| “Welcome to Lucha Libre Night at the Taco Bell Arena in Chihuahua, Mexico. I’m Edificio Del Huevo, your color commentator, and I’ll be assisted by six-time Mexican female mud wrestling champion, Rosita La Chingada.” “¡Hola amigos!” “We’ll be reporting on the hugely anticipated grudge match tonight between Mexican champion Comandante Marco and his American rival, El Grande Bush. There’s a lot at stake in this battle for North American supremacy, wouldn’t you say, Rosie?” “¡Ooooh sííííí! Mexico has been pushing for a rematch since 1846, when the malditos gringos cabrones put a gun to our heads and made us sign over Texas and California. Now if we want to go there for a vacation we have to swim through rat-infested sewer pipes, and mutherfuckers telling us ‘Speak English! Speak English!’ I like English. I luv it! But I don’t need no gringo mutherfucker breathin’ down my neck. “Anyway, if Comandante Marco wins the match tonight, we gonna get back all our land and then we be telling you cocksuckers to speak Spanish. “I know the first thing I’m gonna do when we take over is to move into the Presidential Suite at the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas and go skinny-dipping in the Grand Canal. Show the mutherfuckers what a real Mexican chocha looks like!” “Sounds good to me, Rosie, but as they say ‘Don’t count your huevos rancheros before they’re hatched.’ Remember, the norteamericanos are not going to give up all that loot without a fight. “And as we speak, El Grande Bush is entering the ring. He’s wearing his trademark pink tu-tu, dunce cap and glitter mask, and they’re playing his music, ‘Cheeseburger in Paradise.’” “Hey, Bushie, Bushie! Can we get a word from you for our studio audience?” “Waal, I’d like to address my remarks to the brave men and women fighting in Eye-Rack for the forty-second consecutive year. I honor the sacrifice you are making in the war on terror, and I want you to know that I plan to win tonight so that when you come home you’ll have a home to come home to. “The threat we are facing in this arena here tonight is whether our western states will remain The Home of The Free And The Brave, or are allowed to become an open-air taco stand like the one on Alvarado Street in downtown LA, where the crackheads and stray dogs hang out, behind the convention center.” “How inspiring! What’s your strategy for fighting Comandante Marco?" “I plan to shock and awe him with my lightning speed, twist his head in the ropes and bite his knuckles.” “Excuse me, Ed, cut out that shit. Here comes Mexico’s national hero, Comandante Marco of the Zapatista Revolutionary Army of Chiapas. He looks ready for battle with his headdress of quetzal feathers, jaguar-skin tights and crocodile nose mask. His musical accompaniment is the Mexico City rock band Molotov singing their anthem ''Viva México Cabrones.' Every time I hear that song it brings tears of pride to my eyes, especially the part where they sing ‘No Me Llames Cerdo.’ When I was a leetle girl in the shantytown overlooking the security wall separating Nuevo Laredo from Brownsville, Texas, my mother used to lull me to sleep by singing to me from Molotov’s romantic love song ‘Chinga Tu Madre’, where they sing: Nos vemos Acapulco a la fin de semana Mientras yo cuido à tu hermana Chinga tú chinga tu madre [Ed. See you in Acapulco But first I fuck your sister] “Hey, big boy! You got something to say to your fans?” “Hola, Rosie. I dedicate my life to the glory of Mexico. After I win, not only are we going to reconquer our lost territories, but we are going to sacrifice El Grande Bush on the ancient Mayan altar at Chichen Itzà by ripping out his still beating heart and feeding it to the pirhana fish that swim in the holy cenote. The whole ceremony is going to be filmed by Mel Gibson for his upcoming movie “Jews of The Jungle.” “Sounds great, sweetie. Only how do you plan to vanquish such a great warrior like El Grande Bush?” “I plan to shoot him with a curare-tipped blow dart and then, when he’s paralyzed, I’m going to stomp on his balls.” “And there’s the bell! The two fighters are circling each other warily, looking for an opening, and they are being watched by the masked referee, El Misterioso, who is also wearing a mask. Ed, what do we know about El Misterioso?” “Only that he gained fame as the fiercest lucha libre fighter in South America.” “Wow! Now El Grande Bush leaps forward and head butts Comandante Marco in the chest, but instead of falling onto the mat El Comandante does a backflip, kicking Bush in the face. Bush goes down and Comandante Marco sits on his face, locking him in a French Butt Hold, squeezing the air out of Bush