The Cowboy Bible and Other Stories (6 page)

This would explain a whole shitload of stuff. First, that the dubbing of this equation would be double-spaced, that the devil would be well endowed, and, lastly, that The Cowgirl Bible would adopt blues and soul roots as her musical model, without giving up the best licks and tricks used by white blues and psychedelic axers. Satan told her: Jaimito Hendrics always played black material. With the following exceptions: Cream, a little Dylan, The Beatles, and The Troggs’ Wild Thing.

The Cowgirl Bible’s success, like gears on a car, rested on four foundational perspectives. First, second, third, and fourth: the historic appearances she made at the London bar Bag O’Nails before the stars of British razordom.
*

That’s why, when The Cowgirl Bible returned to her homeland, PopSTock! of the drunken crazies, the audience got used to the syntax of her instrument as easily as an IMSS nurse learns to ignore patients. That’s how intoxicating The Cowgirl Bible’s sound became for the neo-public. Neglected compatriots who come to in the sanatorium, here’s your meal your bed your nurse, who hit you buddy. Rock it. Especially if it’s your first record.
The polar bear robs robs robs me
, gets a rating of ten from the untamable critics. The next step is to get billed as the warm-up act on a Coca-Cola sponsored tour. And from there it’s gravy.

That is, until the day the following warning popped up on The Cowgirl Bible’s computer:

BRONTOK.A [10]
—Hentikan kebobrokan di negeri ini —
1. Penjarakan Koruptor, Penyelundup, Tukang Suap & Bandar NARKOBA
(Send to NUSAKAMBANGAN)
2. Stop Free Sex, Aborsi & Prostitusi
(Go To HELL)
3. Stop pencemaran lingkungan, pembakaran hutan & perburuan liar
4. SAY NO TO DRUGS!!!
— KIAMAT SUDAH DEKAT —
Terinspirasi oleh:
Elang Brontok (Spizaetus Cirrhatus) yang hampir punah
[By HVM3l]
—JowoBot #VM Community —
!!! Akan Kubuat Mereka (VM lokal yg cengeng & bodoh) Terkapar!!!

OMG. Is that hot enough? The previous warning doesn’t mean what it means. Anita, sit next to Billy ain’t the same as sit on the billy. In fact, the warning said the devil needed The Cowgirl Bible’s soul. It was time. To pay up. If you should see that warning on your screen, be very very careful, it’s a sign you’re pretty much done for. It’d be best to seek refuge, just in case the Hacienda, Quinta, and Rancho all come down on
you.

Hey, Devil, no worries, I’m gonna pay up, just hold the carnitas, let me keep the tamales. That’s what The Cowgirl Bible wanted to say, but she didn’t get a chance. The evil one had arrived. And time, dear spectator, time is pop. The Devil is pop. Love is pop. And pop is a whore. From that moment on, The Cowgirl Bible had no choice but to avoid at all costs the disgraceful signs of pop. Like, for example, playing the lottery. And since she was a wrestling addict, she avoided all matches that featured the Evil team, such as Satánico or the DEA’s Arcángel. She fed her paranoia to such an extent that she stopped consuming
vampiros
, with their salsa verde, refrain of refried beans, hot tortillas, and icy Victoria beers. How she’d loved them. Too bad. But no tears.

Before any more of this blah blah blah, prepared by Lexus and based on a plan boosted by HarperCollins, we’re gonna pay attention to the regression hypnosis that will reveal, via The Cowgirl Bible’s own words, the strategy that should be used by anyone interested in selling their soul to the Devil:

The crossroads are at El Cerro de la Cruz. Famous for its
cholos
and male prostitutes and, oh, for the quality of the coke sold there. Don Devil himself begins the auditions after midnight and a toke. According to some folks, he could start earlier but he never misses the five o’clock telenovela and at around eight he takes off for the gym. He dines at ten and then, yeah, the proceedings begin. I’d been told the lines could get as long as a bank’s, or like those at soccer stadium box offices. But I was pretty much by my lonesome. Maybe because it was Sunday and everybody was still hungover. There were just four of us. There was a man in front and, oh, how he loved to argue. It was Old Man Paulino, a
corridos
composer determined to show Satan that spiders are oviparous. I’d also been told Don Chamuco liked a little pussy. But it wasn’t true. The truth is that when it was my turn, he treated me with cool efficiency. I was told to go to window number four for a stamp, then to number twelve for various signatures, and then at the register I finally signed the contract for one soul. I waited fifteen days for my new aptitudes to arrive via
DHL.

