Kiss Me, I'm Undead

by Tasha L Driver

  “Punta.” I hear a spit on the tile floor of the bathroom and remind myself to watch where I walk when I come out of here. “I am Xolotl. I won’t leave because a liar, a manipulator like you tells me to. This is my familia. You’re a fucking cop. How do you expect me to trust you now? I’m supposed to believe things are different? I’m seventeen but not stupid.”

  Seventeen? This is the smart kid Jorge talks about. The one he says can be a lieutenant one day. No way this kid got caught up in a Fed operation without being seriously led astray by a manipulative asshole like this cop, Esteban. It makes me angry. Grown men constantly taking advantage of the admiration of kids like Marco. Like what I used to be when Jorge first found me, begging for money at a bus stop.

  Marco went on. “Set up your raids. If the Xolotl goes down, if my capo goes down, I go down with them.” He leaves with a slam of the door.

  Esteban comes into my view as he moves to the sinks. I slink back, but he’s not really looking at where I am. He stares at himself in the mirror. Tears begin to come from his eyes, then he slams his fist on the counter over and over and over again. He’s in anguish, dulling the internal pain with the external type. I’ve done that. But I refuse to associate myself with this man. This user.

  He turns on the water and splashes his face with a few handfuls. Reaching over afterward for paper towel to dry his face, he looks up into the mirror and sees me. We stare for a moment. I am afraid he’ll hurt me for overhearing. Kill me before I can blow his cover. But he just stares for countless seconds, then turns and leaves without saying a word. Odd, but I won’t look a gift-horse in the mouth, whatever the fuck that means.

  Marco didn’t mention turning the cop in. He’s really in love if he’d rather go down with the Xolotl than tell Jorge who the mole is. But it doesn’t matter. The cop made a mistake leaving me alive to talk because I already know what I need to do. I am going to tell Jorge. I’m going to reiterate every damn word I’d heard and win his favor. He will be so fucking happy with me! He’ll be proud of me. He’ll shower me with love and attention again.

  It’ll be like when I went home with him that first night. He cleaned me up and put me in one of his t-shirts—one that smelled like Tide, came down low on my thighs, and felt so soft. He cooked me chicken enchiladas and gave me a Corona to drink with them. I told him I was only sixteen, and he said it didn’t matter, he wouldn’t tell. Then we sat on an overstuffed couch and watched his collection of bootleg Marvel movies. By the transformation scene in Captain America, he’d slipped his fingers under the hem of the t-shirt and into my pussy. I lost my virginity that night, and he was so sweet and gentle as he fucked me then. Asking if I was okay. Rubbing my clit so that I got pleasure along with the pain.

  I want that feeling again. I want him to be gentle and loving, and I know that’s exactly what will happen.

  I run out of the bathroom and through the corridors of the factory, looking for Jorge. I pass Esteban in one of them. He’s on the phone. I hear, “It’s over,” and think he’s speaking to me. I expect him to grab me and take me down. Instead, he points at one of the offices. “He’s in there.” Then, “See you soon.”

  THERE’S BLOOD EVERYWHERE, slowly moving across the floor toward various drains. Esteban lies on the cold floor of the main packing room, a bullet in his head. A quick death.

  He is not who the grunts and cries are coming from. The undercover cop got a swift, almost unexpected death, the single gunshot ringing out from Leo’s pistol before Esteban could finish the sentence.

  “They’ll still get you. They’ll still put you behind—” Bang.

  The cries come from Marco. Beaten and battered, bent over a metal table with unspeakable things happening to him. I stand next to Jorge, his arm lovingly around my waist, his thumb caressing my hip, with a frighteningly sly smile on his face. From there, all I can see are the backs of the men. The Xolotl. Marco’s brothers. And I see the bristles of the push broom. I’m so relieved I can’t see anything else.

  I know what they are doing. I hear him scream, cry, and gurgle up words I can understand. I see the blood flow from the area where he is trapped, held down by his brothers, being tortured in the worst way. It’s not right. I caused this. Me. I didn’t have to tell him Marco’s name when I rehashed the story. Even if I did, I should have left out the part about them being lovers. That’s what caused this. I should have known Jorge and the Xolotl would not take well to the idea of a gay man among them.

