Candi & Sister Sara's Diarybysoupwarsproject©
*** An excerpt from SOUP Wars ***
She ran from her family and rode for two hundred and fifty miles. Her souped-up vintage and yellow Harley with a hybrid-electric adaptor and a full tank of high-octane liquid biomass could’ve made it past the United States border with the greatest of ease. Candi didn’t check her fuel gauge before her escape from the hell that was her home. The motorcycle ran out of fuel somewhere in Sonora. Candi hiked to the nearest fueling station three miles away. Unfortunately, for her, someone got to it first.
There wasn’t even a drop of liquefied biomass left. The runaway checked out the convenience store. Even the glass windows were gone. There was nothing. Candida hoped that she wasn’t stuck in some ghost town. More than likely she was. She only brought one bottle of water and a few protein bars. She scratched her head and she told herself, “How could this be? Everyone in Mexico is dead.” She wondered if someone from the north immigrated down to her desolate country. She wandered aimlessly, not knowing where to go. Church bells rang in the distance. She wasn’t sure if her mind was playing tricks on her, but she followed the sound to its source.
After the tolling ended, Candi could see the steeple. The desert sun pounded the girl without mercy. She discarded her leather jacket and ran faster. She hoped that the bells were not automated like those of the Central Cathedral. She tried to fight off heatstroke by pouring some water on her aching head. The church was made of adobe and it looked old. The wooden sign in the front read, “Our Lady of Sorrows.” Singing voices filled the air. Candi screamed as she sprinted towards her goal.
She pulled one of the doors open. The church was full of people. The crowd sat in the pews. Individuals were very thin, coughing violently and/or covered in telltale purple lesions. It wasn’t much different for the people standing in the front. The incense could not cover smells of phlegm, blood, gangrene and infection. Candi was certain that these people were all dying from the MIAIDS plague.
Candi took a drink from the font, not caring whether her manners offended the parishioners at the Catholic church. An emaciated usher tapped her shoulder and inquired with a smile, “You’re not Catholic are you?”
“I was baptized as a Catholic, but my mom decided it was a bullshit religion. Thanks to her, I became a rational individual.” Candi continued to drink the water. The usher allowed her to do so, figuring that she was probably was dying of thirst.
“I take it you have problems with Christianity?”
Candi smiled at the guy in the black suit. “After what I've been through... Fuck yeah!”
The usher shook his head. “Although I respect your opinion, we all would appreciate it if you didn’t use foul language in Our Lord’s house.”
The man looked like an ancient ghoul, but his young voice betrayed his age. “Pablo Robles and you are?” He extended his bony hand in salutation. The leather and denim clad Candi shook it with confidence.
“My name is Candida, but that sounds too much like a vaginal infection, so I’d rather you call me Candi.” She smirked maliciously.
The usher had met many characters, and that young lady already ranked among the more colorful. “I’d like you to meet someone who might change your mind about Christianity.” Candi groaned in protest. The usher patted her back, “Don’t prejudge dear girl, I think you might enjoy talking to Sister Sara.”
Within thirty-seven minutes after Mass and breakfast, Candi became the most popular person in church, at least among the kids. The only three children who lived in the church could not get enough of the stranger. She was weird, with her long black braid, a tight muscle shirt held together on the sides by safety pins, leather chaps over lace-up jeans and mirrored sunglasses. Her stories about shoplifting, looting and being a general menace were enthralling. Her mouth definitely needed some washing out. Candi was the epitome of kid-coolness. However, kid-coolness did not sit well with Mother Carlota.
With a pinch on the ear, Mother Carlotta dragged Candi away as if she were a little child. Nelli and Tlatzohtzin Zacal protested her departure in a Spanish-Mayan dialect. Mappi O’Brien, the strawberry blonde Irish kid taunted her by squealing, “You’re in trouble,” in English.
Candi called the kid something very foul in English. Mother Superior struck the newcomer in the back of the head because she understood that foreign language. “You are a horrible example to those children.”
“Fuck off! They were having fun.” Carlotta dragged her away from the basement dining area and dragged her to the garden in back of the church.
“Sister Sara,” barked Mother Carlota, “I think this barbarian needs your unique guidance and infinite patience.” The head nun released the Candi's ear, “I have more pressing matters to attend at the moment.”
