by Leo Romero
Troy’s drugged up eyes finally snapped fully open. He looked around the three mean faces sweating him, fear now overriding the drugs. Troy immediately tried icing them, but for some reason it wasn’t working.
The drugs, Troy, you idiot, a voice inside him spoke up. The drugs have messed up your eyes.
He looked down in disappointment. Oh...
The big guy pulled him in toward him. “Hey! Hey! Hey!” Troy stammered. “What’s the—”
“Where you from?” Bandanna Guy asked him in a hostile tone, stepping up close to him.
Troy looked around to meet his stare. “Chicago,” he retorted in a slur. “Where you from?”
Bandanna Guy leaned into him. “I’m gonna ask you one time, pendejo. What order you from?”
“None,” Troy replied.
Bandanna Guy nodded his head in irony. “None.” He looked up at the two other guys with him. Grins broke out on their scarred faces.
“Puto,” one of them said, spit flying out of his mouth and into Troy’s face.
Troy lifted his hand and wiped the spittle from his cheek. “That’s right,” he said. “None.”
Bandanna Guy shook his head. “I don’t believe you, amigo. Now, someone wants to speak to you.”
Troy frowned. “Who? I don’t wanna speak to anyone.”
Bandanna Guy glanced at his buddies and cocked his head to the side. “Vamos!” he said before turning and marching away.
In the next instant, Troy was dragged across the floor. “Hey! Hey!” he protested. The big guy holding him covered Troy’s mouth with his hand and continued to drag him across the room. Bandanna Guy looked around the room with concerned eyes as they dragged Troy away. Most of the others in the room were too stoned to even notice anything was happening. Troy tried his best to fight back, but the two gorillas were too strong for him. He was bundled down a quiet corridor and into a back room where a mustachioed guy with slicked back hair was sitting behind a desk counting out mountains of cash. The moment they burst into his office, he threw off his glasses and scrambled for the gun on his desk.
On seeing Bandanna Guy, he lowered his gun and squinted his eyes. “Chichi? Que pasa?” he asked.
The guys dragged Troy in front of the desk and let him go. Troy stood upright and straightened his Hawaiian shirt.
“Sorry, Lobo,” he said throwing the door shut behind him. “We caught this puto downstairs, looking at the ladies.”
Lobo looked Troy up and down in confusion. “So? Why you brought him here?”
Chichi stepped up to Troy, grabbed his cheeks and forced his mouth to pop open. His fangs came on display.
Lobo began nodding. “Ah, comprender. Okay, let him go.”
Chichi let go and Troy smoothed down his hair. “Don’t touch me again,” he warned.
“Hey, amigo,” Lobo said, making Troy look his way. Lobo now had his arms crossed over his chest. He leaned back in his chair; it creaked under the pressure. Troy noticed the puncture marks on his neck. He guessed this guy was much higher up the food chain than the other grunts.
“Who sent you?” Lobo then asked.
“No one,” Troy answered in an annoyed voice. He was getting sick of these guys and their questions.
“No one?” Lobo echoed, his face contorted in disbelief. “What order are you from?” he then asked, his expression turning suspicious.
“I don’t belong to any order,” Troy said, straightening his shirt. “I’m an independent.”
“Independiente?” Lobo asked. “What you doing down here?”
“I’m on vacation.”
Lobo leaned forward, his face becoming shadowed. “Vacation?”
“That’s right. I’m checking out the nightlife. I am a creature of the night after all,” Troy said with a grin.
A smile spread across Lobo’s face. “Ha ha!” He slapped his desk. “I like it.” He turned to the other guys. “Comediante, eh?” he said to them, pointing at Troy. They all cackled.
Troy grinned back at Lobo, giving him a double eyebrow raise.
Lobo then cut his laughter short. He slapped the desk, making them all flinch. “But, you’re trespassing, amigo,” he said with a shrug.
Troy’s grin melted.
“And you’ll have to answer to El Víbora.”
Troy shook his head. “What’s that?”
“El Víbora,” Lobo repeated. “The Viper. He’s the leader of Los Verdugos. El Padre. The Father. My boss. We control Tijuana. He’ll decide if you’re allowed to be here.”
Troy met his stare full on. “And if he doesn’t?”
Lobo shrugged. “If he doesn’t. Then, it’s...” He picked up his gun and pointed it at Troy’s chest.
