Post by The Lost Boy on Sept 14, 2021 14:14:58 GMT -6
Fucker got me good in the side with that broken Victoria bottle. I can feel it sting and the blood seep a little bit more with each step out into the desert. My hand is clamped on the wound, and with each squeeze I give it to staunch the flow a bit, I can feel a shard here or there cut my fingers and palms. Only a little bit longer, Howie – only another half mile to sanctuary. You ain’t gonna be dying tonight; these ain’t the terms you want and you sure as hell ain’t taking them laying down. Just over that hill? And everything hunky dory.
Her face was chalky white from the foundation. I see her in a crack of thunder. The rain falling harder now. Keep going.
By the time I got over the hill, I had begun to feel weak. The flow wasn’t stopping, and I didn’t know anywhere I could get stitched up. On my knees, watching the rain take my red red kroovy to mix with the sand, I saw her again. Her skin was pale as the snow, even without the foundation. Saw her too. She was as pale – just like she was that day I walked out and left her to her tears. I clutched the cross as the world went black.
I woke up back in my motel room bed. The bleeding had stopped – the wound seemed stitched up, but the scar was ugly, like the bite of a big dog. I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Through the darkness, in the light of the moon and flash of lighting, wo red eyes looked back from a face big and black and covered in thick fur. The hell hound was still on my tail.
I had to keep going.
Lightning flashed up in the clouds, and thunder rolled through the sky. A drop of rain hit me on the hand and rolled down to that cross clutched in my hand not on my rib. Something was mad. Something wanted retribution.
I’d been down drinking at a little honky tonk on the edge of the city with a ghost that night. It was the kind of spot you could still smoke inside – where the beer was all bottles and cans fished out of a little mini fridge they could barely keep to temperature and the hooch was poured dirt cheap. I hotwired a car on my way out of Vegas and drove south, taking care to cut long and hard through the desert to avoid any chokepoints the pigs may’ve set on the outskirts of town. When I made the border, they took one look and told me to go the hell to Mexico and never come back. Can’t say I won’t take them up on the offer.
Once I reached town, I checked into somewhere cheap and headed to that little place around the corner. That’s when the ghost greeted me. We sat in a booth way in the back – still don’t know how the sumbitch found me. His hair was long now and fell past his shoulders. He looked gaunt and pale like how you’d expect a dead man to look. Handled his drink like one too. But his voice was the same, if a little bit lower and seeming to come and go on the air of the music moaning out of that jukebox in the corner. Ritchie Valens seemed the flavor of the evening.
“Do you plan to stay in Mexico very long?” the ghost said as he placed his dirty glass down and took a drag off the Camel cigarette he’d bummed from me. I responded with a shrug and polished off my first can of Modelo, “All up to what Dukes wants, yeah? Maybe we stay here, maybe he makes another big fuckin’ stink of this town.”
“Still on the hunt for what you seek?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
The Ghost smiled sadly at me. He could see the Weight.
“I hope it forever eludes your grasp, old friend.”
We got quiet. I don’t think it’s easy for ghosts to speak for too long – not exactly up to practice, are they? But his eyes never left me, unblinking and looking me up and down as if tracing the bones inside. They fell to repose just below the collar of my shirt.
“You still wear it.”
I nodded wordlessly, reaching up to hook the silver chain with my thumb and draw it out. The ghost canted his head.
“I’d hoped you’d have let it go by now.”
I shook my head once. There was something in my gut that went all the way up my windpipe and sat in the back of my throat. It was big and dense like lead. The Ghost just stared at the cross hanging around my neck and the Weight with it.
“Tell me, Howard, have you ever heard the legend of el Cadejo?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“They talk about it – a beast like a great wolf that wanders the lonely back roads and lives up on the hills, seeking travelers. There are two kinds of Cadejo: white furred and black.”
The Ghost held up two fingers.
“The White Cadejo acts as a guardian to travelers and drunkards. It shepherds them and keeps them on the path to their destination and out of peril.”
