THUGLIT Issue Twelve (6 page)

So now I just have to decide what to do with this. My journal. I could burn it or shove it in the toilet, but is it even worth the effort? There had to be a dozen witnesses. I
'm fucked no matter what angle you take this from.

Since this will probably be presented as a courtroom exhibit, I would like to point out that I did not intend for any of this to happen. Even though that guy was a dick, and tried to ruin my business, I
'm sorry I killed him. I shouldn't have taken the knife.

Though, I guess that
's the folly of these things. Am I apologizing because I'm sorry, or because I'm about to be caught?

Who knows?
This is not the time to be philosophical. Because at this moment, there's a crash and a crack from the front of apartment. Cops breaking down the door, probably.

I had another plan for the future, too. After I built my taco empire, I was going to take this thing and turn it into a book
. Even had a title planned out.

Con
fessions of a Taco Truck Owner.

I figured, in ten or twenty years, I would have mined enough material that I could have told a pretty good story. How to make it selling tacos in New York City
.

Instead, it really did turn into a confession.

by Justin Porter

The town of Cinco Putas y Medio sucked, and the giant Gregorian-looking monk beating the shit out of me wasn't improving it. This guy was so ugly the local whores would have rather serviced the horses, if there were any horses in Cinco Putas y Medio. Or whores.

The ogre's fist cracked across my jaw and sent me to the ground. Let's
go back in time a couple days, and leave this asshole using my kidneys for a Stairmaster.

Maybe a flashback will give me some time to figure out how to win this fight.

"Mr. O'Shaunessey, Mr. Debonaire is ready for you."

I put down the copy of
Men's Health
just when the six-pack of a Greek god was nearly within my grasp. The secretary had gone back to her fingernails. I'd have liked to get to know her better, maybe tell her about the ab I almost had, see if she liked White Castle and candlelight.

Mr. Debonaire reached a hand across his desk to shake
, and his fingernails rasped against my palm. Too much eye contact for a handshake like that, but freelancers like me don't pick their clients by manners.

"Mr. O'Shaunessey, thank you for coming."

"My pleasure, Mr. Debonaire. I like to work, you know. This was in my best interest."

"Please have a seat. Coffee or a drink?"

I might have trusted Ms. Fingernails to tell me her innermost secrets, but not to make me a cocktail.

"I'm good, Mr. Debonaire. Sooner we get to business, sooner you get happy and I get paid."

"Very well. Have you been reading the news lately?"

"My internet's down. Last I checked the world was still totally fucked."

"Then please allow me to fill you in."

Was that a wink?

"A new country has declared independence in South American. Puertos del Oro has carved large pieces out of Uruguay, Brazil and Argentina. The people now running this new country—and running is a strong word—are all private military contractors. They've all decided to retire. An army, if you will, has just stolen itself a country."

"Sounds like a great vacation spot."

"An interesting choice of words. The surrounding nations are not angry because they lost some land, but due to the loss of several silver mines that were still producing in large quantities. A priceless artifact was recovered in one of them."

"How long until this new country gets stamped back into the dust?"

"Exactly. This time of uncertainty is very opportune. I sent an employee of mine, a brilliant young archaeologist, to verify and purchase. He disappeared, and Puertos del Oro may collapse at any moment. He was last heard from in the town of Cinco Putas y Medio, a pestilent shithole that grew around the mine when it was still part of Uruguay.

"I'm sorry, what's the town called?"

"Unfortunate, isn't it? Before the mercs I believe it was called Flores."

"And the artifact?"

"A stone tablet, believed to be part of a larger whole. It is said to depict the ancient gods of…" He uttered a stream of syllables and spitting sounds between his chattering teeth. I didn't understand him, but at least I now knew what it sounds like when an epileptic chokes to death in a blizzard.

"Mr. Debonaire, I think anything's an artifact of it's been in my fridge for more than a month."

"I am aware of that, Mr. O'Shaunessey. A certain gentleman gave me your business card. Its description is not, I hope, just for effect."

He tossed a business card onto the desk. I didn't need to l
ook at it, I know what it said:

Banyon O'Shaunessey. License to fuck shit up.

In Helvetica.

"Mr. O'Shaunessey, I believe you are perfect for the task. Go to Puertos del Oro and find my agent. If you can't bring him back, recover the artifact by whatever means you deem necessary."

"And my payment?"

He placed a large briefcase on the desk.

"Mr. Debonaire usually I…"

He opened the briefcase and took out a sandwich
; peanut butter with the crusts cut off. "Do you have PayPal?"

"Uh, yes."

"Excellent. My secretary has travel documents and keys to a vehicle. You'll be flying into Montevideo and driving into Puertos del Oro."

"I'm on the job."

