Марк Смит - Moist

“He and Martin stole my arm.”

It didn’t take long for Esteban to piece together what might be occurring. He was used to power plays. He’d seen people plot against him and his crew for years.

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know.”

Amado pointed to Norberto.

“He said that Martin was going to give it to las placas .”

So that was the plan. Let the police do Martin’s dirty work. Still, Esteban was surprised. He didn’t think Norberto would do something like this. The guy just wasn’t a rat. Esteban walked over, carefully so as not to step in the blood, and looked at Norberto.

“I can’t bury him with one arm.”

Esteban looked at Amado and chuckled.

“I think your days as a matador are over, my friend.”

“Lástima.”

“What will become of you? You need two hands to drive a cab or bus dirty dishes off of tables.”

“I’ve been thinking about a new job.”

Esteban looked at him and discreetly began to reach for his gun. Amado raised his arm in the air to reassure him.

“No, amigo. I don’t want your job. I want to be a writer of telenovelas. ”

BOB WOKE UP. The sun glinted in through a gap in the bright orange curtains and splashed across his face. He felt good. Warm, snuggled, and safe. The only thing slightly alarming was the fact that his cock was as hard as a lead pipe. He looked over and saw Felicia snoring peacefully next to him. Miss Scarlet, in the bedroom, with the lead pipe.

He shifted carefully, he didn’t want Felicia to see it, because she’d make him fuck her again and, frankly, he was exhausted. He’d had sex so many times since he met her, fifteen, sixteen, maybe more, that he felt deeply tired, drained. His left eye had picked up a strange twitch.

The first thing he noticed as he climbed out of bed were the scabs on his knees. They were large, red, and painful. As he slid out of bed and stood up, his back squeaked in pain. Christ, I feel sixty. Bob hobbled off to the bathroom. He had to go to work.

Don shaved quickly, cutting himself twice on the chin. He didn’t normally chop his face up this way, but he couldn’t keep his hand from shaking. He looked in the mirror. He realized that he didn’t know the man who looked back at him. What was happening to him? Was it the job? The pressure finally getting to him? He’d heard that sometimes officers take unnecessary risks in their personal lives. They become adrenaline junkies. Danger addicts. Maybe that was it. Maybe he should go see the shrink. Then again, maybe it was some unexplored part of him that Maura was able to reach. Or maybe he was just being completely stupid.

At first he’d thought it was love. He’d thought he was the luckiest man in the world. Here was a beautiful, intelligent, and charming woman, and she just couldn’t get enough of him. Who wouldn’t love her? God, just look at her body. Just talk to her. But after last night, he wasn’t so sure it was love. He didn’t know what it was. Something pathological, maybe.

He could’ve stopped her. He realized that. At any time he could’ve broken out of it and said that it was too dangerous or he wasn’t comfortable or it was crazy or whatever he needed to say to stop it. He could’ve. Hell, he should’ve.

And what if the gun had gone off? He’d be dead, but what would his colleagues say? He’d become a laughingstock in every police department in every city in the world for the rest of history. They’d name a special rule after him. They’d teach it at the police academy. Don’s rule: “A gun is not a sex toy.”

Martin rolled out of bed feeling energized. Nothing like a couple of bong hits and a Valium to give you a solid night’s rest. Martin skipped the coffee and went right back to the bong, packing it full of some awesome bud, the little golden hairs catching the light and gleaming like strips of neon. Martin needed to remain calm. He had to get some things accomplished today. He’d made a checklist before he went to bed.

One, call Esteban and tell him that he’d taken Amado’s arm and incinerated it. It was just no good to leave evidence lying around. He’d get Esteban to stand up for him. Tell Amado that it was the smart thing to do. That way when the feds came swooping down on them, they’d think it was each other who ratted. Divide and conquer.

Two, swing by Norberto’s and borrow a gun.

Three, find Bob and kill him.

Four, well, actually there wasn’t a four. Martin figured that by the time he got Bob out to the woods and shot him, that would take up most of the day.

The water bubbled in the bong as he sucked in a solid hit. Yeah. He felt good. Proactive. He released the smoke in a great gray geyser. Yeah. He was taking control of his life. It was about time.

Maura lit some incense and got the chair ready for her first client. She hoped Larga wouldn’t blow off this appointment. It wasn’t unusual for people to miss an appointment; in fact, it happened all the time. It was unusual for them not to call, not to apologize and reschedule.

But today she would let it slide. She was in a fantastic mood. Awash with an inner joy, a deep glow, a sense of sexual satisfaction that, well, she’d never felt before. Sure, sex with Bob had been fun, exhausting sometimes, but fun. Sex with Don was a whole other beast. They had a level of intimacy that you just didn’t normally find between two people. He had taken her to a place, a deep, almost sacred place, that she had never known existed. Sex with Don touched an inner part of her and filled her with, well, filled her with fulfillment.

It moved her.

Perhaps it was because she felt empowered. Maybe that’s what brought her to this sacred sex spot. She was glad that Don had let her keep his gun, just until she got her own. She opened her purse and looked at it. She felt a hot sensation shoot up through her body. She closed the purse. Later. She had work to do.

Bob walked into United Pathology.

Morris was there, already on the computer, looking at a Web site about cannibalism.

“Good morning.”

Morris looked up.

“Hey, Romeo, how’s it going?”

“I’m tired.”

Morris grinned at him.

“Oh, boo hoo. You’re having too much fun in bed. I feel so bad for you, man.”

“Maybe I need to eat more protein.”

“Oysters, dude.”

Bob nodded. Oysters were fine, but right now he needed a coffee.

“Would you mind if I sat at my desk?”

Morris moused out of the site.

“ No problema, dude.”

Bob sat down behind his desk. He was hoping that it would feel secure, normal. He didn’t know why, but he had a strange desire for everything to be back to normal. This morning in bed with Felicia he had felt so good. But somehow, on the way to work, he’d gotten cold feet. Maybe he wasn’t cut out to be an underworld figure or a Latin lover. Maybe he wasn’t strong enough to be a Roberto, and that’s why his parents had named him Bob.

But the desk wasn’t comforting. It felt strange. It was somebody else’s desk. You can never go home again.

Morris was looking at Bob in a strange way.

“So, Bob? How’s the new chick?”

“She’s different, man.”

Morris was confused.

“Like, how?”

“She’s just different.”

“Like is it, you know, cultural? Does she do nasty shit that white chicks won’t do? Does she taste spicy?”

“It’s not because she’s Mexican. It’s her personality.”

“So, are you, like, still in love?”

“Yes.”

“Cool.”

Bob typed the name Frida Kahlo into the search engine and hit the go button.