When I count to three and clap my hands, The Cowgirl Bible will wake up and not remember any of this. So, one two three, and you’re back, said the very portrait of the salon’s teenage cowboybiblish hypnotist. Now, let’s dismiss the doctor. Thank you for your help. Please pick up your honorarium. Thank
you.

And now let’s return to the story.

The words quoted above, directly from The Cowgirl Bible, are excerpted from the book
Black Magic: Real or Mental Cumbia?
, authored by Dr. RHA. During various periods, more or less from cool to post-cool, The Cowgirl Bible thought that by going to therapy she could rid herself of her belief in Satan, and that way she’d be free of her deal and it’d be impossible to take her soul. But no way, you can’t play crooked on the king of crooks, lord and master of smuggling, software piracy, and made-in-China Virgins of Guadalupe. Time takes its toll, and it wasn’t long (a space of about five centimeters that’s found between the fingers when spread out as if the hand were a kite) before The Cowgirl Bible felt the twenty-three grams of her soul being seized.

It was a year, then two, that the Devil hadn’t shown his face at PopSTock!. He was very busy, with Jorge Reinoso, representing malice in Almada films. Around that time, The Cowgirl Bible’s third record debuted at the peak of the Top 40 lists, right at number one. Her single, Subscribe to Marie Claire, was nominated for song of the year by Esténcil Miusic Aguords because of its use of pastiche, le collage, and cats-up with the electric razor.

And then it happened: She was invited to take part in the recording of Celso Piña’s DVD,
Cumbia Power
. Celebrating his twenty-five years of playing
vallenato
, the DVD would capture a live concert of Celso’s hits accompanied by various invited guests. This was, both superficially and at the deepest level, a helluva privilege: to play alongside PopSTock!’s favorite son. Only a very select group of artists would play with Celso onstage, which seemed to indicate that The Cowgirl Bible’s career had been forged by fire and would come roaring out of the flames. Could she—drunk and drugged—dance naked to The Return of the Son of Monster Magnet
†
and keep her rep unscathed? She, had, in fact, already done it at some party. In time, that would become one of The Cowgirl Bible’s very few appearances on
film.

The Cowgirl Bible could barely remember Hungry Daddy Freaky Satan when, out of the blue, another messenger appeared to muddy the waters. Be careful, warrior girl, because the feds are looking for you, they warned her. At a personal level, this kind of threat can be used to rationalize a farewell tour, featuring the corresponding DVD and the enjoyment of many accompanying honors. How many celebrities, late in life, at the time of their death, would take care of their business on Earth so that they could leave in peace? Not a one. The Cowgirl Bible didn’t either, so she didn’t worry about inquiring, or arranging with her label for the remastering of her work, or leaving as a final request that she be cremated and that her ashes be scattered in the desert by the Estación Marte. She spent her time just sanfernanding, that is, spending some time on her feet, then doing some pacing, all in wait of the biggest villain in
el cine de ficheras
: the devil.

The omens played out exactly like the saying The pig with the thickest lips will get the best ear of corn. First, there was a scarcity of pot in the state. It was a tragedy of Dostoyevskian proportions because, with their soothing weed gone, the potheads had turned into dangerous creatures of unclassifiable sorts. They were stuck seeking work as mini-golf caddies, pizza-delivery persons, fried-chicken peddlers. Second, the local team fell into a ten-game losing streak. The city was a neurotic chaos, and in each home we saw unchained scenes of unnecessary violence. Third, the idiots working for the city forgot to spray for dengue and the mosquitos went on an epidemiological spree.

