250121 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 4

Chapter 4

    Angela woke up to the clatter of horse carts below their window; Guildern’s pillow was still warm when she pulled it close to wake up against. “Good morning little darlin’”, wiping off his sturdy frame, Angela got her first look at the stab wound from Friday night, and asked Guildern to wiggle his fingers. “It’s okay,” clinching his fist as much for effect as curiosity. “The First Aid kit is downstairs; let’s wrap it up here,” stepping out the doorway down the stairs naked. After 6 years, he could still surprise her. “Shall I put coffee on?” came his voice from the bottom of the stairs,”or would you like some more sleep?”

   “Good idea,” she called from the door before pulling up her running shorts and sports bra. Angela was a timeless 40 and wore her skin well - having worked in bars and restaurants for most of her adult life, she had never been enticed by the habits of bistros preferring instead the endorphin fix of a good workout. Prancing down the stairs she pirouetted into Guidern’s outstretched coffee-cupped arms. “Aren’t you sweet,” relieving him of one and pecking him on the cheek, before seating herself to lace up her moccasins. Pasqual had shown her the wisdom of running barefoot, of the many things she’d learned from her first love. With the sound of a key in the door lock Guildern sprinted up the stairs.

   “Morning M’lady,” Mordecaise chirped merrily, “entertaining naked men again in the empty bistro, I see. Arghh yuh be a bawdy one - doubt my blinded-by-love mate knows the better · poor dumb ox;” he chirped planting a peck in her forehead. He laid an unfolded note on the table in front of her. She could tell from the writing it was Paqual’s.

Boss, Aside from the mayhem on Friday, things are pretty well in hand - 

The Renoir has shipped. Based on our conversation last night; I accept

your offer to investigate Reynaldo’s death and have booked a flight

to DaNang for tomorrow evening late. Pasqual

Angela wasn’t prepared for this news, and gingerly stepped toward the door, waving over her shoulder just as Guildern reached the table. The two men watched the door close, then looked at each other in the manner that only old men can.

Staff began to arrive for the busy Sunday trade as the two men retreated to the back table. Guildern normally inquired very little into Mordecaise’ varied business interests, so he was surprised when Mordecaise inquired, “Is Angela going to be okay with this?” Guildern was unsure what he was asking, and waited while Mordecaise stared into his breakfast of Tinto Rojo, who continued,“I’ve never seen anything like this before: 3 dead brothers within a year of each other; a large estate with no one claiming, or at least no one talking about it; feels hinky.” Guildern watched his friend folding and refolding Pasqual’s note.

The front door burst open and the painted lady dragged her young friend inside the darkened room by his earlobe. “Puta guay, m’gonna feed you your cajones cuando encuentro un joder cuchillo,” hissing into his trembling face. Knowing only that music loosened his client's pursestrings and the cuban rasta band remained MIA, Guildern rose slowly like one might facing a rabid dog - a rabid, but very gifted dog.

“Sra, disculpe. Puedo Ayudar?” pulling a chair out while moving heavy objects to the next nearest table, Guildern guided the fraught woman and her nearly inert charge into seats at a table lacking knives. “Háblame,” he cajoled kindly into the direction of a materialized glass of water, lifting to the gentling storm of her fearsome calming countenance. Guildern, all ears: save the 'tabled conversation,' of Angela’s retreating frame?; 'who would be on stage tonight'¿; 'why was Pasqual on his way to Vietnam'? . .. 

The painted lady visibly untensing, pointed to the red-faced, recently released man-child: “fucking puta eyeraped some undressed extranera while begging for a raise! What would you do¿ besides feeding his verga a los marranos?" Clearly she didn’t expect a reply, instead peering with daggers into the face of her chastened poodle. Guildern had heard nothing from the Cubans and so distracted the painted lady's by appealing to her greed; “I’ll pay you for two days - 3 sets if you stay through to 5 am.” She was placid in her reply; simply standing.

“Yes, c’est bon.” Picking up a leather strap at the nape of her, alert, cautious companion and led him from the table toward their quarters of their surprising debut. Guildern, stood and bowed, crossing his fingers together at the base of his spine, while flashing the still recognizable, though, incongruous peace sign with the other; meaning nothing. The painted lady nodded, with her covertly truculent, however compliant poodle in tow. 

