Muerte Con Carne

by McKenzie, Shane

  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 t
highs 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.”

  Marta kept her hand behind her back, fighting the urge to jab her thumb into Cristobal’s eye. He lifted his face toward hers, and she turned her head. His nose pressed against her neck and he nuzzled for a moment before sniffing long and hard. When he stood, his erection tented his pants, and he checked over his shoulder to make sure Gustavo wasn’t looking before he pushed the bulge into Marta’s face, rubbed it over her cheek as if using it to apply makeup.

  “Me and you, bonita. That’s how it’s gonna be.” He kissed her forehead before trudging toward the old woman. He held her by the elbow as he led her across the yard and back toward the house.

  Mamá smiled, her pale tongue sliding across chapped lips as she eyed Gustavo cleaning the meat. “Bueno,” she said. “Encuentra a tu padre. Dile qué‚ la cena estará lista pronto.”

  “Si, Mamá. Se lo dire,” Cristobal said as he rubbed her back in a circular motion with his free hand. Rogelio trailed behind, carrying Carlos on his back. He spun in circles, giggled as he went, as if he were only giving his new friend a piggyback ride. The bloody needle protruded from his mouth like a toothpick and he disappeared into the house.

  Marta swung her gaze toward Gustavo who now ran his fingertips over the smooth, pink flesh of the carcass. A long serrated blade was pulled from the belt and Gustavo dropped to his knees, lifted the upside-down body by the space between the shoulder blades, cut into the neck and sawed his way around.

  Francisca began to rock her body, her head shaking as if trying to ward off a cloud of gnats. But she still made no sound. Her mouth worked up and down, but nothing came out. Marta wondered if the woman had screamed her voice away.

  With Gustavo concentrating on his task, Marta began working her arm free. Her hand throbbed, and when she tried to flex her fingers, the bolts of pain nearly made her shout, but she held it to a light whimper. She winced at the jingling sound the chains made as she wiggled her arm, but there was no response from Gustavo.

  The chain was still tight, but she was able to lift her shoulder high enough for her arm to pull free of another row of metal links. She jerked her forearm, hoping to free it completely, but it still held, her elbow catching the chain. When she straightened the elbow she didn’t have enough leverage to pull the arm out, so she took deep breaths through her nostrils and strained her jaw as she bent the elbow and pulled. The loose flesh on her elbow grinded against the metal links, and Marta ignored the pain exploding there as she pulled harder, hoping the blood would make it slippery enough to pull out. The skin tore, and as she pulled harder, it tore more. Blood oozed, warm trickles running down her forearm.

  And then the arm was out. A celebratory gasp sputtered from her lips when her arm swung to her lap. She looked at her hand, barely recognized it as her own. She could wiggle her thumb, but the other four fingers were broken, the flesh flayed from the tops of them. The middle and ring finger were both missing nails and the meat on the underside of the fingers was swollen and purple.

  Her arm was freckled with needle holes, covered in blood.

  “Francisca, you’re in for a treat. Your husband has never been so delicious, I promise you that.”

  Marta flinched, quickly threw her arm back behind her. She slowly turned her eyes toward Cristobal, scared to see the look on his face.

  But the man had his attention on Francisca, held her head up by the hair and had it aimed toward Gustavo who held the severed head by the gore ribbons in the neck stump. He bounced it a few times, then placed it on the ring’s mat. The knife was plunged into the corpse’s groin, pulled down across the stomach and chest until it reached the neck. Gustavo sawed at the breastbone, pulling the ribs apart as he went.

  Marta’s gorge began to rise. Acid stung the back of her throat and her eyes watered, and when the entrails spilled out and plopped into the tub, she turned her head and held her breath to keep the vomit from streamlining.

  Cristobal lifted the hysterical, silent woman and marched her back into the house, chair and all.

  The wet, slippery sounds continued to her left, and Marta tried not to imagine what Gustavo was doing now.

  Gravel crunched as footsteps grew closer and closer to her. She turned her head to find Gustavo towering over her, that goofy smile still on his face. His rubber apron was covered and dripping with blood, his hands and arms painted red up to the elbow. A rank, meaty scent swirled off of him.

  He got that shy demeanor again, couldn’t look Marta in the eye. One hand rubbed at the back of his head as he leaned forward. He lowered his mouth toward hers and tried to pucker his thick lips but could hardly make it past the long teeth. He chuckled stupidly, circling his tongue to dampen his mouth. Humid breath hit Marta in waves. Blood dripped from his apron and sprinkled over her legs.

