Dana

ASSIGNMENT 1––STORY STATEMENT

                  Destroy blood tie loyalty to save two generations of innocent families. 

ASSIGNMENT 2 ––MAIN ANTAGANIST

A beautiful, strapping boy, little Cesar Ixtle believed he deserved more; his motto, ends justify means, a notion he never outgrows. From the first act of killing his ½ brother’s madre to create his dream family, his actions tend to bring pain. With no-one to watch over his equally beautiful and strapping ½ brother, when the rainy season comes to their jungle village, the river rises carrying the polio virus which infects his ½ brother. Remorseless, yet protective of his now, less than sibling, his own sense of worth grows. As young men, they migrate to California, where Cesar Ixtle creates a persona as a suave man of business, seductive and ruthless, manipulating weaknesses to enhance his position and power with a sociopathic flair. Regardless of how, his goal is to become more. 

 

ASSIGNMENT 3 ––BREAKOUT TITLE

Signal Hill–––––––––––––––China Town (screenplay, setting as character)

Camp Stories––––––––––––The Hive (creation myth informs real life, story within a story)

The Lesser Half––––––––––Missing Parts (1/2 truths are still ½ lies)

 

ASSIGNMENT 4 ––COMP TITLES 

The Guest Book by Sarah Blake. 3 generations coming to terms with what it means to inherit the past. 1930-present day.

The Berry Pickers by Amanda Peters. A story about separation, intuition, and the search for truth in the shadow of trauma. 1962 period

The Memory Keepers Daughter by Kim Edwards. Twins separated at birth; secrets kept until wrongs of the past catch up with the present. 1964 period 

American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins (migration, family saga, gangs, murder, sacrifice, revenge).

Boardwalk Empire: The Birth, High Times, and Corruption of Atlantic City by Nelson Johnson (non-fiction inspiration for TV series about the rise and fall of a Atlantic City)

 

 

ASSIGNMENT 5––Hook Line

A brilliant man deformed by polio must either stay loyal to his sociopathic ½ brother or reveal secrets that will implicate them both to save one innocent man and set free two families snarled in a web of drug deals, kidnapping and murder. 

ASSIGNMENT 6––Protagonist Inner Conflict

Ignacio Morales, a brilliant, kind and handsome boy loves his ½ brother Cesar Ixtle. Only weeks apart in age, their bond is unbreakable; brothers first and forever against all others who make due in shacks skirting the jungle river in central Mexico. Unfortunately for Ignacio, Cesar is impulsive and not right in the head. When Cesar decides he wants to have their shared papa more, he kills Ignacio’s mother believing that he’s creating his dream family, his own mamma, Ignacio and their papa. Without his mamma to watch out for him, when the seasonal torrential rains flood the river, the Polio virus infects Ignacio, altering his physical development. Ridiculed and bullied because of his deformities, Ignacio relies on his brain and his compassion to navigate life as a visual monster alongside his perfectly formed yet sociopathic ½ brother who believes he is Ignacio’s champion. How can Ignacio love and trust his brother when buried deep inside he fears seeing the truth, that Cesar killed his mother. 

 

ASSIGNMENT 6–– Secondary Conflict, Social Environment

 

*Ignacio was beginning to think he spent too much time waiting in his car. The seat was molded to his shape, a guarantee that no other driver would ever feel comfortable. He rubbed his thumb on the cracked leather at the top of his worn crutch. The skin of his armpit was an elephant’s heel in its years of chafing and wear. 

A woman crossed the street from the gas station toward The Copper Penny, pushing a baby in a pram. She was dressed casually in denim pants that stopped at her mid-calf, with a man’s button-down shirt that fell to her knees. She wore a fishing cap pulled down over her ears. The epitome of casual grace. Of normalcy. Of thoughtless expectation. 

He wondered what it felt like to have that kind of life.

Ignacio grabbed the leather strap of his brace to adjust his leg. He leaned an elbow against the car door, resting his cheek on his fist. The young lady with the pram was going into the diner where he was to meet Cesar for breakfast. 

Ignacio hoped she would sit along the row of booths on the ocean side of the diner. Most wouldn’t choose to sit and look at the gas station. 

