying not to explode. Colon Killer. His face was only getting redder from the number 5 and he tugged at his collar popping a button. Valerie let out a trickle of a giggle, glimpsing the Colon Killer salsa with its top off. A thought wince
d through Jerry’s brain, as sickly as it might be, the blast of beer and spit, her cool rag, ah soothing. She put her face near his and smiled bright, teeth and all. Turnip-faced, he just held still sitting erect as a pencil with a botched smile, bashful-eyed and bumped with embarrassment.
“I’m so sorry man, I just—”
“Ah, it’s alright man,” Jerry said while Valerie finished dabbing his face.
“There, all set—Jerry,” she said. She commanded his attention once again as she left; this time swinging with a walk only debuted on special occasions.
“Damn. Did you see her? I’m actually glad you did it, I might not have met her,” he said quickly.
His country accent, just the way he’d said it really, hit a funny bone—and his red face under that curly brown hair. The day had it coming, primed and ready to blow. What else? he thought wiping his mouth and cleaning the table. Jon recompiled himself, mostly. “Ah, man. Jerry, really I’m—,” he said, still holding quite a bit in.
“Why’d you blow off like that?”
“I don’t know man, just sounded funny,” Jon said. “And with the day I’ve been having—” He sighed. “—I’m on a bit of a roller coaster I guess. Now, sex robots? I gotta hear this.”
“Yeah, they have me in there for advice. I met someone else from the company months ago actually, Nancy something, and she said they had an opportunity for me. I gave her some really good advice about saving her marriage, if you know what I mean, and she wanted to pay me back. Pretty freaky that one—after I gave her the advice, the cat came out of the bag so to speak. She spent quite a bit at the store too, for personal use. Anyway I had to sign the contract to keep quiet about it but they paid me to advise them on making these—robots, you know, so they can do the nasty.” His color finally returned to normal, and he took a swig. “Yeah, it is pretty fucked up shit, when you think about it. But they’re paying me—are they paying.”
Lenders Page 15
