No Hablo

Have you ever been in a situation so godamn ridiculous that you felt the need to sit down and blather on about it? Well, guess what. I’ve got a tale so absurd that I know for a fact you’ll name me a liar at the end of it. But, fuck it. What have I got left to lose? My wife took the kids and left, oh, and the dog. She took the fucking dog, and she hated that dog. She did it to serve as a little extra twist of the knife.

I can’t say that I blame her. Not in the least. I’d have left me too after seeing all that shit aired on national television. Meaning the whole fucking country, coast-to-coast, saw mine and my buddy Logan’s—adventure? No. That’s not a good word. What’s a good term for it? Oh! I know! How about PTSD-inducing, pants-shitting nightmare. Yeah, that’s the one. It started how these things always do. With a bachelor party in Tijuana.

Who does that shit nowadays? Five gringos trying to raise hell in the single most violent city in the fucking world? It screams idiocy, but I let the guys talk me into it. Yes, they hit me with the “one last hurrah” bullshit, but ultimately, I’m a grown man, and I decided to go. It was also my decision to lie to my wife and tell her we were going to Vegas, which wasn’t actually a lie because we did fly to Las Vegas. For a stopover on our way to Tijuana.

Everyone looked at us like we were batshit insane as we boarded the flight from Vegas. I remember that part. I also vaguely remember having never heard of the airline. I wish I could give you some proof, but I can’t find any history of our ticket purchases. I can’t find my ticket stubs, my emails with the itinerary, nothing. Zero. Zip. Fucking Zilch.

The plane wasn’t dumpy or anything. It was the nicest aircraft I had ever been on, as a matter of fact. And the flight attendants were insanely beautiful. They also passed out free shots of the best tequila any of us had ever tasted. It was smooth. Did you know tequila could be smooth? Because I sure as hell didn’t. They fed us those shots, sat in our laps, flirted. It was great. Then—well, then I got nothing. Everything went dark and fuzzy.

The next thing I remember was the sound of dripping water, my back feeling like a Panzer had rolled over it, and the driest mouth I’d ever had in my life. Not to mention the worst taste I had ever tasted. I was vaguely aware that I was lying on the ground. I was very aware that I was deathly hungover. Worst I’d ever had and the worst I ever will have. There’s no doubt in my mind.

The next thing I remember was someone speaking, but not in English. I’d taken elementary and high school level Spanish, but I had no idea what the hell these guys were saying. Finally, I heard someone say something I did understand. “Wake ’em up.”

Then, a wet, freezing ass cold sensation shocked me awake and up into a seated position on the ground. I sat there, shivering like a pomeranian in a kill shelter, and tried my best to hold back the puke. After about ten seconds, the effort became a fruitless one, and up came, well, nothing. Oh, I made the noises. I looked like someone vomiting. I sounded like it too. “Calling dinosaurs,” as my cousins back home refer to it. That noise you make when your body is expelling every last fucking atom of whatever is making you ill. The problem was I didn’t have anything to expel, so I just roared at the floor.

After several minutes of this, I finally collected myself enough to get off of my hands and knees and readjust to a seated position with my knees up, arms resting on top of them. I took a deep breath in to compose myself, exhaling through the nose.

“Lovely,” said a woman. I wanted to look up from the cement to put a face with the voice, but if I moved my head, I knew I’d start puking again. I wanted to say something, but I knew if I spoke, I’d start puking again. I’d been awake for less than 5 minutes, and already I needed a break from this day. “No need to say anything. Rohypnol and top-shelf tequila aren’t good bedfellows,” said the woman.

I raised my eyes just enough to see three bottles of water a foot away. I grabbed one frantically, ripped the cap off, and downed it. That was a mistake because it came right back up. At least I had something in my stomach this time. I heard a dress shoe tapping on the concrete.

“Might I suggest taking small sips?” said the voice impatiently. “We are on a tight schedule, and I’m going to need an answer from you now.”

“Hold the fuck on, lady,” I said, still not lifting my eyes. “I don’t know where I am, who the fuck you are, or what the fuck is going on.”

“That’s colorful. Well, you’re in Cuidad Hidalgo; my name is Victoria, and you, my friend, are in what one might call a pickle.”

“The only thing I got out of that was your name. Where the hell is Cuidad Hidalgo?”

