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iishipallthethings · 6 years ago

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The Wager Chapter 19

Story Summary: Another Day of the Dead is finally here. La Muerte goes to the land of the living and is shocked to see Maria, the jewel of the town, unsatisfied with her marriage with Manolo. Another wager is struck and La Muerte finds herself falling hard for a human. 1 year after movie! Main ship: Maria X La Muerte (kind of slow burn) but there is another :)

Chapter Title: Hey There Stranger!

Coffee?

Manolo and Joaquin were returning from their date when Chuy ran into them. In Joaquin’s case, quite literally. The soldier fell back on his butt, opening his mouth to yell at Chuy to get off him. Manolo had his mouth open too but only to laugh. Both men’s mouths snapped quickly when they noticed that Chuy’s eyes were huge and he was squealing. They never heard Chuy sound so much like a pig until now and it chilled them to the bone.

Chuy jumped off Joaquin and ran in a tight circle, his squealing turning into frantic beying. He stopped running and jutted his snout in the direction of the mansion, giving two short beys. Joaquin and Manolo gave each other one glance before bolting towards the house. Chuy kept up with the two as best as he could, but soon he fell away.

Joaquin was the first to the mansion and he slammed his shoulder into the front door. It crashed open with a loud bang and slumped awkwardly, its top hinges having been ripped out of the wall. His hands grabbed at the hilts of his swords, pulling them out of their scabbards with practiced ease.

By that time, Manolo had ran up beside him. Without a word passing between them, Joaquin handed Manolo one of his blades. The two walked into the foyer much quieter than their entrance, their eyes scanning their surroundings constantly.

“Where’s Maria?” Joaquin whispered furiously to his boyfriend.

“I don’t know,” Manolo murmured back. The two men were climbing up the stairs, their ears straining to hear anything amiss.

Soon, they were in front of Maria’s room. The door was shut, a now common sight, and Manolo and Joaquin nodded silently. Joaquin stood in front of the door with Manolo beside him, the sword raised. Joaquin counted down from three and turned the doorknob as quickly and quietly as he could. He threw open the door and the two dashed inside.

The room was empty.

Cursing, Joaquin and Manolo went back outside.

Chuy had finally caught up with the two. He was in the foyer, beying loudly. Joaquin and Manolo ran towards the sound and found Chuy pointing with his snout towards the library. The three walked to the library, Chuy leading. Now that he was back at the mansion, the pig had calmed somewhat but there was still a nervous speed to his step.

The library’s doors were wide open, which struck the two men as odd. Maria had always made sure the doors were closed. The three went inside and found Maria in the middle of the floor. The woman was out cold, an arm curled protectively around a book as her hair spilled over her shoulders and covered most of her face. Manolo handed Joaquin back his sword and carefully took the book from the sleeping Maria. Maria gave a grumbling protest in her sleep but she did not wake up. Manolo looked at the cover and saw that it was Moby Dick. He could have sworn Maria had thrown the novel away when she found out Mary as really La Muerte in disguise.

“Here,” Manolo said, handing Joaquin the book so he could see the cover as well. He saw Chuy give a sad bey and walk closer to Maria. The pig sniffed at her face, screwing up his snout at the scent he found. He nosed at her hair, causing the woman to grumble again and squirm slightly on the floor, but her eyes still did not open.

Finally, his wet nose made Maria turn in her sleep. Her hair moved only a bit away from her neck and Manolo and Joaquin frowned in confusion. Chuy looked at them expectantly as he waited for the dots to connect in their minds. Slowly so as to not awake Maria, Manolo knelt. Manolo brushed back Maria’s hair from her neck and the two men cursed under their breaths.

There was a bruise forming around her neck like a hand had curled its fingers right around it. The fingers were extremely thin and long and neither men knew who the hand could have belonged to. Chuy nosed the shoulder strap of Maria’s dress, pulling it away to reveal another bruise. This one had four scrabs as if the fingernails had pierced Maria’s skin. Manolo and Joaquin looked at each other, both men unsure of what to do now.

Manolo was the one who acted first. He lifted a hand to grab Maria’s shoulder to wake her but he glanced at the bruise. His hand fell on her waist and he shook her once gently. Maria muttered something under her breath and the two men caught a whiff of alcohol. He shook her more incessantly, murmuring her name at the same time.

“Wha?” Maria grumbled as her eyes lazily opened. They were unfocused and the men knew it was from more than sleep. They were red and blinked wearily up at Joaquin and Manolo. She sat up and rubbed at her eyes. “What’s going on?” Maria asked.

“We want to ask you the same thing,” Manolo said softly. He nodded down to Chuy who laid his head in Maria’s lap, gazing up at the woman. “He came and led us to you.” Manolo gestured towards Maria’s neck. Too late the young woman tried to hide the bruise with her hand, only able to cover it partially. “What happened?” He could not hide the edge in his voice. Manolo looked up at Joaquin and saw the same hardness in his eye. Whoever had done this will pay.

Maria looked away from the two and her eyes fell on the book still being held in Joaquin’s hand. She then saw the swords out and sighed. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” Joaquin said a bit too harshly. “Someone hurt you.” He grabbed back his sword from Manolo after placing the book unceremoniously on a nearby table. Sheathing the blades, he bent down to help Maria back to her feet. He didn’t like the way she stumbled. “Who did this?”

Maria shook her head. “Like I said, it doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does,” Manolo countered, getting up on his feet as well. He held out his hands in case Maria stumbled again. “Whoever hurt you could hurt someone else.”

“He won’t.” Without any other explanation, Maria walked out of the library, presumably towards her room.

Joaquin and Manolo could only watch her go. They didn’t know what else to say. “Do you know who did this?” Joaquin asked Chuy. The pig gave a sad grunt and shook his head.

Manolo frowned to himself. There was something he was missing, something that should be obvious. He could feel it tickling the back of his brain. It was at the tip of his tongue but the word, or name, alluded him. Manolo trusted that Maria was telling the truth about the person not hurting anyone else. But that didn’t mean whoever did this wouldn’t hurt her again. “We need to watch over her.”

Joaquin responded with a solemn nod of his head. “You need to help too,” he told Chuy. “You’ll walk her to and from the orphanage and Manolo and I will walk with her whenever she leaves the house.” He shuddered at the thought of telling Maria this plan.

Surprising, and worrying, them, Maria was silent the morning after as Manolo and Joaquin told her what they intended to do. She simply shrugged and moved the eggs around on her plate.

Her attitude did not improve for the entire week that followed. There were no more incidents but Joaquin and Manolo were no closer at figuring out who had hurt Maria in the first place. Joaquin had the brigade do double shifts and he took to strolling the streets for most of the night. Manolo would train and perform for the town’s people as usual, but he searched the crowds for an unfamiliar or unfriendly face and found the usual people cheering him and the bull on. Even Chuy was walking through the town, sniffing here and there to catch a stranger’s scent to no avail. They did not try to press on Maria too much, each time they asked she became even quieter than usual. The last time, Joaquin had suggested that a new group of banditos had come to San Angel, Maria took her plate of barely eaten food and went to her room alone.

Now Maria was asleep and Joaquin and Manolo were in their room, their voices hushed even though they sound proofed the room months prior.

“What were you thinking?” Manolo asked Joaquin. “We need to be subtle about this.” He was sitting on their bed, watching Joaquin pace back and forth in front of him.

“I’m tired of being subtle, Manolo!” Joaquin groaned. “We need to find out who hurt Maria and we need to find out now!” He waved a hand towards the window and into the streets. “I can’t keep forcing my men to chase after a ghost. We can’t keep chasing after a ghost.” Joaquin had scarcely slept this past week, as well as Manolo. “That bull almost hurt you today.”

It was true, Manolo couldn’t deny it. As the week went on, his reflexes dulled and his steps started to become sloppy. This morning during a practice routine, he was almost impaled by the bull’s horns. Manolo would have been if the bull hadn’t yanked his head to the side at the last second during the charge. He still barreled into the matador and Manolo suffered a new bruise on his side as well as aching bones, but he was alive.

“Then what do you suggest we do?” Manolo asked, at his wits end. “Maria won’t tell us who hurt her and we can’t find the fucker!” He jumped off his bed, his fingers curled into fists.

Joaquin shook his head in despair, having no answer. “We can’t keep doing this.”

“Then what!?” Manolo yelled. He marched up to his boyfriend and waved a hand wildly at the window. “Someone hurt Maria! Someone might have wanted to kill her!”

That broke the dam inside Joaquin. “I know!” He roared back. Joaquin and Manolo weren’t ignorant, only someone who wanted to kill would have left such a mark on Maria’s neck. Something must have stopped the attempt, maybe a civilian happened to pass near them. If that was the case however, that civilian would have gone to the brigade or Joaquin himself. Maybe Maria fought back? Joaquin and Manolo had already dispelled that idea. There were no signs of struggle, no bruised knuckles if she punched or skin under her nails. Joaquin and Manolo were at a dead end. “I know Maria could have been killed,” he whispered, his shoulders deflating. He was the town’s hero, why couldn’t he protect his family? His eye stared imploringly at Manolo. “I don’t know what else we can do if Maria won’t talk to us.”