  Marta tried to turn her head but couldn’t escape his kiss. Her mouth was instantly filled with the sour taste of gum disease and tartar and bad meat. He held his mouth against hers for a long time, drool oozing from his lips onto hers, dripping from her chin in long stretching strings.

  “Carne,” he said when he pulled away from her. He pointed toward the dead, gutted man behind him. “Carne fresca.”

  Marta let her head hang as she wept silently. Her mouth hung open in disgust, and she tried to spit the taste from her tongue but it remained thick and potent in her mouth.

  Gustavo chuckled again, then wrapped his arms around her and lifted her, carried her into the house. He sat her at the table beside Francisca, the same spot as before. Rogelio and Carlos sat together across from her, Carlos’s head resting on Rogelio’s shoulder. His dead, whitening eyes were directed right at his mother. He looked almost alive, as if he were begging her to help him. But then his head slipped and his forehead smacked the edge of the table. Rogelio picked him back up, replaced his head to its previous position.

  Francisca stared at her son, still shaking her head, muttering soundless words. The chains rattled as her body trembled.

  Gustavo gave Marta another loving look before trudging back toward the yard.

  Cristobal pounded on Alma’s door again. “Come on, Alma. That’s enough of this, okay? I’m sorry, all right?” Cristobal pounded harder when there was no response. “Alma, open the fucking door!”

  Gustavo traipsed back into the house, Alejandro’s hollowed out body slung over one shoulder while he carried the tin tub with both hands. The meaty smell of blood and entrails clouded the room at once. Gustavo set the tub on the counter beside the sink where Mamá immediately dug her hands in. The carcass was laid out on the island and spread wide. Gustavo plucked the severed, masked head from the tub and set it beside the body, lifted the mask and tore it free, snapping the thread sewed to the neck skin. The tongue hung loose from the mouth like a wad of grape bubble gum and the eyes were half rolled to the back of the head.

  A small knife was unsheathed from his belt and pressed it to the head’s left cheek, just under the eye. He sliced into the soft cheek meat, carving out a fat, circular chunk. The same was done to the other side until the molars were visible on either side of the head. He tapped his finger at the back of the skull where the black, curly hair stuck out in all directions.

  Mamá had a tube of intestine in her wrinkled hands and ran a blade sideways across the surface. A translucent film scraped off, and once she finished with that, the old woman hooked one end onto the sink faucet and turned the water on. Black and brown substance oozed out of the intestine, and Marta turned away, felt her stomach heave.

  Rogel
io whispered into Carlos’s ear, snickered, then placed the dead boy’s mouth to his own ear as if being told a secret. He nodded, eyes sideways as he pretended to listen.

  Cristobal descended the stairs, his face red and muscles tense. He rubbed his stomach as he approached the kitchen.

  Mamá cut the intestine into pieces and dropped them into a boiling pot, and after Cristobal wrapped his arm around her shoulders and kissed the side of her head, she pushed him away, hissed and waved her hands. “Pozole,” she said. “Traigame el pozole.”

  Menudo, Marta thought. She’s making menudo.

  Marta remembered how delicious the soup was, how perfectly tender the tripas were. She went lightheaded for a moment, twinkles of light sparkled at the corners of her vision.

  “We’re out,” Cristobal said from the cupboard, his hands shuffling things around and his back muscles rippling as he searched. “No más pozole, Mamá.”

  Gustavo had the body in nine pieces now. The arms and legs were each cut in half at the joint, and he worked at the shoulders on the torso, plopped the chunks of meat on the counter where Mamá scooped them into a large silver bowl.

  “Ándale,” the old woman said. She pointed at the front door with her chin, then began sprinkling spices and oil into the bowl, kneading the fresh meat.

  Cristobal glanced at Marta, furrowed his brow, bit his lip.

  Marta turned away from him. Something banged from upstairs. Alma’s room. Another bang and what sounded like a frustrated cry.

  “Come on, Mamá. Can I go in the morning? ¿En la mañana? Early, I’ll go real early. Muy temprano.”

  “Ahora, Cristobal. Tu padre ya no puede conducir, tú ya sabes eso.” Her voice was weak, as if every syllable was draining what energy she had left. Gustavo continued to cut the body into roasts and steaks and chops. He paused, knife midway through thigh meat, and stared at his brother.