Muerte Con Carne

by McKenzie, Shane

  “Come on, Papi. Lemme show you my pussy. I’ll show you and you love it.”

  “¡Deja a mi jodido cliente en paz, Lupe! Vete.” The bartender shooed her off like some dog that had just tracked mud over his floors.

  “Suck my tits, motherfucker.” The woman waddled away, toward the other two men who looked far happier to see her than Felix.

  Felix tapped his finger on the shot glass. He didn’t even really want another shot, but Marta’s face swam in his mind and he wanted to drown it away, hold it under an ocean of tequila until the bubbles stopped.

  The bartender did as he was asked, but shook his head. “That bad, mi amigo?”

  “She broke my heart, Ignacio. Sh-shattered it like a fucking vase.” He slapped the bar hard, stung his palm. “All I did was love her, man. Th-that’s all…all I did…”

  The woman’s scream filled the air like fireworks, and Felix flinched, nearly fell backward again but caught himself on the edge of the bar.

  “Hijo de puta…” Ignacio knelt down, came back up with a shotgun. “That’s enough!”

  Felix blinked away the fogginess, then faced the shrill sound of the woman’s phlegmy screams. She lay on her back, holding her face, staring up at the fat Mexican man as he cocked his leg back and kicked her in the stomach. The woman rolled to the side, her mouth opening and closing as she struggled for air.

  “I said that’s enough!” Ignacio pumped his shotgun and aimed. “Get out of my bar, motherfucker.”

  “Bitch said…I had a small dick. I showed her and she laughed.” The man kicked her again and the thud was followed by more screaming as the woman found oxygen.

  Felix jumped to his feet, but brought his barstool with him as he stomped toward the man. The woman saw him coming, curled herself into a ball and whimpered.

  “Wait a min-” Ignacio’s voice was cut off as the barstool cracked across the fat man’s shoulder, just where it met his neck. He hit the floor, kicked his legs, his teeth bared, eyes squinted in pain.

  The barstool didn’t break, and Felix held it over his head. “You fucking piece of shit!” As the man cowered beneath him, muttering drunken Spanish gibberish at him, Felix couldn’t figure out why he was doing this. But it felt fucking good to hit something.

  The barstool was yanked from his hands so hard he almost fell again. He spun on his heels expecting another drunken man with a face full of liquored-up rage, but it was Ignacio.

  “Easy, mi amigo. You got him, okay?” He set the barstool down, his shotgun lying on its side on the bar. He picked it up and aimed it at the man on the floor who still writhed as he held his shoulder and neck. “Ándale, pendejo.”

  The other man, clearly not this man’s friend, cackled as he sipped on his beer, his tongue pushing in and out between the missing front teeth in his mouth. His laughter was hoarse, whispery gasps mostly, a few deep chuckles managing to break through here and there.

  The injured man rose to his feet, shot every one of them a dirty look as he stumbled out of the bar.

  Felix’s vision swam for a moment, his stomach twisting and reminding him of how much alcohol he’d poured into it for the past few hours. Ignacio patted him on the back, shook his head.

  “Another shot, mi amigo? Gratis, yes?”

  Felix nodded, though he didn’t know how much more he could drink. Though a sickness started to spread through him, the adrenaline of hitting that man pumped him full of energy. He wanted to hit someone else.

  “My hero.” The woman’s cigarette breath was in his face again, and that alone churned his stomach. “Por favor, Papi. Lemme pay you back.”

  Felix didn’t remember sitting back down, didn’t remember Ignacio pouring him another shot, but there he sat with a full shot glass in front of him. It took him a second to realize that the pressure in his lap was the woman massaging his cock and balls, her hands venous and thick-knuckled.

  He wanted to shove her away again, but the more his cock swelled, the better it felt. The woman was behind him, her arm wrapped around, and he could imagine it was Marta. It was Marta’s face he saw in his head, her naked body covered in sweat, his cum splashed over her stomach.

  He took the shot, struggled to swallow it.

  He was already halfway across the bar before he even realized he’d been on his feet.

  8

  Marta was bouncing when she started to regain consciousness. Something was pressed into her stomach and making it hard to breathe. Her mouth was dry and bitter and no words could break through the thickness of her throat. All she could see was blurry colors, everything moving.