Manolo had no response to that. He pulled Joaquin into a tight hug. With a start, he realized that Joaquin’s shoulders were shaking and there was something wet dripping onto his neck where Joaquin buried his head. Manolo rubbed at Joaquin’s back, his own frustrated tears spilling out. “We’ll figure something out,” he said to both of them. His eyes widened when he saw his breath. When had it gotten so cold?

Joaquin must have felt it too. He pulled away from the embrace, his eye roaming throughout their room.

“Are you done?”

Manolo and Joaquin whirled around towards the voice. Xibalba was standing in the darkest corner of the room. The god took a step forward and the candles around the room snuffed out. He cast an eerie green glow but Manolo could not find himself to be frightened. There was something stiff and sluggish in the way Xibalba moved, like he didn’t have full control of his limbs. His wings were constantly twitching and a feather would fall every once in a while. Manolo felt a strange sense of pity for the god and a look to Joaquin showed that the hero felt the same.

“Why are you here?” Joaquin meant to make his voice demanding but it was a difficult task to accomplish with one of his cheek wet from his tears.

Still, Xibalba answered. “It’s my, it is La Muerte.” His voice was strained and gravely, like he was only gaining his voice back after losing it. “And Maria.” Xibalba’s eyes were slightly glazed over. “How is she?”

The question put the final pieces together. The marks on Maria’s neck and shoulder. They were made by very slim fingers. Manolo glanced at the hand that was clutching the purple staff. “You,” he whispered, too low for anyone to hear. Xibalba had found out about his wife’s and Maria’s relationship. He hurt Maria. He tried to kill Maria! “You,” Manolo said again, louder.

Joaquin seemed confused but he caught a flash of guilt in Xibalba’s eyes and his nod. He clenched his teeth and reached for his swords. “You-”

Whatever insult Joaquin was about to make was drowned out by Manolo’s bellow. “YOU!” Manolo snatched one of Joaquin’s swords from its scabbard and practically threw himself at Xibalba, Joaquin close behind. He managed to jab the sword at Xibalba’s neck but in his rage he was off target.

The sharp edge cut into Xibalba’s neck but it was little more than a graze. Green blood oozed out of the wound and when it touched the metal, it bubbled as the blood ate away at the steel. Xibalba snapped his fingers and the two men froze, Manolo in mid air, his arm thrust out and his mouth open into a snarl. Joaquin’s face was expressionless but his eye was feral with its hatred.

“Enough,” Xibalba said casually, flicking his wrist. Manolo and Joaquin were thrown to the back wall by an unseen force and were unable to move no matter how hard they struggled. Xibalba glanced down at where Manolo had dropped the sword during his push back. The bubbles spread through the metal and soon there was only a puddle of silvery green metal. He lifted a finger to wipe away the blood on his neck, the wound had already closed. “I did not come here to fight, fools.” He allowed the men to slump down on the ground, their backs still pressed against the wall. “I need your help.” It was obvious that Xibalba was loath to admit it.

“You bastard!” Joaquin yelled.

“I’ll kill you!” Manolo shouted.

Xibalba’s wings twitched behind him even more. “You may not have to.” His words gave Manolo and Joaquin pause and Xibalba was quick to talk in that moment of silence. “The Land of the Remembered is dying.” He waited a few seconds for the words to be processed in their heads. The fight went out of them soon enough. “La Muerte is neglecting her realm.”

“Why do you care?” Manolo asked, genuinely curious. From his perspective, Xibalba should be delighted that La Muerte is allowing her realm to fall into ruin.

“Balance,” Xibalba answered. He held up a hand and Manolo and Joaquin could see the fingers quiver uncontrollably. “The Land of the Remembered and the Land of the Forgotten are on a scale the likes you could not even begin to comprehend. If the two realms are not balanced, everything falls apart, including gods.”

Manolo and Joaquin shared a concerned look. They had the same thought: if a god like Xibalba was this effected, what about their families in the Land of the Remembered? “How can we fix this?” Manolo despised Xibalba but he was wise enough to know that he couldn’t let his feelings get in the way. If what he was saying was true, and he didn’t doubt it, then his family was in danger.

“La Muerte must be happy,” Xibalba looked as if he had to force the words out. “If Maria does that then so be it.”

“Wait,” Joaquin held his hands up like he could physically halt the conversation. “You want your wife to get back with Maria?”

Xibalba nodded although the pain was clear in his eyes. “Yes. La Muerte is happy with Maria so she needs her.” For a moment he looked almost human with his shoulders slumped and his hands gripping onto his staff like an old man to a cane. “I want her to be happy and if that’s with Maria instead,” he took a deep breath, “instead of me then so be it.”

Manolo and Joaquin could only stare at him for a few moments. Manolo glanced at the closed door and for an absurd instant he wondered how Maria and Chuy hadn’t heard them. “Do you have an idea?” he asked Xibalba.

“Yes.” Xibalba’s fingers nervously tapped on his staff. “I know how to get La Muerte to meet me at the tree outside San Angel. It’s, it’s where we first met.” He took a swallow to fruitlessly get rid of the lump in his throat. “You two will get Maria to go there tomorrow.”

The two men looked at the puddle that used to be one of Joaquin’s swords and nodded to the god. At once they were alone in their room. “How did we get ourselves into this mess?” Joaquin asked.

“I don’t know,” Manolo said. “But we have to try. For Maria.”

“For Maria,” Joaquin agreed.

#thewager #book of life #maria posada #joaquin mondragon #Manolo Sanchez #xibalba #chuy

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thesketchiestone · 7 years ago

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The Woes of the Zombie Man

Chapter I

During which the reader becomes acquainted with Boris and his beloved buddy Bugger

Due to the abundance and the enormity of the festering boils that had plagued him his whole life, Boris Buford had long been the butt of many jokes and the source of many nightmares. Thanks to a rare and, as far as he knew, incurable skin disease, the entirety of his body was covered with grotesque pocks that closely resembled the open wounds of a bullet-riddled carcass of any kind. Outbreaks of red and green cysts stood out against the pale casing his body was wrapped in. His oozy limbs constantly swelled with pus and caused him no small amount of discomfort. The terrible ailment had bothered him to the point of anguish in his youth, and at an early age he had become fearful of his peers and the ridicule they produced, so he had learned to keep to himself in an effort to avoid scaring people or hearing newly invented nicknames for himself or any one of the thousand other unwanted annoyances he knew all too well that came with participating in society. Conditioned to be distant, he decided not to bother people with his gruesome presence. Becoming a homeless recluse, he chose to suffer alone, thereby suffering a little bit less. Boris was fully aware of how unappealing his visage was to others, and although it saddened him to admit it, he found his own reflection rather frightening and had made a habit of avoiding mirrors. Folks around town knew him as the Zombie Man, which only added to his already insurmountable grief. Needless to say, he was somewhat of an ugly duckling.

Bleak Boris Buford was born and bred beside Biloxi in Boonesville, a small municipality slightly less populated than you’re imagining it to be, and he had never once stepped even a single foot outside the county line. He existed mainly in the shadows of alleyways to keep himself from being seen by others, though sightings of him were reported from time to time, and were always thoroughly discussed. The misfortune of the Zombie Man was well known throughout his hometown and was frequently talked about. Boris became something of a myth and rumors spread viciously, adding to his macabre mystique.

His mother and father had abandoned him when he was still a child, because – and this cannot be stressed enough – he was as nauseating as is visually possible. Even at such a young age he was offensively taxing on the eyes. One day his parents had had enough, so they up and threw him away. In a garbage bin. Mr. and Mrs. Buford shed many tears at having deserted their only child; not from the guilt, but out of self-pity. Though his parents were right in thinking he was an awful excuse for a baby boy, they later admitted that perhaps they could have handled the situation with more tact. Nevertheless, Boris somehow survived and grew up to be an amazingly unattractive young man, and an even uglier adult.

His only friend in the world was Bugger, a sickly flea-ridden mutt with a terrible case of mange. Boris had bonded deeply with the hideous dog, and he cherished the animal’s friendship more than anything. Constantly praising the loyalty of his companion, he would embrace and pet the gross beast day and night. Caressing his pal was often quite painful, as both creatures usually had ulcers leaking from head to toe, but that had never stopped them from expressing the camaraderie they held so dear. They were inseparably close, both at heart and in physical proximity, at all times. The appalling exterior of the two monstrosities did not agree with the beautiful love they shared, as Boris and Bugger both possessed kind and gentle souls, but to see the two of them together was such a horrific sight even the most righteous nun in the world would have found it difficult to show them any generosity.