+-+-+-

Leslei was in her seat on the runway when the text message arrived while taxiing. “will apprise M of ur dest; m'deprtng 4 VN: kp'ntuch” While no longer the crap shoot flying had become during the 1st pandemic, the thrill of travel, however inexpensive was gone and only the interminable hours of waiting and lack of sleep remained of the former “charm of distance”.

+-+-+-

Pasqual was finishing his packing, stuffing his travel tote with preprinted boarding stamps and his passport when the bell called from the downstairs’ gate. “Who is it?” though he was looking directly into Angela’s eyes staring at the camera at the entryway on his phone. 

She looked right into the camera, “funny,” she mouthed, making no sound - “just open the fucking door, fool.” He still enjoyed her 'front', though she’d never hear it from him; he pressed the buzzer, and she pushed through the gate. Her expression as he opened the door, even after all these years was as indecipherable to Pasqual as the mind of a baby. She didn’t wait for an invitation pushing past him into a room she’d never been in. “Viet fucking Nam¿ Are you stupid?

They stood in the middle of the room unable to look at the other - unable to look away. “What’s wrong with Vietnam?” he posed, knowing her reply would have no effect on his itinerary - curious the same; he had great respect for Angela’s agile intellect. “1/3 of China perished in 2027; have you looked on a map recently¿” She was not listening, rather expressing her feelings physically; arms folded, a foot facing forward reducing her profile to him into a single long line peering from the pinnacle of her glance into the obelisk of Pasqual’s still soul. 

“What do you want¿” as he turned back to tracking the movable parts of his world into its new home. She knew, nothing she could say would affect his “pigheadedness”, so she spoke from the heart.

“I want you to be safe,” then turned to the door that hadn’t quite shut; she pulled it to her like a lover, and blew Pasqual a kiss gazing at him as though through time. 

Pasqual had completely closed down like a burglar when the light switch gets thrown. He began to breathe again when the door lock clicked shut. It took him 10 minutes to find his passport and the 'to-do' list:

1) cat food

2) fish to manager - pay rent 3 months

3) pay electricity - 3 months

4) vaccination record 

5) scooter lock l

6) birth certificate

He knew if he did not sleep the journey would be more dangerous, so he shed his clothes drank the last of his turmeric and marijuana tea;; laid himself onto his pallet and breathed into a deep, deep sleep.

+-+-+-

When Angela returned for the early evening shift, Guildern was at the back table  uncharacteristically still with his face to the wall - Mordecaise leaning into his open ear. It was a full-Sunday night, and Angela did not get a minute until the end of ‘Rojita & Rojo’s’ 2nd set; they were crowd tamers; Angela was upstairs packing her things for the ride back to Punta del Este when Guildern touched her startled shoulder. “Hell of a weekend, eh? Are you going to be okay?” Angela felt his gentle caress, appreciating him through her skin. Since Friday, he’d been stabbed; lost his headliners; supported his friend with generous attention and was able to open himself to her precipitous ways.

“I am, and grateful; more grateful than I know how to say.” She turned and nestled into his arms like into a warm bath at the end of long run. “I’m not ready to leave, and not ready to stay.” Can you come and spend the night in Punta del Este - give your arm a rest; the sea is a healing body.” The invitation was not quite open, urgent in a way; she looked at her phone and waited, not looking at Guildern, just waiting. He rose and touched her shoulder with a finger raised .  .. Mordecaise looked up and listened to his friend, nodding at intervals. Minutes later as the 3rd set began, Guildern came down the stairs with satchel stopping next to Angela and glancing around the room; she rose, and they left.

Angela listened intently during the train ride to Guildern’s recounting of a story that explained Pasqual’s journey but did little to soothe her anxiety: they could not get through the door quickly enough to satisfy their need for naked communication - words had no meaning in the terrain they wandered through for hours. When Guildern finally woke, Angela had left a note on the table with an empty cup pointing to either the coffee pot or the beach beyond. She was finishing her barefoot run just as he peeled his shorts off and waded into the gentle waves for a saline soak before the long ride back to the “Croc”.

Guildern’s neatly arranged world was fraying warp by woof once again and he knew there was fuckall that could be done, but remain alert and open: hopefully positioned to aid and assist friends as they marched toward destinies, which by circumstance defied explanation but remained pregnant with meaning - meaning minus understanding · a lot like the first 30 years of the 21st Century. 

