Muerte Con Carne (2 page)

Blood sprayed from Armando’s mouth, along with the small bit of oxygen inflating his lungs. He could only choke and writhe, his eyes starting to roll to the back of his head.

The small group of spectators began to chant, all smiling, clapping their hands in rhythm. “Gigante, Gigante, Gigante…”

Armando lay in the center of the ring, his broken teeth beneath him, poking his back like thumb tacks. The blood on the mat was sticky and thick, already cooling in the night air. Armando let his head drop to the side, facing the full moon, the craters like the empty sockets of a glowing skull. The giant wrestler, this Gigante, climbed the turn buckle skulls until he stood atop the highest one, turned so he faced Armando. His massive bulk nearly blocked out the moon completely, framed him in a silver aura-like light. He wobbled for a moment, caught his balance, then stood tall, raised his hands in the air, pounded his chest with his truck tire fists.

His fans clapped, stomped. “Gigante, Gigante, Gigante…”

Armando tried to beg, tried to plead for him to stop, for someone to save him, but he only choked and gurgled on his blood, groaned and muttered whispery words.

Gigante launched himself, arms stretched wide like a giant crucifix. When he landed on top of Armando, there was an eruption of pain, like a comet crashing down on top of him, snapping bones and flattening internal organs. Blood sprayed from his mouth and he only struggled to breathe for a moment before a merciful blackness pulled him under.

But then he was awake again, hanging upside down. The family of maniacs was still seated, still watching. They licked their lips, stared with wide eyes. The old woman held the child in her arms, stroked his hair, rocked back and forth. The child’s grin was so wide it nearly touched his ears.

Armando’s body throbbed with unspeakable pain, and he tried to move, but once again found himself unable to. At first, he thought he was paralyzed, his legs useless after his spine was shattered under the weight of Gigante.

But they were chained down. He could move them slightly, just couldn’t get them loose. He hung from one corner of the ring, the skulls from the other corners watching him, grinning. His legs were crossed over each other, chains wrapped around his shins and biting into his flesh.

He tried to lift himself up, but didn’t have the strength to do more than dangle, blink the blood out of his eyes.

Then Gigante was back in front of him, his sparkling blue Lucha Libre mask speckled with blood, now with a rubber apron draped over the front of him. A belt lined with long, gleaming knives was wrapped around his waist, and he stepped forward, placed a rusted metal bucket beneath Armando’s head.

A dark tongue slithered out of Gigante’s mouth hole, licked the front of his long teeth. The muscles of his arms bulged as he knelt to one knee, ran a gentle hand over Armando’s face. A soft whine seeped out from the wrestler’s mouth as he caressed Armando’s cheek, then he ran his palm over Armando’s blood and sweat covered chest and stomach, pinching here and there as if testing the fat content.

Armando reached out a shaky hand, but it was slapped away. Gigante grabbed him by the hair again, pulled his head forward, yanked one of his knives from his belt and held it under Armando’s chin.

“Buen cerdo,” the giant growled, then pressed the blade down, ran it across Armando’s throat.

Armando’s body thrashed as the blood bubbled out, rushed over his face and splashed into the bucket beneath him. Gigante held Armando’s arms in place as the blood poured out of him. Armando tried to scream, but only managed to cough and gurgle as the blood rushed out.

The little boy climbed into the ring, crawled forward. Gigante chuckled, released Armando’s arms that now hung limp on either side of his head. The giant pulled the boy into him, messed his hair and wrapped an arm around him. The child giggled, his grin wide and silver, as he watched Armando bleed out.

As Armando’s vision began to fade and blink out, Gigante pulled another knife from his belt-long and serrated-stepped forward and plunged it into Armando’s soft belly, sawed downward toward his chest as if unzipping his torso. The warm innards rolled out, along with the last shred of life Armando had been clinging to.

1

Marta sighed, dismounted. She lay on her back and let the ceiling fan cool the sweat beaded across her body.

“Sorry,” Felix said.

“Don’t apologize,” she said as she turned on her side. “It’s not sexy.”

He tried to drape his leg over her, but she shoved it aside. Too goddamn hot.

“Sorry,” he said.