Having so little to do with his fellow man, Boris was between jobs, and had never been employed at all for that matter. Living so many years without money had made him resourceful. Painstakingly, through countless woeful tribulations, he had grown accustomed to dumpster diving in order to provide for himself and his amigo. In fact, the duo had first met while excavating a trash can behind a diner, and it was then they had shared their first meal of foul fowl parts. Rummaging through the waste supplied them with anything and everything their hearts desired, as long as their hearts desired discarded junk and rotting leftovers, which had never been the case. Still, ransacking trash receptacles sustained them. Occasionally, on certain nights as infrequent as they were exciting, when another mouthful of garbage scraps could not be stomached, Boris would steal. It was on a night such as this that he set his sights on Gitcha Goods, a corner store, and it is here we will join the pair of vagrants as they prepared for the famous caper during an instance that will be recounted now.

Chapter II

In which the baffling buffoonery of the Boonesvillian banditos begins

Hiding in an alley across the street from Gitcha Goods, peeking around the corner, crouching in the darkness, and generally exhibiting shifty behavior in a number of ways, Boris turned to his mangy counterpart, licked his lips, and said:

“We’re gon’ be eatin’ good tonight, boy.”

Bugger weakly wagged his limp tail in agreement. The diseased dog knew what delicacies he could soon expect, as he was familiar with Boris’s mannerisms, and all signs pointed towards good eatin’.

Boris was all business; he had consumed so much spoiled grub lately, and fresh meals were so few are far between, any opportunity to swipe a proper feast was no laughing matter. Concealing himself in the adjacent alley, he focused his unblinking gaze through the glass door of Gitcha Goods on the store clerk, an extremely sloppily dressed young girl.

She was unaware of the attention being given to her as she sat behind the counter bored and high out of her mind. She was new to town, and in order to compensate for her lack of friends she had continued her daily doing of drugs and downing of drinks to depress her depression. She had not yet heard of the Zombie Man, and as anyone who was familiar could relate, a person seeing him for the first time was guaranteed to be taken aback, especially with the bonus of Bugger, who was equally as shocking. The store clerk sat behind the counter breathing through an open mouth, alone in the building, staring dumbly at nothing in silence.

As Boris waited for her to get off work and leave him to his thievery he did not look away from the corner store that housed his future dinner.

“Ya know what, Bugger boy,” Boris said to his only pal, “I bet they got jerky in there. I know you’d love some jerky, wouldn’t ya, boy?”

Bugger responded with a string of drool and a whimper so wimpish it would have broken the heart of anyone who had heard it, as long as they had not seen the source of the sound, in which case they would have felt nothing but repugnance, because, as has already been stated, Bugger was hideous beyond belief, and was repulsing to all who were unlucky enough to lay eyes on him. It was true though, that Bugger loved jerky. Boris knew this and hoped desperately the corner store had some available, because he loved the dog more than he loved himself, and wanted only good things for his compadre. He was determined to provide, but he did not yet know how he would break in and acquire the nourishment. All he knew was that night he and Bugger would be doing some good eatin’.

Boris hid in the alley, staring at the clerk intently, biding his time until the store was unattended. Picturing all the deliciousness he would have in his clutches and gullet before long, he was jittery, delirious with desire, manic with anticipation.

Bugger, stricken with hunger and fantasizing about tasty treats, sat still in suspense, looking forward to whatever morsels their plunderous activities might bring. The two skeletal delinquents remained hidden and frozen in this manner for over an hour, awaiting their supper with mouths watering, transfixed by the neon sign that read “Gitcha Goods.”

Boris was curious as to why the clerk did not leave when her shift ended; he knew the store’s hours of operation well, and had observed and recorded her departure for several nights. It was well past three o’clock in the morning, which, according to his calculations, was after closing time. She should have left. There was no logical reason for her to still be holding her post, which made Boris worry she was on to him. She appeared to be facing the alley he and Bugger were hiding in, and he suddenly found it plausible, if not probable, that she had been watching him for quite a while. Contrary to his fears, the inebriated store clerk had fallen asleep with her head propped up in her hands, her elbows on top of the counter in a pool of drool.

Agitated by the enemy’s strategic maneuver, Boris turned to his ailing ally in the alley and hissed, “How does she know? Bitch is tryin’ to foil our plot, boy.”

Nervous and hungry as hell, Boris could not imagine shoveling through another dumpster for something to eat. He did not care if his mission had been compromised; he had to follow through with his plan, even though it had yet to be formulated. Distressed to the point of madness, he decided what he was going to do then and there.

“We’re fuckin’ doing this, boy,” Boris exclaimed to his starving cohort, “I don’t give a shit anymore. Tonight’s the night we’re gonna eat good. Let’s just fucking do it!”

He then charged Gitcha Goods with complete disregard to stealth and sensibility.

At this point it is necessary to remind you, dear reader, just how horrendous and upsetting a spectacle Boris was; his hide a hot bed harvesting pimply pocks packed with pus, bloody boils as big as blueberries, and gross growths galore; and Bugger, the corpse-like canine, in the same miserable condition, not a pinch more pleasing to perceive. There was not a man alive whose stomach would not churn at the sight of them.

The two miscreants crashed into the glass door and entered the store. The clerk awoke, astonished and dumbstruck. The violent variation of vodka and Vicodin that voyaged through her veins with vigor, in addition to the marathon of The Walking Dead she had been watching for two days straight and the gruesome appearance of the two figures in the doorway, assured her civilization had fallen and the apocalypse had begun.

Ducking behind the counter without a peep, her eyes began to scan her immediate surroundings for a weapon. Finding only a mechanical pencil and a stapler, she grabbed the office supplies; pencil in the right hand, stapler in the left. She breathed as inaudibly as she could, hunkering down and not moving a muscle.

Paying no attention to anything other than filling his face with food and forgetting his famishment, Boris dropped to his knees and began to gorge, ferociously ripping cookies and coffee cakes out of their wrappers with an enthusiasm never before seen for such cheap snacks. Bugger found a shrine of assorted jerkies and joined in on the festivities, viciously attacking a box of teriyaki flavored beef sticks. The disgusting duo continued insatiably devouring everything they could, giving not a single thought to the Gitcha Goods employee in the same room.

Hiding behind the counter at the front of the store, the clerk was terrified. She had never heard of zombies eating prepackaged goods, or of zombie dogs, but she was no expert on the subject. The abruptness of the situation hadn’t allowed her to think rationally, and her intoxication didn’t make her any more reasonable.

The furious feasting, during which Boris and Bugger ate much more than they had in the previous three weeks combined, lasted only around fifteen minutes. Exhausted and stuffed, they lay on the tile floor and moaned in satisfaction. On their backs, side by side, in sedentary bliss, they let the fluorescent light bathe them. The clerk, taking notice of how slothful the monsters had become and seeing their pause in activity as advantageous, opted to strike before it was too late.

Knowing what had to be done, she leapt from her cover, let out a deafening war cry, rushed the zombie of human physiology, drove a flurry of staples into his skull, and stabbed the mechanical pencil into its head and neck repeatedly.

Going from total ecstasy to fearing his death in the blink of an eye, Boris was bewildered by the barrage. He pushed the assailant off of him, stood up, and tried to run towards the door, but because he was so full, he moved at a pace better described as a lumber. The store clerk, still stoned, staunchly stabbed and stapled with strengthening strikes as Boris fled. Bugger saw how badly his friend was being treated, tapped into his guard dog instincts, slowly got up, and waddled his way over to the commotion in order to give some assistance. Once he finally reached the quarrel, the clerk saw him, shrieked, and kicked the undead dog with all of her might, breaking a few of his ribs. When the dog fell down she stabbed and stapled it a few times for good measure before hiding behind the counter again and feverishly reciting a prayer. The two friends retreated in a panic, wailing in excruciation. They exited the glass door and didn’t look back. The clerk locked the door right away. Her heart was racing as she thanked the heavens she was still alive. She tried to calm down and catch her breath as she picked up the store’s phone, called the police, and earnestly reported a zombie attack.

Boris and Bugger rendezvoused in the alley across the street from Gitcha Goods and collapsed pitifully.

“Oh, man. She fucked you up,” blurted Boris as he brushed Bugger’s beaten back. “Got you good, didn’t she, boy? Tramp got me too. Unnecessary if you ask me. I saw you going to town on some jerky, though. That’s good. At least we got you that.”

Boris smiled faintly as the staple wounds in his head steadily trickled blood. Being almost certain he had gone blind in his left eye thanks to the stabbings from the pencil, he felt as if he might faint, puke, or die. Bruised and battered and licking their wounds, our heroes huddled together, dreading the damned dumpster diving they would undoubtedly do the next day, wondering if they would ever eat that good again.