(˚ ㄥ _˚)                    

25 January 2021

http://ExtinctionChronicles.blogspot.com 

http://JosephTStevens.blogspot.com 

http://Stoanartst.blogspot.com 

prohibited from AI sampling in any form

reprinted with permission; all rights reserved

∞

☮️

210121 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 3

Chapter 3

   Mordecaise savored this information - a morsel just off the grill, smiling past the curious expression of his unaffected precious asset and friend, Pasqual Ortega. “3 brothers dead within a year of each other,” Mordecaise repeated into the cacophony of the “Croc.” It was the 'cheerful hour' before “sauce” began to corrode benevolence in the hearts and tongues of its quaffing patrons. Pasqual could feel his mentor’s lighthouse-like laser-focus, though there was no physical indication other than a quiet hum in Pasqual's general direction that he’d heard a word. The mentor's phone began to vibrate on the table, shuffling toward an ashtray full of ganja butts from the afternoon. “Hello, Leslea - thank you; yes it is too weird. Can you talk - encrypted?” Knowing this precaution only slowed any determined “surveillance," scrubbing decay digital threads of amateurs.

   “I’m as blank as i know how. I have never seen anything like this - 3 siblings dead within a year of each other; two brothers intestate; all assets heading to Domhall; who was apparently intestate - ‘no known heirs’. The combined assets being over $12.9 million; the sounds you hear are rending flesh; what have you learned?”

   Pasqual did not respond to her question, rather asking one instead, “Have you ordered death certificates for Reynaldo and Demsford?” She grunted affirmative. “Do you have a cause of death?” he asked not waiting for an answer.

   Leslei was accustomed to Pasqual’s brusqueness, though he was particularly curt in this call. “I have calls into the local authorities; for Demsford who died in Aix en Provence, my French will suffice, but for Reynaldo who died in Hoi An, Vietnam apps will not be adequate for communication; we need an operative fluent in Vietnamese; I’ll let you know when I get that information.”

   “See if the local Vietnamese police can help, they may have translators; text me when you hear anything - gotta go” Pasqual turned off his phone and looked back toward Mordecaise who’d been listening while jotting notes in his old school note pad. “Leslea got as far as she could; the bad news is they are both considered foreign decedents, so estate filings will be at a snail’s pace; Demsford’s estate would have been going to Reynaldo - then to Domhall, who apparently was intestate; the good news is the three are foreign decedents, etc., etc.”

   Pasqual waited for Mordecaise’ attention, rather than interrupt . . . without looking up Mordecaise asked, “Were you able to arrange insurance and a bonded carrier for the Renoir in NYC?” After 6 years working together, Pasqual was accustomed to Mordecaise’ eidetic memory and tried to be prepared for questions before they were asked.

   “Shipping with DHL/Special Handling Unit; additional indemnity with Prudential, Waiting for from/to and customs declarations from you; the forms are in the ‘outgoing’ file in your locker.” Mordecaise’ flip phone’ chimed “Mephisto’s Waltz” signaling a rare incoming call.

   He'd already unfolded his lanky frame into long strides toward the front door against a swelling client tide, the “Croc’s” bread and butter; telephone nestled with attention into the crook of his towering figure, elbows akimbo dodging oblivious noggins. Angela focused as to the painted redhead and her swain from the Excelsior in Punta Este dressed in matching crocodile skin boleros and knee high boots when they began to elbow their way toward the stage as indelicately as Mordecaise had delicately exited. Angela turned to the dulcet sound of her lover Guildern; “The Cuban Rasta band canceled 45 minutes ago - These two are ‘Roja and Rojito’, please try and help them set up, it’s all we got for the night.” Guildern was receding toward the alcove with a handful of bills before Angela could reply; she was watching the restive crowd the red duet perch on the dais in their curiously appropriate attire.

   The Red-headed Dame nodded to Angela as she approached giving no indication that she remembered Angela from their exchange the day before at the Excelsior, though the pretty lad was still leering at Angela as he obsequiously attended to the slightest gesture from the painted lady. “Is there anything I can get you?” Angela inquired shifting stools and tables to fit the slight instrumentation and equipment the couple had already commandeered. “Absinthe if you have it, Ouzo if you don’t - or just Bourbon neat if nothing else; he’ll drink water”, nodding to her paramour with his salacious tattooed smirk. The crowd like a grove of old growth trees had digested the gossip from the night before and began to twitch like a shiver of sharks in bloodied water. 