She rolled her eyes, sat up, drank the rest of the water sitting on the nightstand.
I was right there, goddamnit.
Marta needed an orgasm. Needed anything to keep her mind at ease. The sex was good-good enough anyway-but she found herself annoyed that he couldn’t bring her to climax. She could tell he had been concentrating, trying not to cum, was probably thinking about dead kittens or his naked grandma or something. He couldn’t even look her in the face as she rocked her hips on top of him.

And I was right there. You only had to hold on another few minutes. Shit…

“You okay?” He ran his nails down her back, and even though she wished he would stop touching her, wished he would just shut up and let her collect her thoughts, waves of euphoria rippled across her flesh.

She didn’t answer, looked over her shoulder. He still had the condom on, his semen spilling down into his pubic hair. “Take that thing off, will you? It looks weird.”

He sort of chuckled, grabbed it by the tip, and yanked it off. “Ah, shit.” The condom emptied its soupy contents, spilling over his thighs and testicles, soaking into the sheets. He shot a stupid grin her way, but she didn’t return it.

If those were my sheets, I’d kick your ass.

She knew she was being a bitch, knew she was being unnecessarily cold toward him. But she couldn’t help how she felt. What pissed her off the most was how much he liked her. Probably loved her. She didn’t know why that angered her so much, but it did. It was only a matter of time, she knew, before he expressed his feelings, before he told her that their current arrangement wasn’t enough for him. And then she would leave. Just like always.

As he jumped out of bed and strolled toward his hamper for a towel, she stood, pulled her panties on, all the while hiding her breasts with her forearm. She plucked her bra from the floor, turned her back to him while she put it on. He continued to chuckle from behind her, an obnoxious little boy giggle.

She sat on the bed, started pulling her jeans on. She glanced at Felix and he was watching her, obviously confused as to what she was doing. Part of her wanted to stay, peel her clothes back off and snuggle up to him, maybe watch some TV while the euphoria of fucking slowly dissolved. Because she did like him. He was a damn good guy, was crazy about her, and always treated her right. Was a good lay, if not a little quick with it.

“You leaving?” He crossed the room, sat beside her. Still naked, his cock still hard. Marta wished he would at least put some boxers on.

“I’m tired. ” She cleared her throat, pulled her shirt on, tied her hair up and held it there with a bobby pin she had pulled from her pocket.

“Well you can just stay here. I can cook you something.” He reached into her lap and grabbed her hand, and though Marta wanted to yank it away, she forced herself not to. “Come on, don’t run off. I’ve got some wine. We can have a few glasses, then maybe get back in bed? I won’t stop til you cum twice, all right?”

Now she did pull her hand away. “Oh god.” She stood, backed away from him. “I’ll…I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She walked past the bed and toward the bedroom door. His apartment was small, so she was at the front door in seconds. The place was clean-too clean for a guy. Always smelled like cinnamon. Just as her hand wrapped around the door knob, she realized she had left her keys on his dresser. She sighed, scratched her scalp, and hurried back.

He sat in the same spot, head hanging. Looked fucking pathetic like that. Another turn off.

The muscles in his arms rippled as he clutched the mattress, and when she crossed the room toward his dresser, trying to sneak in so he wouldn’t notice her, she heard him mutter something under his breath. She didn’t quite catch it, but heard the word
fucking…

She grabbed her keys and they jangled and he turned to look at her. His frown exploded into a smile at the sight of her, as if he thought she had changed her mind and was going to stay after all, was going to strip back down and climb right back onto his dick…which was still hard.

“Forgot my keys.” Even Marta had to admit her tone was heartless, way too bitchy even for her own taste.
You like him, you fucking idiot. Stop treating him like dog shit.
She walked toward him, grabbed him gently by the chin, and kissed him. No tongue, just a soft, gentle kiss. He kissed back, pressed a little too hard, but she pulled away, smiled, fingers still under his chin. “I’m just tired, okay? Don’t freak out on me. I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ve got lots to do.”

His body relaxed and he smiled. “Yeah, it’s cool. Tomorrow then.” He pulled her in, gripping the back of her thighs and massaging them. “Breakfast?”

She shoved him away by the shoulders, but playfully. “Yeah, sure. But I want donuts. And not that grocery store shit. Real donuts.”

“Donuts it is.” He lifted himself up, puckered his lips.