Chapter III

Which tells of a time Boris and Bugger experienced a bout of “food” poisoning

For many days they reminisced on the good eatin’ they had done and been punished severely for, wondering if they would ever again enjoy such luxuries. They would, of course, just not for some time. Quite a while, really. After a spell of dreadful hunger they found themselves devastatingly starving for a bit. Suffering from such a perilous case of the munchies for so long left them both weak and utterly hopeless. Succumbing to extreme caloric deficit, they had begun unenthusiastically scouring dumpsters. After chewing on something he mistook to be edible, Boris, on the verge of tears, fell to the pavement and screamed:

“We can’t live like this, boy!”

He groaned for a few seconds, wailed for a few more still, and carried on with a series of unintelligible, depressing noises. Soon actual words escaped from his mouth, and he whiningly said, “There’s nothing any good for us in these damn dumpsters. It’s all trash. All of it! Why don’t people ever toss out a pizza or two?”

He then threw up his hands in incredulity.

“Are you trying to tell me nobody ever has too many quesadillas? I call bullshit! There’s gotta be at least a couple little pieces of prime rib somebody could do without and just place real nicely in this here dumpster. I know it. But no! Nothing. I don’t know about you, boy, but I can’t do it. I just can’t! If somebody doesn’t throw away a rotisserie chicken or somethin’ like it real soon, I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

His anger dissipating, he paused and became calm. Looking down and shaking his head, he picked at his fingernails and said, “Maybe I’m just putting on airs. Maybe this is the way it’s gotta be. We’ve had it worse than this before, I know. But how much can we take, boy? I guess we just been pampered by all those fancy snacks. Thought we was rich folk, didn’t we, boy? Well, we ain’t. Maybe we deserve this. Maybe we’s spose’ta live like this. Are you even listenin’ to me?”

Bugger, whose nose had grown an itchy fungus of sorts, continued licking a rash on one of his mangy hind legs, paying little attention to the long-winded spew of complaints being directed at him.

Boris grumbled for a while longer about his lack of nachos and similar subjects, then the moderately one-sided discussion came to an end. Night passed, and the two friends woke up hungrier than usual. Joints cracking as he rose from his concrete bed, Boris rubbed his knobby knees and noticed how strangely gaunt he had become. Looking down at his legs, he saw two misshapen, spindly poles, like laminated twigs. An emaciated boogeyman, he was thinner than most supermodels and inversely as arousing, aesthetically speaking. Bugger looked to have drastically dropped a few pounds as well. The mutt’s belly discovered itself to be shockingly close to the underside of his spine, and his ribs, both broken and not, jutted out at disturbing angles, stretching his deplorable skin. Boris saw the sad state his friend was in and pitied him. Even though he was no better off, he placed Bugger’s wellbeing before his own, if only by a smidgen. He had to help.

Finding a new sense of purpose, with a surge of determination, Boris decided he was going to find a way, somehow, for them to do some good eatin’ yet again. At that or any other moment a storm of brilliant ideas did not overflow or even trickle into his mind. His thoughts were few. Not knowing what else to do, he began foraging in every dumpster he knew of, searching garbage cans large and small, until he finally scrounged up a brownish, questionable substance they might could eat. Very questionable indeed. It was meat, Boris thought. Or an old salad, perhaps. A poorly executed quiche? It very well could’ve been something other than food, but Boris was optimistic. He gestured to Bugger to smell it. Bugger did so, but was unsure as to how he felt about it. They looked at it. They looked at each other, then looked back at the possibly food in unison, looked one more time into each other’s hungry eyes, and pounced on it.

Whatever it was was gone within seconds.

Boris got up off of his knees and brushed himself off. Bugger tried wagging his tail, but it didn’t feel right. Embarrassed and regretful, they avoided making eye contact as they walked to where their home wasn’t. After taking less than ten steps, Boris felt a tingling sensation in his stomach he knew meant nothing good. He looked down at Bugger, who was dry heaving violently, and braced himself as the tingling quickly grew into a rolling wave of sickness wrenching his gut. Bugger had already begun to spasm wildly, defenseless against the throes that were throwing him about. Overtaken by convulsions, abdomens seized and knotted, the unfortunate pair clutched at the ground and scrambled, as if trying to leave the pain behind. Their howls and screams of agony soon dwindled into soft cries and before long all was silent. Whatever the stuff had been it had really given their innards a good thrashing. Boris was as sick as a dog; the one trembling next to him in particular. After five hours of lying in the hot sun and allowing it to dry out their oft-wet open sores, they still didn’t feel well at all. Both of them lay on the concrete until nightfall, looking especially cadaverous, with their insides in ruins. It just goes to show the misstep it can be to chow down on a mysterious blob of unidentified stuff – specifically if the mysterious blob of unidentified stuff being chowed down upon is a few heavily deteriorated washcloths tangled together.

Chapter IV

Regarding our heroes stay in the little shack

Months passed but the washcloths never did.

As the sky warped from a drizzling gray to a sunny blue, it was unaware of how desperate the dumpster diving duo beneath it had become. It had been a tough few days for the two rejects and things weren’t looking up. After dining on a plentitude of assorted condiment packets, Boris and Bugger were less than satisfied, but not for long. When they had almost surrendered their hope and quit their search empty-handed, they stumbled upon a good deal of raw dough that had semi-baked in a sun-scorched aluminum garbage can and really turned out to be quite palatable. Having some packets left over, Boris spread relish on the bread he relished as he fed.

Feeling full and finding the future less foreboding than they customarily found it, Boris and Bugger took a walk. A long one, out of town, following a path towards the trees, with no destination and no worries. They felt the breeze and the sunlight on their faces as Boonesville faded from view behind them, its alienating judgments seeping away with it. They looked up at the clouds and the lack thereof. Bugger ran around chasing nothing while Boris chased him. Tall grass tickled their scabby legs as they ran through it, laughing. Making his way back to the path, Boris watched the blue sky melt into orange, appreciating the tranquility. Thinking he’d rather taken a liking to the act of breathing, Boris’s disgustingly chapped lips were almost tempted to smile. He thought he might have been feeling happy, but he had nothing to use for reference. Without disturbing the calm, Boris and Bugger followed the path quietly, keeping their eyes to the front, and in no time they saw themselves nearing the trees.

Passing into the woods, the path threaded through the thick, living columns. Leafy branches rattled and shook around them as they took it in. Shadows jumped forward and retreated back again as the sun broke through the trees’ extremities. The woody, waving fingers of the forest welcomed Boris and Bugger in as the breeze blew by, making them feel as at home there as they did anywhere, for reasons that should be evident. They walked respectfully among the commotion, mesmerized by the motioning greenery, captivated by it all.

Still following the weaving path into a sparsely wooded area, the trees dissolved and they entered a clearing. They saw in front of them, not far off, a little shack. It stood alone, encircled by the forest. The front door was open, creaking back and forth in the wind. Exploring his curiosity, Boris approached it slowly. The closer he got to the place the emptier it seemed.

Advancing from the side, they reached the building and crept around to the front. Boris stopped and put his ear to a window, keeping himself from view. He heard nothing but the creaking door. Guessing it safe, they poked their heads in through the open doorway, with their bodies waiting outside for the time being as they scanned the small, one-room domicile. If outwardly it had appeared to be abandoned, inwardly it appeared even more so. Stepping in all the way, they took a leisurely look around the place, and after discovering a stash of canned foods in a drawer, they instantly took a liking to it, and didn’t plan on leaving it unattended for the foreseeable future, deciding that squatting was the proper thing to do in such an establishment.

Boris finally got his hands on an elusive can opener, and life was good. Living as lavish as lords, they enjoyed home-style beans, chili, and tuna. The whole nine. With each mouthful their spirits soared higher. In a dreamlike stupor, they pigged out nonstop, force feeding their haggard frames, nodding off into inevitable food-comas, waking from one dream and falling into another. They kept this up for what felt like an eternity. Then the seemingly never-ending supply of food ran out. It had only been three days.

Chapter V

During which Boris is interrupted by and retaliates against libelers

Pot smoke swam between the brick walls of the alley as the wind played with it, possibly a little high itself. A rickety, lousily rolled blunt was passed from one misfit to another as a fit of coughing echoed between the walls. Seeing as hip hop and existentialism had already been thoroughly discussed, there seemed to be nothing left to talk about, when one of the grungy young men broke the silence and said, “I haven’t seen the Zombie Man in a minute, man. I wonder what that frickin’ sicko’s been up to. Probably some sick shit, I tell you that.”

“Oh, for sure,” replied the infinitesimally grungier of the two, “I bet he’s doing somethin’ super sick right now. Like voodoo wizardry or terrorizin’ the elderly or somethin’. Dude scares me, man.”

“I feel you. Just seeing him scares me. He’s for sure the sickest lookin’ dude I ever saw. I mean, you know I watch some nasty ass shit online, but I’ve never seen anything as sick as him. And I’ve tried. But he takes the top spot, man, no doubt. Dude, just thinkin’ about him makes my stomach feel, like, sick, you know?”