What happened next, will remain etched in what was left of Angela’s presumptions about the world and her ability to ‘know everything’: after the death of her child, the loss of her homeland, and collapse of her 1st love. Three chords into the opening set, the painted woman broke into a haunting rendition of Lila Downs’ cover of Cuco Sánchez’ “La Cama de Piedra.” Angela was rooted, unable to turn away from the otherwise mute room filled with the ache of a song; before that ache had time to fade, “La Cumbia del Mole” began to fill every crevice in that transfixed room, and thrummed with the congas of the more-than pretty lad. Guildern was as struck dumb as any block of rock - the essence of very that very old, and aging room, but continued to prepare deposits from the till.

+-+-+-

   As an elder woman born to the late 20th century, Leslea Corkturn was accustomed to being 'mansplained' and so unfazed, she focused her substantial attention back to the task at hand, focusing on the facts she possessed: 3 dead brothers worth millions; a colleague dodging direct inquiry; deaths under questionable circumstances associated with estates leading nowhere. She signed on to her VPN account and booked a ticket for Paris the next day, and texted Pasqual advising him of same, requesting additional instructions. “Landing at CDG, then MRS - will call when rested.” She commenced packing, while adding notes to her phone, bluetoothing them to her laptop which auto-loaded to her neon green thumbwheel and then deleted all previous threads; leaving a single lighter-sized record of her transactions + selected audio & visual recordings.

She was able to live out of a single carryon wheeled valise and kept a separate traveling wardrobe in the ready, so was packed and prepared for sleep within minutes of hanging up the phone. Leslea had studied fine art in her youth and was looking forward to seeing Aix-en-Provence again having spent a year in the city living at the International Student Dormitory working toward a PhD in Fine Art during her 30’s; this proved helpful in booking a room on short notice. A part of the Demsford Schmuck estate that Leslea was able to uncover was a small cottage, near the Bibemus Quarry. It was as good a place as any to begin an investigation into the death of the first of the Schmuck brothers - she hoped.

+-+-+-

   “Yeah?” Mordecaise answered, listening closely while trying to decipher the incoming number from the 1,000s in his eidetic memory bank. “Monsieur, Lizt c'est Pierre à Marseille avec les informations que vous avez demandées,” hearing no reply, Pierre continued; “le défunt a succombé aux blessures d'un accident de moto il y a un peu plus d'un an. Les autorités ont localisé deux frères; un à Hoi An, au Vietnam; l'autre à Montevideo, en Uruguay, dont aucun n'a répondu à de vastes demandes de renseignements. La valeur estimée de la succession du défunt est de près de 3 millions USD.” Though they’d never met Pierre appreciated the fair-trade wage scale which Mordecaise adhered to religiously, and so waited some moments before he inquired, “¿avez-vous d'autres instructions?” 

   Not wishing to alert his able operative, Mordecaise spoke casually; non, c'est très utile; Je vous rappellerai si vous pouvez faire autre chose - une question d'assurance de routine. ¿Comment vont la femme et les enfants; Celeste est-elle complètement rétablie? signaling the demands of business, Mordecaise - responded buoyantly, “Bon, Bon - mais .  ..” Pierre acknowledged their mutual demands, by hollering into the phone with a warm au revoir as the connection broke. 

Laying down his phone, Mordecaise looked to Pasqual and asked, “Can Leslea travel¿ she is French fluent, oui? Pasqual was thinking about the 2nd brother Reynaldo realizing the city he died in was close to where his uncle Ernesto died during the Tet offensive of ’68 in Viet Nam. It was as close to musing as Pasqual got; he loved his uncle and felt again the dull ache when told of Tio Ernesto’s death.

