Muerte Con Carne (20 page)

“Sick. You’re all sick,” Marta said as she stared at the old woman, then turned to face Cristobal. “You said Gustavo has something wrong with his brain? You all fucking do.”

Cristobal laughed, nodded. “You’re probably right about that, bonita.” His eyes never left the ring, and he placed both pinkies into his mouth and whistled.

Gustavo pulled Alejandro off his feet as he continued to lift him by the throat, then slammed him back to the mat. The giant backed into the ropes, bounded forward, and dropped a heavy leg over the man’s chest. He hopped to his feet quickly, then dropped an elbow down into Alejandro’s sternum. Gustavo rose, used his boot to nudge the man and roll him over onto his stomach. He faced the crowd and roared, flexed, banged his chest.

“El Gigante!” Cristobal cupped his hands over his mouth. “Gigante, Gigante!”

Rogelio stood on his chair and waved his arms. “Ya, ya, ya, ya!” Carlos’s body danced in the seat beside Rogelio as his arm was tugged.

Marta took a slow, deep breath and pulled at the chains around her wrists and arms. She nearly screamed when she felt one hand able to move, sliding through the metal links. The blood oozing from the multiple needle holes covering her wrists and hands made them slippery. But when she tried to pull the hand free, it jammed in the tightness of the chains. She could slide her hand a lot more than she could before, but still couldn’t pull it free.

Shit!

She bit her lip, closed her eyes. With every ounce of strength she had left, she pulled. Her knuckles screamed as they grinded against one another, but she bit back the cries of pain that begged to explode past her teeth.

Gustavo had Alejandro up again, held him one-handed by the head. He cocked his fist back and slammed his knuckles into the man’s face, stomping his foot on impact. Alejandro hit the mat hard, the only movement the rising and falling of his chest. Gustavo plucked him off the mat, hit him again, then stomped down on the small of his back.

Alejandro didn’t respond, just lay there motionless. Blood covered his torso like a tight shirt and was splattered all over the ring.

Marta clenched her teeth until her jaw ached, grinded them as she twisted her hand back and forth and pulled as hard as she could. Something popped and a small gasp escaped her lips, but she swallowed the rest of the scream. She pulled again, another pop, and her hand slid free. The chain hung loose, and she felt the tightness in her arms give some, enough that she thought she could work her arm free.

But not yet. She kept her hand behind her back, checked to make sure the family didn’t see her pull it loose. Mamá muttered something indistinguishable under her breath as she continued to rock herself, and as Marta listened closely, the gibberish began to take shape.

“Gigante,” the old woman mumbled. “Gigante… Gigante…”

Cristobal and Rogelio were both too entranced by what was happening in the ring to pay her any mind. Their eyes and grins were wide.

Francisca had her head turned and her eyes pinned to her son. Marta was sure Carlos was dead, though she found herself watching his chest, hoping it would inflate just a tiny bit, but it never did. The boy had been clinging to a shred of life as it was when she saw him at the border. It hurt Marta to look at Francisca, knowing the woman’s pain must have been agonizing. Seeing her weep for her son brought those broken memories of her parents to mind, memories that she didn’t even know were real or just images concocted by her longing. She hoped that whatever happened to them all those years ago was better than this. She hoped they wept for her the way Francisca did for Carlos.

When Cristobal grabbed Francisca by the face, Marta yelped along with her. Warm tears rolled down Marta’s cheeks and she wanted nothing more than to see each and every member of this family dead. She ground her teeth and widened her nostrils as she willed her stare to burn Cristobal where he stood.

Cristobal thrust Francisca’s head forward, held her face with both hands, and forced her to watch as her husband was beaten to a bloody pile of meat. And when this was all over, that’s all he would be.

Gustavo placed Alejandro’s head between his legs, squeezed it with his meaty thighs. The giant faced his brother and the boy, stuck his tongue out and gave a thumbs down. “Whaaaa!”

Cristobal and Rogelio returned the gesture, both with their tongues touching chins, their right hands giving the thumbs down.

Grabbing the waistline of Alejandro’s black spandex pants, Gustavo lifted the man’s legs into the air, wrapped his beefy arms around the thighs, then hopped, drove the top of the head into the hard mat. The ring shook, looked ready to fall over. Francisca gave another gurgling cry as blood slithered out of the top of her husband’s mask.

