Shame, shame, shame (part I)
Shame, shame, shame (part II)
Shame, shame, shame (part III)
Brother, they slipped me a pretty dose.
I had these visions …
I was on the Ramblas … the Track Suit Mafia … Hu Yu and the T Street Gang … the con with the bouncing cartoons ... common gypmeisters … everywhere … thousands of them. Some wore shiny blue and crimson polyester ... greasy hair ... filthy mitts. All scrambling towards me.
I planted my feet. Braced myself for the onslaught.
They were within arm’s reach. I could tell they had a leader. Johnny-Half-A-Gram.
So the turncoat guiri was scotch with my foes. I should have known. That mandible-grinding fool. I thought I was historia.
Then everything faded into gray. Went to the background. Like theater. Or a bad dream. From above came a god-like thing. Hanging from a crane of sorts. Like a mechanical angel.
The angel was Katy. Magic Hands. Only this Katy wasn’t a double crossing ramera. She had the voice of a goddess. She was pure light. She said everything was going to be all right. The gypmeisters would end up in the squirrel cage. She and I would go to a pretty Polynesian island.
Happily ever, and all that hooey.
…
I came to. I tried to move. My hands were stuck.
It took monumental effort, but I opened my eyes. Things swam in front of me. As if through gasoline vapor. Like things at a distance on a hot summer day.
Then I heard those confounded bachatas. Latin sex music. My head pounded with each percussive noise. The door burst open.
Compadre. The mucker from the bar. I should have known.
I tried moving. On my hands, cold steel. Nippers were twisted on tight. Realized I was handcuffed to this battered bed. I tried to kick. I had no shoes on. My feet were also bound. Que mala leche.
There I was. Tied like a hog. Compadre sneering at me.
“Señor Kovaks. I see you awake.”
I tried to speak:
“Yo…. yo no hablo …. no hablo … talk.”
My thoughts were confused. The effects of sodium pentathol all right.
“Sumtink for you.”
Compadre held up a glass syringe. There was blue liquid in it. Balling up, rolling off the needle.
I wanted to buy some time, ask him what he was about to inject me with. Instead I blurted:
“You. Little monkey!”
Then he answered my question:
“Viagra Kovaks. Quinientos miligramos. Puro. No man can say no.”
I tried to scream, but only managed, “Una … una …. cerveza por favor …”
Compadre stabbed my thigh and mashed the plunger in. I felt heat.
He slinked out, like he slinked in. The rat bastard.
…
I don’t know how much time had passed. My whole noodle was burning up. I could feel blood pumping up to my face. My crotch was ripe. Swollen. It was not a pleasant feeling. The room, the light …. everything got bluish. There was a halo around the light fixture on the ceiling. I heard footsteps.
Compadre, again. The swelling went down, slightly. The blood rushed to my dome. The most inhumane migraine you could imagine.
Compadre scraped up a chair.
“Oye, gringo… Leesin to me. You playing with wrong peoples. Now you tell me who send you. You tell me what they want. Or we pump you with more Viagras. Your verga ...” He cupped his palms together, then moved them rapidly apart. “BOOM!”
“Sabes … where is …. mi …. suitcase?” I still couldn’t coordinate my thoughts and speech. The truth serum and the sex drug were too much. Even for me.
Compadre spat on the tiles. He got up and slid his chair back. He left the room and slammed the door. The dry cracking noise of the door was like a butcher knife coming down. On my head.
I could feel my strength flowing back. But Magic Hands – or whoever tied me to this bed - did an expert job. Must have been a sado-masochistic sex expert.
Time went by, as they say.
I think. I had no references. No ticking of a clock. No line of empty bottles in front of me.
I heard footsteps. Different from Compadre’s. A low, rolling rumble. The door opened again and it was Globos Descomunales. She was pushing a cart with a TV on it. She rolled it up to the foot of the bed. She plugged it in. Turned it on.
She left as she entered. Without a word. The door: click.
The TV screen lit up. The title: Les exxxcursionistes calentes.
…
No man should ever go through what I did.
Imagine, if your plebeian mind is able to:
1. You’re bound to a rickety four-poster bed, on a stained mattress, in a strange brothel, in the Chino.
2. Five hundred cc's of pure liquid Viagra pumping through your veins.
3. Still reeling from the side effects of sodium pentathol. The most powerful truth serum known to man. A man’s defenses could not possibly be lower.
4. Then imagine being subjected to hardcore Catalan pornography.
“Noooooooooooooooooo!”
My arms bulged. My fingers curled into tight, hard fists. The cold steel dug in. The goddamn nippers wouldn’t give.
I heard feet padding up to the door. Before it opened I knew it would be her.
(To be continued.)
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