“Oh yeah. I know exactly what you’re gittin’ at, dude. That creepy fucker makes me wanna blow chunks real bad. This might sound stupid ‘n’ shit, but like, he’s not a real zombie, right? ‘Cause he’s like, monster status, bro.”

The blunt was passed. Coughing commenced and was quickly concluded, and the enlightening conversation continued.

“No, he’s probably not the legit real deal, but that’s a good point, man. I heard from my boy he ate his own family but the cops are too scared to go after him. I don’t know if it’s true, but you never know. I wouldn’t even blame the Federales, ‘cause that guy is, like, not fun to look at.”

Thoughtful nods were shared.

“True, true. The Zombie Man is an ugly dude, that’s for sure. Maybe even the ugliest dude in the world. I mean, think about it. Do you really think there could possibly be someone even…”

Out of sight but within earshot, digging around inside of a dumpster, Boris tired of listening to such verbal abuse being spouted so incompetently about him. He stopped looking for grub, climbed out unnoticed, and walked away till he heard no more.

The Zombie Man.

He couldn’t remember a time before that awful moniker. I wonder how long I’ve been living like this, Boris thought to himself. This line of thinking brought him to guess at how much time had sneakily crawled past him since his birth, the date of which he had long forgotten. He knew he wasn’t old yet, at least, he didn’t think it was so, but he didn’t feel young either. He caught a glimpse of himself as he passed a window. Approaching the cracked pane of glass to better study the face it framed, his already shrinking enthusiasm for living further depleted. To his own eyes he looked to have aged about fifty years postmortem, give or take a few dozen. It hadn’t been long enough since he’d last seen his wretched reflection, and judging by what he saw looking back at him, he was genuinely surprised he wasn’t an evil bastard. He definitely wasn’t the staunchest anti-immoralist, but he felt he was on the righter side of the ethical divide. He attempted to throw himself a good-natured smirk, landed on a scowl, and looked away, disheartened. Part of the problem was this: his skin, droopy and tight simultaneously, caused his features to appear unfathomably uncertain as to whether they were trying to convey their owner to be ecstatic or in mourning. Given one could look past the soul-tormenting morbidity of his detrimental skin condition, which one certainly could not, to determine exactly what he was feeling was a formidable task. Even when sleeping he looked like he might be smiling maniacally or bawling uncontrollably.

He didn’t know why people bothered coming up with all the slanderous stories about him, but he had heard some good ones.

“I never did nothin’ to nobody. Talkin’ about me all nasty. They must know somethin’ I don’t. No good sons’a’bitches!”

Feeling downtrodden with his hands in his pockets, kicking at the gravel, he stopped and thought a new, delightful thought: Maybe I can do something to make their perceptions less false. This thought brought to his face a devilish grin and he said:

“I’ll show those punks a Zombie Man. C’mon over here Bugger. We got some scarin’ to do.”

Creeping up from behind the grungy burnouts, one of whom was displaying his expertise on blunt rolling and giving the other a few pointers after some heavy criticism, Boris and Bugger were careful, keeping their movements slow, low, and quiet. Hidden around a corner, about fifteen feet away from his prey, Boris halted and listened.

“Dude, I don’t think Clinton even got a blowie. It was all just a cover-up so Obama could steal the oil. Have you even seen Zeitgeist?”

Boris was relieved that they were no longer talking about him, but the fact remained: they had to pay for their insolence.

Boris took a deep breath and walked into the alley with Bugger at his side. The two boys carried on with their conversation, not noticing the newcomers. To get their attention, Boris, who did not have much experience deliberately scaring people, coughed politely into his fist. The boys stopped talking, turned around, and looked at the intruding buzzkills, dumbfounded. Boris looked right back at them, slightly confused about what he should do next. After ten silent, awkward seconds, Boris recalled his enemies’ insolence and their having to pay for it, so he shook his arms in the air and ran at them yelling, “Boogaboogabooga!”

The two boys were flabbergasted. They cried out in fright as they fled. As Boris closed in on them, still waving his arms above his head and yelling what he thought to be scary noises, one of the boys fell and curled up into a ball, giving up completely. Boris let the other boy go free and stood there with his hands on his hips, towering over the pathetic bundle of fear quivering beneath him. He felt powerful. Bugger stood beside him, exposing his teeth and growling at the scaredy-cat. Totally in control, with his hate for those who had shown him hate fueling his decisions, Boris pointed at the young man and yelled:

“Sick him, boy!”

When Bugger lunged at the shrieking young man cowering on the ground, the other stoner blindsided the dog with a powerful kick to the body, re-breaking all of his previously broken ribs and breaking for the first time a few more. Without knowing what to do next, Bugger played dead and wished he was. Panicking and sensing his grip on authority slipping, Boris tried to grab the attacker to prevent another kick from being landed on his incapacitated compadre, but he was promptly dealt a devastating haymaker to the chin, sending him to the ground in a bloody heap.

“Nasty, bro! I got his juices on my hand! Sick!”

As the assailant frantically tried to wipe blood and pus from his hand, half afraid he might turn, his fallen friend stood up with regained moxie and stomped on Boris’s and Bugger’s legs a good many times, crunching and grinding their grisly tendons into mush, to ensure they stayed down. And down they stayed.

“I think they’re dead, man. What the fuck?!”

“The Zombie Man never stays dead, dude! His hellhound don’t neither! We gotta go before they resurrect and eat us or some shit!”

The petrified potheads then dashed off at a full sprint covering about a hundred yards, at which point they stopped to wheeze violently, smoke a quick joint, and discuss Jay-Z’s involvement in 9/11.

Crippled and defeated, using only his arms, Boris sluggishly crawled towards Bugger, who was also crippled and defeated. Boris rested his head beside his friend’s on the cold ground. In this fashion he ruminated peacefully on the evening’s happenings, hurting badly.

Chapter VI

In which Boris begs the Butcher

The Butcher smiled. Within the dank recess of his meat emporium’s killing room, pacing on a blood-stained and soon to be blood-soaked floor, he cradled a fully grown pig in his gargantuan arms as he stared deep into its eyes and whispered to it in sweet, nonsensical baby talk. He sang to it the same lullaby he always sang in these situations, and it sounded as good as it never did. The pig oinked softly, happily dreaming and then happily not, lulling in and out of consciousness. The Butcher kissed the beast wetly on the snout, then forcibly shoved a substantial hand into the thing’s mouth, his arm following it in well past the elbow. The muscles of his forearm danced inside the animal’s throat as his fingers searched blindly for its heart, which they soon found, removed, and tossed still beating into the fryer before being licked clean each individually by a bearded mouth and thrust into the pig once more, hunting for something else. They weren’t sure what yet. Whatever they found would most likely be used in some capacity, seeing as the Butcher wasn’t much one to waste.

He didn’t believe in paying another man to do a job he could easily do himself and he definitely didn’t want anyone under the impression that he was just a meat middleman. Hell no. He was equal parts slaughterer and salesman, and his killing room was where the meat he sold was harvested. He had brought doom to many a species of beast in that room. Pigs. Chickens. Rabbits. Possums. Deer. Cows. He had once slayed a bucking bronco with a sledgehammer just to see what it would taste like fried. This death-loving, angry-browed, foul-smelling behemoth of a man who never wore a shirt not covered in blood stains was the sole owner and operator of A Meat Shop, his aptly named place of business.

The sun had barely risen and Boris was already having a bad day, as was the norm. Dumpster diving halfheartedly, he was having trouble committing himself wholly to his craft. Perusing particularly putrid perishables peeved him as he peered across the parking lot at a portly person publicly punishing a pan-fried pork chop on a patio. He or she looks well-fed, Boris reflected as he wasn’t. Boris gazed on as the pork-chop was greedily wolfed down. He had never eaten a cut of meat like that before, but if he had, he imagined it would have been an agreeable occurrence. As he enviously watched the globular guy or girl put away the platter with gusto, Boris slid into a meat-induced hunger trance. Visions of succulent steaks swirled in his mind, occupying his full attention. His eyes stopped focusing on actuality as deeply realistic daydreams of pot roast brought to his nose pungent smells he had never known but somehow loved. Vividly hallucinating, he stood there smiling and moaning with an almost sexual desire, starry-eyed, salivating, craving tender meats.

A car horn sliced through the air and Boris’s regrettable reality thudded back into place. His senses adjusted to his surroundings. Dizzily finding himself inside a dumpster, he let go of the garbage that was clenched in his hands. Wading waist deep in waste, a wave of want washed over his being. He needed to get his hands on a nice steak.

Discontinuing his dig in the filth, Boris jumped out of the dumpster with a calling. He briskly walked around the corner where Bugger was taking a nap in the shade. Bending down and petting the dog’s hairless, lumpy back, he pictured the two of them sharing a filet. He would find a way to make it happen. Walking off a ways so Bugger could sleep, Boris looked up into the sky and contemplated praying, but decided against it. It had never helped him before. Resolute in his aim but unsure how to proceed, he looked down and saw between his feet a twenty dollar bill. He picked it up and looked at the crumpled, rectangular piece of fabric in awe. He held in his hands more money than he had ever seen. He thought of the things he could do with it. He could buy something. Or he could make a purchase. Both ideas were alien. His body jolted as he was struck with a sudden revelation. He could buy meats.