When people saw Ignacio moving about, he was always bothered by the upset and concern in their eyes, or more often the case, their conscious efforts to disregard him like one does an ugly stray animal hobbling on the street. He spent his whole life trying to move as gracefully as he could, despite those overdeveloped arms and chest, leg braces, crutches, and one foot clad in a platform shoe as tall as a brick. 

Appearing as normal was a lifelong effort. He wore a suit; his pants matched his jacket, and he always wore a tie. His shirts were laundered, collars and cuffs starched. Intelligent men were to dress appropriately. And he wasn’t some throwaway lazy, stupid, low-life mug. 

Ignacio rolled down the window, letting the air in to conceal the stale tobacco smell of his driver seat.

The world often judged in the most superficial of ways. 

People were so blind to substance, and there certainly was no getting around that his book had the ugliest cover; and throughout life it was so difficult for him to not reflexively judge every pretty cover as just a mask to hide warped and rotted pages. But in those such cases, of one’s idolatry of cosmetic value, Ignacio relied on unfeeling stoicism, discerning the ignorance and miscalculations from others as a weapon unto himself—especially from those who deemed him some lifeless puppet.   

Ignacio was mostly a cautionary tale of bad luck, ill deeds, and the slovenly countenance of several lost decades to the void. Upon the pitiful glances that reach him, no more than as brief a moment can be, he could tell that in their minds, they could rest easier as the lucky ones. 

Perhaps they were, but that pity, as well, was a blindness, to which whole realities could be constructed. 

The childhood he shared with Cesar was checkered black and tan; no one ever seemed to escape without being touched by some tragedy or another. But they had made it to America, where they had created many businesses. They were still the lucky ones.

He appreciated how his brother didn’t have pity for him. Ignacio found the human condition worthy of contemplation. He didn’t believe in God, but he believed that a man’s actions told a temporary truth. And that was the kicker: truth seemed to be something that a man landed on, like a penny hitting pegs in a carnival game; the landing was telling, while the journey seemed random. People often did wrong because they didn’t have the capacity to analyze their position into reality. Always taken in by the whimsy of wants, living in a make-believe world. 

 

FINAL ASSIGNMENT––Setting as Character

There are multiple, important settings in this novel. For ease of explanation, I’ll share them in chronological order as the story stands at this point in book 1. 

1.Julie Marsh’s unremarkable clapboard home fronts a fissured blacktop road so long it disappears on the lip of the horizon. Surrounded by acres and acres of corn fields which in July are a high tide sea of green with white caps of corn tassels where Julie seeks refuge, hiding in the depths of those stalks, untouchable by anything but the earworms and red rat snakes that squirmed around her, anything to avoid going home. 

Her home is bland, dry as if the juice of existence has been drained from every surface. The kitchen table is scared, the four chairs unmatched and a clock hangs on the wall with hands shaped like corn on the cob. Julie spends a great deal of time avoiding that table, and the holding of hands in prayer at mealtime, and her bed, instead favoring the window inside her room where she kneels looking down the road, wondering how long it takes to get to the horizon. 

 

*A girl’s bed should be a haven, but Julies isn’t even though it has a chenille bedspread chalk white, like powdered snow; the pattern a repeat of flower bouquets, wide ribbons held in the short beaks of clever birds, draping them gracefully around the long stems. It didn’t snow much in Davenport, but when it did, it reminded her of the top layer of a root beer float, airy at first glance; but as she stared and the bubbles popped, unwanted memories rose from every crevasse sullied with an oily particulate—filth was filth especially when it hid within the threads of her bedspread. 

She had to dream that it was snow.

She splayed her fingers wide on the bedspread, feeling the edge of a bird beneath her right hand, and the ribbon beneath her left. 

Her bedspread was a field of pure Alaskan snow, stark white, her room a cavern of ice blue, and her father was a black tree on the edge of her awareness. 

Now, an approaching shade. 

In his right hand a camera. From behind his back, his left hand emerged, cloaked within the fabric of the bear puppet. 

