MEANWHILE, BACK IN LIMA. . .

Pt. 3

Dec 14, 2023

The skulls in the well were artistically placed in a concentric circle.
The curator’s voice drones, “The Franciscans took a vow of celibacy and obedience. . .”

My God. Sounds like my high school years.

After walking around the ancient library of the Convento de San Francisco and its thousands of antique texts, some of them predating the conquest, our tour group gapes at the fine artwork, then descends to the catacombs.

The crypts of built of brick and mortar, and have stood up well to earthquakes. They’re also expansive, with an estimated 25,000 bodies laid to rest there. Everyone’s respectfully quiet in the crypt, except for little Ray Ray, Jr., who’s screaming like a cherubic air raid siren. His mother pulls him from the stroller that Ray Ray, Sr. has been lugging down the steps. Ray Ray, Jr.’s cries grow louder as she bounces him on her shoulder. . .
. . . Can nobody else hear that?

The Monastery guide’s voice intones:
“It was customary to bury people under the church here up until 1808, when the cemetery of Lima opened. At that time, the catacombs were closed off, after accepting somewhere close to 25,000 bodies, where they stayed undisturbed until they were rediscovered in 1943.”

That faint sound again, like threading needle scratching a warped vinyl record. It just won’t leave my ears alone. I can barely make it out over Ray Ray, Jr’s. shenanigans and the guide’s learned babbling, but there’s something there droning. A faint buzz. I wipe the sweat from my brow.

“As’sid’u’ous’ly.”

I turn. Auntie M looks up from her phone and continues zombie-walking. Finally, a voice of reason. “Hey, do you hear th-”

She ignores me, blithely pacing while peering into her phone and whispering a soft chant: “Pro’pi’tious’ly. . . Me’tic’u’lous’ly.”

The guide keeps reciting, ignoring the child’s bawling.

“Archaeologists decided to sort through the skeletons. Instead of keeping the bodies semi-intact, they put all the skulls together, all the femurs together, all the tibias together, and so on.”

“Pffffhhhthththaahhh!”

What the hell? I look over at the guide.

No way. Can’t be.

It’s Gus. He’s dressed in a powerfully weird getup: felt hat, leather jacket over a Franciscan robe partially covering a canary yellow khaki shirt and matching pants, high boots, and wielding a curved knife.

What the fuck? He looks at me and laughs. “Pffffhhhthththaahhh!”

We’re back on the double-decker bus. I thought the fresh air might do me some good, but that buzzing noise in my ears is getting louder.
Auntie M sits next to me, a life-sized voodoo doll tethered to her phone.

“Con’spic’u’ous’ly. . . Trem’u’lous’ly. . .”

The filter and the noise. Swear I’ve heard this before.

To my left, Ray Ray, Jr. is safely tucked between his mother’s arms. She looks down at him, then over at me, and smiles. “Precious.”

Ray Ray, Jr. and I lock eyes. He squints and shakes his little fist at me, then lets out an unholy shriek as his head twists completely, all 360 degrees, around his neck.

I don’t know whether to faint or shit my pants. Quick glances around the bus. No one else seems to mind the fact we’ve got a lil’ Lucifer in our midst.

“Hey, you!” A deep, raspy voice that could boil nails.

I peer around, frantically. Did no one else hear that?

The Voice. “Yeah, you buddy.”

I look down. Ray Ray, Jr. has horizontal goat eyes. He raises his little hand and flips me off with his stubby middle digit with a gravelly baritone “Fuck you!” and a serpent’s forked tongue flicks from out his mouth.

What. The. Fuck?

An aneurysm of psychosis. I jump up and point. “Devil baby!”

Snatching the little bundle of hell from his shocked mother, and, before anyone can do anything, I boot that bald Beelzebub-looking bastard right off the bus.

I punt that little fucker straight through the uprights of the park’s two biggest trees. Hundred-to-one shot. Easy. I’m telling you, that little spawn of Satan caught some serious hangtime.

Pausing, I admire what I have accomplished in my short time in Peru.

Now, before you get the wrong idea, I want to set the record straight. I’m not much of an athlete. Never claimed to be. And it’s not like I’ve had a lot of practice kicking devil babies, before. This is a first for me. But, God as my witness, when it comes to kicking them babies, I’m a one-hundred-percent, genuine, Goddamn All-Star.

A tug on my shoulder. And that’s when all hell and Ray Ray, Sr’s. fists — break loose on my face. Lusty cheers as my body flies backward. Before I know what hit me, I’m falling down the bus steps and landing hard.

For a split second, I think my neck’s broken, but as Ray Ray, Sr. picks me up to knock me back down again, I realize I do have some basic motor skills left. Reminds me of kindergarten, when a couple of behemoth first graders threw me off the monkey bars. Just for the hell of it.

It’s a strange sensation swallowing your own teeth. A bloody, plaque-and-broken-enamel-filled mess as Ray Ray, Jr. curb-stomps me, grinding my molars down my throat. I wouldn’t recommend it. Somewhere in the ass-kicking time fog, he’s knocked me off the bus. I think it was a knee, although I’d have to check with the replay booth to be sure.

There’s a clamor of throaty shrieks and curdling cries ranging from ‘That’s right! Kick the shit out of him!’ to ‘Fuck you, baby kicker!’ to the instant classic ‘Rip off his fucking balls!’ Anything to satiate the Just Bleed God as the tour bus crowd selfies and applauds from the benign sanctity of the moral majority.

My inert body lands on the park grass. His weight’s on my chest as he towers over me. Breath smells like ceviche. Even through all this bloody mess I can’t help but think we’re gonna be instant Youtube sensations soon.

A dynamic slapstick duo. Hell, Ray Ray, Sr. will probably get a ‘Father of the Year’ award back in Sin City for this righteous little knuckle-dusting. A bonafide international superhero for the dad bod set.

As he rains down hellbows, I gasp for precious last breaths. I’m in no shape to defend myself. All my effort is going into counting which shot to the temple is gonna rip away dear consciousness. Just do it. Finish me, you big pussy.

That’s it!

Jesus Christ! That’s the sound that’s been rattling in my head this whole time. ‘Islands in the Stream.’ Is it the same for everyone in these crucial, shedding off the mortal coil moments? Tongue’s numb. Breathing’s labored. Heart’s thudding through the cracked sternum. A sickly, metallic taste in my mouth. Blurred vision and ears ringing. . .
. . . And now the Bee Gees are serenading my big send-off into an afterworld party. . .

“Pffffhhhthththaahhh!”

With the one eye that hasn’t been bashed in, I look over at the bus. Gus has stolen the tour guide’s microphone and is leading all the tourists into some sort of frenzied karaoke dance-off. And Pishtaco ‘Troy’ and an enano gimp are serving drinks to these fuckers. What the hell? Gus stops dancing with Auntie M and locks eyes with me.

Peering down with a grin, he presents the back of his hand, holding it high in the air, then stretches his fingers out, and they fall off, one by one.
I look at them all piled up next to me and they start wriggling like worms in the dirt.

You know, all in all, it’s been a bad day. “AAaaaaaaaaggghhhhhaaaahhh!!!”