Excerpts from:

 MOST PEOPLE TALK BULLSHIT - One Primates Search For Intelligent Life!

TATTOOS – ANOTHER RITE OF MANHOOD

      I am sitting in an edgy place called ‘The Blue Fox.’ It is on a main drag in Juarez.

I am drunk as a lord and I want a tattoo. I want one so desperately to show my allegiance to the Marines and to my MOS. A very large and very fat Mexican man is sitting in an obscure little corner. He is surrounded by a variety of pictures of tattoos. There are almost too many to choose my lifetime marking.

      The fat Mexican has a very thick head of hair. His hair looks like oily strands of patent leather He is sporting a vicious looking goatee surrounding a small, thin, cruel-looking mouth that does not smile. Even the eyes over dark, heavy bags, do not smile.

Before I can tell him I want a tattoo he pulls out a lesbian magazine and he says something in guttural Spanish, then he licks the pictures very slowly with a swollen tongue. The magazine now has a wide wet smear of saliva trailing down the page.

I feel a wave of revulsion. He grunts and mumbles something else in Spanish.

He repeats this ritual several times as he is drawing my tattoo.

      As he is drawing the outline of a bird, a hooker comes over and she asks me as to buy her a drink. I bought her one and she wanted to know, as she rubbed me, if I wanted to be ‘friends.’ She is good-looking. I am hoping to fuck her after the tattoo is finished.

I asked her to come back after the tattoo is done.

      The tattoo artist is slugging down shots of tequila like I drink water. He looks at me intently then makes a show of slowly rolling a tequila worm from one side of his mouth to the other. As he is doing this, he displays bad teeth. His teeth are a mix of decay and Mexican metal work.

 Slowly he bites into what I imagine to be the gooey interior of the worm (his display makes me think back to the grubs I had tried to eat as a starving kid). Next he pulls out the lesbian magazine again and shows me another picture of two women sucking on each other. He is staring at me oddly as he slowly slides his wet swollen tongue over the pictures. This time a noticeable slime trail of mashed up worm remnants are all over the page. He slides his tongue out to show me the mashed worm was on his tongue as well.

“Sick mother fucking pig.”

The skin on his face has a very odd sheen, like a mixture of sour sweat, rancid body oil, and unprocessed tequila.

      I can’t smell him, but I can taste the air around him. The air has a sickly sweet and sour taste of disease and death.

I need some beer to wash down the revulsion. I need to wash away my growing fear.

The corner of the bar is right next to the tattoo artist’s table. I order a few beers from the bartender.

I quickly down my first beer to get the taste of this fat Mexican’s sour death off my tongue.

Within minutes I feel odd. I feel queasy.

I need to get to a bathroom quickly and puke out whatever poison is in my system.

I stand up quickly and excuse myself from the artist. I am walking perfectly straight the first half of the barroom floor. I seemed to be in perfect control of my motor functions.

Suddenly, the second half of my barroom walk is a different story. I am staggering like a drunken sailor

I stumble around a partition that is hiding the doors to the bathrooms and bedrooms. Rooms left out of casual sight of the patrons. Finally, I am on the other side of the partition, I am fumbling for a doorknob, hoping it would be to the bathroom; I am on the brink of blowing chunks of vomit everywhere. The first door I pulled open is to a hallway leading to the bedrooms. Frustrated and desperate, I am going for the other door. I open it halfway. I fall back against the partition and black out.

Rolled By Demons And Mexican Prison Guards

      Consciousness is lapping back. I am in hell. Of this I am certain. I feel five demons tearing at me. There is a demon on each arm and leg. They are holding and fighting me. A fifth demon is fishing through my pockets.

I am determined to fight these demons with all my might as I struggle and scream. My head is starting to clear. My enemies are not demons, but Mexican prison guards instead. Realizing this only brings me marginal comfort. They are struggling to hold me down so they can get to my wallet. They want to check my ID and steal my money.

“I hope they don’t check my socks or hose me down and delouse me just like I have seen in the prison scenes from bad movies.”

      Things are becoming clearer. I now know it is the bartenders and their friends who are helping me up as they search my wallet for money. My socks are safe.

“Fucking Christ, I’ve just turned seventeen!”