As the omens got more intense, the devil’s presence seemed more palpable. But still Satan didn’t appear. And he won’t appear, somebody said. For these kind of gigs, he counted on proxies, gangster lawyers, licensed trinketeers, magicians, flatterers, politicians, conspirators, scribners, tramps, black-market runners, umpires, arbiters, referees, beatniks, pencil pushers, tunicked eunuchs, hippies, etc. As soon as the soul was taken, the devil entrusted the act to a minion. He hated his clients, he bitched that they were all whiners, always asking for postponements. Just like concertgoers, they wanted more, an encore, one more, one more, one more. The Cowgirl Bible just didn’t know. She didn’t realize the agent she’d hired to contract her for a show on the El Paso highway was actually at the service of the Axis of Evil International Company. She had accepted. I’ve had it up to here with hiding from this cabrón, she said. He’s supposed to be the
hottest tamale
in the world, but he always winds up mocked in Hollywood-style rom-coms. A little show on the border with minimum backup is gonna help me get over so much delirium.

She arrived in Juárez on a Transportes del Norte bus. She watched two movies on the trip.
The Devil Wears Prada
and
The Day of the Beast
. From Juárez she hopped over to El Paso. Texas smelled insufferably of plagiarism. When the air smells so strongly of imitation, it can only mean one thing: sulfur. The gossipy sulfur that indicates the devil
‡
is once more among the people.

The Cowgirl Bible knew that establishing herself in the USA was a task for talking machines. Satan’s powers were like those of Corona beer: It was unfazed by borders. Or perhaps as potent as the services offered by UPS (which was suddenly shit too). Evil depends on express delivery. So as not to continue her avoidance, The Cowgirl Bible didn’t move; whatever happened, she would confront her rival. The power of the highest high is the power of the highest high. Here, there, over here or over there, or a little more over here, right here, right right here; there you go, right there. There it was. A perfect place for an altar.

At midnight, she entered the bar with the epic all-encompassing patience of an à la carte menu before it’s even been read. But there was no sign of the devil, not even his gleaming sandals. He was flying the colors of the Mexican All-Stars at a game against Panama in Houston. In his place, and to go on with the show, the devil had sent his top doggest of top dogdom: Steve Vai, who, in less time than it takes to fill a fried-chicken order, challenged The Cowgirl Bible to a razor duel. She knew she couldn’t turn it down. To refuse a dignified death meant, in times of Reformation, to spend all of eternity wandering the Juárez market bathrooms.

For the contest, they brought in two of the hairiest pubises in all of history: those of Tongolele and María Victoria (the one who sings really slowly… really, really slowly). The solos began. For eight minutes of strenuous improvisation, not a hair was seen on the blades. It was only when the music began to play, indicating that the participants had gone over time and it was time to go to commercial, that the competitors stopped. The jury’s decision was
this:

The Cowgirl Bible’s performance is well structured, and keeps an adequate razor beat as it subscribes to an innovative meta-language. It’s a modern approach, and without skimping on its virtues,
bold.

When shaving, Steve Vai connected with a stale tradition and was able to liven it up. The rich razor mix keeps his score up. There’s no need to divorce the anethaeum of the
carpa
.

And that, my dear friends, was the last time anyone laid eyes on The Cowgirl Bible Parker. That was just a few minutes ago, since the final duel with Steve Vai was recorded on a cellphone and uploaded to YouTube. We don’t know what happened next. The video cuts off. There’s a crazy theory that it was all a setup, that The Cowgirl Bible isn’t dead. That she faked her own death because she’d had it up to here with so much fame. Some loyal fans swear they’ve seen her buying fried chicken at several Henry’s franchises. Others are sure she’s living in India and using an English colonizer name. It doesn’t matter. We have The Cowgirl Bible on YouTube, to watch as often as we desire.

In a little while, when the battle against global warming is lost, it will only be possible to watch the real Cowgirl Bible on YouTube. The devil will only be invoked through the worldwide web. If you want to keep her life from ending, just send a donation to 1-800-YouTube. With your contribution, we can guarantee that, even if it’s just on a screen, the real Cowgirl Bible will go on and on thanks to the internet.

For more information, search for the guitar duel with Steve Vai on YouTube.