The Kilo of Sin Similla

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PostScriptor
PostScriptor
1,000 Followers

"What are you doing, Gomer? When am I going to see this miracle pot? "

"I'm just about sick and tired of your shit, Frank. I think I'll just turn around and go back to town. I have the names of a couple other guys who would be more than willing to push the stuff."

Even as high as he was, Frank knew that he'd pushed a little too hard.

"No, no. Come on Monty — I apologize for giving you shit. It's just a habit with me. You know that."

"OK. We're almost there anyway. I guess that it would be a waste of time to come this far and not at least check it out."

There was a pull out that I turned onto where we got out of the car. I pulled out a flashlight from my pocket and started walking up a road that was so old and overgrown, you could barely tell that there had ever been a road there. Pushing brush and branches out of the way, we were really walking on a deer path. About two minutes and Frank was already complaining.

"Shut up Frank. Remember how good this shit is," I said and then we turned the last corner, "Here it is now."

The mountains in that area are full of old mines and this was one of them. I wasn't even sure what they mined here, or if they even found anything of value there. But it was a great hiding place for a stash of pot. After I had found it, I covered the entrance with some Western cedar branches to hide it even more. You couldn't even see it when it was covered. I took away the branches.

"Frank," I said with a bow my arm pointing to the now revealed cave, "My secret cache for the stash. I figure we can use this in the future when we get new shipments. We can break them down up here and only take a smaller amount into town." Frank just stood there nodding. Lord knows how he was even standing upright.

You had to duck down a bit to actually enter the cave, but after about 18 inches, the roof was high enough for a grown man to stand and the mine widened out into a room sized area. Just inside the cave I had put a kerosene lantern off to the side, sitting on a couple of planks that had been there when I found the cave. I lit it and put my flashlight back into my pocket. Not surprisingly, the air smelled stale and moist enough to support mold growing on the wooden roof supports.

"Now Frank — be careful not to bump into any of the timbers in here. If you knocked one out of place the whole roof could come down. By the way — I forgot to ask: do you have claustrophobia?" I laughed.

Frank just had one word back for me, "Asshole! Just show me the kilo."

"We only have about 50 more yards to go. Are you up for it, or is being in an old mine too much for the Frankster to deal with."

I could hear him swearing under his breath and I really think that he was very uncomfortable with the mineshaft. But greed will out. He managed to get up the courage to follow me.

We finally came to an even shorter hole than that at the entrance. I turned to Frank.

"I think that the miners started digging a shaft here but when they didn't find anything, they turned it into a little room where they could stay instead of going back and forth to town every day. That's my guess because it had an old bedframe and some shelves and things in there. All the comforts of home!

"I'll go first with the lantern and then you follow. The weed is in here."

I could hear Frank still complaining as I got down on my hands and knees and crawled through the entrance. Like at the mouth of the cave, once through the roof was higher and it got wider. As I had described, it was like a little room where a couple of people could stay if they needed to.

The air in this little isolated room was even worse than the rest of the cave, and there was a kind of green slime on the walls where small amounts of water trickled through the rocks and ran down to the floor.

"OK, Frank. Come on down!" I said in my best TV game show voice.

I could hear Frank as he got unsteadily down on his knees and started to crawl through. When his head and shoulders were through, I struck him, hard, with a baseball bat that I had hidden just inside the room. He dropped immediately. I was actually a little concerned that I had killed him, but hey, que sera sera.

By the time that he'd returned to the land of the conscious, he'd been handcuffed, had chains holding his legs together and was attached by a short chain to an old iron ring in the wall. I have no idea what the ring was for or why it was there, but it was convenient.

"What the fuck, Monty? You fucking hit my head!" he proclaimed, as if I might be somehow unaware of what I'd done. "What about our deal with the Sin Similla?" His voice sounded a little panicked.

I laughed, "You smoked all of the Sin Similla that I bought — enough for two joints!"

"Then what's this all about, fucker?"

I didn't reply, but I went over to the other figure chained on the other side of the room and viciously yanked the duck tape covering her mouth. Knowing that her mouth would be very dry, I opened a bottle of water and poured some into her eager, open maw.

"Donna, why don't you be a good girl and tell fuck-face here why I put that big bump on his pea brained head?"

The tears were streaming from her face and she was breathing almost to the point of hyperventilating. It took perhaps 10 seconds before she could get herself under control enough to speak.

"My god, Frank! Monty knows about us! Monty, PLEASE, this is insane — think of what you're doing. It was just sex. Frank was never a real threat to you..."

I laughed at the whore.

"That's what you say now when you're desperate. But, really, what would happen if I let the two of you get off scot-free? Should I just let you go?"

Frank immediately chimed in, suddenly a lot more sober than he had been just minutes before.

"Hey Monty, look I don't know what you're thinking, but we can work something out. Let us go and we'll never tell a soul. Please, Monty, I'm begging you. Just think about this. Look, really she's right, it was just sex and honestly, she wasn't nearly as good as some of the young stuff I've tapped at the JC. I was only sticking it in her because she was your wife and so I was sticking it to you, kind of indirectly. Hell, she wouldn't even let me have her ass. What a cunt."

