Hideo Furukawa - Belka, Why Don't You Bark?

But what if that word were also the name of his constant companion, this dog?

What, your master thought, if it were your name?

“It’s okay,” he could tell himself then, “he’s just talking to my dog.”

And so you became Cabron. Three months into your second year. Your master was twenty-five. He was still emotionally malleable. Day after day, as he talked to you, called you by your name— Cabron! Cabron! —he began to forget his pain. Hey, what’s the big deal? It’s a dog’s name. And though his wife had now run off with another man, he remained as tight as ever with La Familia. No, please , the Don said, call me Dad, just like before . Your master had been “bought,” as it were, as a promising young leader in the business, and his position in La Familia didn’t change. He was still free to come and go as he pleased in the orchard in Texas. He was family. And there was someone there who tried to comfort him as best she could. “I’m sorry my sister was such a bonehead,” the girl said. She was the Don’s third daughter. Thirteen years old. “Don’t let it get you down. I think you’re great.”

Huh? Me? You do?

Six months later, he had recovered.

So that was your master’s story. The melodrama of your alter ego’s life until 1971. But you, Cabron, you were living your own melodrama. From the time you turned eight months old and spilled seed for the first time, you rarely had a problem getting it. Who could resist you? As long as your alter ego had his private face on, no bitch’s owner would ever refuse to let you have her. And when he wore his public face, they let you have their bitches because of the love and desire they themselves felt for the Hellhound—they were more than happy to let the Hellhound’s dog knock up their pets. And then there were the strays who knelt for you, overwhelmed. You mated with this bitch, took that one, littered all of Mexico City with your progeny. You… you betrayed your name. You were no cuckold; you were a lady-killer. But then, toward the end of 1974, everything changed. You fell in love.

Love. Melodrama.

Your master had gotten involved in something big. His bodyguard had brought him the lead. The bodyguard was a huge dude from American Samoa, upward of six foot two and a champion underground boxer. He had an astonishingly thick neck, fat arms, and a massive stomach. Samoans and Tongans were legendary among professional boxers. Lucha libre wasn’t real fighting, of course, but this only gave the Hellhound greater respect for true strength. He was still a fighter, he told himself, even if he wasn’t much of one. And what point was there in being protected by bodyguards weaker than he was? He had first been introduced to this guy, whose arms and torso and thighs were covered with traditional Samoan tattoos, by the nephew of the Don’s wife, a producer. The introduction alone wasn’t enough to convince him to hire the Samoan. If the bodyguard was going to be with him all the time, he had to be totally sure he was trustworthy. The Samoan had two other characteristics that made him attractive. One was that this towering giant, who spoke Spanish with a Samoan-English accent, was a twin. “You mean you’ve got a brother exactly like you?” “That’s right, man. An identical twin.” “That’s so cool ! It’s like having a fucking alter ego!” It turned out, furthermore, that the older twin—the bodyguard—was also a devout Christian. “Are you kidding? The Samoan Islands are Catholic?” “Sure, man. The first missionaries came to Samoa in 1830, so what do you expect? Sometimes when I hear a hymn I get teary.” “That’s terrific!” “My brother, though, he’s Muslim.” “He’s a… but why?” “Lives in Asia. Went there to work. Does the same kind of shit I do, in Indonesia I think it is. Or maybe it’s Pakistan? He swore to obey the Koran in order to get in good with the people there.” “That’s awesome! That’s the kind of dedication I like to see in this line a work!”

So the Hellhound hired the Samoan hulk—who was simultaneously an older twin and a championship underground boxer—as his bodyguard, and the two survived several bloodbaths together, and the Hellhound came to see that he could trust the Samoan absolutely, and then to regard him as his right-hand man. In 1974, this right-hand bodyguard was one of the main movers in a major incident: he helped lead the Hellhound to attack an officer in the Mexican Federal Police. “This dude’s bad , man,” the Samoan had muttered. “And I mean bad .” “Is he?” the Hellhound asked. “He’s building his own secret organization, Boss. Fixing it so he has access to all the confiscated drugs, building ties with the Colombians, putting all the department heads in Customs in his pocket.” “What the hell? Are you kidding? That is bad. I was thinking the paperwork guys in Customs seemed kind of unfriendly lately—so it’s this guy’s doing, huh?” “It is, Boss.” “How’d you figure this out? Who snitched? One of the little guys in the state police?” “No one snitched , Boss. More like I got him to talk. Gave him a hook to the jaw, smashed the bone. Brraahahahahah! It’s hard work getting these guys to talk, Boss.” “Hilarious. Hahahahah. ” “You know that business we got going on in Cabo San Lucas, dropping drugs from the sky? I got wind someone was trying to interfere, so I had ’em tie him up and bring him to me. And let me tell you, when that guy started talking, boy did he start talking.” “So what’s this plan you got for me?”

This officer in the Federal Police lived in a port city on the Gulf of Mexico, and that was where he had his storehouse. They attacked the storehouse. The officer had been put in charge of all the confiscated drugs, and he often went out on busts himself. He had commandeered the best drug dog in the force, a member of a true super-elite, essentially turning her into his own private dog; no one tried to stop him. He would take her to airports and up to the border and have her sniff out only the purest drugs, which he would seize. It would have been hard to find a worse instance of a man abusing the authority of his position. And once he had the drugs, he would sell them back at very steep prices to the Colombians. “You go too far,” the Hellhound told him. “You’re too bad.” He punched him, kicked him (with his torpedo St. Bernard Kick), put him in his mighty Dog-Hold. He got all the information he needed and then, just like that, had his bodyguard kill him. They cleaned out every last packet of shit in the storehouse. They’d brought a four-ton truck for that purpose. No one interfered as they carted the stuff out, but there was this dog barking its head off. A Labrador retriever. A bitch. The officer’s drug dog. “Well, look what we have here,” the Hellhound said. “Want me to shut her up, Boss?” the Samoan asked. “No, no, no. You should never kill unless you have to, not when it’s a dog. Besides, this bitch is the force’s number one drug dog, right? The one everyone talks about? She’ll come in handy. She can sniff our shit, tell us how good it is.” “Nice thinking, Boss. Very nice.”

So they ended up taking the Labrador retriever.

And where did they take her? To the twentieth parallel north. To the estate in Mexico City. And there you were. It was December 1974, when your master brought her in and introduced her to you, Cabron. “Hey there, boy,” he said, beaming. “Look who’s come to visit. The best perro policia in all of Mexico.” What did you feel then? Nothing, at first. You weren’t hot for her then, it wasn’t the season, and besides you had all the bitches you could want. So you just glanced at her and thought, HMM? A NEW FACE? The fact was, she was a very beautiful dog. A purebred Labrador retriever, only two years old, with an iridescent, jet black coat and a nice muscular ass. Before long, Cabron, you would be creeping around, whining up a storm, pining with desire for that ass—but for now, you barely noticed her. A NEW BLACK FACE? you thought, and that was it. You watched as your master tested her, had her sniff a bunch of drugs and pick out the heroin, cocaine, crack, marijuana, speed, and all kinds of other shit, and tell him how pure they were. WHAT KIND OF TRICK IS THAT? you wondered. Two days later, though, the situation changed. All of a sudden, things were different. The Hellhound was in a fight with a Colombian cartel. That business with the officer had deprived the cartel of one of its transport routes, and they were pissed. A gang of South American hit men turned up in Mexico. Your master realized right away what was up. He said, “This isn’t good.” “Sure isn’t,” replied the Samoan.