by Jane Brooke
More kudos from the crew, as Billy walks up to him. Arvan wantin’ some too, at his side, as Billy lifts his boot heel and, then grinds it into Speedo’s blood soaked open wound.
Speedo moans, groans, as Billy stares with smiles at him. “Ain’t good fer ya now...A SENOR.”
Stomping his boot into the bullet-hole, he gets another wail of pain from the Mex-Can.
Billy, boot heel in place, calmly asks. “Now, where did ya say ya got the Acetone...Senor?”
“Se...Senor...Por...Por favor...I am bleeding...a doctor...Please Senor Billy...Please.”
Billy, in a play full mood, turns ta Garth.
“Garth brother...Geet me one a those special cans a gas...Thanks bro.”
Garth nods, moves to the back of his pickup truck, grabs a red plastic gallon of gas, returns to Billy, hands it to him.
Everybody chuckling, cept Speedo, who pretty much knows now that soon he will be an ex immigrant success story in the land of Milk and Honey.
No hesitation, Billy, to everyone’s delight, splashes the gasoline over a screaming, sputtering Mex-Can.
Within the realms of world class sadists, the tall Cox kid is in a league of his own.
Speedo, writhes, screams in agony, gas in his stomach wound, sputtering lips, Billy standing over him, flicking sparks from his Bic.
“What ya sayin’, Speedo? Yer sorry now, ain’t ya? Ya said, ya got it where?”
Speedo, eyes burning, bulging from the sparks from the BIC, becomes reticent.
“Ulick Chemical...Ulick...Abilene...Ceasar...He the guy....I geet ya more...K...pleeease...”
Flick, flick, flick, sparks, sparks, sparks...
“Ya sure Speedo...? Ya sure?”
“Si...Si...Si Billy...I geeet you more...free...”
Pulling out a pack of smokes from his Levi pocket, he slowly pops a smoke between his lips, ignites his lighter, flames dancing in Speedos struck terrorized eyes.
Arvan, between glee and manic watches the lighter flame like it was his future wife’s Betty amazing cunt.
Billy winks at his crew. They all giggle, as he turns back to Speedo.
“Ya ain’t got Texas yet, asshole...” Giggling, a real Scarface fan, he says, “Say hello to my leetle friend.”
Billy moves back, flicks his cigarette out into the air. In slow time, real slow, Speedos eyes watch the smoke as it tumbles over and over in the air and, then as he screams.
“SWOOOOOSH.”
Speedo explodes in flames, shrieks, kicks his hands, legs into the air.
Arvan, besides himself, probably like Crandal Bear Feathers ancestors might a done after slaughtering that ego maniac Custer at the little Big Horn, begins hooping, slapping his hand against his mouth as he gyrates in dance around the burning Indian.
The rest of the crew looks on in glee.
Billy laughs, yells. “Looks like we got us another refried Mex-Can Beaner.”
Arvan hoots, is crazed, dances, the crew howls in laughter. Billy watches, allowing Arvan his moment in the spot light.
Good times over, Billy screams, trying to get his brother to get his shit back together.
“ARVAN.”
Arvan stops, eyes glazed, hyperventilating, gawking at his bro, wondering why he can’t have some funnin’ too.
“Quit fuckin’ around. Come on, guys, get that shit loaded, time is a wastin.”
Arvan groans, thinks homicide.
Betty’s face, jerking off with the dildo in his mind, a sweet life, fratricide too, he knows it is so close now he can taste it.
Everybody gets it together. The fork lift fires up, trucks loaded, back in the trucks, bond fire of Speedo flaming into the sky, wheels spinning dust, they roar away into the night.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, Arvan forgets a little Biblical tale as old as salt.
Like when Cain snuffed Able, ya get the chance to waste yer brother, don’t linger fer a sec and just kill the mother fucker before he kills you.
The Arroyos
DEEP IN the low slung mountains, past the white arroyos, vessels of life for the rain pools, a dozen Indians sit, young braves, their woman among them. It is cold, the fire pit is flaming and their shoulders are covered with woven blankets. In the distance, riding his black stallion, they see him, begin to murmur and then remain silent.