Candi massaged her chafed ear lobe. She shouted in the general direction of the Mother Superior. “You tight penguin bitch, that hurt!”
A nun in her late thirties looked over her shoulder as she weeded a stand of tomato and pepper plants. “You must be Candi.” She stood up and shook the newcomer's hand with a smile on her face. The nun wasn’t tall, but she gave the impression that she was. Her knuckles had the words, “Love” and “Hate” tattooed upon them. One of her thumbs was missing. Scars decorated her face and her nose had obviously been broken at one point. She didn’t look manly, but she certainly didn’t look like a fashion model either. The title, Amazon queen, described her accurately. “My official name is Sister Sara Lee Clotilde, Order of Saint Eusebio Kino. If that’s too long or stuffy, feel free to call me Sister Sara or Walrus if you prefer.” Unlike everyone else in the building, this woman did not have any visible signs of MIAIDS.
This monument to femininity astounded Candi. Manly men would shriek like little girls if Walrus ever decided to put her war bonnet on. She wasn’t fat, just tough-looking. Candi could almost hear her gaydar making a ruckus that would've awakened the dead. The rebel decided to challenge the nun to a verbal joust. “You certainly don’t look like a sister, although you do look like a fucking walrus.” Candi’s friends told her all about nuns. She wanted to know if the rumors were true. “Are you a dyke?”
Sister Sara blinked her eyes. “That’s between me and the Lord.” The clergywoman looked at her nails and returned to her labors.
“Are all nun dykes?” Reiteration usually worked like a storm.
“No and it doesn’t matter because we are all chaste.” Sister Sara’s pulled a few more weeds from the tomatoes and peppers. She was ready to tackle the squash.
“Come on, answer me, have you ever licked pussy?”
“I don’t lick fuzzy felines. They might scratch my face with their retractable claws.” That nun would not get irritated. She swayed her head to the memories of a catchy song that she loved.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Candi gnashed her teeth and contorted them into a grin more disconcerting than that of a coyote sitting next to a freshly eaten chicken. “Did it taste good?”
“Nowhere near as good as the Word of God.” Sister Sara looked over her shoulder and winked at her adversary.
Candi roared and enunciated each syllable for emphasis, “What do you mean by that? That was not an answer!”
“Oh sweet dear,” the nun batted her eyelashes and exhaled noisily, “You are nosy.”
Candi crossed her hands behind her back and shot a dirty look at her adversary. “Would you do me if you had the chance?”
Sister Sara’s nose flew to the air and puckered her lips. “No way... No how... No never...” She paused and stared at the sky, as if in a moment of deep cognition.
“You think I’m ugly, don’t you.” Losing to a nun was not an option for Candi.
“No, I think that you’re attractive. I just made a vow that’s important to me and I intend to keep it.” Sincerity was an option for the nun, and that took the joy out of the kill.
Candi was sure there were a thousand comebacks to that kind of sincerity. That nun had her so flustered by now that she could only think of one. “You’re fucking pathetic.” Unfortunately, it was a weak comeback.
Sister Sara picked dirt from her fingernails, completely unaffected by the new girl’s cries for attention. “Would it help you be less annoying if I took you on a ride with the parish's motorcycle? It’s huge, fierce and solar powered.” Fortunately, for Candi, nuns dedicate themselves to helping the weak. Sara gave the troubled young woman a grin, all the more wicked and mischievous for being surrounded by a wimple. “No one expects for a nun to ride a motorcycle.”
Candi stood paralyzed. She could barely move her mouth. She took a deep breath and finally whispered. “Oh, my GOD, you are the coolest nun ever.” The admiration gushed out of her mouth, almost before she knew it was coming.
Days went by and Candi made herself at home in the church. She didn't want to go back home even though she missed Gigi and Carlos. She feared for their safety, but not as much as she feared her father.
At the church she usually was put to work, helping with the garden and caring for the sick. Mother Carlotta took the maxim, "Idle hands are the devil's toolbox," very seriously. Nonetheless, her exhaustion did not quench her curiosity about the Sister Sara.
On day, Candi was bored during her free hour at the convent. She snooped around Sister Sara the Walrus’s sleeping quarters. Candi became quite adept at sneaking around the church and avoiding Mother Superior.