Within the red brick walls of A Meat Shop, the Butcher was busy strangling a lamb to death with his bare hands. Outside of them, just across the street, Boris was cozily concealed inside a trashcan, examining the slaughterhouse through the slit under the can’s lid. He was apprehensive; he had encountered the Butcher before. Once, in his younger, braver days, Boris had gotten caught fishing for scraps in the dumpster behind A Meat Shop and been bludgeoned badly by a buffalo femur. Since then he had kept his distance. He knew he should continue to do so, but he was hungrier than he was scared of the Butcher. And he was terrified of the Butcher.

Observing the scene from his tasteless hideout, Boris used every brain cell he had on his person trying to think of a course of action in which he would accomplish his goal and not get pulverized in the process, but he came up with nothing. He knew only one thing: he couldn’t enter A Meat Shop looking the way he did. The Butcher would surely recognize and probably attack him, which could prove fatal. Boris also took into consideration the general sense of panic his being seen in public would without a doubt give rise to. The acceptability of his appearance was at the lowest trough yet in its wavelength, which was really more of a downward slope seeing as it had never experienced an upswing and was relatively steady in its descent. Every square inch of him was either blistered, scarred, gangrenous, greenish, warty, chapped, or blemished in some other way. In any case, all of him was thoroughly yucky. To squirm is the correctest, elective, selectable action permissible in reaction to his septic epidermis. Boris was confident that anyone who saw him enter the place would be responsible enough to call the police or the health inspector.

A light bulb flashed brilliantly in his head before blinking on and off a few times and burning out, but Boris decided to go with it anyway. He did not know very much about his target, but he did know very little. Boris had heard somewhere that the Butcher was a bit of a racist. This, coupled with the need to keep his own identity a secret, was the basis for his plan. With some reluctance, he slithered clumsily out of the trashcan and went off to gather the necessary materials. After half a day of dumpster diving, he discovered and donned a dirty, previously-white bed sheet he hoped would resemble a Ku Klux Klan uniform. And with that his plan was in action.

Wearing the unfashionable getup, he walked into A Meat Shop with his newly found money held high and declared:

“I’ll take twenty dollars of meat, please.”

But the Butcher, who was a surprisingly despicable man in terms of his personal views on civil rights and would have been proud to feed a fellow advocate of Klankraft at no charge, refused to serve him on grounds of confusion.

“No deal.”

In the Butcher’s defense, the bed sheet was very dirty and tattered and made a poor costume. It didn’t even come to a point atop Boris’s head. Hardly any blacks would have found it offensive.

The Butcher grumbled in a low, gravelly voice, “Just what in the hell are you supposed to be?”

“Well, actually, I–”

“Scratch that. I don’t wanna know. Just get out my shop, maggot.”

“Please, sir. All I ask of you is twenty dollars of meat.”

Boris extended the twenty into the air with both arms as a sign of good faith. Even his hands were covered by cloth as he held the cash. The only part of him that could be seen under the bed sheet were his beady, desperate eyes through two ripped holes.

Visibly annoyed, the Butcher flexed the arms he had crossed in front of his massive chest as he stared disdainfully at the disheveled crackpot who was waving money around and making odd requests. In his unique choice of apparel, the vagrant looked like a ghost without a house to haunt. The Phantom Hobo. The Butcher didn’t have time for this. He had a rambunctious pack of wolves in his killing room and he was anxious to try out his new broadsword.

“I told you to get out. I’m not gonna say it again.”

“I have money. Please, sir. I just wan–“

The Butcher had had enough. He snatched up a 72 ounce rib eye (bone in), jumped swiftly over the counter, and swung the flaccid steak with lethal force at the intruder’s head. The gigantic slab of meat wiggled in a wide arc with increasing speed and smashed into Boris’s face, breaking his nose and bloodying his mouth. Boris flew back, his feet just inches above the tiles. The way the bed sheet flapped as he hovered made him look like a real ghost, but instead of passing through the wall, his body slammed into it and he fell to the floor, nearly unconscious.

The Butcher walked over to the crumpled nuisance and slapped it around with the rib eye a little more. He then ripped the filthy cloth off its almost lifeless body.

“You! I remember you. You’re that little zombie boy.”

Blood leaked from Boris’s mouth and ran down his corroding face as he smiled up at the hulking death bringer and weakly croaked:

“It’s Zombie Man.”

The Butcher cocked the steak back behind his head and brought it down like a hammer. A wet whistle preceded a SMACK! Our hero, feeling fairly flattened, saw the Butcher move to ready a second blow, which both he and the Butcher knew would put him down for good, so he latched on to the juicy weapon tightly. The Butcher chuckled and easily lifted the steak in front of himself with one arm and Boris came up with it. Grabbing on to the steak fiercely, biting into it to improve his grip, Boris rose until the two were eye to eye. The brute looked at the rabid madman curiously for a few seconds. He didn’t know if he was more annoyed or amused with the pest.

“You’re a hungry little fucker, ain’tcha?”

The Butcher shook the giant piece of meat, but he could not free it from the hungry creature. Being jerked back and forth, enduring whiplash, Boris frantically clung to the steak with both arms and his teeth. The room wobbled around him as he hung on. His teeth sank farther into the meat and he hugged it with all of his strength. He felt weak, but he had never been so strong. He was going to bring the steak back to Bugger.

The Butcher laughed heartily as he shook and shook the dead flesh being clutched by seemingly dead flesh.

“You know what? I’m impressed. You can have it. It’s no good to me now.”

Holding the mishmash of meat and miscreant in front of him like a dirty diaper, the Butcher walked outside and threw the whole mess overhand towards the street. Boris watched the whole world whirl by before – Wham! Landing hard on his ass, still hugging the steak, he sat there stupidly. It was then clear to him just how big the hunk of meat was. It was as big as his torso and covered him like a beef blanket. He sat there longer, studying the thing incredulously. His entirety hurt, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t believe it. He had steak. His plan had worked perfectly.

Bugger had not moved all day. He was still asleep, relaxing in the cool breeze tunneling lightly down the alley. Boris found him lying there and smiled down at his best friend. He nudged the sleeping dog with his foot.

“Got us some real food, boy. We’re gonna be doin’ some good eatin’ tonight.”

Bugger woke with a start. What had resembled road kill seconds before was now full of life and excitedly running circles around its caretaker, the Guardian of Garbage. Even with his grievous injuries, Boris could not stop his heart from warming at the sight of his buddy. The duo sat down on the concrete, preparing for dinner. Boris did his best to cook the huge steak with a BIC lighter he had found on the ground, but the small, hand-held flame only charred the outside of it in grayish spots, leaving the center completely raw. Finding the eatin’ as good as it was likely to get, the main course was served. Boris gnawed gently on one end of it while Bugger tore himself off a large piece and swallowed it whole. Boris had lost some teeth from the meat beating, making it difficult for him to eat, but he was relieved. For the first time in a long time, he was focused not on surviving, but on enjoying himself, which he wasn’t. He was miserable. His mouth was so busted up he could hardly chew. But Boris could see how happy he had made Bugger, and that made it all a little easier to swallow.

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touristguidebuzz · 8 years ago

Text

The Cow Head Taco Philosopher King of Oaxaca

It’s Wednesday and I realize with a start that I’m late again. I have a conference call in a few minutes, and I’m wandering deep in thought on the other side of town. More importantly, I completely forgot to eat. For a woman who writes about food for a living, this oversight is a counterintuitive but consistent affliction. Everything is blotted out when I am deep in a writing project or speech. Yes, even food. I walk around in a daze thinking wordy thoughts.

Pressed for time, I veer to the right hoping that my favorite cow head taco vendor has not packed up for the day. I arrive breathless, smiling, sweaty in the desert heat. Israel, my cabeza expert, smiles widely. “Hola Yeni,” he drawls with all the time in the world. He swings the heavy lid off a huge metal pot, shifting onto his right foot to absorb its weight as steam billows into the air. “¿Qué puedo servirle?” (What can I serve you?)

Israel’s taco restaurant consists of a tiny mobile stand with two stools facing a makeshift bar, propped up against the wheels. In addition to his metal pot, divided into quarters to separate the types of meat and the tortillas, he has a cooler filled with drinks and sauces. When he’s not parked, you wouldn’t know he was coming. The don’t call it tacos ambulantes (wandering tacos) for nothing.

As I half lean on a stool, blood sugar crashing, I catch an older man smiling at me from the corner of my eye. “Where are you from? And are you married?” he asks. “And where is your family? Are they here?” I open my mouth to try to answer his stream of questions but Israel cuts me off with a smile.

“Tranquilo,” he interjects. “Let her eat first.”

