Twisted All To Hell

by J E Moore

didn't. The nation's economy was in shambles and Miami was overloaded with uneducated or non-skilled Spanish immigrants. He left the apartment before she called the police again and 'borrowed' her car. "Bitch, let her call the Policia. I don't care anymore. It's not my fault I got laid off." He swerved a few times on the ten lane highway due to built-up, nervous energy. "I had a good job delivering those cigars around town," he spat. "Yeah, I liked that... and man I had a bunch of amigos when they found out I was shipping the good smokes." His anger rose as did the speed of the vehicle. 'Slow', 'Construction next half mile', read the signs which he missed or ignored in his mounting rage. "That stupid Puta!"

  Victor felt his foot pressing the accelerator. "Carlos, slow down," he warned. Of course, unheard.

  More weaving... too close to the retaining wall. He saw a reflected, temporary lane divider speeding toward him and made a hard right turn which smashed the right fender into the side concrete barrier. The rear of the car swung up to where the vehicle straddled sideways across the breakdown lane, then it flipped over multiple times. The battered sedan finally came to a rest upside-down. They both hung inside Carlos's body, still secured by the seatbelt - a miracle. 'Boom!' The recently filled gas tank exploded causing the fuel line and engine to burst into flames. The seatbelt would not release.

  It takes longer than you think to burn to death and no greater pain. Armada, after the experience, could not imagine a more horrible way to die.

  Another morning after...

  Victor awoke shaking, ran to the bathroom and repeatedly dry heaved. He was now certain of being secretly poisoned since ample time had passed for most hallucinogens to dissipate. "I must get to a diagnostic center, have a complete blood work-up then have my own private doctor fax prescriptions to a reputable pharmacy in order to nullify these mind-altering effects. Yes! That is clearly the solution," he then arranged and took a private MediVac helicopter to the best testing facility available back in Buenos Aires which the ship had departed yesterday and was only a hundred miles away at the present. After his condition had been determined and medication administered he would hop a charter across Argentina to Santiago, Chile the ship's next port of call.

  The lab results didn't reveal anything extraordinary - showing only markers of anemia, dehydration and excessive sodium, all due to improper diet and exhaustion. Armada hadn't slept in three days when he finally laid his head on his stateroom pillow. He had swallowed globs of prescription vitamin supplements since departing the pharmacía and returned to his familiar, comfortable cruise ship cabin surroundings. Armada felt confident of success.

  It was a warm night. Raul, age fifty-seven, smoked a cheap stogy - not one of the fine cigars made by the business he used to work for. He reflected on his past: a self-taught mechanic of thirty years street learning and experience in Havana. He could repair any auto or truck and made a fair living with 'the company' after coming to America. Four years ago things changed for the worse: Pay cuts came but he dealt with it - he still had a job. Then some new bosses from Europe took over and he was let go, the polite term for "Get your worthless, Spanish butt off my property." The Miami area was filled with unemployed mechanics amongst its one million plus Cuban population and he had no other skills to fight for another type of job. For years he begged on corners, sold flowers and stolen neighborhood fruit, barely staying alive. "It's over. I can no longer live this way," and kissed the cross he wore around his neck. At least the stinky cigar kept the mosquitos at bay. He sat cross-legged on a railroad track tie (a wooden cross beam). Raul glanced up hoping to enjoy the firmament of his childhood - there were no stars here - never are in big, polluted cities. He sighed, "Soon, God I'll see the glory of your heavens again. Forgive me."

  They (Raul and Victor) felt vibrations in the steel rails caused by a Florida East Coast freight train hidden behind the industrial park warehouses as it ambled along at a mere twenty miles per hour. The time was late and no warning horns blared. There wasn't a non-controlled, traffic crossing for at least another mile. A faint, distant, Clang, Clang, of a warning bell became detectable. Raul stared ahead - an ever so slight smile cracked his weathered face. Fate accepted, welcomed?

  The iron behemoth began its quarter mile turn and came into view. A swinging light from its upper front swept the tracks ahead. No freight cars trailed the beast; it was en route to pick-up a string further down the line. The engineer had green Go signals and couldn't see Raul due to the long curve. The ground vibrations intensified due to the weight of unstoppable power. Armada screamed inside his host's head, "Run, you fool. You can't play chicken with a frig'n freight train!" Then he realized Raul was not playing. This was the death he had chosen, and Victor's to share. "Why do people do these things! This isn't my fault," but it was.