Once I reached town, I checked into somewhere cheap and headed to that little place around the corner. That’s when the ghost greeted me. We sat in a booth way in the back – still don’t know how the sumbitch found me. His hair was long now and fell past his shoulders. He looked gaunt and pale like how you’d expect a dead man to look. Handled his drink like one too. But his voice was the same, if a little bit lower and seeming to come and go on the air of the music moaning out of that jukebox in the corner. Ritchie Valens seemed the flavor of the evening.
“Do you plan to stay in Mexico very long?” the ghost said as he placed his dirty glass down and took a drag off the Camel cigarette he’d bummed from me. I responded with a shrug and polished off my first can of Modelo, “All up to what Dukes wants, yeah? Maybe we stay here, maybe he makes another big fuckin’ stink of this town.”
“Still on the hunt for what you seek?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
The Ghost smiled sadly at me. He could see the Weight.
“I hope it forever eludes your grasp, old friend.”
We got quiet. I don’t think it’s easy for ghosts to speak for too long – not exactly up to practice, are they? But his eyes never left me, unblinking and looking me up and down as if tracing the bones inside. They fell to repose just below the collar of my shirt.
“You still wear it.”
I nodded wordlessly, reaching up to hook the silver chain with my thumb and draw it out. The ghost canted his head.
“I’d hoped you’d have let it go by now.”
I shook my head once. There was something in my gut that went all the way up my windpipe and sat in the back of my throat. It was big and dense like lead. The Ghost just stared at the cross hanging around my neck and the Weight with it.
“Tell me, Howard, have you ever heard the legend of el Cadejo?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“They talk about it – a beast like a great wolf that wanders the lonely back roads and lives up on the hills, seeking travelers. There are two kinds of Cadejo: white furred and black.”
The Ghost held up two fingers.
“The White Cadejo acts as a guardian to travelers and drunkards. It shepherds them and keeps them on the path to their destination and out of peril.”
Her face was chalky white from the foundation. I see her in a crack of thunder. The rain falling harder now. Keep going.
”The Black Cadejo is the opposite. It preys on those same people the White Cadejo protects. It directs them to harm and misery. It leads them astray. It revels in their pain and anguish.”
The smoke from the cigarette lingered around the ghost’s face like a halo. His eyes stared through me, still never blinking.
“There’s a hell hound on your tail, Howard Black. I pray that it doesn’t consume you.”
The conversation was interrupted by some barking in the native language, which I’d never learned. He was a big man, gesturing and yelling accusatorily. I put my hands up and tried to muster a smile.
“Perdon. No hablo Espanol.”
The ghost had left, as he was wont to do. I wondered for a moment if he was Irish and snickered to myself, but the open laugh didn’t seem to impress the belligerent before me. His yelling intensified.
“Tell you what, no hard feelings. I’ll just leave.”
I rose to stand, but when I did he reached out to grab me by the collar. I didn’t care about the flash of steel I briefly saw tucked next to his belt buckle – I grabbed the bastard’s arm and brought it right to where it belonged in my clutches. It was then I noticed every eye in the bar on me.
“Okay… Tranquilo…Let’s all sit… Or I break su arma.”
The men who’d stood continued to bark their ugliness. I saw their ante and raised my own with a snap and a scream.
The ugliness spilled out the honky tonk’s door to the parking lot, but even in the mess of blows and thrown objects, I wasn’t about go down without a fight. If anything? This was the thrill of the hunt. I’d been given that kid last week and had hardly broken a sweat, while I had to watch with envy as those other kids got to fight all throughout Vegas to their hearts content and with no rules. This? This is what I lived for. And I could’ve used the $50k – I made a note to bring it up with Dukes before or after my match as I drop a grossero to the asphalt and caved his jaw in with a hard stomp.