 

                  2. Julies Dodge Wayfarer a winning after being crowned Miss Iowa is another setting/character as she speeds along Route 66 from Davenport Iowa to Long Beach California to escape life with her parents. The Dodge is her chariot to freedom, a prize for being the most beautiful. It shines, the color cornflower blue like Julie’s eyes heats jealously in her mother and pride within her father who believes it’s his gene pool that has brought her fame and he has a right to it, and her. 

 

                  * After being interviewed by the local and state newspapers, Julie felt as though she were floating and wouldn’t be surprised if it was written all over her face this time. What mattered to her was that Little Miss Prairie Bush Clover was now Miss Iowa, and Miss Iowa had won this spanking new Dodge Wayfarer and some money. 

After the event finally ran its course, they were now on their way home on wheels that Julie could call her own—just not yet. 

Her father pulled the car onto the worn dirt ruts that marked their driveway at the side of their one story, clapboard home. 

Her mother grazed her hand over the dash, as if petting a long-haired kitten. “Let’s just sit in the car a little bit longer,” she said, sinking back against the plush fabric seats. She turned her head to smell the seat. “Can you smell that? That’s first run. Fresh. Untouched.” Her mother’s laugh sounded young, and vivacious. “We won’t need to rely on Bobby for our rides, now, will we? No-we-won’t.” With a tickled voice, she seemed to be baby-talking to the car itself.

Julie’s father stared at Julie in the rear-view mirror, as her mother continued to rub her hands all over the interior.

“Yup, there’s a smell to success,” he said, keeping his eyes locked on Julie.

“Oh, I could just die!” her mother shot him a delirious glance. “I could just die! If my heart stopped, bury me in this car!” 

His eyes were still locked on Julie. 

Julie’s dad placed the car key on the middle of the kitchen table. “Get me a beer. I’d say it’s time to celebrate our little windfall here,” he said. Julie’s mom danced over to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of beer, and then fetched the bourbon bottle from under the sink. With the distinctive pop of the beer cap, was the sound of her mom’s proud giggles as the foam spewed from the bottle. Her mom licked the bubbles from her hand before handing the beer to her father. He took a long sip with a smirk on his lips, appraising and measuring. He nodded without saying a word, as if formulating something to himself. “Baby girl, you done good. We spawned us a real winner.” Her mom held up the tumbler as she flopped down on the sofa next to him, and instead of paying either one of them attention, her eyes were gazing out the window at the new car parked in front. 

That car does take Julie across the country for her American Dream, but she ultimately arrives at a place where freedoms go to die. 

 

                  3. The River is a key setting character for both protag and antag in their early life. Each one lives in a ‘dwelling’ denoted mostly because they have roofs, other than that, the walls are made of found materials. Flocks of black birds surf the drafts over lush craggy mountains and river, through plumes of grey/brown smoke from burning trash and cooking fires.

The air in the jungle is heavy with mist and the howls of monkeys, barking dogs, braying donkeys, rise above the constant zing of insects and occasional rumbles of thunder. Ignacio’s shack sits closest to the river which becomes vicious, ugly and deadly when it swells. There's a pronounced water mark along crumbling dirt bricks and rusted siding of his shack. It is shaded by a giant Ficus tree; its sculptural trunk looks like fingers reaching into the earth holding on for dear life. 

                   

*Ignacio was weary of the river; it had a mind of its own, and he didn’t think it was filled with good thoughts, especially when it rose to overflowing. When it burst free, it screamed by the opening of his home, gobbling up everything that was in its path. He and his mamma would scramble out the one window that had a wooden frame—the other was just a gash in the corrugated siding, looking like it was cut with the hooked finger of a can piercer. It was no small feat for his mamma to balance on the splintered ledge of the window; she had a baby inside, a big baby; regardless, she boosted Ignacio up, then handed him their squawking chickens, followed by their bible (which was a dry holder for her floral wedding lasso), then their fattest candle, the matches, and then the machete. 

He asked Cesar what his mamma did when the rains came, when the river flooded the land. He wanted to know what she took with her, what she didn’t want to lose. Cesar just stared at him like he was crazy. “Take? Why would she take anything? We live up where the river can’t touch us. We have a real door and windows on our house. They even keep the animals out. The river? Es nada.”