“Southern Mexico,”

“Where are my friends?”

“Three of them are probably sleeping off horrible hangovers in Tijuana, and it sounds as though one of them is just now waking in the adjacent room.” Her answer was punctuated by the sound of someone retching on the other side of the wall. From the cursing and central Oklahoman twang, I could tell it was Logan.

“Gahtamn!” he managed to yell out in between retches. “The fuck we get into last night, boys?”

I finally managed to lift my head and raise my eyes to Victoria. She was a tall, slender, dark-haired woman, in a very nice pantsuit—the designer kind. I’d seen people dressed like her before. The high-end corporate attire, her hair in the tightest bun possible, cosmetic work that made her age relatively ambiguous. Everything about this lady screamed Hollywood.

“So Ben, babe, let’s talk,” said Victoria. “You and your pal in the next room got yourself in a jam last night, a handful of them in actuality. Long story short, you both fucked up bad. You violated several international laws, and you’re now caught in the middle of a cartel territorial dispute, just to name a couple.” she said with a shrug.

“And what does that have to do with you?” I asked, taking small sips from the second bottle of water.

“Because, my friend,” said Victoria raising her arms to her sides, palms facing up. “I am your salvation.”

“How the fuck do you figure? The way I see it, I’m sitting here because of you.” I said, pointing an accusing finger.

“What does that matter? Does Yahweh not have the same relationship with his children?”

“Lady, you seem like you have a big dick, I get it. Don’t delve too far into that God complex, though. That way lies madness.”

Victoria stepped under the lone lightbulb illuminating the area just around me, a smile creeping across her face. The fuzziness began to subside, my vision came back into focus, but my head still hurt like a son of a bitch. I looked past Victoria as she slowly sauntered around my vomit and saw hulking shadows lining the wall behind her, every one of them clad head to toe in tactical gear, assault rifles at the high ready position.

Victoria walked right up to me, her heels making slow clicks as she closed in. She squatted down, arms resting on her thighs, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Sweety,” she said softly. “You don’t have the first clue as to how big my dick is. You see, unlike the Judeo-Christian God, I still take the hands-on approach.” Victoria placed another bottled water in front of me and stood back up.

“Those cartels you managed to piss off?”

“Yeah?” I said between sips.

Victoria scrunched up her face in mock concern. “One of them is on their way here, to this place.” She placed her hands on her hips like a schoolmarm scolding her class. “And guess for whom they are looking.”

“Me?” I said.

“You, Benjamin. They are looking for you. Well, you and your friend.” she said, pointing to the wall. “It’s never good if a Mexican drug cartel is looking for you, Ben.” I felt like I was going to puke again, but for different reasons. “These La Familia guys?”

“Who?”

“The cartel on its way to this location to brutally murder you and send your head to your wife and children.”

”Oh,”

“These people don’t skimp on the cost of their Sicarios these days. If you aren’t ex-special forces, then don’t even bother filling out the application, ya know.”

“Who gives a shit about their military service?!” I spat. “Sounds like I’m fucked either way!”

“Well, grumpy pants,” Victoria said, raising her eyebrows. “They’re very efficient in the whole torture game. The especially good ones come to work for the organization I represent. She absently gestured to the tactically clad shadows standing at attention against the wall. “We’re an equal opportunity employer. Ex-Mexican SF, DEVGRU, Spetsnaz, you name it.”

“Who’s your organization?”

“Benji, please,” said Victoria, annoyed. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Can you tell me anything about them?”

Victoria tilted her head, twisting her mouth and looking up towards the ceiling in thought. She looked back down at me and squinted. “Let’s just say my bosses find themselves in lack of live entertainment since Epstein ‘hung’ himself,” she said using finger quotes. Then she shrugged, tilting her head again. “I suppose he did hang himself if you count a possessed human committing the act while under demonic influence.”

I squinted back at her. ”Demonic influence?” I said before scoffing.

“Oh, yes. It was a CIA program that got shut down. Their loss, our gain.” Victoria said with a shrug. “Anyway, I digress. La Familia, coming here to kill you, I can stop that.”

“How can you stop an entire cartel from murdering me?”