like an Anaconda python between the steel vise grip of his powerful glutes.” “With his last, dying breath Bush reaches between Marco’s legs and manages to insert his two fingers in the man’s nostrils and flip him across the ring like a slingshot. Bush jumps to his feet and delivers a shattering roundkick to the head of El Comandante, who goes flying into El Misterioso who, enraged, punches him in the face. Hey, he’s not supposed to do that. He’s the ref!” “Wait a minute! Now El Misterioso grabs a folding chair and breaks it over the head of El Grande Bush.” “The audience is going berserk. The mariachi band Los Tigres Del Norte has started playing the romantic sentimental love song ‘Volver’, I suppose expressing their wish for a return of Mexico’s northern territories. Meantime, on the American side, Ted Nugent is shooting off machine gun riffs from his guitar. Oh no, that’s not his guitar, it’s a real machine gun! Now gunfire is breaking out all over the place and bullets are flying.” “Comandante Marco and El Grande Bush have recovered from the surprise attack by El Misterioso, and they’re punching the shit out of him in the corner of the ring. They rip off his mask.” “Omigod, it’s Hugo Chavez, the president of Venezuela, and he’s got an oil gusher shooting out of his butt!” “Well, let’s get out of here before the whole place explodes. Reporting to you from Taco Bell Arena, I’m Edificio Del Huevo.” “And I’m Rosita La Chingada…” “Wishing you a big cuevo en el culo, cabrones!” |
CHUCHA LIBRE
| 200motels POLITICS |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
| Still holding the dregs of his drink in his hand, Havelock Jones waded through the Halloween party in the direction of the fortune teller. This guy, whose name was Reuben Steuben, was done up like the Mickey Mouse character in Fantasia, with a Sorcerer’s Apprentice robe and dunce cap made out of sun, moon and stars fabric. He was a tall, skinny kid with a hang-dog face and long hair parted in the middle, which lent to him the aspect of hound dog ears. All he would have needed was a black, wet nose to appear thoroughly canine. He worked as a paralegal in a gigantic liberal New York law firm whose ethos was sensitivity and political correctness, where men were expected to be in touch their feminine side and the women were encouraged to be decisive and assertive. In short, it was the first circle of hell and you had to be an unnatural mutant to work there. Reuben Steuben fit in perfectly. He had the requisite snooty attitude and irritatingly affected nasal voice and mannerisms which are loathed by normal Americans from coast to coast, and have resulted in innumerable stabbings and skull concussions as a result of these misfits wandering into the wrong bars. Fortunately for him, The Barking Iguana was not one of these. On his own time he indulged an interest in the occult arts. He had a set of tarot cards which had once been owned by Alastair Crowley and a first edition of “Lord of the Rings” signed by Tolkien. He picked up good money doing readings and channeling the spirits at parties like these. When Havelock came up, Reuben, taken aback by the smeared make- up and fake blood,exclaimed, “You look like you got hit by a Mack truck!” Havelock deadpanned, “No, a beer truck. But I’m O.K. ‘cause it was filled with light beer.” He extended his grimy hand and commanded, “Gypsy, read my palm!” Reuben Steuben picked up a coffee can labeled “TIPS” and shook it. The can was packed with bills and change and jangled richly. “First you cross my palm. Five bucks!” “No problem.” Havelock withdrew a fin and threw it in the can. “This better be good!” The palm reader took Havelock’s hand in his and examined its shape and that of the fingers. “Good hand,” he said. He bent the fingers slightly and evaluated their sensitivity and strength. “Well, you’re an artist and you work with your hands.” “Good guess.” “It’s not a guess. Also, the callouses on your fingertips show you’re a musician, but that’s not how you make your living. Your hand is strong and the fingers are long and tapered, denoting an artist, but it’s not the hand of a painter or sculptor. You do something in the arts.” Not wanting to help the guy, Havelock simply said, “What else?” “Well, it says you like women.” Never one to resist a brutish, vulgar joke where silence would have served just as well, Havelock said, “Yeah, that’s how I got the callouses on my palm – from jerking off.” Reuben Steuben looked up from Havelock’s palm to his face and gave him a look of withering disdain, which had virtually no effect. If anything, Havelock thought it was funny. To say that in an Age of Sensitivity, Havelock