It had been Ignacio’s experience that the river was never nada. His mother was afraid of it, so he was too. She urged his papa to do something, because to her the river was a hungry monster, eating everything in its way. Papa solved the problem by tying jute ropes to a sturdy arm of the ancient Ficus tree that shaded their porch, so they could climb to the roof and wouldn’t be washed away when the river rose.  

He and Cesar had climbed and swung from the ropes their entire lives. With his eyes closed he could tell by feel where he was on the rope, because its twines had gotten frayed over the years, rubbing against the metal siding of their house. 

He’d told Cesar it scared him; the river, the weakening rope, and the rains that sent he and his mamma scrambling for the roof. Cesar had never been at his house when the storms came, so he didn’t know what it was like. He’d never seen how Ignacio’s mom tied ropes around their waists. Never seen the look in her eyes, nor felt her fingers push beyond the give of skin and muscle of his scrawny shoulders to grip his boney arms, willing her words into every fiber of his being. “Do not take the rope off, ever.” Neither of them knew how to swim. 

On the next morning, Ignacio woke up to the thwack, thwack, thwack of Cesar’s heels banging on a loose piece of siding. Ignacio saw that the river was receding, and he tried to get more comfortable on his spot on the roof. 

“Hombre, callate! No despertar a mi mama,” Ignacio called while resting his eyes.

Cesar didn’t stop. 

Ignacio rubbed his eyes and rolled over to see Cesar balancing the machete in the palm of his hand. Ignacio shut his eyes again. 

Bang. Bang. Bang. Cesar and his noise. A shiver rolled through Ignacio. He stretched and then peered beneath the emerald green fingers of the palm fronds and Ficus leaves that had sheltered he and his mamma as they slept. 

Cesar was still sitting on the edge of the roof. His thwack of his heels was loud, but the birds wouldn’t let his noise overshadow their morning greetings. He was happy to hear them all. He was lucky to have a brother like Cesar, always around, willing to play. 

The rain started again. Cesar began to bang his heels louder on the loose siding. 

“Cesar, ven. Esta lloviendo, You’re gonna get all wet.” 

Cesar got up slowly. 

Ignacio rolled onto his side away from Cesar. 

With the machete still in his hand, Cesar looked downriver and smiled. 

 

4.Long Beach Ca is a character, a backdrop for the decades of change from being a navy town with its own prison on Terminal Island, to a lost city, to a thriving port city. The downtown is like a hooker, a little too dolled up, eyes furtive in search of something better. Better is the Peninsula, and Belmont Heights, where the affluent live and the kids of those affluent families are driven to Signal Hill, the main setting character of the story, to take their driver training classes.

                  5. Signal Hill, known as Porcupine Hill, looks like a slowly shivering rodent; the nodding donkey’s another name for the oil derricks are constantly dipping down and rearing up filling the air with a whine of rusted wheels, of cables clanging, and engines moaning. The air is heavy, the ground is wet, thick with sludge, chemicals and secrets. 

 

* He fished out another cigarillo, before lighting it with a match—and he puffed it hard. He heard Romero cursing, so he rolled down the window. 

“Keep your voice low.”

“I slipped,” Romero said begrudgingly, putting a cigarette to his lips, fumbling his hand into his pocket for a match. Ignacio then glanced over at the scattered oil derricks: the nodding donkeys that squeaked and clanged—eternally nosing down and braying up.

The sound was like a kid’s swing lulling empty near a graveyard. 

On the northeast slope of Signal Hill, the squeak and groan from the derricks coupled the toilet plunger sound of Romero’s boots, sucking away from the slimy surface of the weepy, oozing ground. Feliz became antsy along the backseat, peeking his head past Ignacio and near the crack of the slightly open window, watching Romero as he clambered out of a hole he just finished digging. 

Ignacio snuffed his latest cigarillo in the ashtray on the dash, crushing it against the narrow grate until the tip of his finger touched the metal. 

Romero smacked against the hood, and Feliz’s ears shot forward, lurching toward the window again. Ignacio watched Romero grab the Buick’s gunsight ornament to keep from slipping under the front end of the vehicle. 