(˚ ㄥ _˚)                    

21 January 2026

http://ExtinctionChronicles.blogspot.com 

http://JosephTStevens.blogspot.com 

http://Stoanartst.blogspot.com 

prohibited from AI sampling in any form

reprinted with permission; all rights reserved

∞

☮️

170121 - “Pre Extinction People” · Chapter 2

 

Chapter 2

    Not given to revery, Pasqual wasn’t sure how to process his feelings of that moment. He’d been raised on the “Tejas” border in Brownsville, TX and only through a series of fluke accidents ended up married to Angela Vigoda, a Jewish American Princess (JAP) from North Hollywood, CA - his now ex-wife and concubine to his current employer Mordecaise Lizt’s best friend Guildern Seur owner of the “Crocodile Cafe.” 

   Pasqual and Angela had barely escaped the 1st Plague Lockdown at the end of 2021 - “the year that was · still”, 9 years and a 2nd pandemic later. Pasqual’s mother was full-blooded Chiricahua Apache - a direct descendent of Geronimo; his father had been an apparatchik with the Partido Communista Mexicano (PCM).

   Angela materialized at his elbow, and what ever revery he’d been feeling vanished like a coastal vapor. “Well done vaquero.” Angela sounded quietly in his direction, glancing at the muffled agitation of the roped, gagged Tito. “Guildern is much appreciative of your help.” Pasqual, didn’t turn or look, but nodded to the gelded threat. Their dead "Baby 'David' Jesus" still hung over every exchange they’d had since his death from a more contagious strain of Covid-19, just months after their arrival in Montevideo. Pasqual was inconsolable and out-of-his-mind-with-grief, until Angela inadvertently aimed a knife through his liver one night as he descended into his Mezcal stupor - after that it was “heal or die,” for Pasqual.

   “Yeah, that brought up a lot of shit I didn’t see coming,” looking deeply into Angela’s emerald green eyes for possibly the first time since that bloody fateful evening some 7 years earlier; Angela did not turn the deep remorse in Pasqual’s expression.

    “Lad.” Guildern’s gentle voice burst through their fog of memory; as he cloaked Tito’s quiescent form with a canvas amidst the curious evening trade, nodding first to Pasqual, then to the backed-in Toyota pickup that had materialized in the darkening entryway. “Give us a hand, will ya’ friend?” Pasqual shifted the weight away from Guildern’s wounded arm as they lifted the suddenly inert form into pickup’s bed. Mordecaise shifted the nondescript conveyance into gear and very slowly moved down the alleyway. Guildern took Pasqual’s hand, murmuring into his ear, “I owe you, once again.”

Angela had vanished inside as the two stood side by side watching the evening descend along with the advance of the night’s clientele looking thirsty, fresh, and oblivious to the drama of the past 18 hours.

 

+-+-+- 

   Mordecaise navigated toward the wharfs North of Old Town careful not to disturb his cargo or draw attention to his coffee cup full of Tinto Rojo. The warehouse door was ajar and two figures dropped the tailgate, hefting the draped figure through to the inside of the cavernous building before Mordecaise had turned off the ignition. 

   “Da’ fuck are you doing?” Tito hissed as Modecaise ripped the Duct Tape from Tito’s haggard, unrepentant face. This is “Fucking kidnapping you dumb ox,” Tito snarled, too whacked to understand the delicacy of his circumstance. “I got friends that are gonna fuck you up;” he blathered trying to patch together the ‘how and wherefore,’ from his spotted memory. The ache in his head had receded into a clocklike tic in his right eye that appeared as though he was winking with each empty threat.

   Mordacaise seated Tito in the dead center of the large empty space on a stool with a single pole to lean against right at the height of Tito’s solar plexus. He had to splay his legs to seat comfortably, but found when he leaned forward the pole would impede his breathing, his restrained wrists were draped to the outside of the pole preventing him from any real leverage; it also kept him from pivoting in his seat limiting any peripheral vision. What there was to see radiated from a small circular window high on the wall behind him lighting the wall in front of him with a luminous orb that was slowly rising, dimming and diminishing with the setting sun, giving the bizarre impression of sunrise in an alternate universe . . . Tito began to “jones” for a fix, or from fear; he had trouble distinguishing the two. “¿Comfy amigo?” Mordecaise voice was close, flat and icy. Tito began to tremble.

   “I’m gonna fuck you up, pinche guay.” Tito said more to himself than the disembodied voice. “I got friends; you fucked with the wrong guy;” gasping from the pressure at his solar plexus when he thrust out his chest for effect, just as a talon-like grip grasped his head and pulled it up and forward.