They help me over to a booth. I sit for a while. Finally, I managed to get back to the bathroom and puke. My body is cold, clammy, and I convulse and columns of foul bile and vomit shoot out like a geyser. I am puking hard once again, and again, and again. I rest my head on the cool porcelain rim of the toilet bowl. It helps to diminish the discomfort of feverish pain in my head. It is too hard to hold myself in this position and finally I am lying on the floor of a bathroom in a Mexican Whorehouse.

“Shouldn’t I be in school?”

 I feel as bad as the air around the tattoo artist taste. I am thankful the taste is gone as soon as I put some distance between us.

      Before I come out of the bathroom, I check my wallet. The fucking bartenders have taken the few dollars I had stuffed in there. I refurbished my wallet from the stash in my socks. I walk slowly, carefully to the booth the bartenders had place me. The hooker that had hit me up earlier comes over and sits next to me. She starts to rub my comatose cock.

      Normally I would find her very attractive. Only an hour before I had been planning to fuck her, but in my current mental state, I only see her as a parasitic wraith looking to feed on the leavings of my sorry G.I. carcass. I buy her a beer and ask her to let me rest. She is pissed that her investment has not worked out. She leaves, as she is cursing me in Spanish. The tattoo artist comes over to see how I am doing. I have tasted the air around him before hearing or seeing him. I retch. If I had anything left in my guts, I would have vomited again. He wants to know if I want to finish the job or if I just want to pay for what he has done. I tell him I just need to rest for a bit.

He nods his head shambles away and works on other GI’s while I lay my face on the table. I am nauseous, weak and helpless. 

      The hooker comes back. She is insistent that she wants to fuck and make money. I give her five dollars and tell her to leave me alone. The money I give her does not satisfy her. She is insulted that I don’t want to fuck. She is taking it personal. She says something else in Spanish. It sounds derogatory.

As I am laying face down on the table, it occurs to me, that I had been slipped a “Mickey.”  A knockout drug used to render a GI unconscious so that his money and other possessions can be separated from him and given to the poor. At the end of the night, the tattoo artist comes over to me and demands his money.

      I am determined to see it through.

“Screw it, let’s finish it.”

It takes him forever to color it in. The taste of him is nearly the death of me. When he is done, I pay him a hefty seven dollars for my new tattoo.   

Heaven Is A Dorm Room In A Mexican Cathouse

      I finally manage to leave the bar. I stagger back to the New Year’s Club to see if Maria was still there. She comes over, looks at my tattoo and does the usual prerequisite ohhing and ahhing.

      She can see how sick I am.

“I will put you to bed my darling.”

I thank the gods it was a Friday night and that I would not have to be on base till Monday. Marie takes me upstairs to a room. She opens the door and it is completely black inside, and without turning on the light she leads me to the bed. She tucks me in. She wipes my forehead and kisses my cheeks, kissing away my discomfort and illness, the way a mother does for her child.

      “Vincente, my darling, you geet some sleep.” She closes the door; the pitch black comes down on me like a hammer. I feel as if she has put me in a room only slightly longer and wider than the small bed I was dumped into. The walls and blackness threatened to close in and crush me. I fall into merciful oblivion.

      I am waking to Maria’s gentle kisses. She is wiping my forehead with a cool damp cloth.

      “How is my Vincente’ Chimera?” I look around the room. I am surprised to see that the closet I knew I had been tossed into is actually a good-sized bedroom with a window that allows the early morning light to shine softly into the room.

      “You rest here my darling Vincente’ and I weel geet you breakfast.” In about fifteen minutes she brings in a delicious meal of spicy salad, tender goat meat, some potatoes, a corn fritter of some sort and an antique, dusty, ice-cold bottle of Coca Cola. I am wiping off the caked dust before I could pop the cap with the opener Maria hands me. Despite the outward, antique appearance, it is like icy ambrosia fit for the Gods.

      “Where in hell did you find such an old bottle of coke?”

“There is lots in the basement.”

I wolf the meal down with gusto. After showering, she gives me a bathrobe to put on and leads me down a hallway into a huge dorm room filled with a dozen beds. In the room, there are lounging or just waking up many of the girls that work the New Years Club by selling their bodies. Now they are scrubbed clean and without makeup.

Most of them look quite different. I could pass most of them on the street without recognizing them.

      Some of them look like young girls that you’d see in any college dorm room. Some of them have hard lines of wear making them look old beyond their years. All of them are in good spirits and genuinely glad I am here to hangout with them. In their eyes, I am Maria’s man, her Marine.

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