She found a small box labeled “do not open” under Walrus’s bed. The curious young woman proceeded to open it. She wondered why if Sister Sara was such a good judge of human nature, would she put a “do not open” label on a box that she did not want opened.
Inside, a scroll computer was rolled and tied with a ribbon. Candi untied the bow, stuck the stabilizer sticks on all four edges of the computer and tapped the screen to life with the enclosed stylus. She searched the files and found something that looked promising. The file’s index and title loaded. The postulant squealed.
She found Sister Walrus’s journal and it was written entirely in IMglish. It also contained many great photos. Many images showed a flat-chested but nice-looking lanky black girl with nipples like thimbles that her brassiere could never fully contain. Her hair was fuzzy like kiwi peel and dyed auburn. The black woman in the photos usually dressed like a schoolmarm. Some of the shots were topless but never fully nude. She wore lace bikini panties in those.
There were also a couple of shots of Sister Sara as a younger and much skinnier woman. She looked tough in her tomboyish garb and an ever-present fedora covering an ever-changing bandana. Make-up and petite little t-shirts softened her decidedly unfeminine sense of style. The pictures of them as a couple were adorable and had a life-partner-ish feel to them. There were other pictures of other miscellaneous people. They didn’t look as interesting.
Finally, Candi could find out more about her mentor’s private life, without the usual evasive answers. Using the search tool and the computer’s stylus, she wrote the word “pussy.” It returned several entries. The entry entitled, “23-6-16: We are no longer virgins” seemed full of potential. Candi told herself, “It’s not lust if I don’t masturbate,” and clicked on the entry with the stylus.
We are no longer virgins. As I write this entry, I can almost see it happening again. We made love for the first time ever just a few moments ago. I am so glad Pico gave me lovemaking tips as a wedding present. They really helped because I was so nervous. Being with a woman as gorgeous as her can be extremely intimidating even for someone fearless, like me.
I sit here on my brand new bed, waiting for her to come back into the room. I wish to feel her soft black skin against my mine, again. The scent of plumeria on the pillowcase still haunts me. I can still taste the flavor of almonds, roses and sweat. I think the fact that the wedding cake had marzipan fondant and real flowers to this sweet flavor. She told me that I tasted like wine. To be frank, I drank a lot of that at the wedding reception! Leave it to me to get drunk at my own wedding reception.
It’s amazing how pretty her little pussy is. It almost reminded me of a pink butterfly about to take flight. It still glitters and shines with the dew drops of her womb.
Before we got to that part, we began by exchanging many delicious kisses and hugs. We were both nervous about it, but that’s only natural. When two people are in love, everything is an adventure. The exploration of her body was like an amazing journey to the West where I found all the flowers in the desert. As I drove her to ecstasy, I simply enjoyed the ride. She was like a motorcycle with her purring and her humming. She felt like the breeze of freedom that blows through my hair. My breasts and hers rubbed together ever so lightly.
I loved how she ran her fingers the back of my shoulders. Her touch made me tingle. It was like a nearby thunder strike during a storm. Her graceful Haitian hands bewitched me like a voodoo spell. Touching me and compelling me to think of every reason I love her. My scarred Chicano farm-laborer fingers were as beautiful or as delicate. Still, as she suckled them with in her luscious and naturally dark lips, I lost my self-consciousness. I kissed her as she touched the other lips.
While, she craved for slow and deliberate movements, I wanted something a little spicier. She was soft and so full of honey. I imbibed her. Her little pearl was a most delightful thing, swelling until it was a near perfect miniature sphere. I focused on it and I did not relent. Her tears were of joy and her orgasm was such an amazing thing to feel and watch. Her clutching hands pulled the fitted sheets out of place.
My favorite part of the lovemaking could be seen in her eyes. Those golden eyes entranced me. They drew me into a sun-drenched world that I’ve never visited before. It was as if I were in the presence of God. She made me feel pure, as she took me into her corporal heaven. Her eyes were fixed upon mine through the whole ride.
Her perfect fingers wiggled, stroked, and probed. All the sensations combined into an amalgam of pleasure. She never broke eye contact, not even when I screamed out her name like a skipping CD. It was pain and joy, as my walls grew insane. The tightness and the loosening satisfied my insides as they quivered towards the end. I wish it would’ve never ended.