Years have passed, he has become, as he had for their parents, their teacher, their Shaman. Spirits, shape shifters, form, mysterious, he resembled none of them. He held no shape or hue to the white man, nor any other creature on earth. Thus their ancestors had named him. “Face of Fire,” it had stuck.
As horse, night rider began to move up the mountain, they felt as always that a great father was coming home. There was nothing he did not know of the bow, knife, the World, and the survival within the harshest moments of all of it. He has taught them to be proud, independent, soldiers, warrior’s, to see their Gods who represented them, their pasts and their futures as they grew to love themselves and their Gods again.
They did not own televisions, VCR’s, satellite dishes, nor is drugs, alcohol or despair a part of their lives any longer. He had, through council, with the elders, brought back the ancient “Peyote Ceremony” to their memories, this, also they hand thanked him for. It was a ritual that he knew, because he wanted to know, that brought a direct link, a connection between past spirits, the people and to the present. The Indians used it as magical power conduit to witness, and understand their pasts.
In the pitched great Tee Pee, fire pit being stoked for twenty-four hours by the Woodman, Indians, only red men would gather around the blaze. Placed in the dirt were gourds of water, drums, lyres, flutes, small vessels of Peyote powder struck at their bare feet. As well as the flames, there was one Indian always, a monitor one might say, there to wash the vomit from the dirt, as a world of wonder materialized before their eyes.
As flames whispered through the chute at the top of the Tee Pee, each Indian would sing, playing his music, sometimes accompanied by chant, from his friends. Then, within Technicolor rainbow dreams, they would come, centuries of past memories, past braves and squaws and together with his brother’s; they had seen the world of the Buffalo.
Millions once roamed the vast prairies, also great brown blankets of life, the buffalo, and a life sustaining blood for the Indians, perhaps at one time though inexhaustible. Through the day and night of the fast, as the woodman stoked the fire, every man, with lute, fife, drum, told his story, and “Face of Fire” had wept that first time, witnessing the beauty before the horror, before the genocide the white man had brung.
Winters, summers, through the ceremony they appeared as if neon visions and time would pass, and then an Indian would open his eyes, finding much of it, very hour of it had simply vanished through the ceremony.
Though they had lived brutal lives, gentle lives, loving natural lives of Sun, sky, and water and of Earth Gods, the Indians had chosen to live within the world of Nature, not against it. Thus harmony had come, and as a reward the White Man had brought Armageddon.
‘Face of Fire’ had given them back their lives, dignity, memory and balance and through passion, savagery of purpose and bravery, they had recaptured the dignity of their pasts.
And now, as his Stallion makes its last hoof beats onto the flat, they stand in unison as he, silhouetted against the moon, stares at them from his cowl and, then begins to limp towards them in his moccasins.
Moving to them, they part and, then as he moves with in them, they close in, gathering close around him, as the fires flames spew into the night sky. Each Indian touches his face, his long hair, drawing his hooded cowl from his head.
They murmur prayers spilling to the onyx sky with the sparks from the blazing fire mixing with the stars. Whispers gather, as with grace, caution they lay him alo
ng side the fire pit, on an ancient woven Indian blanket. Gently, they strip him of his clothes; fold them, naked his odd skin is washed in fires light, once again.
From a large earthen clay jug, they press Aloe, made from a cactuses heart to white cotton, and begin to sooth him, layering the healing properties of their ancestry on skin, a color that no man on earth posses.
Shamans, Spirits, Gods of the Earth come so rarely, this they understand. Respect, love, it must be expressed, for now, near, no very near to the end, as he lingers at the precipice of death he must be cared for, loved, and they do.
He is their ghost Shaman, their King.
Friday Night
MAVA, stands at the back door of the bar, smoking a cigarette, enjoying her rare peace and quite from the bar. Closing it for the weekend had been a genius Idea. She needs no distraction while the boys take care of business. This is an important time for her, excited about the meeting in Corpus Christie, hopeful expanding their empire, one she knows she can run on rote, once Billy and Arvan are planted in the back yard.