was an anachronism was to make light of the true depravity of the situation. Maybe things would have been different if he had felt economic insecurity, but working for Pops he felt he had a safe harbor, and thus was impervious to the opinion of boring twits like this. “Jus’ a joke, man.” Reuben resumed the examination of Havelock’ s palm. “You’ve lived in many countries, but your career line is unbroken, which shows that you’ve done the same work wherever you’ve lived. I would have to say that you’re some kind of designer.” “You got it.” “Your love line is broken many times at the beginning, but at the end it’s continuous, which means you’ve had a lot of romances, but once you get married or find a partner, you’ll be faithful and the relationship will endure.” “Yeah?” “Wait a minute! Here’s something funny….” Reuben Steuben leaned over closer to Havelock’s hand. His eyes narrowed to slits. He sat up straight, reached into the folds of his robe and took out a pair of eyeglasses. Putting on the glasses, he again focused intently on a feature of Havelock’s palm. Beads of sweat began forming on his forehead and his composure started to come undone. He again looked up and peered into Havelock’s face, but this time the expression of the fortuneteller had crumbled from its former aspect of self-assuredness to something approaching astonishment, and even fear. Then he did something extremely peculiar. He examined his own hand before turning back to Havelock’s, as though trying to evaluate a comparison. Finally, he released Havelock’s hand as though letting go of something unclean. He sat back in his chair and stared intently into Havelock’s face, saying nothing. The silence between the two men was further accentuated by the mad, raging racket continuing all around them. Havelock finally asked, “So….?” No response. Reuben Steuben just continued to silently glare at him. Finally, after a seemingly interminable pause, he simply said, “Nothing.” “Get the hell outta’ here! I know you saw something! You’re shakin’ like a leaf.” “Nothing. I saw nothing.” “Look, my friend, you’re not coming clean with me. You saw something in my palm that really blew your mind, and you’re not telling me what it is. This ain’t right. What did I pay you for?” Reuben Steuben carefully withdrew his glasses and replaced them in his pocket. With the resigned air of somebody wishing to relieve himself of a nuisance, he simply stated, “Frankly, it seems to indicate that you’ re going to commit murder.” “Oooh, now I know you’re crazy!” Havelock looked at his own palm. “Where does it say that?” “It’s not one thing. It’s a combination of factors….” “And what’s that business of you looking at your own palm? What’s that all about?” “That was just for comparison purposes.” Havelock just laughed. “Boy, are you nuts! I never hurt a fly. Once I racked up my car to avoid hitting a squirrel. I seen some whack jobs in my life, but you really take the prize! They ought to take away your fortune telling license.” “Whatever….” “So, who am I supposed to kill?” “That, I couldn’t say. But I do know you are a dangerous maniac, or you will become one. If you take my advice, you’ll get out of New York before you end up on death row.” “Why? If I get out of New York, will that change the lines on my hand?” “Maybe if you go live in the woods somewhere, where there’s no one else around, you’ll take out your deviate tendencies on some poor, helpless forest creature. It would be bad, but maybe you could avoid trial and execution.” This guy and his phony, snotty little ersatz snob accent, his grating, condescending manner and the monstrous moralizing line he was relating were really starting to get Havelock’s goat. Havelock finally told him, “You’re killing me with this lame act of yours. Why don’t you do yourself and the world a favor and go jump off a bridge or something, you twinkie!” At this, the kid’s eyes popped out of his head. He turned white as a sheet and seemed to blanche. It occurred to Havelock, and not for the first time, how fragile these New Yorkers were. Oh, they could dish it out, but they completely fell apart when you talked to them directly or tampered with that delicate house of cards construct that they laughably referred to as their ‘ego’. Havelock stormed away from the guy’s table and out of the bar. “Whatta jerk!” he exclaimed. He jumped in a taxi. As the cab sped uptown, Havelock realized that he had left his rubber knife at Reuben Steuben’s fortune telling booth. |
| HAVELOCK GETS HIS FORTUNE TOLD Excerpt from 200motels novella "A Symphony of Fear" |
| 200motels FICTION |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