  Jorge laughs beside me. “Does that feel good to you maricon?”

  I caused this.

  “Please stop,” I whimper quietly.

  “What’s that, Mariposa?” Jorge uses his nickname for me. Butterfly, like the brand he gave me on my inner thighs. When I spread them apart, they form a butterfly. This man is sadistic, and I’m a fucking moth, not a butterfly.

  I caused this.

  “Make them stop please, Jorge. He’s learned his lesson,” I beg.

  “You want this to end?” I nod. “Okay,” he says to me then shouts to the riot of his men, “Hey fuckers, that’s enough.”

  It takes a while for them to comply, but Jorge waits patiently. Slowly, they drop him and move away. I gasp loudly at the sight, and Jorge chuckles.

  “Ugly, ain’t it. Too much for a beauty like you.”

  He orders two of the men to pick Marco up from the table and turn him toward us. They don’t bother to pull up his pants and I see, much to my horror, that at some point his dick had been cut off and shoved into his mouth. His eyes are two swollen, bulging testes.

  I gag, but nothing comes out, so I beg instead, “Let me take him to the hospital, please.”

  “Oh, Mariposa...you want to end this,” Jorge says. It’s not a question. He knows I do.

  I caused this.

  “Yes, please,” I confirm.

  Jorge tsks and shakes his head as he walks me toward a broken and mutilated Marco. “There’s no hospital that can help him. Only one thing can,” he says, pushing his ivory-hilted combat knife into my hand. He brushes a strand of red hair from my forehead. “You have to end this.”

  He is right.

  I caused this; I have to end this man’s pain.

  I step closer, glad that he has no eyes to see me with. I don’t even know where they have gone. I put the blade to his stomach and push. It’s not easy. There is more give than I expected.

  Jorge takes my wrist and moves it. “Here is better. There is a main artery. He’ll bleed out quick.” If I didn’t know better, I’d say he cares. “Push harder, Mariposa. Like you are cutting a steak. The meat is tough, and you have to get all the way through.”

  I do, and once I’m past his abdominals, it slides right through. Finally, I pull out the knife because I know he will bleed out in minutes if I do.

  I watch as Marco’s breathing slows. The dick is no longer in his mouth. I think he swallowed it. I am able to hear and understand the softly spoken “thank you” that tumbles from his lips.

  They drop his body, and I know that he is gone.

  I caused it.

  I fixed it.

  Snitches Get Stitches

  I got off at my stop in a daze, deflated from remembering the time that I did the worst possible thing I have ever done in my life, but determined to fix this problem, too. By the time I had walked to the area of the Crown Fountain exhibit, I’d worked myself back up into being ready to do what needed to be done to help the feds catch Jorge.

  I looked around and didn’t see Peter yet, so I sat on a bench nearest the most people and waited. For a few minutes, I watched the kids play in the exhibit. It was a tall rectangular structure arising from a black granite reflection pool. Some sort of way, the structure created digital images, a rotation of faces. Ones that appeared to spit on the playing children from the waterspout located closer to the base. It was an oddly beautiful exhibit, and an interesting way to have fun on a warmer than usual October afternoon. The tourists and locals all seemed to enjoy it.

/>   As I watched, I went over what I was going to say to Peter in my head. The full plan I’d formulated. I’d stay out in the open, allowing the crazed sicario to see me at any time. Peter would need to have surveillance set up on me. That way, when the sicario came to grab me, they could grab him instead, set him up in interrogation, then I would go in instead and make the offer. It made perfect sense in my head. I hoped Peter thought so as well.

  Twenty minutes went by. Then thirty. Peter still hadn’t shown. Had he been tied up at his office? I couldn’t imagine him blowing me off for something this important, especially after the way he sounded on the phone.

  I waited ten more minutes before deciding to call his cell phone again. I heard the echo of the ring from somewhere nearby and looked around, but still didn’t see him.

