Rampage in the Republic: Part 1

Nov 2, 2011 by


I don’t know why, or how, but I’m in a cave, a cave with techno music and sweaty people.  This is what happens when you drink mushroom tea, especially when you don’t like mushroom tea.  It’s a guarantee you will end up doing something you hate, in a place you’d never be, with people you’d never talk to.  It also means every time you look at your hands they will appear to be swollen and breathing.

I’m alone.  I’m tired.  I’m of no interest to anyone around me.  Their teeth are huge and they feed on souls.  Apparently mine is black and not very tasty.  Not the first time it’s been a benefit to me.

I’m not drunk yet, but I’m on my way; warm rum, in tall glasses, repetitively.  I need more money.  It’s going to take a lot of dinero for me to drink my way out of this situation.  I find my cell phone.  The numbers are impossibly small, and out of order, the international code is laborious and time consuming.  I don’t know if it’s right or not, but I’m prepared.

It’s me.  I’m still here.  I can’t go into it right now, but the situation is dire.  There are people here, people not like the people we’re used to dealing with.  They’re angry, they have guns, and they have powers of persuasion, the likes of which you’ll never believe.  But they also have information.  The kind you need; the kind I need.  It’s costly; I might as well be upfront, it’s not cheap.  But if it’s the right thing, it’s the right thing.  I’ll need you to wire it as soon as possible.  Don’t fuck around with this one, hell is about to open wide on this one my friend, and I’m the only thing between you and it.
How much?  I just need enough to cover the bribes and the expenses I’ll need to finish up.  I’m thinking ten grand, fifteen really, fifteen.  You know where to send it.
Don’t nickel and dime me motherfucker, this is the real shit.  You don’t want to have to talk to these assholes; that’s why you’ve got me here.  Give me the money and shut up.
Fine.  Fine, I understand, it’s easy when it’s not your life.  Wire me the 7500, but you’re signing my death warrant.

The advent of the cell phone has cock blocked the angry hang up.  At least you could snap your flip phone kind of hard if you tried, but who even has a flip phone anymore?  Deprived of my god given right to slam a phone down in anger, I do the next best thing and throw mine across the crowded dance floor.

I’m sure you’re wondering how someone like me ended up in a place like this.  Every story has its hard luck hard case, and in this one, it’s me; just another dumb motherfucker with his name on a door, too many unpaid bills in the trashcan and a propensity for trouble.  Ok, not all of that is true.  The part about the bills is, the rest just sounds better than, “I was desperate for a job and this one fell in my lap.”

It started with a late night phone call.  I was talking before I even knew I was awake.  It was an old acquaintance of mine, someone I’d have preferred not to talk to, but he owed me money and I knew those bills weren’t going to climb up out of the trashcan on their own.  So I stayed on the phone long enough to hear his proposal; something about a website and former Dominican MLB pitcher, Pascual Perez.  He asked me if I’d heard of him.  Who hadn’t?  If you watched baseball in the 80s, you knew who Pascual Perez was.  If truth be told, and I honestly try to never tell the truth, I’d always had a thing for Pascual, too.  Maybe it was the way his jheri curls flopped behind him as he ran off the mound, or his propensity for throwing inside, or maybe it was his little finger shoot move when he struck some poor schmo out.  Whatever it was, he captured my imagination as a 10 year old boy looking for entertainment in the baseball world.  I’d always wondered what happened to him.

Apparently, my friend and his little website wondered as well.  They wanted to talk to Pascual for a “Where Are They Now” piece.  Usually, when I’m asked to find someone it’s because they are delinquent in child support, behind in their rent, or suspected of cheating on the person who’s hiring me.  I never ask and I never care, it’s a job, and like I said, my trashcan is full more days than not.  Questions are for people with money, I just want to get paid.  So without thinking too much, I accepted his proposal and coach ticket to the Dominican.  I also knew, without thinking too much, the ticket was going to be upgraded to first class on his dime.

All of this doesn’t explain how I ended up underground, drinking rum with monsters and listening to some god awful meringue fusion, but here I am none the less.  I guess I should explain, but unfortunately, it appears I’m going to have to defend myself against a very large, very angry local with a very large knot on his forehead and my crumpled cell phone in his hand.

Goddamned modern technology.




468 ad

Leave a Comment