It was around the time I had some kid caught in a headlock and was busy reducing his face to ground meat that I felt a tug on my neck from the chain. I dropped the kid and looked up to see it in the grip of a big fucker who was already cocked back and swinging. The shot hit me in the cheek and was enough to send me sprawling – I felt the slash of the metal as the chain snapped and saw the crucifix clatter to the ground.
I drove the sumbitch down with a double leg and didn’t take time savoring the cracking sound as the back of his head hit the street. His blood had started flowing as I reached down to swipe the crucifix from the pooling. It was around this time I felt the searing needle pain and could taste blood in my mouth as the bottle plunged into my side.
In my pain, the bastard was able to deliver a kick to send me down on the bottle and shatter what was left under my weight. But this wasn’t any more about winning – this was about survival. I kicked him in the groin and took off into the desert before any of them could pull a .38. I never let go of the crucifix in my hand, even as I checked the damage.
The smoke from the cigarette lingered around the ghost’s face like a halo. His eyes stared through me, still never blinking.
“There’s a hell hound on your tail, Howard Black. I pray that it doesn’t consume you.”
The conversation was interrupted by some barking in the native language, which I’d never learned. He was a big man, gesturing and yelling accusatorily. I put my hands up and tried to muster a smile.
“Perdon. No hablo Espanol.”
The ghost had left, as he was wont to do. I wondered for a moment if he was Irish and snickered to myself, but the open laugh didn’t seem to impress the belligerent before me. His yelling intensified.
“Tell you what, no hard feelings. I’ll just leave.”
I rose to stand, but when I did he reached out to grab me by the collar. I didn’t care about the flash of steel I briefly saw tucked next to his belt buckle – I grabbed the bastard’s arm and brought it right to where it belonged in my clutches. It was then I noticed every eye in the bar on me.
“Okay… Tranquilo…Let’s all sit… Or I break su arma.”
The men who’d stood continued to bark their ugliness. I saw their ante and raised my own with a snap and a scream.
The ugliness spilled out the honky tonk’s door to the parking lot, but even in the mess of blows and thrown objects, I wasn’t about go down without a fight. If anything? This was the thrill of the hunt. I’d been given that kid last week and had hardly broken a sweat, while I had to watch with envy as those other kids got to fight all throughout Vegas to their hearts content and with no rules. This? This is what I lived for. And I could’ve used the $50k – I made a note to bring it up with Dukes before or after my match as I drop a grossero to the asphalt and caved his jaw in with a hard stomp.
It was around the time I had some kid caught in a headlock and was busy reducing his face to ground meat that I felt a tug on my neck from the chain. I dropped the kid and looked up to see it in the grip of a big fucker who was already cocked back and swinging. The shot hit me in the cheek and was enough to send me sprawling – I felt the slash of the metal as the chain snapped and saw the crucifix clatter to the ground.
I drove the sumbitch down with a double leg and didn’t take time savoring the cracking sound as the back of his head hit the street. His blood had started flowing as I reached down to swipe the crucifix from the pooling. It was around this time I felt the searing needle pain and could taste blood in my mouth as the bottle plunged into my side.
In my pain, the bastard was able to deliver a kick to send me down on the bottle and shatter what was left under my weight. But this wasn’t any more about winning – this was about survival. I kicked him in the groin and took off into the desert before any of them could pull a .38. I never let go of the crucifix in my hand, even as I checked the damage.
By the time I got over the hill, I had begun to feel weak. The flow wasn’t stopping, and I didn’t know anywhere I could get stitched up. On my knees, watching the rain take my red red kroovy to mix with the sand, I saw her again. Her skin was pale as the snow, even without the foundation. Saw her too. She was as pale – just like she was that day I walked out and left her to her tears. I clutched the cross as the world went black.
I woke up back in my motel room bed. The bleeding had stopped – the wound seemed stitched up, but the scar was ugly, like the bite of a big dog. I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Through the darkness, in the light of the moon and flash of lighting, wo red eyes looked back from a face big and black and covered in thick fur. The hell hound was still on my tail.
I had to keep going.