But El Gigante wasn’t finished. Leaving his opponent on the floor, he strutted around the ring, flexing and slapping his oil and sweat slicked chest. He stomped toward the corner where his gold belt sat, lifted it in the air and howled. His muscles looked ready to burst from his skin. He wrapped the belt around his waist, ran a loving hand over the melted, misshapen surface.

Then he climbed the skulls. His trunk-like legs were surprisingly steady as he stood atop the highest skull, tilted his head toward the moon and spread his arms wide. Gustavo turned his head and looked directly at Marta.

And he smiled. The wild animal look softened, his eyes curving into arches as his snarling mouth pulled into a yellow grin.

He leapt, spread his body into a thick, beefy star as he plummeted toward the bleeding man lying center-ring. The mat cracked when he landed, his massive body flattening Alejandro beneath it.

Alejandro’s leg twitched, his foot clicking against the wooden mat as his body spasmed. Wooden shrapnel splintered out from the point of impact, and Gustavo slowly rose to his feet, shards of wood embedded into his flesh here and there like porcupine quills.

Cristobal guffawed, slapped Francisca on the back as he laughed and laughed. “Did you see that? Holy shit, that was
insane
!”

Rogelio looked concerned, his brow a mess of wrinkles as he stared at El Gigante standing in the center of the wreckage. But when the giant wrestler raised both fists in the air and roared, Rogelio’s silver grin was carved back on his face and he jumped up and down in celebration, tossing Carlos’s body around on the ground like a dying fish.

Francisca’s head drooped, her chin resting against the chains constricting her chest. She didn’t make a sound, just sat there wide-eyed and slack-jawed as if in that very moment her mind swirled away to a better place. Her eyes barely blinked, just a slight flutter of movement, and a liquid icicle of drool slipped from her lip.

Marta hadn’t even realized Cristobal had walked off until the rattling metal sound caught her attention. He strolled back into the yard from the house, carrying an apron, what looked like some kind of utility belt, and another chain.

Gustavo already had his battered opponent over his shoulder, and he kicked through the shattered wood toward one of the three poles that still stood. He plucked Alejandro from his shoulder and positioned him upside down in the corner, crossing the man’s legs over each other. Cristobal handed him the chain and Gustavo wrapped it tight over the legs to hold Alejandro’s body there.

Marta thought the man surely had to be dead, but as she watched him hanging there, his mouth began to move, working up and down as if he were chewing an invisible chunk of meat. His stomach inflated and deflated, but just slightly. Francisca continued to stare at the ground at her feet, reduced to nothing more than a swollen mannequin.

Cristobal passed the apron over next and Gustavo unclasped his gold belt and handed it down to his brother. Cristobal took it carefully, smiled at it. Gustavo tied the apron at the back of his neck, then around his waist. Black rubber and worn, littered with scattered holes.

Cristobal handed up the utility belt, and as Gustavo took it and wrapped it around his stomach, Marta saw that it was aligned with knives. Wooden handles protruded from the various holsters, and Gustavo pulled a long, shiny blade from the front of it, stepped toward the man who now squealed and wiggled his torso with whatever strength he had left.

Cristobal bent down, pulled a wide metal tub out from under the ring, slid it under the bottom bungee cord. Gustavo kicked it toward the corner where the lip struck the top of Alejandro’s head. He shoved it underneath the man, and the metallic pitter patter of blood rang out as it dripped from the head and neck and torso.

Gustavo plucked shards of wood from his forearms, showing no signs of pain as his blood trickled out. He knelt down, his mouth-breathing loud and rattling. He reached out with a gentle hand, caressed the side of Alejandro’s mask. He whimpered slightly as he pet the man’s face, a sort of whispery giggle. His hand moved up and ran across the chest and stomach, his fat fingers dimpling the reddened skin, pinching it as if he were calculating how much fat was inside. He squeezed the arms, the thighs, the buttocks.

And then he slid the knife across Alejandro’s throat. The slit ran across the middle of the neck, just under the already torn flesh where the mask was stitched on, and the blood slid out in sheets, hitting the bucket in rhythmic spurts. Then Gustavo stuck the knife into the throat, at the center of the slit, and shoved it in at an angle toward the chest, twisted it, and pulled it out. The blood poured now, bathing the man’s head and soaking the fabric of the mask.