Troy’s eyes widened.
“Bang!” Lobo said and pretended to fire.
Troy gulped.
Lobo sat back in his chair and let out a hearty laugh.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
They escorted Troy out the back entrance and threw him into the back of a waiting car. Before Troy even had a chance to think of escape, he was crammed in between the two thugs from the upstairs of Shanghai. Chichi started up the engine, the stereo blasting out that obligatory Latino rap, which was like rusty nails on Troy’s ears. Car doors slammed and they hit the streets.
Troy crossed his arms over his chest and huffed. He knew he shouldn’t have come down to Mexico. He knew the dancing chicas were just an illusion. They always were. He was sold short, every time. Suddenly, the drugs were wearing off too, and he was left with a nasty comedown, and an unhealthy dose of paranoia to boot. Thanks a bunch, Trixie, he thought to himself, his top lip curling up.
He cursed the day he ever agreed to help her in her vamp hunting ways. Why couldn’t those Blacklake idiots have taken care of business back at the movie theater like they were supposed to? Then none of this would be happening.
He watched on with apathetic eyes as the built up area of Tijuana thinned out to lime groves, corn fields, and dirt tracks. They were taking him back to the outskirts of town, the whole time that music blasting away at his ears. The noise made him want to skewer his own eardrums, just to ease the suffering. On top of that, the two goons sweating him both had a bad case of body odor. He groaned to himself. There was no way he could get away, no chance of escape. He had no other choice but to wait and see where they were taking him, and hopefully talk his way out of trouble.
They drove through a couple of lime groves in the pitch-black, the car’s headlights illuminating the way. Soon, the road started to wind around, the car tilted at a slight angle. Troy realized they were going up a hill. He looked out of the window to see nighttime Tijuana sprawl off into the distance, a hive of burning lights. Eventually they reached the hilltop where an isolated villa encircled by high walls awaited them. They pulled up outside the huge front gate at and were immediately approached by an armed guard.
Chichi wound down his window. “Hola, hombre,” he said to the guard. “We’ve got someone to see Víbora.”
The guard frowned. “Quién?”
Chichi made his fingers into an upside down V and placed them ahead of his lips, indicating fangs. He then cocked his thumb over his shoulder. The guard peeked in through the window. He spotted Troy, who gave him a wide grin, making sure he saw the fangs.
The guard nodded. He stood back up and began waving them through. The gate opened up, and Chichi entered the grounds; he pulled up just inside and killed the engine. He turned back to face Troy. “Okay, gringo. Get out!”
Before Troy had a chance to respond, he was dragged out of the car by one of the thugs next to him. His sandals touched grass, and he straightened his back, getting himself out of the grip of the goon.
“Take it easy,” he said. “This shirt’s expensive.” He straightened the creases in his Hawaiian shirt to try and express the point. The goon wasn’t interested. He grabbed Troy by the upper arm and dragged him to the entrance of the villa.
“Hey, go easy!” Troy protested, but it fell
on deaf ears.
They all made their way up the steps leading to the patio outside the entrance. Troy laid eyes on the small fountain just ahead of him. This was good living. Something to the right caught his attention. A cannon was set up on the patio pointing back the way they came. He whipped his head the other way to see an identical cannon set up on the opposite side of the patio.
Gee, someone’s paranoid, Troy thought to himself. He wondered if they worked or were just for show.
He was shoved in through the entrance to the villa. Once inside, Troy set eyes on all the plush furnishings. A suit of armor stood to the side, lining the walls were glass cabinets filled with old weapons: guns and swords. Hanging on the walls were tapestries and paintings of what looked like old Spanish Conquistadors. An expensive ornate rug had been rolled out from the entrance toward all the various doors lining the corridor. Troy nodded his head in appreciation. Whoever lived here had style. Place stunk of vamps though.
“Nice place,” Troy noted. “Doesn’t belong to you though,” he said to the thug accosting him.
The goon pushed Troy along the rug and he almost tripped. Chichi led them along to a room straight ahead and on the left. On the way, they walked past guards who were patrolling, guns in hand. They all eyed their guest with suspicion. Troy could tell one or two of them were full of venom. The vamp of the house had already fed and was probably sitting back with his belly full trying to sleep it all off. El gordo.