She is not greedy, wants this last huge score. If more comes, then that will be gravy.
Glancing at Betty’s room, she thinks of the girl, feels in her bones there is just something not right about her. Needing nothing to muddle her brain, she returns to what she knows.
She understands that greed kills and if she hangs on to long greed will eventually get her busted and, than no more loving from Art; chrome bracelets, iron bars for her, which is a bad thing.
She is old, yet, she is still a sexual woman; can’t do that from prison. She now knows, with out a doubt, that she will have Art murder her sons. No loose bookends, well, who the fuck needs them?
Looking at Betty’s room again, she wonders further about the girl, for a reason.
Why, had she visited her son in the barn? It confused her, yet delighted her.
The gig between Sue and her, well that had done nothing to clarify in her mind who Betty was. She didn’t like loose ends. Betty confused her, yet she dug her vibe, yet being off kilter with her thought puzzle pieces, well, it bothered her. T
There was of course no way for her to understand that the puzzle pieces were left out of the blonde’s box at birth, impossible to ever fit together.
“She whispers.” What was this Betty all about? Is she here for some odd reason?”
And, then, powerful arms wrap her waist, hugs, kisses on her neck, ears as Art, man of few words, whispers. “Hey butter cup, ya like a little company.”
Mava swoons, weaves her hand back around his thick neck, and drawls. “You angel. Ya ready fer a little vacation, honey bunny?”
Art’s pudgy fingers drop down along her cunt, gives her a little squeeze. She yelps, as he sweetly whispers. “I’d like ta vacay right here, darlin’.”
She giggles, turns, hand and hand the ex Merchant Marine and his butter cup walk towards her room, knowing even a murderous plug of a man and an old broad with love in her eyes, need a little down time at times, especially before the murderin’ begins.
Connect The Dots
THE CLOSEST distance between two points is a bullet, Bobby knows this.
Picking up her scent in Tennessee, he brings the teams together in Mobile Alabama. One team, just in case, moves cross country down through Oklahoma.
There a motivated group of mugs, Dim Dim their coach, figuratively, silently, prodding them on just because that was who he was.
Bobby was promised by Tony’s men’s eating up the phone lines that they hoped for results soon.
“You can only bribe so many people, threaten them with dismemberment, death and their toes nails ripped out, before you have to admit defeat.”
Paulie, Jimmy’s son of his mother Gloria’s side, not Paulie Jr. Aunt Angelica’s sister’s son, had told him.
Spending the night in one of the most humid places in the world, the crew powered a Southern breakfast, which Dim Dim had had two.
Bobby, planning out various routes, got the boys right, rolling as they then fanned out, drove, stopped, chatted, then EUREKA they had found it.
No Interstate, Bobby was positive about that. Moving West, and because Bobby loved his big friend and not wanting the giants blood sugar to get low, and knowing the feed bag was important for the big fella, they had stopped at a convenience store out side a New Orleans. Innocently, they had picked up the next scent of Tony’s stinking girl friend at a convenience store by a stroke of pure luck.
Bobby likes nothing about the South, so, while Dim is buying a half dozen burritos, tides him over until lunch, Bobby, sweating profusely, in shirt sleeves, smoking, glances across the dark street, blinks, for standing under a neon sign The Swamp Club is the biggest black man, he has ever seen. Watching for a few minutes, his skin itches which usually a good sign. He shakes his head, for folks, looking like they just walked out of the cast of Deliverance are laying off dollar bills to the black giant.
He thinks of Dim, the black giant rumbling, giggles. “Pay per view.”
A thorough man, where the fuck is Dim, he snaps up the photo of the whore, figures what the heck, strolls across the street.
Approaching the African American man, with utmost caution, for he is three of the small Italian, Booby gets one of those crystal ball, seventh senses feeling about the behemoth. He feels that this man is not one that he can intimidate, even with Dim Dim’s help.