I wolf down the first of my tacos as both men eye me warily, perhaps wondering if I can breathe while eating that quickly. Once I wipe off the salsa with a paper napkin, I turn to the other diner and answer his questions.

Israel presides over our talk like a proud papa, looking from one of us to the other.

“Isn’t life grand?” he asks no one and everyone. We smile, then dip our heads to take another bite of our tacos.

Tacos de cabeza, surtidos style.

A Little About Those Cow Head Tacos

Much like dumplings in Asia, many different meats and cuts go into tacos in Mexico. In his book Planet Taco, Jeffrey Pilcher notes:

“People have been eating corn tortillas with bits of meat or beans rolled up inside of them for more than a millenium, but the taco achieved national hegemony only in the twentieth century. Traditionally, every region in Mexico had its own distinctive snack foods, collectively known as antojitos (little whimsies), formed in countless ingenious shapes and given a wide variety of local names.”

The now ubiquitous taco is a more modern usage for one of those antojitos. In the 1831 book El Cocinero Mexicano, a list of corn snacks like quesadillas and chilaquiles, also did not mention tacos. Per Pilcher, tacos-as-descriptor only became popular following the publication of Los banditos de Rio Frio (The Bandits of the Cold River) in 1891, which makes reference to children “skipping, with tacos of tortillas and avocado in their hand.” Though the expression was obviously used prior to publication, it was with this new book that it “quickly received official recognition,” says Pilcher, with attribution officially given to Mexico City.

In the case of cow head tacos a new world fusion: both beef and pork were Spanish imports. Jose Iturriaga notes in Las Cocinas de Mexico that cow head tacos originate from Bajio, in central Mexico. These days, they are quite popular there, in Sonora, and in the capital of Mexico City. But they’re also found elsewhere in Mexico, cooked with whatever local ingredients fit the bill.

For cow or pork head tacos, this means all of the parts of the head. When ordering, meats are usually split into maciza, which translates into “solid” meat, and can be anything from cheek, to lips, mouth, or neck of the cow. The second grouping is the offal, including eye, tongue, brains, sweetbreads, or machitos (beef intestines). I’m partial to both the maciza and the lengua, tongue tacos. A catch-all for a first foray into tacos de cabeza is surtido, a medley of meats mixed together.

Head meat tacos may sound extreme but they are gourmet-tasting cuts of meat. The tacos are richly textured, tender, and extraordinarily flavourful without being oily. Regardless of style, head tacos usually involve steaming the head overnight, then shredding the meat and adding it back to the pot in its own juice (called consommé).

Of course this is Mexico, so the beef isn’t simply steamed in a flavorless vat. Israel’s steamer includes achiote (annatto), avocado leaves, peppercorns, a variety of different chiles, bay leaves, and some other secret ingredients that he steadfastly keeps to himself. Once ordered, Israel dips into his giant metal steamer and doles out the beef tortillas, which he serves with cilantro, raw onions, a dollop of avocado paste, spicy salsa, and a lime wedge.

The finished product.

My Favourite Taco Philosopher in Oaxaca

When I first got to Oaxaca, I wandered the streets in wonder. After so many years in Asia, curiosity dictated that I eat at every single taco and quesadilla stand I could find that met my rules of eating street food safely. It is during this wander that I stumbled onto Israel’s stall. Originally from Puebla, he has lived in Oaxaca for 15 years, including part of his schooling. He studied both accounting and law — another Thrillable Hours contender? — and worked in accounting for several years following his graduation.

Why did this accountant start making tacos? In 2006, Oaxaca was engulfed in protests, and his entire office was temporarily suspended from work. Needing to feed his family, Israel learned how to make tacos and sell them in a wandering cart. He didn’t sell head tacos in those days. Instead, he focused on what he called “tacos de canasta ambulantes,” greasy chorizo and chicharrones tacos sold out of a basket. These are fried, rolled tacos that he made ahead of time and roamed the streets, selling to protesters who were camped out in the main square and elsewhere.

To his surprise, he made more as a taco vendor than as an accountant. So when the protests cleared and the situation in the city stabilized, he decided to keep selling tacos instead. “No way was I going back to an office,” he says, head thrown back with laughter. He pauses, thoughtful. “But I had to change my tacos.”

It is this thoughtful pondering that makes Israel such a delight. When people come to his cart, he engages in small talk but often they come to him for advice and questions about their choices in life. In the case of his tacos, he switched to steamed head tacos, Sonora-style, because while slightly more expensive they are quite a bit healthier. “It just seemed wrong to make greasy tacos when I could make healthy tacos,” he adds with a shrug.

That’s just the kind of guy he is.

Tacos incoming! <3

I’m still eating tacos and chatting with my fellow diner on that rushed Wednesday when a woman comes running out of a building next to Israel’s cart. Impatient, she calls his name several times before he realizes that during tacos he missed his them calling his number at the government building next door. He scurries off quickly.

Israel turns to me with a sheepish grin and shrugs as if to say, “what can you do? There are tacos to be eaten.” I realize that I, too, ate my tacos and completely forgot about my own obligations.

I wolf down my head tacos, give Israel a quick hug, and rush home for my conference call.

A few days later, my stomach is in the mood for more tacos surtidos and I wander down to Israel’s stall. “Yeni!” he calls out from afar “I see you!”.

Giggling, I push myself onto one of his high stools and order some tacos. A man looking to be in his mid-40s stops in, eyeing me with curiosity. He gives Israel a shrug and slides onto one of the plastic stools in front of the cart.

“Isn’t life grand?” Israel says.

“I am pretty angry today,” the new arrival admits. He glances over at me quickly, unsure if I understand Spanish.

“Oh that’s Yeni,” Israel quickly interjects. “She lives here too.”

The man nods slowly.

“Well,” Isreal continues. “Life is great when your heart is calm. Otherwise life is not great.”

We eat our tacos in silence, thinking about Israel’s words. Almost every time I’ve found him on the streets of Oaxaca, his clients have come by with their life’s troubles, waiting for a word from this head taco philosopher that will put it all in perspective.

We finish our tacos together and Israel takes the other customer’s money first, looking him in the eye. “Remember. You will be in trouble because anger will corrupt your view of the world. The good things in life will become reasons to be angry too. You need to be calm and happy in your heart. The rest will follow.”

The man leaves and Israel turns my way, face cracking into a huge smile.

“You too, Yeni! Don’t worry, though, with tacos in your stomach, it is much easier to be calm and happy in your heart.”

Israel, holding chia water and wearing a ch-ch-ch-Chia shirt — having no idea that it was an ad in North America. Oaxaca grows a lot of chia seeds, and they’re used in lemon water, chocolate, and more.

Part of my joy in getting to know my new home of Oaxaca has been to learn the stories of the people behind the foods I love. I hope you enjoyed this bit about Israel!

More to come soon.

-Jodi

The post The Cow Head Taco Philosopher King of Oaxaca appeared first on Legal Nomads.

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iishipallthethings · 6 years ago

Text

The Wager Chapter 7

Chapter name: and so I shower you with gifts

Coffee?

Mary walked quickly through the streets, smiling as she hummed a random tune. A bundle wrapped in yellow paper was tucked neatly under her arm. Even the weather reflected her good mood, the sun shined down on her with warm rays without a single cloud to block it. She grinned as she saw the ruined orphanage loom in front of her. Maria was not joking; there was no door that protected the inside of the orphanage from nature's wrath.

The woman walked into the orphanage and weaved through the crowds of children. She walked straight to the Principal's Office, having learned where it was from Maria a few days ago.

She saw the priest sit in a chair not that better than the ones the children have. He was reviewing some paperwork with a deep frown. Mary saw him heave a great sigh and tried to rub away the lines in his forehead.

Mary cleared her throat and the priest smiled tiredly at her. "Come in, come in. How may I help you?" He gestured to the ancient seat in front of his desk.

Instead of sitting in the chair and risk it breaking under her small weight, Mary stood in front of the desk. "I would like to make a donation," she said professionally.

The priest grinned as his eyes shined with gratitude and glanced down at the paperwork he left on the desk. "Thank you so much for your generosity. As you can probably see, we need all the help we can get."

Mary nodded and gave the man the bundle. Confused, but intrigued, the man opened the package and glanced inside. He sat rigid in his seat and stared at the contents of the bundle. He glanced up at Mary and back down. The priest gulped loudly and took out the wad of pesos. He thumbed the money and stopped counting at halfway through. "T-this is your donation?" he asked, still staring at the bills in wonder.

"Is that enough? I can give you more if you like," Mary said worryingly.

The man gulped again and shook his head. "No, this amount," tears sprang to the priest's eyes as ideas ran rampant in his head, "the orphanage could be rebuilt from scratch! And still have enough left over to refurnish the entire school twice over!" He jumped out of his seat and clasped Mary's hand, shaking it as if his life depended on it. "Thank you miss! Thank you!"