Chichi went and opened the door and one of the gorillas shoved Troy into the room. Inside, an old man draped in some kind of monk-like, black robe was sitting on a plush chair in the corner; there was an irate look on his wrinkled face as if he was in the middle of an argument. The other guy in the room was standing behind a desk, speaking in Spanish to the old man in a forceful manner, while jabbing his finger toward him. He was cut short by the entrance of Troy and the gang.
He spun his head in the direction of his uninvited guests. His eyes flashed with anger. “Qui pasa?” he asked.
Troy noted the prominent fangs in the guy’s mouth. To Troy’s mind they spoke louder than the tats inked all over his hands and neck. This was the head vamp of Tijuana? Troy realized. He wondered who he answered to.
“Víbora,” Chichi said. “Sorry for the entrance. I got someone to see you. Someone special,” he added, sticking his face into Troy’s.
Troy just rolled his eyes away to the ceiling, trying to act cool.
Víbora looked Troy up and down as if he was a piece of trash. “Who is he?”
“Smile for the boss!” Chichi said, gabbing Troy’s cheeks.
Troy wanted to slap Chichi upside the head so bad. The punk managed to force Troy’s mouth open, showing everyone in the room his fangs.
The old man in the weird robes gasped.
Víbora nodded his head, placing his hands on his hips. “Where was he?”
“Shanghai,” Chichi replied. “Caught him eyeing the girls.”
Víbora frowned and nodded. “He likes cheap women, huh? Must be Blood Order.”
“He says he isn’t from an order,” Chichi informed him.
“Is that so? A drifter, uh?”
“Kind of,” Troy said.
“Where you from, gringo?”
“Around.”
Víbora chuckled. “Around?”
“That’s right.”
“Boss, we didn’t know what you wanted us to do with him,” Chichi said. “Do we kill him or let him go?”
Víbora held up his palm. “You did well to bring him to me. We cannot have interlopers on our turf. I’ll handle this.” He flicked his hand on the air toward Chichi and the other goons. “Déjanos.”
Chichi nodded his head and turned to leave the room with the other guys. He gave Troy one last dirty look before he left.
“See you around, cupcake,” Troy said to him.
Chichi’s eyes bulged in anger. He pointed a stern finger at Troy as he exited the room.
“Asshole,” Troy said to himself as Chichi closed the door behind him. He straightened his shirt. Now, he was alone with Víbora and the weird old guy.
Víbora placed both hands on the desk he was standing behind and leaned in toward Troy. Troy looked away. His eyes fell on more ancient war memorabilia. Guns, spears, arrows. This Víbora guy was really into his toys.
“We have word the Blood Order is no more,” Víbora said.
“I heard that too,” Troy replied, still staring at weaponry. “Word gets around, huh?”
“Is that why you’re here? To jump from the Bloods to the Chaos Order?”
“No, señor,” Troy said with a shake of his head. He faced Víbora. “I’m on vacation.”
“Vacation? Spoken like a true gringo.”
Troy sighed. “I’m kinda getting tired of this gringo stuff.”
“Would you prefer puto?”
Troy shrugged. “It would make a nice change.”
Víbora chuckled.
Then, the old man made a strange noise. “Psst!”
Víbora turned his way. The old man ushered him over. Víbora stepped over, lowering his head so his ear was near the old guy’s mouth. The old man’s stare never left Troy as he whispered something to Víbora.
Troy watched them both with suspicious eyes. What’s the deal with the old man?
After a bit, Víbora nodded his head, then stood upright. He turned to Troy. “He say you are not vampire,” he stated.
The old man nodded his head with vehemence.
“Well, he’s wrong,” Troy retorted.
The old man briskly ushered Víbora in toward him again. He whispered something in his ear once more. Víbora nodded.
Then, “he say: ‘no I’m not’,” Víbora informed Troy. “He say you are a man. Not vampire.”
“How would he know?” Troy asked, his top lip curled up.
“Amigo, this is Papa Esqueleto, a high ranking monk of la Hermandad Impía, the Unholy Brotherhood. He is an expert on vampires.”
The old man called Víbora in toward him again and they began conferring. The conversation quickly grew agitated, and the old man started protesting. Troy watched them in bemusement. What the hell are these two clowns arguing about?