   “Stay just like that if you wish to continue breathing,” commanded a voice just as a knee pressed his thorax into the pole for emphasis. Wheezing assent, Tito’s frame became uncharacteristically compliant and still. From his days working, Tito recognized the smell and feel of a welder’s helmet as it was set tightly onto his pained cranium. With a hiss, the sound of gas from an open valve startled the already terrified tough guy to a pitch. . . What was that odor¿ Tito frantically searched his blunted memory for an answer; he knew what it was, but couldn’t reach what he knew, like so much of his life . . The knee pressed again; now into the small of his back forcing him to gulp air; instead he laughed out loud - way too loud, instantly rememebering that odor - Nitrous Oxide. “¿What are you laughing at Tito?” The tiny orb of natural light had risen and vanished into the ceiling, transformed int a flickering red beacon, strobing brighter and brighter; finally sunlight bright. 

Tears were streaming down Tito’s face from laughing so hard; but the frosty voice at his shoulder pressed for an answer, “Tito, you stabbed my friend - I’m not laughing, why are you?” Though addled by substances from an early age; and veteran of many gun battles from dodgy drug deals with vicious clients, Tito did not know when he’d been so confused, or frightened - and began to urinate; the stool was electrified; a low-voltage current ran through his damp crotch; he was simultaneously weeping and peeing. From a distance, if one’s vision was not too clear and in possession of a vivid imagination, the pulsing figure would almost appear to be a cheerful welder dancing through another day’s labor accompanied by gales of laughter.

“Tito; what is so damn funny? You stabbed my friend; I’m not laughing.”

+-+-+-

   “Angela, table 3 is on their 4th round of “White Russians.” She glanced out over the crowd spotting the seated 5, who were beginning to spill out of their seats; their drinks and from the sound of it - the deepest recesses of their souls. “Shall I cut them off, or can you ween them slowly?” Guildern had great respect for Angela’s people skills and relied on her to calm the waters.

   It was close to the witching hour when clients began to shed more than their inhibitions. There was a fine line between commerce and mayhem, to which Guildern’s bandaged arm testified. “Let me see if they can be cautioned back to the hotel by imaginary muggers lurking in late-night old town.” Angela kissed Guildern’s cheek, caressing his wounded arm, before she balanced her tray full of drinks out over the crowd, whispering something to table three which had the effect of a storm cloud over a spring picnic. 

   Mordecaise was just returning through the door as table 3 hailed the check. When he’d retrieved his full goblet of Tinto Rojo, Mordecaise ambled over to Pasqual who’d been quietly on the phone at a back table the entire night. “Where’d ya’ go boss,” searching the face of his bemused mentor; “What’s so damn funny?” Pasqual’s question only served to brighten the twinkle in his friend’s eyes.

   “Business Lad, always business.” Mordecaise checked over Pasqual’s copious notes, beginning to recognize some of the ciphers and notations of Pasqual’s unique script. “How far did you get with Sr. Schmuck?” Mordecaise respected Pasqual’s research skills and relentless curiosity, but still wasn’t prepared for this report.

   “This one is fucking strange, and just gets stranger the deeper i dig.” Peering into his notes, Pasqual bent back his hunched shoulders while taking a deep breath, trying to distill his thoughts into a single thread of simple facts. 

“The decedent Domhall Schmuck, until a month ago had two brothers: Demsford and Reynaldo Schmuck; the three had been orphaned in 1976, when their parent’s private plane crashed in transit between NYC and their hometown Philadelphia. They were raised by their guardian and family attorney Lammele Dama. Domhall was the eldest at 16, Reynaldo 14 and Demsford 12 - each inherited 1/3 of the $3.3 million estate on their 21st birthday; Reynaldo died in Hoi An Vietnam 6 months ago, and Demsford in Paris France, 1 year ago to the day on which Domhall died here in Montevideo.” Pasqual let out a small sigh, like a young student who’d just recited his first book report. Mordecaise still marveled at his dumb luck to have found such a gifted investigator without even looking - fucking synchronicity he thought to himself while beaming with genuine affection at Pasqual. “Like i said, boss - this is the strangest thing i’ve seen yet.” oblivious to the admiration in his mentor’s cobalt blue eyes. 