This experience was beyond any wonder I’ve ever experienced in my life. I thank the Lord for letting me share it with the most wonderful girl in the Universe. I have made the right choice in saving myself for her. I can’t wait to ride to Los Angeles so I can introduce her to my mother. I wish dad were still around to meet Tecla.
I wonder if I should tell my wife about the gang. No. She must never know about that. It’s all in the past. My comrades know that my life on the streets is over. I took care of all the loose ends. I made sure that Baltasar shed every drop of blood for killing my father. I know that he’s never coming back. The score is even.
Candi’s forced purity took a temporary vacation during her reading. Her hands had wandered absentmindely to forbidden areas beneath the borrowed circle skirt with floral prints. “I knew it!” She giggled and took strange comfort in her discovery. “My gaydar is infallible and she’s a killer to boot.” She couldn’t resist gloating. “No wonder she’s so evasive about her past.” Her overwhelming instinct to be nosy overtook her. “I wish I could kill. I would kill my father if I could.” She shook that bad memory from her head. She justified her desire to invade Sara’s privacy with what passed for logic in the mind of an immature person.
Candi clicked around for more tantalizing tidbits and she found many. It was like a classy porn site, only it was free and it had very gory descriptions of gang warfare. The naughty creature dug through Sara’s secret life. It was better than any fictional pulp novel that she could ever read. Suddenly, her glee came to a halt when she found the Saint Fool’s Day entry for year ‘16.
I cannot believe the cruelty of life. While I was out with my buds, Tecla threw a Day of the Innocents bash for the poorer students and their parents. The massacre was all over the news. My fellow comrades told me that Cipactli Buenaventura, from the New Pachucos gang, slaughtered my Tecla, the students and their parents in retaliation for his uncle’s death.
He used a resin gun with coated bullets to avoid detection. What kind of a person shoots an elementary school teacher and a bunch of innocent kids with a machine gun for the sake of vengeance? It was overkill. I was the one who killed that worthless Baltasar, not her. Why her and not me? Why the little ones? Why now? It’s been over seven months since I avenged my father’s death. This is the cruelest Fool Saint’s Day Joke.
A flash invaded Candida’s mind. The death of Tecla and the innocents was as senseless as the deaths the SOUP Wars caused. It was worse, because Sara justifiably blamed herself for the massacre. Candida wondered if this had been part of her impetus to take the holy vows. She read on.
Tecla survived thanks to the complimentary Raptorex booster that she received as part of the school’s health maintenance plan. Unfortunately, the doctors weren’t able to remove all of the solid-shank core-bonded bullet fragments. These bullets were filled with a new type of poison that causes a victim’s internal organs to rot. The doctors believe that the worst of the damage is yet to come. They are trying their best to save her.
The doctor's have determined that the poison can't be spread to other people without the contact of bodily fluids. It means the she can have visitors, but none of my kisses. I wish I could kiss her and break her curse. Just like in Sleeping beauty. Unfortunately, I cannot do so.
My mother is in the waiting room with a framed picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe. She brought a priest with her so Tecla could have last rites, just in case. My comrades and their families are here as well. The surviving students from Tecla’s class are here too. The visitors brought flowers, scapulars, creche sets, memorial paintings and food.
Tecla’s worthless nigger parents refused to visit their dying daughter. I hope they burn in hell. At least all of her sisters came to visit. Julia, the protestant, didn’t stay long. She cried over Tecla and told her a few things before they carted her off to surgery again. Julia slapped me as they took her away. Her anger was justified. She correctly assumed that her sister had been shot because of me.
Candi paused in her reading, suddenly uncomfortable with the direction this narrative was taking. For a fraction of a second, she considered turning the computer off, but curiosity got the better of her. She might never get another chance to read this account of the Life and Times of her wetdream idol, and if she stopped now, her curiosity would eat at her for the rest of her life. Licking her suddenly dry lips, she read on.
This is such a crummy way to bring in the New Year. The doctors have informed me that the surgery was a failure. I should’ve been partying with my friends and family. All I can do now is prepare to eat grapes and kiss my poor Teclita as my mother cries herself to sleep. Cipactli will die the most horrific and slowest death I can inflict upon on any human being. He will pay for the crime that he has committed. He will pay dearly and the satisfaction shall be mine.