Víbora patted his hands on the air to try and calm the distressed monk. Papa Esqueleto fell back in his chair in a tired heap.
Víbora sighed and turned his attention back to Troy. “Amigo. He say you no vampire. He sure, one hundred percent. He say you pretend to be a vampire.”
“Ah, so I guess he’s saying these are just for show,” Troy said, running a finger across his fangs.
Víbora shrugged. “He say you no vampire.”
“Well, he’s wrong!” Troy snapped. “I’m as vamp as vamp can be. You want me to prove it. Tell him to look at me.”
Víbora glanced from Troy to the old man, then back again.
“Go on,” Troy urged.
Víbora let out a tired sigh. “Míralo,” he said to Papa Esqueleto, pointing at Troy.
“Que?” Papa Esqueleto said in surprise.
“Míralo!” Víbora repeated with more force. Jabbing his finger on the air toward Troy.
Papa Esqueleto bunched his hands up and pulled them into his chest. He then flicked wary eyes toward Troy, who was already in icing mode, the drugs wearing off enough to get them going again. He caught Papa Esqueleto in his sights, making sure his eyes were swirling nice and fast. Papa Esqueleto’s jaw went slack. He glared at Troy with an unblinking stare.
A smug grin spread across Troy’s face. “There,” he declared, his hands out to the sides. “You see? If I’m no vamp, then how can I do this?”
Víbora flicked his eyes from Troy to Papa Esqueleto. He held his hand up in front of Papa Esqueleto’s face and snapped his fingers. The old man didn’t flinch; his vacant stare was fixed on Troy. He was well and truly hypnotized.
Víbora went and sat in the chair behind his desk. He leaned back and grinned. “Very good, amigo,” he said. “Now, let him
go.”
“Anything you say.” Troy switched off his eyes, breaking the connection. Papa Esqueleto slumped back in his seat with a small gasp of surprise.
He spent the next few seconds blinking his eyes and looking around him as if waking from a dream. “Qué pasó?” he asked, his eyeballs rolling.
“See?” Troy asked, his shoulders raised in a shrug. “I’m vampire, baby. Well and truly. And I belong to no order. Now, if you’ll just let me pass through, I’ll be no trouble. Mucho Gracias.”
Víbora rubbed his chin in a thoughtful manner, his squinted eyes scrutinizing Troy. “Hmm, if you are really a vampire, amigo, then—” He snatched up the gun lying on his desk and aimed it at Troy. “This bullet won’t kill you!”
Troy gasped. He flung a desperate hand in the air.
Víbora’s trigger finger curled inward. Troy’s eyes almost popped out of his skull.
A sick grin spread across Víbora’s face. He cackled.
“Deja de!” Papa Esqueleto then screamed, severing the atmosphere in two.
Víbora snapped his head toward him, releasing his trigger finger.
Troy grabbed his chest in relief.
Víbora frowned at Papa Esqueleto. “Qué?” he asked with an irritated huff.
“Mira!” Papa Esqueleto exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, his voice loaded with fear. He was pointing at the wall to Víbora’s left with a shaky finger, his mouth agape, his eyes brimming with trepidation.
Troy’s brow furrowed. He’d been expecting to be killed by a hail of bullets, but somehow and for some reason, the old man had stopped proceedings. He flicked his eyes toward Víbora. He turned his head to face Troy; they stared at one another in bemusement. They both turned their heads to the wall where Papa Esqueleto was still pointing.
Troy found himself staring at some kind of tapestry. Incan or Mayan or some other ancient Latin civilization. It showed a woman (or what looked like a woman) clutching a snake in each hand, while doing some kind of crazy dance, one leg up in the air. Troy guessed she was a vamp, had to be. Huge fangs protruded from her mouth, her eyes giant swirls. All around her feet were snakes, while rivers of blood ran off into the distance.
In the picture alongside her was another figure, smaller than the woman, but relevant to the scene. It was a man, well, presumably a man, with a red chest and chalk-white legs, doing that same disjointed dance. The man’s hair was emanating from his head in long, wild strands. His face was deep red as if sunburned, those same giant swirls for eyes. His mouth lined with fangs. On his feet were what looked like sandals; black blocks beneath the soles and nothing on top protecting the bridges. In each hand he clutched a severed head by the hair; one appeared to be male, the other female. Blood dripped from the stumps.