"I am pleased, Mr. O'Shaunessey. And do try not to get killed."

"Thanks. You've got a bright future as a miniature golf coach."

Mr. Debonaire called out something as I was leaving, but I only caught a couple words:
artifact
,
hypnotic
and
careful
.

Whatever. Careful's for pussies.

I picked up an envelope from the secretary who managed to communicate disdain and that everything was in order without once taking her eyes off her fingernails. They were now a troubling shade of red. As I examined the envelope, I saw they'd left a streak near the opening.

A lesser man would have taken that as a sign.

Signs are for pussies, too.

Before I left
, I did some reading about Puertos del Oro. Four separate merc outfits, or "private military contractors," had been hired as protection from local rebel groups and environmental NGO's with more gunpowder than diplomacy. After watching how much money was leaving the place and how little was winding up in their pockets, the mercs took steps. These days in Puertos del Oro, it was easier to get a kilo of smack than a beer and a hamburger.

I made phone calls to Mr. Debonaire and a certain pair of vendors. There'd be a care package with the vehicle.

By care package I mean a bag of guns and ammunition.

Also some homemade chocolate chip cookies.

I'm kidding. It's just a bag of guns.

Carrasco International Airport in Montevideo was closest to the mines of Puertos del Oro and it showed in the well-armed security and humorless passport control. I handed across my passport and explained that I'd come to see the sights, perhaps do a little exploring and hiking. I eyed the pistol on the desk next to his stamp.

The passport officer was young but apparently not stupid.

"Bullshit."

I gestured for him to flip my passport where he found a crisp pair of hundreds.

"Very good, sir. Hiking it is. Would you like an Audubon guide for local birds?"

Wiseass.

I stopped in a cafe for a soda and a pastry that tasted like it might kill me in a couple years. My cab driver spoke better English than me and left me a few blocks from the drop. The keys in Debonaire's envelope opened a ground-floor security gate. An old Russian motorcycle was inside missing its sidecar, an armed Cossack
, and its war. On the seat was a duffel bag that clinked appealingly.

"Busca a este pendejo! Oye, gringo, que tu tienes aqui?"

The voice came from outside the storage space, five local hardcases in the corner of my eye. I pretended to ignore them, took one of the guns out of the bag—a beautiful Kimber .45—and loaded a clip. I racked the slide and the action was smooth—a satisfying, solid noise. I turned to the door but they'd left. If history has taught the world anything, it's what usually happens when a white guy shows up in your country with a bag of guns. If I'd had some crosses and blankets, the entire block might have left. I put the Kimber into a shoulder holster and headed out of town.

The border checkpoint was an empty booth. What glass hadn't fallen out was riddled with bullet holes, the metal scorched and warped. Somebody had broken the crossbar and thrust it into the ground, a pair of weather-tortured granny panties billowing from the top. In the booth was a brown-stained Uruguayan military u
niform, a broken assault rifle.

Adios a Puertos del Oro, amigo
, I thought, nudging the uniform with my boot.
La salida esta en la izquierda
.

As I rode into this brand new country full of possibility, where a capable man stood to better himself, the theme from
Fist Full of Dollars
played in my head.

Probably because I was gonna get fucking shot.

I could feel the mining equipment thrumming through the road under the wheels of the bike, rattling the trees. There were bare patches in the tree line, scorch marks and craters. I reached the gates of Cinco Putas y Medio under a setting sun, flashes in the twilight above the buildings.

Gun
shots. A lot of gunshots.

I rode in unchecked, swerved around a quintet of drunk mercs
firing assault rifles as diverse as themselves into the heavens. I expected more busted down locals being forced to work the mines, but everybody seemed to be wearing a uniform and carrying a gun. I sidestepped the arms of the general brawl and ballyhoo and climbed the steps to a stale-beer shithole with a shiny new neon Budweiser sign. At the back, five men played darts with throwing knives—one was winning, giving the finger to his friends. I threw my leg over a barstool and motioned to the bartender, a big guy who looked like he'd taught Mr. T to be a hard bastard and where to get a haircut.

"What?"

"Bud and a shot."

He put down an anonymous brown bottle and poured pale liquid into a cracked shot glass. It tasted like rum and kerosene.

"What was that shit?"

"Rum and lighter fluid."

"Oh."

"Only fuckin' with you. It's just cheap as shit."

It was time to get some information with the patented O'Shaunessey charm.

"Damn, son. Never thought I'd hear that accent this far south. Where you from in Brooklyn
, my dude?"

"I'm from Miami. Why the fuck are you talking like that?"

"Whatcha mean?"

"You know e
xactly what I mean, white boy."

I gave up trying to blend. "I'm looking for somebody. Local bartender usually knows what's going on
, right?"