Fiction: Selections From Judge Santiago Burdon
By Judge Santiago Burdon
Suffering Pleasure
Darkness had just punched the time clock, showing up to work
the night shift. It was time to light a couple of candles in my Studio
apartment. The purpose wasn't to create a romantic or Gothic ambiance, but
instead to be able to navigate around my four-hundred-square-foot living space
with some kind of light. It seems my memory has been on a drunk once again and
forgot to pay the light bill. The Electric and Power guy pointed out I've used
that somewhat creative as well as almost humorous excuse far too often. The
novelty has worn off with the consequence being orders to confiscate the
Electric Meter and return it to the office. It meant he couldn't just pull it
out, turn it upside down, and push it back in. The company mid-level
suits had become aware of me pulling it out then placing it back into the
service restoring my power after the electric guy left. I guess I'll be playing
pioneer for a while. Maybe I should stock up on candles or get one of those oil
lamps. You know what? My neighbors are leaving on vacation for a
month tomorrow. I can jump their Electric and their Cable. I'll try to
get my TV out of hock. This guy will be living like a suburban scumbag
in no time at all. I've got it all worked out.
“This has to stop Santiago. There's no future in what you
refer to as a recreational activity.” I said out loud.
“Ya I know. You're right. I've gotta straighten up.”
Answering back to myself with a 4:00 a.m. honesty.
I emptied the entire contents of the paper into the small
pool of water in the spoon.
“When do you think that will happen?”
“I can't say for sure. It may manifest as a revelation or
mysteriously surprise me as an epiphany. Maybe some friends will organize
an intervention. Although that seems highly unlikely with friends being
scarce these days. However, there is always the never-fail cure;
incarceration.”
I held the spoon over the candle flame and bubbles appeared
on the surface of the water.
“It doesn't matter what method you decide on. You've gotta
get clean. You embrace your grief knowing it's a toxic lover. Only because it
allows you to believe that no one's pain is greater than your own. It's an
excuse you use to rationalize this self-destructive behavior without
culpability. How did it ever come to this?”
“You wanna know something? It's a complete mystery to
me how I got to where I am now. I guess I missed an exit or made a wrong turn.
That's just one inconvenience of addiction, there's no compass, no map or
directions to know where you are going. I always end up getting lost and
staying there.”
I drew up the warm coffee-colored liquid mixture
through a cigarette butt I used as a filter. Then I inspected the
contents for air bubbles, flicking the syringe with my finger to dislodge them.
“You look at life as though it's a nonstop parade just for your entertainment. You watch it pass by day after day without thinking about it ending. Let me clue you in Mister Dope Fiend, the last float will be showing up soon signaling your demise. Take my word for it. Santa Claus won't be riding on top waving his Christmas Greeting. You've gotta take control of your life. It's got to stop!”
My voice echoed in the near-empty apartment as I hollered to
myself.
“Ya sure, it'll happen. I promise. I just can't say
when.” I answered back sincerely. But even I didn't believe myself.
I stabbed the syringe deep into my vein. I didn't even
have to pull back on the plunger to register. My dark, thick, rich, red,
blood billowed into it offering a crimson preview of the explosion about to
erupt inside my body. My finger slowly, ceremoniously pushed down on the
plunger.
Boom!
The Twice-Killed Cat
We became acquainted in a Mexican prison, where I was a
guest for eight months. I make it a policy to never associate with people I’d
met in prison once I was back on the outside, but in Johnny Rico’s case, he was
the exception to the rule. Sort of like a mild virus you’re unable to shake,
you know you’re infected, but you just learn to live with the malady.
Always with a bandanna around his neck, and most of the time
its color clashed with his shirt. He says it serves as a fashion statement, but
I’ve never been able to figure out what statement he was trying to make. Then
there’s his common practice of wearing mismatched socks all the time. I’m sure
he’s colorblind and I’ve tried to demonstrate the fact with a simple test
numerous times, but he won't have anything to do with my experiment.
He’s very egocentric and will never admit to making a
mistake or having a disability, but he’s my carnal and has always been there
for me. My proverbial Colombian guardian angel. I gave him the last name Rico,
which fits his personality hand in glove. Commonly translated as “rich” or “wealthy”,
it can also mean “exceptional,” and for better or worse, that is Johnny all the
way.
Cartagena, Columbia. A place so beautiful that even god
couldn’t believe he’d created it with his own hands. If he vacations, I have no
doubt this is his destination. Gorgeous women, true angeles sin alas, obras de
arte (angels without wings, works of art). If god created a woman more
beautiful than these Colombianas, he must have kept her in heaven for himself.
Cartagena also happens to be the hometown of my lunatic
sidekick, Johnny Rico.
There I was relaxing by the pool, working up an appetite for
dinner with twelve-ounce curls, letting the sun have its way with me while
recuperating from the night before.
“Excuse me, Mr. Bigotes,” says Raul, the concierge. “There’s
a call for you. Would you like for me to bring the phone poolside?”