Knowing street ghetto etiquette, figuring it was a long shot to boot, yet ya never know, he knows, because he feels it, not to come off as a cop, a gangster, something threatening. A PI, maybe, looking for a rich mans daughter, you know, kids, dogs, folks love her, miss her, nice reward for some help. What the heck, as he stands before him, looking way up, eyes focused at hub caps for eye balls.
They begin to chat, bright guy, Bobby figures. He spins the story, kids, puppies, cats missing her, husband rich, loves her to death. He is about to throw terminal cancer into the mix, nixes that idea.
Black man, intelligent eyes, seems honorable, looks at the pic and seems a little bit edgy. Bobby knows he knows something, he can see it in his eyes, he’s positive. He knows the slag bitch is so fucking beautiful men don’t want to give her up, especially from a suspicious black man. Let’s try cash, just a nudge as he peels off five one hundred dollar bills.
Little Junior of course remembers the doll, remembers the air kiss, don’t like nosy people, law in any shape, way or form. He figures the small guy, clipped moustache, thousand dollar alligator shoes, is bent, maybe not, black eyes lit from the five C-notes layered in the wops small hands. He has to consider turning out the blond. After all, what is she to him?
Bobby gets it, sees him staring at the money, adds five more Benjamin’s, see’s the ball bearings revolving in the black man bowling ball sizes head. Little Junior, likes money, a grand, is a grand. Why not, help the husband get the sugar twist back, he’s just helping that’s all, okay. He tweaks the grand out of Bobby’s small hand, smiles, sure, she was here a night or so ago. Real pretty, tall, thin, white hair, kinda a flirt, old Cadillac, convertible, blue he thinks, drove direct west, very very fast.
“Thanks man. You’ve helped, a lot.” Bobby genuinely says.
About to offer him a job, more gomers qued the line, Bobby nods, walks across the street, opens the door, feels the AC, sees Dim Dim staring straight ahead, some food wrapper around his feet. Dim looks okay, that’s good. He checks the neon of a Motel room, the street name, pulls out his cell, makes a few calls, giving the direction for the remaining crews to join them. He text messages Tony with the update, slaps it shut.
He snaps inside the car, accelerates, pulls to the motel, parks in the lot some, he and his crew needed refreshed preplanning and rejuicing for the charge west is needed.
He feels good, he checks himself, Dim Dim experiencing a little shut eye always helps.
What he does not know is that he forgot the double edged sword rule.
Slicing off distance between she, and he, he forgot one thing. Dealing with a master fencer, who is elusive, lethal and cleaver, do not forget about the other side of the blade.
For as with all duels, the black blood you so desperately want to see washing over your hands from your advisories jugular might not be hers at the end, but your own.
Twisting In The Universe
AS THE profanation of the Cox world became more unbridled, it is now moving into an orgasm of its final destiny, led by the most treacherous animal in the desert, that now again is doing her thing.
Once out in the junk yard, it hadn’t taken her long to find the trap door hatch. With her cat eyes, she realizes that if a person didn’t know that people were falling into holes, they would never have a clue it was out here. No longer oblique by her inside info, she had found it easily.
As she had crept around the porch watching and there had been poignant moments, as Mava, Art, hand and hand, school kids really had been smooching before they went into their room.
She watched as Sue, looking forlorn, lonely, at her room door, smoking, staring at the moon, seemed sad, maybe jonesing for another liver transplant from Billy. Mandal was moved by her presence, wondering how much longer she could survive in such a violent world.
After a while, the place seemed to die, quiet like, she waited, then moved across the place, into the center cut of the car graveyard.
Bending to the hatch, she peeks around, coast clear, takes her Zippo, taps the hatch, ping, ping, ping. Never know who’s down there, she backs up, hides behind a rusted chassis of a truck, waits.
Nothing, she moves to it, moves the lever down, wraps her hand on the lever and, then like opening a sub hatch, she lifts, no creaks, that is good to. Pleased with her snooping, she flashes the Zippo, sees iron rungs, down she goes, Nautilus Commander Betty, going deep; pulling the lid down behind her.