“Ah, por el amor de Dios,” Romero said, now wrestling what was inside the trunk, before losing his footing again. Ignacio heard the distinctive gushing swack! of a heavy load landing in the oily mud. Romero gripped the body under the arms, and dragged it over to the hole, before dumping it. 

Feliz started to whine and swipe at the car window with his paws. 

“Calmate perro,” whispered Ignacio, pulling Feliz down onto the seat. He pressed his crutch against the passenger door and leaned way over to reach and turn the key in the ignition, so they would be ready to leave as soon as the hole was filled.

 

6. Signal Hill is where Cesar Ixtle puts The Brother’s Club; his least forward-facing business, it’s a whorehouse where he is king and anything is possible. (Historically Signal Hill has been the highest point on the California coast used by the Indians to signal tribes up and down the coast. When oil was discovered, a seedier element moved in as the various oil companies staked their claims. It’s been a tinder box, derricks exploding, catching fire, maiming, killing workers and innocents a like. In 1954 even an Air Force fighter jet crashed into Signal Hill, killing the pilot and 6 on the ground.) But back to our tale, Signal Hill is where everything bad happens. Signal Hill is where Cesar’s office is. Signal Hill is where Brother’s Club is. Signal Hill is where Cesar eventually houses Julie. Signal Hill is where Ignacio hides Pepper Cherry (Book 2) and Signal Hill is where all the bodies are buried. 

 

*Romero parked his car across from Brother’s Club, staring at that neon sign above the low pink cinderblockbuilding. The place hadn’t changed at all in the seven years he’d been employed. 

Conscripted was a better way to put it. 

“Indentured,” he murmured, settling it with that. He leaned onto the steering wheel with tense shoulders and a stiffness in his neck.  

Romero Aguilar’s life of crime started after he lost his virginity, just shy of his eighteenth birthday. His father, Benito, took him to a whorehouse on the outskirts of Signal Hill—rather the lowest hem of it.  

The full moon was rolling west that midnight, as Romero and his father drank tequila and warm Modelos, watching men scurry in and out of Brother’s Club. After Romero’s forth beer and third shot of tequila, he remarked how much the splotchy pink paint of the door reminded him of a spread pussy; he’d seen plenty of photos, but this was finally an entrance to the real thing. Voluptuously rosada profundo—deep and silky warm, tantalizing, and mysterious. His father sniggered, too, muttering, “See, this is how you get your balls to drop off, for real.” He went ruddy faced, keeling from his laughter like a kick to the gut—and Romero felt infected by the same energy, letting laughter claw its way up through his parched throat. 

“No, it’s true!” his father wheezed in laughter. “It’s true!”   

Out of the car, his father pushed him up the walkway, and together they stumbled through those doors.

Romero was intercepted by a few women. One brought him a beer. Romero remembered at one point, his father turning his back away, going over to talk to a man wearing a light green Mexican wedding shirt, the ones with the bone buttons that were like mini juggling pins. The get-up looked comical, out of place, since they were usually worn at celebrations. But was this not also a big celebration? He took another sip of his beer, closing his eyes, to envision a birthday party of sorts, where he was the guest of honor—a piñata of a naked woman, candy falling from between her legs. 

He felt a hand on his shoulder, trying not to be too unsettled by the serious look of the man who went on to usher him from that reception area down a hallway to a closed door. The serious man opened it, and then casually snapped his finger before making a pointing gesture into the room. He left Romero without saying a word.

The room was painted red, a sort of deep red that crept toward Romero, wrapping around him like a cat. Heading over toward the bed, his cock felt erect enough that he had to adjust it in his dress pants away from the harsh metal of the zipper. From his head on down, was a heaviness, an ache in that virile region. 

The bed was right there—smelling of musk, of sweat, and of Palo Santo.

The alcohol now made him feel as though he were floating over to the bed, a mattress that groaned under the weight of his knee, the tight noise of flimsy metal springs rubbing into themselves—the florid rattan headboard scraping the wall, as he crawled toward it. 

The door opened with a spectacular silhouette: An hourglass figure, not just one hour, curvy enough to last at least eight. This was it. 