“Well, technically, all the power is in your hands, babe,” said Victoria. She snapped her fingers, and a door behind me opened up. I turned to see a short wormy balding man walk in with a briefcase. He walked past me and stopped in front of Victoria. The man opened the case and held it up for her.

Victoria removed a single sheet of paper, walked over to me, and held it in front of my face with one hand, tapping on it with her free index finger. “This is a contract, Benjamin. If you sign it, the La Familia cartel will no longer be an issue for you or Logan.” She shoved it further in my face in a gesture for me to take it. I reluctantly took the paper and held it up in the light.

“It’s not a long read, and I encourage everyone to read the fine print of any contract they sign,” said Victoria, pointing at me with finger guns. “But I would read quickly because those Sicarios are about five miles down the road, and if your signature isn’t at the bottom of that paper, then my personnel will not be interfering on your behalf.”

I stood up to get more light from the lone bulb. My hangover was still very much present, but I now had more pressing matters. If I lived a hundred more years, I could recite that fucking contract word for word, line for line. It said, and I quote:

I ____________, being of sound body and mind, do hereby agree to abide by all orders, commands, advice, and suggestions given to me by ENKI, Inc. Furthermore, I, being of sound body and mind, do hereby agree to abide by all rules set forth by ENKI productions for the duration of the production, regardless of consequences that may or may not be a result of my actions and choices.

Printed name:______________________ Date:__________

Signature:_____________________ Date:____________

“Two miles out, Big Ben,” said Victoria impatiently. She held out the nicest pen I had ever seen—high-end gold with a diamond-tipped cap. “There’s waaaay more to this contract, but it’s all in that briefcase, and we don’t have the time, babe. Sign on the line, and your current problem goes away.” Victoria held a phone up so I could see its screen.

On it was a live satellite feed of a convoy of trucks speeding down a dirt road. Each of the trucks had men packed in the beds, all of them armed with automatic rifles. Two of the them had large-caliber machine guns mounted to their roofs. How had I pissed these guys off?

“Scribble your name, and let’s worry about the next problem after, babe. Sign it.” I reluctantly took the pen from Victoria, who was grinning from ear to ear. She knew she had me; I knew she had me. I placed the paper on the floor, and I signed the fucking thing, careful not to press too hard on the striated concrete surface. I then dated it and held it up to Victoria, who snatched it eagerly.

“Excellent!” said Victoria. She held her phone up and pressed the screen with her thumb. “Mr. Delavechio, will you please give Ben here the necessary items. The short, balding man stepped back into the light, his pasty skin shining under it. First, he handed me a pair of glasses.

“Please, put these on, sir,” said the man in a sniveling voice. “At no point during production are you to take them off. You’re not to remove them, obstruct their view, or alter the feed in any way.”

“What feed?” I asked, putting them on my face.

“It’s all in the full contract, and you-” The man was interrupted by a thunderous explosion, close enough to shake the building we were in. Aside from me, nobody else in the room flinched. Dust fell from the ceiling and filled the air.

“You see,” said Victoria pointing up. ”Huge dick.”

“Moving on,” said Mr. Delavechio, handing me a backpack. These are the items you’ll be permitted for your trip.”

“My trip?” I said, sifting through the backpack’s contents.

“It’s all in the contract, sir.”

“Coffee? Whiskey?” I asked, holding up a bottle of bourbon. “What the fuck kind of a trip is this?”

“Again, sir. It’s-”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s all in the contract.” Delavechio handed me a map. Of course, the journey ended right where it fucking began, in Tijuana.

“Well, champ,” said Victoria, clapping her hands together. “You signed that for both you and your friend, and unfortunately, the La Familia boys aren’t the only foxes in the henhouse. You might have a few more of those sicarios on your tail if you hang around here much longer.” Victoria pointed to her watch. “So time’s a factor.”

At the moment, signing that paper seemed like the best idea. I mean, there was an actual convoy of assassins on their way to torture and kill me. What could be worse than that? Holy shit was I naive. What came after made me wish and still makes me wish I had let the hitmen just come and brutalize me.

*********

Oh, you want to know the rest? Tell you what, tell that bartender you want that entire bottle of whiskey. About the only fucking thing I got from my little odyssey—aside from a few hundred thousand dollars in debt and a substantial price on my head—was a love for bourbon. Get two glasses, and I’ll tell you the whole godamn thing.