From the other side of the room came a reply, "You disgusting trash! I should have believed Monty when he told me what a piece of shit you were. I don't even know why I came back twice — Monty was a better lover than you were on his worst day. And your dick is so small, I had to squeeze my legs together just to feel you."

I interrupted. "Ok, that's enough from you two lovers. I think that I will leave you alone to ponder your sins against me. I am too committed to back away now.'

"You know, Frank, you probably insulted me 1000 times or more over the years, and I took those. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words, et cetera. But when you had to insult and disrespect me by fucking my wife, you stepped beyond the pale.

" You found my evil core. There is an old Japanese saying that, "Every man has three faces; the one he shows to the world, another that he shows only to his family and closest friends, and a secret face that only he knows. That is the face you are seeing now.

"And you, Donna, you know why you started having sex with him. You've been arrogant and condescending the last year; you did it because you thought that you were so smart that I would never know. Too bad for you; I knew almost immediately. And now, you're both screwed."

I turned back to the small entrance and crawled through. From the other side I spoke.

"I'm leaving the lantern with you. I don't know whether the air or the kerosene will run out first. I didn't put much into the lantern. Who knows, maybe there will be enough air coming through that you will starve to death. I would imagine that dehydration will probably kill you first. That's why I left the water bottle there in the room with you. Of course, neither of you can REACH it, but you can dream of water in your mouth and going down your throat. Maybe you can lick the walls and get enough moisture to last a little longer. But now, I bid you farewell. Alas, we all know that actually, you won't fare well. So I bid you a slow, agonizing, death."

I turned on my flashlight again and began rolling large rocks from the main shaft to mostly fill the hole. Once that was done, I began adding smaller rocks and gravel, and finally filling the gaps with dirt using a shovel, left by those long ago miners.

And all the while I could hear the two betrayers pleading.

"Please, Monty, have mercy on me! Please don't do this to me. I know what I did was wrong, but this is more punishment than I deserve!" Then the weeping and sobbing. My heart stayed cold.

"Monty — you know you'll never get away with this. I'll be missed. Come on, guy, tell me this is some sort of cruel joke. It is, isn't it?" Then he too wept. The ends of my lips turned up in a small smile.

As I was finishing the last scoops to seal the lovers into their final tryst, I heard a last plea,

"Monty Tressor! For the love of God!"

I replied, "Yes, for the love of God." Then I filled the hole completely.

The irony must have horrified Donna, my now to be former wife.

Once I was back into the night air, freed from the stifling and enclosing mineshaft, I climbed up above the entrance to an unstable looking rock formation.

I found the fuse that led to the charge of black powder I had placed beneath the outcropping. I lit it and then ran like hell back to the car and out of range of the explosion that followed. After the dust settled, I returned to the mine entrance, or rather where the mine entrance had once been. It was no more; it was covered with tons of rocks and debris. In a couple of months the weeds would grow in the freshly disturbed soil, and after a couple of years, there would be trees. In a decade there would be no sign that it was ever there.

There was, of course, a certain amount of clean up required.

I drove Franks car down to Albuquerque where I know of a chop shop that would sell his precious Z car for parts and crush anything that remained. It brought me more cash, no questions asked, than I would have thought. They were popular cars and OEM parts were rare and costly.

I'd packed Donna's toiletries and a portion of her nicer clothes into a couple of suitcases. They had been left there with Donna in the mine. I wouldn't want to deprive of her prized possessions in the afterlife. Her day-to-day and work clothes remained in the closet. I would only remove and dispose of them when they had served their purpose.

Frank's house and possessions were also easier to dispose of than you might image. I'd lived in the town most of my life, and I knew all of the good people. And I knew the bad ones, too. Somehow, Frank's house keys found their way into unscrupulous hands and the night after I had fixed my problem with Frank, a moving van pulled into his driveway, and emptied out his house. They took his furniture, clothes, his stereo equipment, his books; even the appliances. It was left stripped to the walls, an empty shell.

After a couple of days, I went to the police to report Donna as missing. They took down the report, but when I told them that her toiletries and her nicer shoes, her jewelry and dresses were missing along with a couple of suit cases, they rolled their eyes at me.

"Usually," they told me, "If someone doesn't want to be found, they won't be found." There was an air of pity towards me. A couple of days later one of the local detectives came by my place.

"Did you know that your wife had been having an affair with Frank Fortune? No? Well, we think that they ran off together, because he moved everything out of his house too. Neighbors noticed a moving van there a couple of days ago. Nothing for us to do but wait. If she calls you, let us know. But there is no law against two consenting adults running away together. It happens all the time. I imagine it hurts like hell, but there's really nothing we can do."

Ah! Back in the days before internet, before social media, before cell phones. Life was so simple, so local then. No instant nationwide resources to find missing people. And a lot of people used to just disappear. Just like Frank and Donna.