 

(˚ ㄥ _˚)                    

17 January 2021

http://ExtinctionChronicles.blogspot.com 

http://JosephTStevens.blogspot.com 

http://Stoanartst.blogspot.com 

prohibited from AI sampling in any form

reprinted with permission; all rights reserved

∞

☮️

090121 - "Pre Extinction People" · part i ; Chapter 1

part i ; Chapter 1

    She closed her tattered copy of “1984” for the last time in a dim dawn light determined to sleep before her afternoon shift serving seafood to plague refugees at “Pensione Excelsior" - Punta del Este, Uruguay. Sleep was fitful and fruitful with vivid images of baby Jesus along with answers to thorny questions about Orwell’s deeper reasoning rising like molten bubbles bursting onto the surface of her next ‘fucking day in paradise,’ - still she pondered.

Angela arrived 10 minutes late feeling the tangible whinge of stranded rich people curdling her supervisors's bogus benevolence - Sysa Phish menaced low - “get the fuck out there” · Angela knew her work and her place in the food chain; Sysa Phish knew mostly the demands of the uber-Vips. Angela nodded and quietly gathered her iPad and towel into her apron and marched onto the marble floor of gourmet goodness at Punta del Este. 

    The afternoon sun was setting as tables were filled with the evanescent evacuees of a collapsed planetary economy transferring their conflated importance onto a new landscape knowing little about the culture upon which they’d landed - armed by an effete 'Noblesse Oblige that served as raiment in “the capital” Capitols of New York, Brussels and London for the past 200 years, but now rattled as bones bones in the throes of death.

    “Can I help you?” Angela mimed to the garish redhead at her first table unsure which language to use. The brightly painted woman didn’t look up while she ordered catfish, potatoes and salsa in flawless Spanish for herself and her very pretty male companion who was leering from under his eylashes at Angela while fingering the redhead’s diamond bracelet. “Thank god it’ll be a short shift,” Angela thought “The train gets to Montevideo by 20:00, and i'll be at the “Crocodile," by quarter past, if I’m lucky - “Punte Este” was steady income, but the "Crocodile Cafe” was far more lucrative and entertaining.

    The ambulance was just pulling away as she arrived at the “Croc” about 10:20; the crowd at the  doorway did not include the owner Guildern Suer, which struck Angela odd while Mordecais Lizt was pacing slowly in a tight circle still clutching his goblet of Tinto Rojo. He was able to focus his hoary blue eyes deeply on her when she posted herself at a tangent to his slow circle; he stopped in front of her; stooped over and quietly muttered, “Guildern was stabbed in the arm evicting that puta speed freak - Tito". Angela tottered for a moment leaning on Mordacais’ elbow, and muttered just as quietly, “is it busy?”

    “Not too very; glad you’re here, Guildern was worried you had missed the train; had to force him into the van - too much blood, we slowed it with his belt; and he’ll be okay.” Angela focused by distress moved through the crowd to the back door, battalion style and commenced taking orders in the rapidly swelling Bistro - mayhem seems to draw clients like flies; Angela noted, meaning to say nothing of this to Guildern, feeling certain he’d known before he ever gave the landmark cafe it’s name. Located deep within moss covered archways overgrown by ancient wisteria and its cloying scent of sweet decay; the aged stone archway and massive oak doors more resembled the landing for a dank terminus in a subterranean grotto than the customs office of its former life.

+-+-+—

    Guildern sat up too quickly and felt his sight dimming in time to sit back against the cool pillow cloth. He glanced around for his phone hoping it was included with his pouch containing passport and wallet - "the bug bag.” He’d managed to knock Tito unconscious with the crack of a beer bottle to the skull and remained standing over the motionless body until the policía confirmed Tito was still breathing; Guildern then allowed someone to quell the dripping blood at his elbow which had formed a crimson pool at the shoulder of his assailant. They used his own belt for a tourniquet, his pants kept drooping on his journey from the “Croc” to emergency room.