Marta forced herself not to roll her eyes as she kissed him again. “See you later.” And then she escaped, got free of the cinnamon-scented apartment, strolled quickly through the small parking lot to her rusted ‘89 Beetle.

There was a half-drank Sprite Zero in the cup holder, and even though it was warm, she took a long swig. She studied herself in the rearview, stuck her tongue out at her reflection. She jammed the key into the ignition, but before turning it she glanced back across the parking lot toward Felix’s door, paused there for a moment.

Go home, Marta.

She started the car, turned the volume down on the radio before it had a chance to spit sounds at her. Her head throbbed and she thought a little silence might do her good. So much to think about. Her mind raced, full of uncertainties as to what was to come in the next couple of nights. Even though she had her doubts, her fears, she knew there was no way around it, knew it had to be done. Years of planning, and it was finally going to happen.

She couldn’t tell which emotion was the strongest-fear or excitement.

The drive home was a blur, and before she knew it, she was parked at the curb in front of her duplex. The people on side B were partying again, bass pounding from their side, rap lyrics muffled by the walls. Marta thought about calling the cops, but it never did her any good in the past, so she just clenched her teeth and walked quickly to her door.

Her place smelled of mildew, the same dirty towel scent she had grown used to. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly where the smell was coming from or what was causing it. And never got around to calling the landlord to fix it. She stepped over discarded, soiled clothing and food boxes until she reached her desk. Leaned down and powered up the computer. The computer was old, took a while to start up. Marta leaned back in the green plastic lawn chair, massaged her temples. Her thigh vibrated, and she pulled out her cell phone, clicked her tongue as she glared at the display.

Felix:
U sure u don’t wanna stay? I miss you already.

“Uhhh!” She nearly tossed her phone, but couldn’t risk breaking it, set it down on a pile of papers. The bass from next door rattled her wall, and she saw that the one photo she had hung up was already knocked over, lying face down on the carpet. “Motherfuckers.”

The computer was still struggling to turn on, and she slapped the monitor before trudging across the living room toward the photo. She picked it up, sighed with relief that the glass hadn’t broken. She ran her fingertip across the faces of her mother and father. This is when the tears usually started. But not now, not today. Today she felt something else as she stared at her parents: anger.

There were only snippets of memories of either one of them. Her mother more than her father, though she thought she could remember his smile. He wasn’t smiling in the picture. He looked more confused than anything, as if whoever took this photo took him by surprise.

But she remembered how her mother would hold her, kiss the top of her head, scratch the back of her neck. She hadn’t seen either one of them in over twenty years. Nobody had.

***

Felix downed the rest of his beer as he pulled a fresh one from the fridge. He slammed the empty bottle on the counter and slid it toward the others. The bottle hit them, knocked them over like brown, glass dominoes, two of them falling off the counter and shattering.

“Fuck.” He chugged half of the beer in his hand before grabbing the hand broom and dust pan under his sink. His eyes darted to his cell phone again, but the display was still blank. Still no response from Marta. It was only a few hours ago she was hugged up on him, kissing him, giggling and flirty. She was the one who initiated the sex.
So what the fuck is her problem?

He swept up the glass, tossed it tinkling into the plastic trash can, then wiped up the tiny puddles of beer. The bottle of wine still sat untouched. Marta’s favorite Rosé‚.

He had cleaned up the apartment for her as he always did, sprayed some air freshener. Forced himself not to drink a drop the whole day in preparation for their plans. Even hid his liquor bottles under the sink so she wouldn’t ask why he had so goddamn many of them.

His eyes landed on the cell phone again, and he couldn’t resist picking it up on his way to the couch. He could still feel her warm flesh engulfing him, could still taste her on his lips, his tongue. No woman he had ever been with had ever tasted so sweet, and he wanted her again so badly he could punch a hole in the wall.

Marta and her fucking mood swings. One minute she’s a sweetheart, unable to keep her hands off him, smiling at him, snuggling up to him. And the next, she’s distant, irritable, like she wants nothing more than for Felix to just fall off the face of the fucking Earth. But she’d never been that way after sex. She usually saved that attitude for the next morning. So when she started pulling her clothes on quicker than Felix could dry his dick off, he couldn’t help but get a little pissed at her. Of course, he didn’t want her to know he was pissed because that would only push her further away, would only ruin his chance to get her soft, warm body back in his bed.