  Finally, it picked up, but it wasn’t Peter’s voice on the other end. “Hello,” a man answered in an accented voice that I didn’t recognize.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Somehow I must have dialed the wrong number.”

  “Oh no, Mariposa. This is Marshal Peter Whitehead’s phone. He just can’t talk right now.” The thick, raspy voice was not Jorge’s, but he knew the nickname he’d given me. It had to be the sicario.

  I looked around the park at the throngs of people surrounding me. Many of them were on their phones, but only one was looking straight at me. A tall, dark-haired man with a solid build and an ominous glare in his eyes. He was about a hundred feet away, and I kept momentarily losing sight of him as people walked by, but he never moved.

  “What do you want? How do you have his phone?”

  The man smiled evilly. “You know who I want, Mariposa. You know why I want you. You think you have a plan, but nothing will stop me from getting to you. Not even the marshal. Snitches get stitches, pretty girl.”

  The threat was enough to make me end the call. I wanted to shout out for help, but unsure if that would earn me more attention than I wanted. He still stood, staring me down. Dammit! I should have made the offer. The maliciousness in his voice scared me, though. I had no idea how he got Peter’s phone or even knew about this meeting. Had Peter told a colleague that ended up being a mole?

  I stood up abruptly, almost losing my balance in my fear, grabbed my satchel, and took off walking. I looked behind me several times. The man never moved from his spot. I knew he would start following me eventually, so I quickly formulated an evasion tactic.

  I took a different way through the park and caught a bus instead of the train, making sure that he didn’t get on with me. After three hours and six different bus transfers, I’d made it to my neighborhood after dark, slightly confident that he couldn’t have caught up with me. Just to be sure, I passed by my apartment and took the alley that led to the secret walkway that Freddie had shown me. By the time I pressed the hidden plate that opened the wall up into my hallway, I felt safer. That is until I saw the door to my apartment wide open.

  You're Such A Sweetie, But...

  Terrified, I wanted to run back the way I came, but the wall had already slid into place and Freddie hadn’t shown me how to open it from the inside. If someone was in my apartment, I was going to have to quietly sneak past and run out the front door. I could go up the stairs and pray that Freddie was home to let me in and call the police, but wasn’t that how girls always die in the slasher movies?

  I made it five stealthy steps when Freddie stepped out of my apartment and into the hall with a drill in his hand.

  “Holy fucking shit! You’re one of them?” This whole time the danger really did live upstairs, and now he was going to do torturous things to me with a drill bit.

  “What happened? Why did you have to use the back entrance?” Those were odd questions to answer my questions. He seemed more concerned than murderous.

  “Are you one of them?” I asked slowly and deliberately. “Answer me, Freddie.”

  “The landlords? Yes. I got your request in the box.” He furrowed his brows, confused. I walked closer and, sure enough, just inside the door were a toolbox and packages containing a brand-new door lock and an anti-invasion bar. He’d just pulled my old lock out.

  “How did I not know this?”

  “Did you ask? Don’t you just drop cash in the box every month for rent?”

  I stepped into my apartment. “Well, that’s what I was told to do.” I thought for a minute. “How are you a landlord if you don’t even live in this country?”

  He walked in behind me, placed the drill on the floor, and started opening the package with the new deadbolt. “My grandfather might not get better. He signed over the property to me, and I’m moving here permanently. I filled out the paperwork today.”

  Oh. “Well, I’m sorry about your grandfather. Maybe I should go and visit. What hospital is he at again?”

  Freddie got an odd look on his face, like I’d thrown him off course or something. “He’s in a private facility. And there’s no reason to visit. He’s been quite ornery and disagreeable. It’d be a shame to put you through that.”

  “I’ve seen worse personalities. Trust me.”

  He shook his head. “No. It really isn’t necess—” The buzzer sounded. Someone was at the door for me. I had no clue who’d be coming unannounced at almost 9pm.