  Upside down. She was hanging upside down, and she couldn’t lift her head because of all the bouncing, the moving. Her face kept hitting something wet, soft. She tried to speak again and her open mouth hit the wet, soft surface. The taste of salt filled her mouth.

  Her eyelids fluttered and the colors started to take shape. Dried grass and dirt beneath her…and boots. The backs of what looked like shiny blue, plastic boots came in and out of her vision.

  I’m being carried.

  It was then that she realized her face was knocking against a sweaty, hairy back, and the bouncing was the motion of her being carried over someone’s shoulder. Someone tall, large. She was able to lift her head just a bit, starting to get control of her body again. The pickup truck grew further and further away, but the screaming was getting closer. And the crying. A child bawling, a male and female voice pleading…in Spanish.

  “W-what’s going…o-on?” More salty fluid invaded her mouth as she spoke and she tried to spit it out but couldn’t. She kicked her legs, thrashed her torso to get herself loose, but the arm she didn’t even realize was holding her in place tightened, squeezed the air out of her lungs.

  She bared her teeth, growled as she continued to fight, smashing her fists into the hard back, but the arm constricted even more, crushed her stomach, threatened to break ribs. No more fighting, just trying to breathe now.

  Her eyes felt ready to pop from their sockets, and she lifted her head to relieve some of the pressure. Just in front of her stood what looked to her like some kind of homemade boxing ring. But there were skulls…human skulls at every corner. Flies crawled across their surface and swirled above them. The mat was nothing more than plywood stacked on top of truck tires, and she caught a glimpse of the blood spatter stains covering it before she was carried away from it.

  They entered a house now, and the screams became deafening.

  “¡Por favor! ¡P-por favor! ¡Deja libre a mi familia!”

  “Mi hijo. Devué‚lveme a mi bebe…”

  The arm loosened and Marta sucked in a lungful of air, panted as she caught her breath. Her body was thrown forward, whipping off the shoulder she’d been draped over and slamming to the floor. The back of her head collided with the hardwood and nearly sent her diving back into unconsciousness. Her teeth snapped shut over the tip of her tongue, nearly clipping it off and instantly filling her mouth with the taste of blood. She sucked on it as she whimpered and crawled backward on her elbows.

  When she saw the one who’d been carrying her, a scream blasted from her throat as she furiously kicked her legs to get away from him.

  The man was massive, a towering mountain of muscle. His head was covered with a blue, sparkly mask, the kind she’d seen Mexican wrestlers wear. Lucha libre. He was shirtless, the muscles in his pectorals twitching and bouncing as he stared at her, his gut big and round, but solid-looking, swirled with hair and beaded with sweat. His eyes were wide as he stared down at her, his smile full of long, yellowed teeth.

  “Bonita,” he said. He wore blue spandex pants, and she could see his cock swelling as he stared at her, sliding down his leg as it grew. He giggled like an excited child, clapped once, then slapped his chest. “Bonita.”

  “Get the fuck away from me!”

  The wrestler flinched at the sound of Marta’s voice, covered his face, spun in a circle and whimpered. He grew shy then, could barely look at her,
plodded across the room.

  Marta followed him with her eyes and saw the others in the room. An old woman, her hair as white as spider web, rocked in a large wooden chair. A child sat just in front of her, sitting Indian-style, his elbows resting on his knees and his chin cupped in his hands. He grinned to reveal a mouth full of silver capped teeth.

  The huge wrestler scurried toward the old woman, knelt down beside her. She reached over and ran her hand over the mask. “Está bien, Gustavo. Está bien.”

  “He likes you.” The voice came from Marta’s right, and she turned, saw the man from the taco trailer, shirtless, his torso covered with a tattooed ribcage and spinal cord. Black ink depictions of his humerus, radius, and ulna bones ran the length of both arms. He was knelt over the Mexican family that she’d met at the border, his fist clutching a fistful of the woman’s hair. The child lay in a crumpled heap beside him, and the woman had her eyes pinned on her son. “Gustavo is a good boy, but always been shy around pretty girls.”

