The sweet smell of carne, and spilled cervesa filled the night air as a non descript beater of a car rolled down a dark street in Juarez, Mexico. A small sigh of relief escaped from the driver, inaudible thanks to Willie Nelson's Whiskey River coming from the one speaker stereo in the car. He turned down Buena Suerte and parked in front of the pink neon of the whorehouse. He tipped the doorman who went inside, and unloaded his cargo from the trunk. It was heavy. He was happy. Happy, for the first time in a long time. Time to make the donuts.
The sound of a body in wet clothes being dragged, scratched and sloshed down the dark empty hallway. Fuckin' mono Elvis, 30 band punch and sparkle he mused. Frustrated musicians us all, no matter how we go insane, he whispered and then wondered why he did. It wouldn't matter if the mother fucker did wake up. Not now. He kinda hoped he would. That fucking piece of shit. This was righteous, on par, and above board sir. Write that shit down. Write it down man. The douche-bag didn't though, he just flopped around like a dead snake, twisting through the warehouse, head at the heels of the son of a bitch who was about to become his God, The Devil, and finally an Angel of mercy, all in one. The last face you'll see shithead. The last click of the handcuff did wake him up though. In a startled panic, Howard Canarven glanced quickly from side to side. Squinting in the dark, looking confused at the giant shadow that had just chained his hand to the floor, and his neck to the wall.
"Well good fucking morning to you buddy. You have any fucking idea who I am?" His captor held the Coleman's lamp up to his face, covered in dirt and sweat. His long hair swaying like possessed snakes, dreadlocked in blood. His blood. What the fuck is happening to me? The thought was like a razor blade being dragged behind his ears. No, it wasn't the thought; it was indeed a razor blade dragging down behind his ears. First the right, then the left. He could feel hot blood running down his neck. Oh my god. I am really going to die. I am going to die, and this monster is going to make sure I look forward to it. My name is Seamus, the monster said, sitting in font of him now, legs crossed, eyes glowing in the gas lamp's light. You killed someone close to me. "I haven't killed anyone man!" his screams were fucking pathetic, weak, like a frightened little girl. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
God dam, let's see if you can really be scared to death. Are you scared Howard? Are you fucking scared? You should be. If you had a fucking clue of what I will be doing to you until you draw your last fucking breath, you would be very afraid. But you already pissed and shit yourself haven't you? That was my fault. Way to much in the needle and no colostomy bags to be had. That's why you're all wet asshole. The smell was a little much for me bud. So I dunked you in the river on the way over here. Look at me when I'm talking' to you Howard. Have you ever heard the sound of a jig saw going through a toe buddy? How about ten toes? No? It sounds like this Howard. The cordless saw whined and grinded it's way through his bones like a clumsy drunk banging down the hall on his way to take a piss. More than a little messy, but very effective. No sir, don't pass out on me now shithead. Its ok little guy, we will just cauterize your boo boos and wait for you to wake up again. Don't go anywhere. He laughed out loud. That was some funny shit. He needed another beer. Another beer and the contents of the box on the table. Four hours passed. He was in and out. Nightmares asleep. Worse awake. Boots on wet concrete, motorcycle chain slapping the wall, the monster was coming back. He was whistling, he was whistling sweet chariot, what the fuck.
He spoke to the whimpering pile of shit as he walked towards it. "I read somewhere that a man willing to die, was the most dangerous thing on the planet. God dam it Howard, please stop sniffling and listen to me please. Now, you don't find that in everyone. It takes a special set of circumstances, a special series of events, of true revelation, of honest to god visions. It takes them all. But it happens. It happens all the fucking time. It happens, and when it does, it is like being unchained and can go two ways, usually fucking FUBAR. Fear of physical pain, and the end of life as we know it, are pretty big motivators, and quickly unmask the weak and frightened. The most suicidal of the depressed generation, still scream and cry for mother, and another chance to live, when facing true mortal end. The fucked up shit is, we all face one death. Just one and it should be done with courageous strength, not tears, and urine. Die with your boots on baby." Die with your fucking boots on! Commands from a faded voice, heeded with reckless enthusiasm. Seamus closed his eyes and lit a cigarette. He took a deep, slow draw through mouth and into his nostrils. Exhaled and spoke again.