I’d made a request that I was not to be disturbed,
interrupted or bothered in any way, but I guess the call must be important
enough to disregard my request.
“Do you know who it is?” I ask.
“No, Mr. Bigotes, but he said it was an emergency.”
That’s all I needed to hear; instantly the mystery was
solved.
“I’ll take the call on the phone in the lobby.”
I reach into my wallet and give him a healthy propina (tip),
informing him that he never took this call for me. He nods to indicate he
understood.
“Diga me! Quien es?” says the voice on the other line. “Bigotes,
I am very sorry to bother you…”
Which of course, he was not.
“It’s Johnny,” he says. “I have a big problem, and I really
need your help!”
At first, I can only detect a faint quiver in his voice.
Then, all at once, he starts crying uncontrollably. In all the time I’d known
the man, I’d never known him to cry, and we had seen enough shit together that
would have warranted it.
“Okay Johnny, find some huevos and meet me for dinner at
Tesoro del Mar, 7:30 sharp. Entiendas pinche?”
“Okay Bigotes, gracias carnal.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
Later, at the restaurant, I wind up dining alone. Wiping my
mouth, I take a look at my watch. 8:15 pm. I swear, Colombians are more
proficient at tardiness than even Mexicans. It’s a common and even accepted
practice in this country to be late.
Just as I’m about to pay the check for my dinner and wine,
in strolls Rico, looking as though his dog had just been run over.
“Did you order dinner already?” he asks dejectedly.
“Not only did I already order dinner, JR. I ate dinner,
drank a bottle of wine, and tipped the bartender, the cook and the waiter. Now
I am on the prowl for some of Colombia’s finest cocaine, an angel of the
evening, and an orgy of such depravity and lewdness it would make a porn star
blush. A night I won’t remember. Are ya in, carnal?”
“I thought you were buying me dinner?” he whines.
“That was at 7:30. It is now close to 8:30.”
“Are you going to start with that ‘gringo time’ again,
carnal?”
“Okay,” I relent. “Have a seat, I’ll buy ya dinner. Como
pasando contigo? Que haces dime?” (What’s going on with you? What are you
doing?)
He begins to regale me with the tragedy that has caused him
so much pain of late. His lower lip quavers and his hands begin to tremble as
he speaks. From the way he is acting, I’m sure he has either fucked up big time
or fucked somebody over, earning him a spot on their list.
“She’s cheating on me with some cabron at work!” he finally
blurts out. “She’s fucking someone else, I’m sure of it. My heart has been
killed twice!”
Son of a bitch, I thought, it’s about a woman this time
instead. This coming from a guy who would fuck a bush if he thought a snake was
in it.
Over dinner, I note that his heartbreak sure hasn’t affected
his appetite. Two plates of pescado frito, arroz, salada, sopa, and cuatro
cervezas later, finally we are ready to commence this mission of restoring my
carnal’s manhood.
As we exit the restaurant, Johnny is still talking rapidly,
crying, and flailing his hands in the air.
“Johnny, shut the fuck up,” I eventually tell him. “So,
what’s this master plan of yours?”
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll show you!”
I’m already sure I’m not going to like this. If I must be
shown and not told, odds are it’s another one of Johnny’s demented schemes, one
that I would never go along with if explained properly beforehand. Trust me,
I’d been witness to and participated in enough of his adventures in the past,
some of which would make a schizophrenic’s actions seem normal.
We reach his car and I slide in the passenger side,
immediately noticing the odd assortment of items in back. Bottles of tequila,
beer (undoubtedly warm), rope, flashlights, and what looks like a box trap of
some kind. It’s similar to what my grandma used to catch raccoons in her attic.
Why I’m even entertaining the thought of assisting this
lunatic in whatever he has in mind this time is far beyond me.
It is in this moment I have to admit, Johnny Rico, insane
though he may be, is my friend. That’s a word I have never used lightly, and
while my standards of friendship are extremely high, I reciprocate by the same
set of standards.
In other words, guess I’m in.
“First, we are to stake out her house,” he begins at length.
“Then, we will wait for her cat to come along and trap it. Then, we are going
to stab that son of a bitch until it’s dead TWICE and hang it from her door.
When she comes home and sees it, she will know that no one disrespects Juan
Villanova Johnny Rico and gets away with it!”
Johnny always had to kill something twice. I’d never
understood where that ritual originated from, and I’d never though to ask until
now.
“Uh huh…” I say. “So, you think the best way to win her back
is by mutilating her cat, killing it twice and hanging it from her door. What
is this, some sort of Santa Muerta ritual, or an ancient Indian ritual kinda
thing?”
“No, this is all my idea,” he confesses proudly. “I thought
of it myself!”
Like I never would have guessed.
It is then that Johnny pulls out a bag of cocaine the size
of his fist, gleefully shoving it in my face. It’s not like he has to force me
to partake. I open the bag and snort a healthy amount through his silver coke
straw, and he does the same. I pop open a warm beer for me and one for my
carnal, take a large hit of tequila, and pass the bottle over to Johnny.
Together we speed off into the night.