    It wasn’t until well passed 3 AM before he stepped out of the taxi into the darkened doorway of the cafe. The door was propped open and a faint light lit the dampened paving stone - the peculiar moss green hue contrasted against the dark crimson of spilt blood. Angela looked up as he stepped inside, the after-hours crowd ignored them, peering into their drinks like a tired herd in semi-stupor. Guildern and Angela settled onto stools in a tiny alcove at the bar’s end. Their mutual fatigue somehow fortified each as they gazed into the other’s eyes with a silent “WTF just happened” expression only longtime lovers understand. His hand rested comfortably in the valley of her quiescent nether while she tenderly examined dressings covering the thirty stitches necessary to seal his gash.

 

    By 4:30 AM, end of trade allowed the cafe to be closed and darkened, and the two weary friends carried each other’s hand up the staircase to the welcoming loft and beckoning downy berth. Hours later the clattering of fish carts on cobblestones signaled early evening preparation for the evening trade and continued hopes of an economic recovery. The borders had reopened 6 months earlier after 18 months of lockdown. Like the necessary bomb shelters of WWII people adapted to the intervals of interruption, gradually succumbing to an inevitable depression and surrender to circumstance punctuated by emotional conflagrations that often left injured parties in their wakes. 

    Guildern woke to Angela pulling his flaccid member into her mouth with a gentleness he’d forgotten she possessed. Still woozy from depleted fluids his arousal was a more sacred and ejaculation complete than he could remember ever having had. Angela swallowed all his semen  leaving his limp penis in her mouth as she began to doze. The sun was pouring through the windows as he stroked her hair and reflected on their past 6 years together. Her petite physique and auburn tresses belied a physical power that still surprised him to see when she hoisted cases of wine onto the top stacks, or shifted crates across uneven floors. When she began to stir, he crawled between her legs and did his best to aid her to find a peak they could both gaze from in their private hearts.

    Mordecaise was in the process of stocking the bar for the early afternoon commerce stream when the two returned down the stairs they’d climbed up for refuge the night before. “‘Sup¿” Mordecaise grunted in his best imitation of “hood-speak,” just as Pasqual burst through the door slamming it shut before a loud crash echoed through the cafe.

    “Fucking Tito is out there with crowbar, swears he’s gonna kill you Guildern - high as a fucking kite.” Guildern didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so he returned to counting the receipts of the night before. “Man did you hear me?” Angela was hanging up the phone.

    Commenting to no one in particular she remarked, “Cops said we’ve exceeded our allowance for the month, fix it yourselves, or wait ’til next month.” The pounding at the door had ceased and there was an ominous silence, while Guildern continued counting the receipts.

    Pasqual rose from his seat and grabbed the lariat used for the winter festivals to attract customers and exited out the back. 10 minutes later from the same exit there was a loud mewling like a stuck pig, so Mordecaise stuck his head out the door to see if it was safe again. He saw  Pasqual standing with a foot poised awkwardly on a tormented Tito who was squirming like a hogtied caterpillar searching for its new life. Mordecaise turned to refill his goblet with Tinto Rojo, then stepped back outside to consult with Pasqual.

    Mordecaise set his goblet down on the low table where Pasqual sat admiring his handiwork, having gagged Tito to cut down on the squealing. Mordecaise lowered his voice and peered into Pasqual’s eyes - the goblet being the tipoff, so when Mordecaise began to speak Pasqual had his phone ready for notes. “There is a decedent, Domhall Schmuck from Rio who died here in Montevideo last Wednesday; the estate is sizable and there is no family member claiming the body. I want you to check with your friend Gonzo Benino in Rio for blood relatives and then contact Leslea Corkturn in Saltlake; he lived in the States for 20 years prior to 2021 so there may be “blood” claiming. The guy was a recluse with few known associates. When you can, I want anything you can turn up about his business interests before the Public Administrator files; there may not be a will, so you can expect a lot of 'heat' we don’t need; please make sure Gonzo and Leslea understand that.” As he rose to leave, he turned back and mentioned to Pasqual, “there’s a Renoir shipping from NYC to Punta Este next month, I want it insured for $3.5 million USD, same for the bonded carrier.”

    Pasqual watched the gangly, hirsute man receding back through the too small doorway and thought to himself, “life's a real hoot.”

(˚ ㄥ _˚)                    

01 January 2021

http://ExtinctionChronicles.blogspot.com 

http://JosephTStevens.blogspot.com 

http://Stoanartst.blogspot.com 

prohibited from AI sampling in any form

reprinted with permission; all rights reserved

∞

☮️