"One death is the penalty for life whether you live it by the book, outside the book, or write the fucking book Howard. One death no matter rich or poor, man or woman, child or beast. You can only hope it is quick, but you never can tell. Can ya Howie? Man, when you were a kid, drifting off to sleep before the first day of school, did you ever fucking imagine that you would die today? With me? Because of me? Because of what you did? I bet ya didn't slick. I bet you didn't. You should have though. Thirty six years in the making. The story of a wasted life. A tragic end, for sure. But aren't they all? I bet your mother is crying her eyes out for you Howard. I bet she is pacing the floor. You will never see her again. You will never hear her sweet voice again. I mean ever man. Even if I let you go. Want to know how I know that man? Here, let me get this cooler, I want to show you something. Fingers. They are fingers Howard. Three of them. They belong to your dear sweet mother. I brought 'em with me, so she could stroke your face, after I cut it off your fucking skull. I really hope I do it right, I want to see if you can feel it from across the room. Howard's eyes closed tight, vomit filled his mouth, and spilled down his face. He was coughing, the acid in his throat felt like knifes as he did. If you close your eyes again, I am going to fix you Howard, Seamus almost sang to him. OK, I tried to warn ya buddy. Let's just snip those eyelids off real quick, and he did. The screaming was really starting to piss him off. It felt like snipping a thin piece of pepperoni with a box cutter. There. Is that better? Now we can talk eye to eye. "Ring of fire" trumpeted to life from the old weathered radio in the corner, in the dark, the green dial glowing beneath the dust and blood. Red and black snot hung in ropes from Howard Canarven's nose.
You like Johnny Cash asshole? Good. Me too. Listen, I don't want you to get the wrong idea man. You moms alive. She's just not at home. None of us are really. This here is Mexico. Land of the free and the home of your grave. He reached in the box and pulled out a mason jar. You afraid of spiders bro? Ever seen one of these before? He tossed something small on Howard's face. He felt it crawl to the drying blood on his left ear. Then he felt a pinch. It had bitten him. It's a brown recluse Howie, and there are 20 of them in this jar. I'm' going to finish this beer, pull you shitty pants off, and tape this jar to your groin. Then I'm going to shake the jar, and really get these little fuckers nice and pissed off. Then they are going to bite your little dicky and your balls, and then, over the next couple days, if you last that long, your tissue will slowly rot off your fucking body. But look at this, this is fucking cool. Ever see one of these snakes? Amazing bastards they are. So small, yet so incredibly poisonous. Yes fucking Sir Howard! We are going to break down barriers tonight. We are going to see things that most people never get to see. We are going down man. Way fucking down. Primitive. You can cry now if you want to. And he did. Then it went black.
He woke up screaming. That god dam screaming. Thank god the whores upstairs liked their music loud. Seamus finished tying off the rubber cord around Howard's arm. He was growing impatient with his guest, and would be going home soon. He would, Howard would be here for a couple more days. Maybe more, who knew, who fucking cared. Seamus pulled a small glass vile from his front pocket and held it up to the lone bulb swinging from the ceiling. Did you shit again Howard? You nasty mother fucker. Know what's in here? Anti-venom. You don't deserve to die that quick. You have one free hand my man, I recommend you use it to try and keep this asp off of you. While you were sleeping I took the liberty of stuffing your pant legs with a couple of Mexico's finest rats. Dead, and bloody, they should get this little dude's attention pretty quick. Howard was screaming again, this time Seamus screamed with him, for what seemed like an hour. It probably was an hour.
So I guess you'll have your hand full for the moment there dude. Wait a couple minutes after the first few bites before you reach for the needle here man. Then footsteps. He was alone again. He felt a sharp strike on his upper thigh and winced. He waited and then plunged the needle in the track that used to be where his escapist drugs went. But this burned. It burned really bad. He couldn't untie his cord. The anti-venom just sat there below his elbow, unable to flow to the rescue. His testicles were on fire and had swelled so much, that the tape was not what was holding the jar to his groin. He wanted to pass out, to die, but the adrenaline kept him awake an fully aware. His cheek was lying on the cold wet moldy Mexican floor as he whispered, My name is Walter. My name is Walter.
Seamus got in the car and headed for the border. It never killed the ghosts that haunted him. No matter how many times he killed Howard Canarven. He would try again.