The door closed…(skipping ahead)

As he followed the man, Romero dragged his tongue through his mouth; he could still taste her and recall in a broken snapshot memory of her lying on the bed, pillows under her head and shoulders, legs open, and the feel of her large breasts in his hands, and her dainty fingers around his stiff carajo. 

The man with the botas stopped in front of another door and knocked. As the door opened, white light cut into the hallway, making Romero shield his eyes, as he stepped through.  

The room was too white, and in the quiet he became aware of the ringing in his ears. He wasn’t sure if the other man in the room was moving, or if it was the shifting black spots behind his lids. He pushed his palms against his eyes and the darkness became tinged with a hazy red. 

The room wavered then stilled, allowing him a second to glance at the man who trembled in the corner. The man was weeping inconsolably. 

Romero rubbed his eyes, now dry and aching from the thickness of the air, and the oppressiveness of the light. He looked at the floor near the man’s two-toned shoes, untied. Something about the shoes made Romero look higher up the man’s leg, how his pants were improperly buttoned below a silver oval buckle with an A in the center—the belt his mother bought for his father’s birthday present, when Romero was eight years old. 

Now, his father’s face was pale, tears profusely streaming down his cheeks; his bloodshot eyes held Romero’s for the slimmest of moments. The air was like a fist in Romero’s lungs. He stared at the two high windows that were painted shut, craving immensely the fresh air that was kept outside.

The door opened again, and a figure tilted in headfirst, before hurling its lower body into the room. Romero couldn’t tell what he was looking at, until it became clear that it wasn’t a creature, but some deformed man on crutches, who continued swinging in and across the room in a twisted, but skillful manner—mechanically clicking and clacking, before taking up his spot beside the upholstered chair in the corner opposite to Romero’s father. The deformed man seemed to perpetually adjust himself, as though never finding a comfortable enough way to get situated. Then following in was a man whose face had a doped-up calm to it. 

Romero’s father whimpered loud like a child, causing a shiver to straighten Romero’s spine. 

The man who had just entered, lowered himself onto the upholstered chair, having a noxious air about him that somehow claimed ownership upon everything.  

The twisted man beside him stared at Romero; the irises of his eyes were so brown that they were almost black, giving a depthless, almost inhuman quality; his eyes then seemed to assess Romero like how a butcher appraises a cut of beef. 

Romero gave a slight questioning utterance from his throat, and it seemed clear that none of them even heard it, or at the very least gave mind to it. 

In the hallway, doors opened and shut. 

On the street, a car backfired with two pops. Romero held his breath, as the man in the chair opened the one drawer in the utility stand.            

“Hey,” the voice was soft, yet also somehow sharp at the same time. “Do you know what this is?” he asked,holding a gun in the palm of his hand.

Romero stared at it, and then his throat felt like sandpaper when he swallowed whatever vestige of saliva he had left. 

His eyes trailed over to the corner where his father was slumped, and the room felt like it was tilting more askew than before. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his father’s face, so he kept his eyes trained on the A of the silver belt buckle. 

“…Hello?” asked the man, in a drowsy, even tone, before making a loud click from his mouth, as if to a pet.

“It’s a… gun, sir,” Romero said. 

Romero watched the man pop the magazine out then shove it in. The man polished the pistol with a crisp light blue handkerchief, holding it out toward Romero, with the handkerchief slotted between his palm and the steel. 

“Hey.” He waved Romero in with the gun. “Come here.”

Romero glanced at his father; the fabric of his father’s trousers began to darken from peeing himself. 

“Mm-m,” the man quickly shook his head. “Everything is nice and fine.” The sharp glare the man gave seemed to order Romero not to look at his father.

Romero stepped closer to the upholstered seat.  

“This,” he sniffled “is for you. Hardly been broken in.” His voice had a breathy put-on friendliness to it. “Hey,” he waved the gun again, twitching his eyebrows into a sudden frown, before softening again. “Here take it.” He laughed and again waved him in. “Come on, take it.” As he handed it over to Romero, he then gave a laugh while he was biting his tongue, short little puffs of air escaping through the thin gaps of teeth. 