Mary grinned and waved the thanks away. "It is nothing sir. I just want to make sure the children are well taken care of."

"Yes, thanks to you, they'll all live like kings and queens!" The priest looked at the paperwork he was viewing over and slapped a hand over it. "We can pay for the new door! And a roof! And desks! And boards! A-and beds! Oh the children will live in comfort and want for nothing!" The man was practically shaking with excitement. He grasped Mary's hand again, "Thank you miss! I-I have to tell the nuns and dear Mrs. Posada that their prayers have been answered!"

Mary grinned widely, but it was not because she had just donated a large sum of money to a good cause. She watched the priest scurry out and followed him out of the room in a more leisure pace. She walked towards the exit, imagining what the orphanage will look like in a few week's time.

She had just turned the corner to walk to the cemetery and go to the Land of the Remembered when she heard someone running towards her. She looked over her shoulder to see Maria stopping behind her, breathing hard. Maria managed to gasp out, "T-the priest. He. You. Donation."

Mary smiled and nodded, waiting patiently for the younger woman to catch her breath. What the young woman did next surprised Mary so much that she did not do anything to stop her. Maria pulled Mary into a tight embrace, her face buried in the older woman's neck. When she pulled back, Maria beamed at Mary. "Is it true?" her voice wavered only a little bit at the end, but it was still filled with awe and gratitude.

Mary simply nodded with a grin and gasped in shock as she was pulled into another hug. She returned it with a moment of hesitation. When the hug ended, Mary noticed that there was a slight flush in Maria's cheeks.

"I have no idea what to say but thank you," Maria said. She looked back to the direction of the orphanage before looking back at Mary. "I don't know what we would have done without you. There must be a way for me to repay you." Her eyes brightened as she gasped. "I know, we can go get lunch, it'll be my treat."

The older woman nodded, wondering if that flash of fear of rejection she saw in Maria's eyes was just her imagination. Maria grinned and grabbed Mary's hand gently, guiding her down the street. "Don't you still have work?" Mary asked, realizing that the younger woman might be playing hookie.

"Nope. After the big announcement of your donation, all of the nuns decided to give the children a treat and let them go off and play." Maria bumped shoulders playfully with Maria, "So now I have nothing to do for the rest of the day."

"Well, I suppose you'll just have to indulge me," Mary replied slyly. Once again, she thought she saw Maria's cheeks flush slightly as the younger woman tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"Oh, we're here." Maria let go of Mary's hand and hurried over to the hostess, whispering low enough so Mary could not hear. The hostess gave Maria an odd look but signaled for the two to follow her. The hostess led Mary and Maria to a secluded part of the restaurant that had a clear view of the chapel. Both women sat down and the hostess walked away without another glance.

Maria played with her wedding ring for a bit before the waitress came and got their drink orders. They ordered wine with a secret grin. Maria glanced up at Mary who nodded encouragingly. "I know you have something on your mind, what is it?" Mary asked.

"How did you know I wanted to ask something?" Maria questioned, the fingers stilling on her ring.

The older woman gestured towards the ring. "You keep playing with your wedding ring when you're nervous or have something on your mind." She tilted her head with a slight frown. "Are you nervous?" she asked.

Maria quickly shook her head no but after a moment she glanced down and nodded once. She looked up, "Where did you get that money?"

Mary was not expecting that question. She had hoped that Maria would just accept that she had made a sizable donation and leave it at that. Thinking about it now, Mary realized she should have seen this coming. Deciding to play it cool and to buy herself some time, she said, "I am the banditos new leader." She shrugged as if it was not a big deal.

Maria stared at her in such horror that Mary held up both hands. "That was a joke!" She saw the relief in Maria's face. "I come from a wealthy family."

"Then what are you doing in San Angel for? Surely your husband would have left you more than enough of money." Mary could not tell if she had imagined the bitterness in Maria's voice or not.

"I find that I like the view and the people," Mary replied, taking great care not to give anything away. She felt guilt stir in her belly but she had forgotten why it was there. "And I would like to see that man try to take any of my riches."

"How are you and your husband anyway?" Maria asked, glancing away from Mary's eyes.

Luckily, the older woman was saved from saying an unreasonable lie when the waitress came with their drinks. As they ordered their food, Mary searched for a logical answer, once again feeling the guilt rear up deep in her belly. She took a sip from her glass of wine to gain courage as she said, "We are still on bad terms, I doubt that we will see eye-to-eye ever again."

It disturbed Mary to think that a year prior, that statement was extremely accurate. A part of her wondered if it was still correct.

An emotion not unlike relief fluttered in Maria's eyes but for a moment before she looked downcast at her drink. "I'm sorry to hear that." A hint of shame was laced through the words although Mary had no idea why Maria would be ashamed of anything.

The two continued to talk about Mary's past, Mary feeling guiltier with every lie she said about her nonexistent family. The food could not have come fast enough and when it finally arrived, Mary was so grateful that she did not hesitate to start eating, taking a generous drink from her wine to sooth her burning tongue a moment later. She glared halfheartedly at Maria who had giggled.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have laughed," Maria said as she made a show of blowing the steam off of her food before putting it in her mouth.

Mary was just glad that the subject of her 'family' was dropped. They ate in silence for a couple of minutes, this time Mary savoring the food. Mary glanced back up at Maria, "How is Manolo doing?"

Maria shrugged. "He's doing okay and his wound is healing nicely. It's like he said, it could have been a lot worse," she said with a shudder.

Mary nodded in agreement and took a sip of her wine. They became quiet once more as they finished their food. They left the restaurant in companionable silence, only breaking it to point something out like a drunkard stumbling out of a bar.

"How is Joaquin?" Mary asked as the two strolled past the statue of Joaquin's father. She glanced at Maria and saw that the smile that graced the younger woman's lips slipped into a small frown. Mary slowed down her pace as her eyes showed her concern. "Did something happen?" A sudden wave of protectiveness pierced Mary's insides and she was shocked at the intensity of it.

The feeling only dimmed the tiniest bit when Maria shook her head without saying anything. Mary watched Maria's face closely as she asked, "Did he do something to that bull?"

Maria's eyes widened in surprise, "What!? N-no, Joaquin would never hurt one of the bulls! Manolo would punch him for even thinking about it!" Maria said with a weak laugh. She looked down as she sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping under pressure that Mary did not know. "Joaquin wanted to put the bull down but Manolo managed to show him that it really was an accident. The poor thing wouldn't stop crying when he saw Joaquin's blades." Maria shook her head as if to rid herself of the image she had created.

"So the bull is going to be okay?" Mary asked gently, placing a hand on Maria's lower back.

Maria smiled gratefully for the physical contact and nodded. "Yes. He won't be able to perform with Manolo for a while but he's going to be fine." She brushed back a strand of hair and coughed in embarrassment, "I'm sorry for suddenly getting so emotional. This entire week has just been really"

"interesting?" May suggested when Maria led off.

"Yeah," Maria agreed. She looked up and saw the sun had moved quite a bit as they had their lunch and walk. She stopped and clasped her hands in front of her, grinning. "Manolo and Joaquin will probably want to thank you too once I tell them what you did. How about you come over for dinner tomorrow night? We'll cook for you."

Mary tilted her head to the side with a sly grin. "I thought lunch was my thank you."

Maria waved the statement away. "That was my thank you, this will be theirs."

"So wait, I help your orphanage and you take me out to lunch, without lifting a single finger to prepare the food I might add, and Manolo and Joaquin are going to slave away for hours making me dinner," Mary teased, delighted in the way Maria smirked and narrowed her eyes at the jest. "Doesn't that seem a little unfair?"

The younger woman looked up into the sky as she pretended to think with an innocent expression. She grinned mischievously a moment later as she shook her head. "No, but I suppose they just want to impress you more than I do." Her eyes widened in horror at her choice of words for but a moment but that moment was all that Mary needed.

Mary stepped closer to Maria and touched her arm, smiling a little when the other woman visibly relaxed at the simple touch. She tried to think of what Maria could possibly mean by what she said and she chuckled when she reached a conclusion. "Is Joaquin trying to impress me?"

Maria looked even more shocked at that question than when Mary had asked if the man had done something to the bulls. After a few moments she recovered and gave a wary laugh. "Perhaps," she said lamely. The mischievous grin was back, however it did not erase the surprised expression that Mary say before. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow night?"

The older woman gave a nod. "I'll see you then."

Maria grinned, this time a genuine one, and began to walk away. Mary watched her go as she replayed Maria's strange behavior over in her head. She was certain that she had done something to cause the weird reactions from her friend but she could not figure out why.

After Maria had left her sight, Mary shrugged and turned to walk towards the cemetery. Oh well, she thought to herself. She will figure it out eventually but probably not right now. Her mind was too occupied with thoughts on what Joaquin and Manolo could possibly be cooking for her and her stomach was too filled with excitement over having dinner with Maria the following evening.

#thewager #book of life #la muerte #maria posada

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