It is 9:20 pm when we run out of gas three blocks from his
girlfriend’s house. We have to walk two kilometers to a gas station, through a
barrio I was not very comfortable strolling about in at night. Johnny,
meanwhile, seems oblivious to the danger, trudging ever onward without fear. He
assures me he has earned safe passage through almost every neighborhood in the
city. I doubt his dispensation but don’t express my disbelief.
Finally, we return to the car and gas it back up.
Slowly we creep down Johnny’s girlfriend’s street, lights
off, but for some reason he has got the radio blaring.
“Johnny, the radio!” I yell. “Turn it off, pendejo!”
“Si si,” he complies, “I don’t like this song either…”
For Christ’s sake, if he’s going for stealth, it’s a lost
cause already.
He parks the car across the street, in an alleyway with a
perfect view of her house.
“I see that you’ve done this before,” I observe. “How long
have you been stalking her, JR? This is not a healthy activity, carnal.”
“Only four or five times,” he confesses. “How else to make
sure she’s not fucking around on me?”
Stepping out of the car, we quickly get the trap set up, and
Johnny puts an unopened carton of milk inside.
“Johnny,” I laugh, “that’s never gonna work! Have you got
any fish, maybe a can of tuna or something?”
“No, but that’s a good idea,” he says. “Come on, let’s go
get a can of tuna…”
Half an hour later, we return with the tuna, bait the trap,
and resume our surveillance mission.
“You know Rico, wouldn’t it have been easier to just send
her a box of dog shit, like you did to that prostitute you were so madly in
love with? What was her name? ‘Laura the Zorra’ (slut), if I remember
correctly?”
“First of all Bigotes, she wasn’t a prostitute! That was a
rumor started by some bitches, chismosas (gossipy women), only because they
were jealous of her. So don’t you call her a zorra! Also, that pinche gato got
into my Toyota and pissed all over inside. I could never get the smell out and
had to sell the car for pennies, do you remember? So, the gato deserves what he
has coming to him!”
“Isn’t that the car you sold your sister? And Johnny, with
all due respect to working girls, she was a prostitute whether you want to
believe it or not!”
“Ya, yo se carnal, I know she was a prostitute. And my
sister never did figure out what that smell was, either!”
I start laughing uncontrollably and Johnny joins in, unable
to catch his breath. There’s snot running from my nose, and the sight of it
sends Johnny into complete hysterics.
There we sat laughing, smoking cigarettes and joints,
drinking beer and tequila and snorting cocaine well into the night. We’re
telling jokes, lies about women we’ve had, and exchanging stories of close
calls experienced on dope runs. All while waiting on a cat that may or may not
decide to show up.
Two hours later and it’s close to midnight. My speech has
become so slurred, it is practically incomprehensible. I’m talking fast without
punctuation, Chicago style, speaking total cocainese. I could run a marathon
with a beer in one hand and a joint in the other, with Johnny on my back, I am
so coked up by this point.
It is then I look outside the window, noticing the mountain
of beer cans and cigarette butts that has accumulated on the ground beside the
car. That’s when it occurs to me how bad I need to piss. Opening the door, I
stumble out over the mess, and Johnny follows suit.
“Bigotes, mira playo (there’s her cat)!” he says, before I
can even get unzipped. “Venga gatito, venga bebe…”
The cat walks right up to Johnny and start rubbing against
his leg. What happens next isn’t pretty. I immediately grab the bottle of
tequila, guzzling a monstrous amount.
“Now, I kill this fucking cat twice!” he screams, raising
his knife yet again.
“Johnny, that’s enough!”
I almost can’t believe the sheer level of the brutality I’ve
just witnessed. I never thought he’d actually go through with it. I nearly
double over and start puking right then and there, but somehow I manage to
maintain my composure.
Next thing I know, we’re standing on his girlfriend’s porch.
Grinning maniacally, Johnny does the deed as promised, tying the poor
creature’s carcass to her door.
“Okay,” I say, “let’s get the fuck out of here!”
“What!? No carnal, I want to see her reaction…”
My friend has proven himself to be a total psychopath, but I
am far too tired, shocked, and fucked up by this point to offer much by way of
resistance.
Johnny hands me a joint. I light it, take a hit, cough and
follow him back to the car. He hasn’t even attempted to clean the blood off
himself.
It is now close to dawn, and soon the sun will be shedding
its light on Johnny’s heinous crimes, to which I have become an unwitting
accomplice.
It isn’t long before a car pulls up to his girlfriend’s
house. She climbs out and Johnny smiles wide, poking me in the ribs to make
sure I’m still awake. He wants us both to see what happens next.
Meanwhile, an old woman is sweeping the sidewalk in front of
the house next door. She looks up as a scream pierces the stillness of the
morning. Abruptly dropping her broom, she hurries over to where Johnny’s
girlfriend stands screaming on her porch.
“My cat, my cat!” the old woman begins to shriek. “My baby!
Oh, my poor little Tito!”
Johnny just stares straight ahead with a blank expression on
his face.
“Wrong cat,” He mutters.
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