  I stepped over Freddie’s tools and peeked around the door jamb into the hallway. Miguel was standing just outside the security door with a couple of bags and a gallon full of juice. Oh, fucking bless him gloriously! I ran to let him in. When I opened the door, I kissed him on the cheek. It earned me a smile from Miguel, but when I turned around, I was getting a scowl from Freddie. No. Not me. Miguel. Ooh... Jealously was ugly, but Freddie made anything sexy.

  “Come on in,” I said to Miguel. “What brings you here? You’ve never visited before.” We squeezed tightly passed Freddie, who made an effort to be in the way.

  I was glad to see my boy Miguel not even slightly intimidated as he gave Freddie an elbow bump and said, “What’s up, my man.”

  “Oh, Miguel, this is my new landlord, Freddie.” The latter’s eyes got wide with a mix of surprise and admonishment. “Freddie, this is my good friend Miguel.”

  Miguel nodded at Freddie, still pretending not to notice his bad attitude. It’s like Miguel knew I didn’t belong to Freddie, despite the vibes he was trying to give out. I didn’t belong to anyone. Not anymore, and I planned on always being my own woman from now on. Freddie could go suck a dick.

  Miguel dropped the bags on the counter. “So, I was thinking, you always get the same cuts, all beef. I figured we should try some new things. I’ve got a beef tenderloin for you. Some goat, buffalo, and venison. And, of course, your favorite drink.” He winked. It was cute, but if he kept winking a me like that, Freddie just may use that drill on him instead of my door.

  I shouted, “That sounds really expensive. I shouldn’t spend too much—”

  He matched my decibel level. “Babe, I got you. My discount is gigante. Really. How about you try something now? I can fix it for you if you show me around your kitchen.”

  Hmm, that sounded really...personal.

  “Kayla, darling, you shouldn’t spoil your appetite.” Freddie looked up at us from where he was loudly drilling holes in the floor for the hinge to the steel bar. To Miguel, he said, “She’s already coming to my apartment upstairs for a late dinner. I know where I can find an excellent cut of meat and it’s not from your little market.”

  Miguel was taken aback. Apparently, it was for a different reason than Freddie cock-blocking his plans for a cook-in. “Oh, I doubt that, Landlord Freddie. No one in The Chi has a better supply than us. What I have will satisfy her just fine.”

  “I highly doubt that, butcher.”

  Sigh. Male squabbles were so petty. I mean, at this point, I didn’t give two fucks who fed me. I was going to dig in the bag myself and chow the fuck down if they didn’t shut the fuck up.

  “Yeah? Where?” Seriously dudes.

  Freddie narrowed his eyes and smirked
. “So close I can practically smell it.” There was a bag of meat in front of me that I actually could smell. It was drawing me closer and closer to it as they bickered as if they were completely unaware of the fact that I was there, drooling viciously.

  “I know all the butchers around here and...”

  I didn’t hear the rest of what Miguel said because I tore into the nearest bag with a roar, ripped open the brown waxed paper and grabbed the first hunk of meat. I shredded through it with my incisors and chewed greedily. It tasted different than normal steak.

  “This is good. What is it?”

  Miguel rapidly looked between me and an almost embarrassed Freddie. “Uh...” He checked out the package. “That’s the venison.” He handed me a towel from off the counter. I was making a mess of myself in front of two men that wanted me, and I didn’t even care. The hunger almost completely consumed my thoughts at that point, and there was a bag of freaking meat sitting right under my nose.

  It made me forget about the man in the park until Miguel, changing the subject not-so-slyly asked, “Does all this new security have to do with what’s been going on?”

  I briefly slid my eyes to Freddie before continuing. He was pretending not to pay attention, putting the new deadbolt in the door. I wasn’t sure how much about my life I wanted him to know. He had the most chance, however slim, of getting in my pants, and that might get fucked up if he knew my ex was a capo that wanted me captured and/or dead.

  I leaned closer to Miguel and spoke around a mouthful of venison. “Yes. Things are getting hairy, and I want to be extra safe.”

  He nodded, pensive. “That’s a good idea. Earlier today, they found some marshal outside the federal building. The rumors say he had his mouth stitched shut while he was still alive. That's some El Chapo type shit right there. Cartels do that to dirty cops that threaten to turn straight."