Alejandro’s body bucked. His tongue stretched from between his lips as the blood cascaded down his face and filled his mouth. Gustavo held the man’s flailing arms in place as he continued to bleed out. Alejandro made a hocking sound, like he was trying to work phlegm out of his throat. The thrashing of his body began to slow and Gustavo released the arms, knelt back down and started petting the man’s face again. The bucket continued to fill with blood.

***

A sharp pain in Marta’s arm, then a soft giggle in her ear.

Rogelio stood beside her, his needle buried into her deltoid down to his fingertips. She wanted to pull her arm from behind her back and squeeze the kid’s throat until she felt her nails break skin, but the time wasn’t right. Even if she managed to get her full arm free, which she still wasn’t sure she could do, she had nowhere to go. So she spat at Rogelio, bared her teeth.

The boy only snickered as he slowly pulled the needle back out of her, then stuck it in at her side, right into the love handle. A small shriek belted from her mouth, but it quickly turned to a growl.

“Get the fuck away from me, you sick little shit!”

Cristobal chuckled from his spot beside the ring. “He likes you, bonita. Looks like we all do.” He slapped the side of the ring as he laughed.

Gustavo had pulled the chains away from Alejandro’s legs and slung him over his shoulder. He now stood outside of the ring beside the small crackling fire with the large tub above it. The body had bled out. The bucket still sat in the ring, nearly filled to capacity.

Gustavo then gently placed the body into the tub. His massive frame blocked out the fire completely and he was outlined in orange light. He stood there, staring down, Cristobal beside him whispering to him, patting his older brother on the back.

Another series of pricks assaulted her side, and Marta spun her face toward Rogelio and hissed, screamed through clenched teeth. He stared right into her face, smiling as wide as his mouth would allow as he jabbed the needle into her love handle repeatedly. His hand was painted red with her blood.

After only a few minutes, Gustavo pulled the man’s steaming body from the hot water, not so much as flinching when the scalding liquid hit his own skin. He spread the man’s legs as he held him upside down, and Cristobal pulled a couple of long hooks from Gustavo’s utility belt. The points of the hooks were pressed one at a time through the Achilles heels, then hung on two clasps sticking out of the closest pole on the ring. Only a slight trickle of blood oozed from the hook wounds on the tendons of the man’s heels.

Francisca’s eyes swung slowly from the dirt to her dead, boiled husband. The man’s skin was bright pink with swirls of steam rising from it. Francisca didn’t react, just stared. Her lips moved as if she spoke, but no words came.

“Nnnggghhh! Get the fuck away from me!”
Marta screamed as Rogelio punctured her flesh again and again, going faster and faster. A steady flow of blood leaked from her side as the collection of tiny wounds began to merge into one larger one.

Gustavo cut the man’s spandex pants away, pulled the boots off, but left the mask on. Then he pulled another tool from his belt, something metal and bell shaped. Marta winced at the rough scraping sound as Gustavo slid the edge of his tool over the man’s flesh.

The hair. He’s removing the hair.

Big clumps of black hair collected on the edge of the tool, and Gustavo would wipe it off, then continue scraping at the pink and brown skin.

Francisca watched the whole process, continued mouthing her silent prayers as her husband’s skin was scraped smooth.

Marta turned her attention back toward her injured side, but Rogelio now stood by Mamá's chair, hugging her, his face buried into her loose, wrinkled neck. Carlos lay folded in half on the ground in front of him, his arm raised like a student with the answer to his teacher’s question.

It felt like an eternity passed by as Gustavo worked at the body with his tool, the night growing a deeper black as the time ticked by. The moon was a dead pig’s eye watching them, dripping its pus-colored light over the yard.

Cristobal finally strolled across the yard, patted Francisca on the head as he passed, and stopped in front of Marta. He leaned down, got eye level with her. His hands gripped the meat of her thighs and squeezed, but not too hard. He rubbed them, massaged them, licked his lips as his hands worked down to her sweaty inner thighs. His hand came away bloody, and he pulled a red bandana from his pocket and pressed it to her wounds.

“You hungry, bonita? I know you are.” He dabbed at the punctures, wiped away the blood gently. “Don’t worry. It won’t be much longer. You thought Mamá's cooking was good before? Wait til you get it fresh. You won’t believe it, bonita. You’ll never want to leave after you’ve had it fresh.”