  The pregnant woman waddled in from another room, her stomach perfectly round and too big for her shirt to cover. The belly button stuck out like a brown marble, surrounded by maroon stretch marks. When she saw her brother knelt there beside the woman, she paused, squinted and scowled as she ran her palms over her bulge.

  The Mexican man looked like he’d been beaten, and he continued to beg through his blood encrusted lips as he watched the taco trailer man sniff the woman’s neck. His left eye was swollen, purple, bloody tears swimming down his cheeks. His nose and mouth were busted up and painted with blood, and every time he whimpered or spoke, blood would mist from his lips.

  “What…what are you people doing? What the hell is this?” Marta let her eyes dart around the room and took in the faces of the family. All Hispanic. The big one in the mask seemed to be retarded or mentally ill in some way, and from the looks of him he was probably the oldest. The man and woman from the taco trailer were pretty close to the same age, maybe mid-thirties or so. The boy smiling at her sitting in front of the ancient old woman couldn’t have been more than twelve.

  “Carne,” the old woman said. Her tired eyes landed on the beaten man, stayed there for a moment. “Carne para mi familia.”

  “What is your name?” the taco man said, dropping the woman back to the floor, stepping over her, and kneeling beside Marta. He grabbed the hair at the back of her head, twisted it, pulled her face so close to his she could smell his breath. “Tell me your name.”

  “M-marta…please.”

  “Marta. I like that.” He dropped her, strutted toward the old woman who continued to steadily rock in her chair. “I’m Cristobal. Remember me, bonita? Did you like Mamá's menudo? The best, right?” He pointed at the beaten Mexican man who had crawled his way beside his wife. The woman now cradled her child, the small scrawny boy coughing and whining. “Just wait til you try this one. They always taste better when they got family to worry about.”

  Marta shook her head as the reality of what Cristobal was telling her set in. She remembered the succulent tripas, how perfect and delicious they were. The grease from the barbacoa tacos dribbling down her chin as she gorged herself on the meat. Her stomach gurgled and the sting of acid squirted from her throat.

  “What’s the problem, Marta? I know you loved Mamá's cooking. Everybody loves Mamá's cooking. Now, bonita, you’ll get all you can eat.” He chuckled, bent at the knees to be face-level with the old woman, leaned over and kissed her cheek. The woman pressed the side of her face into Cristobal’s lips, her eyes still on the Mexican man. “This is Mamá. You already met mi hermano. Gustavo? Say hi.” He patted the big man’s masked face, and the wrestler lifted his head from Mamá's shoulder, waved at Marta. “Wow, he really likes you, Marta. I can tell.”

  Marta jumped to her feet and sprinted toward the door. She knew where the truck was, and she could only hope that for some reason Cristobal had left the keys in it. If not, she would just run, run as fast and long as she could.

  Rapid footsteps followed her to the door, and just as she grabbed the knob, the little boy with the silver grin cocked back and kicked her in the shin. He made a hissing sound, giggled, kicked her again.

  Marta lifted her hand to slap him, hit him, rake her nails across his eyes, whatever she had to do to get him out of her way. From the corner of her vision, she saw Gustavo jump to his feet. The floor shook as he roared and stomped toward her.

  Marta caught another kick to the leg just before shoving the boy out of the way, and she tried to swing the door open. Had it cracked, her fingers wrapped around the edge, but it was slammed shut before she could throw it open. Her fingers were smashed between the door and the doorframe, mashed tight into the thin crevice.

  The pain exploded into her fingertips, rode up her hand and into her wrist. A series of screams and grunts oozed from her mouth as she tried to jerk her hand free, but the door had clicked shut and she was stuck. Blood trickled down the wood in crooked lines. Her fingers throbbed, but she continued to yank on them, trying desperately to free herself.

  A massive hand shot forward and wrapped around her throat, squeezed until the pressure forced her bleeding tongue out of her mouth. Gustavo leaned his face toward hers, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her neck. His breath was humid, thick like steam.

  “Gustavo might have a crush on you, bonita” Cristobal said from across the room. “But he’s very protective of his family.”