  On it came, in slow motion... laboring... yet relentless. Finally at about a hundred yards Raul's figure came into view but because of his odd sitting position the engineer thought it was a cardboard box and didn't try to stop - not that he could in time. Soon, the shocked rail employee realized his error and hit his warning horn at thirty yards, Brammp!!! hoping against all odds that a sleeping man could still dive to last second safety. Clang! Clang! RUMBLE, Screech-h-h... Raul's head was bowed in prayer, "Hail Mary full of grace..." as the engine and track beneath wedged his body into the underside carriage stripping his bones clean. Chunks of meat littered the track for two hundred yards.

  Victor awoke and stared at the ceiling as if in a trance. The butler said nothing and left in silence. Once out of the cabin he called room service to have a pot of coffee delivered in thirty minutes - no more, no less. The fearful cruise employee felt as if he were a mere phone call away from termination and being tossed off the ship at the next port. One complaint from this High Roller, a clearly disturbed man, could cost him his job and future employment on any cruise line. He'd be back in the fields cutting cane. To him the ship's motto, "to exceed your expectations," had radically changed to "to stay the hell outta his way unless summoned."

  Armada lay in deep thought... not about the terror and horror he had just experienced, but more about what to do next to escape the nightmares which were draining his mental and physical strength. "It must be psychosomatic," he whispered. "I need professional help. In a vessel this large filled with the upper crust there must be several qualified Shrinks on board. I'll ask the captain for their names and room numbers... no, better yet, I'll demand the info or threaten to withdraw my sponsorship of Regal Cruise Lines. His butt will be in the wind and he knows it." Victor received what he wanted and negotiated a one hour session for a thousand dollars a day with a reputable psychiatrist on going-forward basis.

  The head doctor listened to his patient's morbid dream renditions but nothing concerning the two girls on deck thirteen had been disclosed. He assured Armada relief from his nighttime episodes by giving him a free two week sample supply of a strong narcotic which would last until they docked in Los Angeles and could fill a ninety day prescription. "Have no fear, sir. You won't dream tonight and will awake fully refreshed and vibrant." Again, a relieved Victor lay in his super-sized bed expecting to receive a restful night's slumber.

  It was night, perhaps two or three in the morning. He stood alone out of the traffic lanes on the Rickenbacker Causeway which connects Miami to Miami Beach. Slightly cool with a mild breeze, "It must be January or February," he reasoned. "What's going on? It's beautiful out here." Twinkling lights from each city reflected on the rippled, black intercoastal waterway creating a picture perfect scene. "I'm alone... great. Those pills the Doc gave me didn't deter my dreaming but it sure changed this one into something pleasant. Wish I had a cigarette to celebrate." He surveyed the surroundings in appreciation. "Alone, peace... I gotta give the man a big tip next time I see him," and smiled. "Oh, wait. Who's that coming?" Victor detected an old woman pushing a stolen grocery cart containing all her worldly goods toward him in the overhead street-lit distance. "What's she doing here at this time? Avoiding the heat of the day
I'll bet," he surmised. "Makes sense; the homeless don't have to punch a clock. I'd flip her a fiver if I had one."

  Onward she hobbled until stopping right in front of him. Margo, age sixty-four, a roaming vagrant at the present but previously a cleaning lady at the company Armada sold-out from under his employees. Cast aside by the new Russian mob owners, she became another unimportant, collateral damage casualty. All of a sudden their minds became one. "Not again," he moaned.

  It happened so quick Victor had been completely caught off guard. She glanced over the bridge's railing at the water flowing a mere fifteen feet below, hopped-up to sitting position for a couple of seconds then jumped. The spirit-broken woman never looked about nor said or thought a word. She was gone, just like that.

  They were falling feet first with her arms held above. Very quick, Splash! Margo couldn't swim and after a few moments the human instinct for survival kicked in and she began to flail with her arms and legs but never called for help. It just so happened this particular week was the beginning of the seasonal, nightly southern-bound