The gun felt heavy in Romero’s hand. 

The man sniffled and wiped the back of his hand over his nose. “Ignacio… Door.” He nodded at the twisted man. “Guzman should be there now.” Romero stared as the twisted man made his way.

“I know you thinking… Why order a cripple around like that, hm?”

Romero couldn’t even tell if he shook his own head in response.

“You thinking… what kind of cold, uh, guy would do that. Well, you see Ignacio there…” The man smacked his own chest before pointing at Ignacio. “Nacio got better hands than a palliata. And most of all, he’s my brother—we are…” He looked up at the ceiling. “As equal as it gets. Si?” He loudly asked, jutting his hand forward, and when Ignacio didn’t reply, Romero could only assume the man was simply talking to hear his own voice.  

The man with the crutches kept his attention at the door, before backing up.

Romero’s right wrist started to ache from the weight in his hand. 

Another man entered and shifted from his shoulder a woman onto the floor, whose face was pulverized, open wounds on her enormous breasts—bite marks—and her inner thighs were glistening a slimy red. 

Splotches of blood started flowering on the floor, leaving a bouquet near Romero’s father’s feet, who then doubled over; snot discharged onto his shoes before the pitter pattering of tears. Romero looked from the mess over to the man in the chair. 

The man’s face now looked like it was cut from a tan granite block, and the whites of his eyes were more visible, as he looked over at Romero’s father. Romero could see the fine branches of red veins in one of his eyes.

“Benito… Your father…” he glanced back at Romero and rubbed the bristly hair on his square chin, “…he had a little accident. Apparently Lilia, that’s her name right?” he asked. Ignacio nodded. “…Well, she couldn’t get him going.” The man then allowed a slant on the side of his lips. “Or should I say, couldn’t keep him going. You see, niñito,it’s harder for the pregnant ones. But no worry, she’s not pregnant no more, as you can plainly see.” He gave a toothy smile, and this time a silent laugh, shoulders and chest bouncing, before veiling his face with one palm.

The woman was dumped on the floor next to Benito. Benito fell to his knees, keening like a wild animal.

“Oh, ah Benito, calmate hombre, it happens. It’s what we call… occupational hazard.” He laughed through his teeth again, and then flicked his wrist. “You’ll be fine… You’ll probably be just fine.” He nodded and got up from the chair to crouch on Benito’s level. “See, I like you, Benito,” came the friendly voice again, “And I know… the people will like you. I like you, no te preocupes, hombre. So!” he patted Romero’s father on the shoulder. He stood up and stared down at Romero. “Niñito, you have a choice to make. You can fix this whole problem with that Colt. You get to pick—because I’m in a very-generous-mood. Yeah, you pick… who you kill. You kill her… you’re mine for the duration. If you kill your father…” His lips puckered out in consideration, before he nodded. “You’ll never hear from me again. All that you need to do is pull the trigger. It ain’t that tough; it’s… it is like losing your virginity, ya know?”  

Romero couldn’t breathe. His skull felt hollow, yet his arm and his feet felt chained to the floor. He couldn’t run, nor could he lift his arms from his sides. His fingers gripped the butt of the gun, shaking as he tilted his wrist, aiming at her.

“I know it’s heavy. I know it’s…” the man stared at nothing until he stared intently at Romero again. “…a dose of reality, right?” 

“So, I’ll coach you through it, niñito. You’re so close. Just curl your finger… squeeze it like a big snake curling tight, around…” 

Romero lost himself in thought—instead of seeing her, he envisioned the snake curling tighter.

“More than that!” He gave a dry chuckle. “Ah, this is something else, like… teaching a baby how to walk, eh? You brain her, yeah. You brain her and I be your new tio. Tio Cesar Ixtli. Feliz cumpleaños, sobrino.” His whispers sounded so loud in that room. “Happy birthday, ne-phew! Squeezing tight is all you need to…”

Bang!

And then the sequence of events proceeded just like they had when he’d left the first room, disjointed and dreamlike; and Romero wondered if the broken sequence would ever play out normal again.

Now in his car, he wasn’t sure how long he waited there watching the neon light sizzle on and off.