  The little boy kicked her again at the same spot on her shin, and this one hurt, sent tremors of agony up and down her leg. Gustavo lifted her by her throat. When her feet left the ground, his grip tightened, and she thought her head was going to tear free. He lifted her up and up until her trapped fingers wouldn’t let him anymore. The wrestler gripped her wrist with the hand that wasn’t choking the life out of her, and yanked. Bones snapped, flesh tore, peeled off the top and bottom of her fingers, but her hand still held. Gustavo yanked again, then again and again until her hand ripped free, dripping with blood. Tattered ribbons of flesh hung down like raw bacon.

  Marta wanted to scream at the agony sizzling in her hand, but barely held onto consciousness. She thought she heard voices, but it was dwarfed and drowned out by the throbbing in her head. Then she was dropped, her body hitting the floor like a broken mannequin. The side of her face smacked the floor, but she sucked at the air in quick, deep gasps. Her mouth tasted like blood and bile, but the oxygen was sweet, and she concentrated on catching her breath as the rest of her body screamed with pain.

  Black spots and stars sparkled at the edges of her vision, and then the boy’s face was inches from hers, that same grin plastered there. Gustavo stood over her, his chest heaving as he glared at her, muscles tight with bulging veins worming across them.

  “Sorry ‘bout that, Marta. But you try that shit again, and we’ll let Gustavo take you to the ring.” Cristobal stepped between the boy and Marta, messed the boy’s hair. “This is Rogelio. Mi primito. If I was you, bonita, I wouldn’t lift your hand to him again.”

  Marta wept as she continued to breathe, the fingers of her good hand shaking as she lightly rubbed her aching neck. She couldn’t move the other hand, attempted to bend her fingers only to be greeted by twisting anguish.

  “And that’s my sister Alma over there.” He pointed to the pregnant woman who was now standing beside Mamá. The old woman appeared to have dozed off, though she continued to rock in the large wooden chair.

  Marta lifted her face off the floor, hugged her knees as she stared up into the faces of her captors. “Please. P-please don’t kill me. Don’t…don’t k-kill me.”

  Gustavo picked up Rogelio, lifted him over his head, and placed him on his shoulders. The boy giggled.

  “Kill you?” Cristobal said. “You’re family now, Marta.”

  ***

  Marta must have fainted because when she opened her eyes, she was in a different room than she remembered. Cristobal had been standing over her, and the giant masked man was twirli
ng in place behind him, making the child on his shoulder laugh and laugh. The Mexican family she had met at the border had been huddled together across the living room of the house, crying and mumbling things to one another between their sobs.

  You’re family now, Marta.

  Those were the last words she remembered hearing. But now she lay on a bed, her face pointed toward a wall. For a brief moment, she thought the entire thing was some terrible nightmare, that she was in her motel room, that Felix was in the room just beside her.

  The smell of rot brought her back to reality. Then the pain in her hand, hot and searing, threw her into a sitting position. She couldn’t move it, her first and third fingers crooked and misshapen. The chewed up, exposed meat throbbed in rhythm with her pounding heart. She wept as she pressed the strips of skin back over the exposed muscle of her hand and fingers, every touch like fire against her raw nerves. Felix’s ring shone from the ring finger of her good hand, and a painful whimper sputtered from her mouth. She tried to swallow to dampen her aching throat, but winced at the scraping pain.

  I’m so sorry, Felix.

  She put the ring to her lips as she wept, wanting nothing more than to melt into Felix’s arms, tell him how she truly felt. The look on his face after she rejected him, yelled at him, burned its way into her thoughts.

  Every breath she took filled her head with the essence of putrid meat. Flies buzzed through the air, a few landing on her body, scuttling across her sweat-coated skin. They suckled at their tiny legs, twitched their wings.

  The bed she lay on was big, maybe a California King. The sheets were a dark blue, covered with white stains that she could only hope were sweat and drool. Sitting just in front of the bed on a short wooden desk was a television-an old one with dials and two antennae sticking out the back of it. The screen was static, the only light source in the windowless, dark room. White noise crackled out of its small speakers as chaotic light danced across the surface of everything. A VCR sat on top of the TV, a tape sticking out of it like a short, rectangular black tongue.