It was the following week and I was just lounging in my living room when there came a tapping, a gentle rapping, rapping at my parlor door.

Standing there when I opened the door was Nancy Ann, hugging her arms around herself. I invited her in and offered her coffee.

"Did you know that the bastard was having an affair with your wife?" she asked with a small choke in her voice.

"No, not until the police told me. Even then I could hardly believe it. I can still hardly believe it. She just packed up the stuff she wanted and moved out. Never said anything; didn't even bother to leave me a 'Dear John' letter. Just took off into the sunset."

Nancy was nodding in agreement as I spoke.

"Same with Frank. He left the party without even saying goodbye to anyone and the first I know about it is a couple of days later when I went up to his place. His house was empty and he was long gone. The shit."

Now it was I nodding in agreement with her.

"I guess that sometimes you can't really tell what is going on in someone's head, can you. And we were just the trusting dupes."

Funny how life goes on.

After the two lovers disappeared, Nancy and I became 'a thing' and after a year, when I divorced Donna for abandoning me, we got married the next day. Within a month, Nancy was pregnant. I'd always wanted to have kids — but I'd loved Donna enough that I would have stayed with her despite her lack of fertility.

I love my wife and kids. These days I love my grandchildren as well. None of them has ever played me badly, or hurt me as Donna had. I don't understand the bifurcation in my soul that allowed me to entomb the two betrayers without a second thought, and yet still lets me love those close to me. I suppose it is what the modern psychologist would call 'compartmentalization.'

In another twist of fate, when the bank foreclosed on Franks now vacant house, I bought it. The owners of the bank had known me since I was a kid growing up, so they cut me a really good deal to take it off their books.

I had it completely redone — new paint, hardwood and ceramic floors, new appliances, yada, yada. I let Nancy make most of the decisions on the looks of the place; I only got involved when it was something structural or important to me. We expanded the house twice over the years, adding a couple of bedrooms and baths, and moving the front of the living room out 10 feet closer to the street. We added an in ground pool and spa. Life's been good.

I have reflected now for more than 30 years on my actions towards the asshole and the whore (the only way that I think of them.) Nothing of them has ever been found and there is no realistic possibility that it ever shall. What used to be a mineshaft in a National Forest will never be reopened even if anyone remembered it. No one has touched it since that night.

I've never felt any guilt about them or their fate. I have never, on the other hand, done anything as brutal to anyone else in my life. But I know that a similar betrayal could once again bring the dark monster that lives in the recesses of my soul to the surface. And if anyone sees that face again, it will undoubtedly be the last thing that they ever see.

~~~*~~~

Thoughts on the story.

Poe's 'Cask of Amontillado" is VERY short — 500-600 words, and it only covers the section of my homage story from the party where Fortune (Fortunado) is lured out by Monty Tressor (Montressor) to the point where Montressor seals up the crypt with Fortunado alive inside.

Montressor is telling the story some 50 years after the fact, and Fortunado's remains are still sealed up in Montressor's family crypt.

In Poe's story, we are given almost no information. We aren't told where this takes place, nor when; we aren't told what Montressor's grievance against Fortunado is. There is no backstory, and there is no 'ending' to tell you what happened to Montressor afterwards. Was he happy about what he did? Was he haunted by the callous murder he committed? My story tries to remedy those shortcomings.

Of course, Poe was one of the first writers of this genre so his readers were captivated by this new concept of the horror short story.

There was also a final thought that struck me: think of how inured we are to horror in our modern age, almost to the point where sealing someone in a crypt (or cave) to die a slow death of dehydration, starvation or gradually running out of air, seems somehow tame compared to more modern horror writers, or even real modern events.

And today we see horrors occurring on youTube videos, or created using computer graphics.

Yet, still Poe stands at the very root of such stories, and everyone has to read at least one or two of his tales in school. And the 'best' mystery books of the year may be awarded an "Edgar."

P.S.

PostScriptor
PostScriptor
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ChopinesqueChopinesqueabout 1 year ago

She came rap tap-tapping at my ... door? Did she have raven hair?

All you needed at the end, beyond all else, was a ... tell-tale heart!

Love the Poe homage!

AnonymousAnonymousabout 1 year ago

I've every work Poe published and picked up on your device tight away; very well done!!

AnonymousAnonymousalmost 2 years ago

You are amazingly well read!

Undoubtedly this adds greatly to your fascinating and diverse stories. Of all those I've thus far read only two did not ring my chimes but even They were designed and executed!!!!

Thank you for your efforts and keep them coming!

AnonymousAnonymousover 4 years ago
Well told

Well written. Not particularly unique, but certainly well told and well structured.

InsigniaInsigniaalmost 5 years ago
The Cask is Classic...

Acapulco Gold might have been a good vintage as well. Creating a back story is laudable but the slights of Montressor seemed to hinge on his advantaged birth which may have made Fortunado a cuck. The plot was believable. You started to get into the mindset and it would have been nice had you gone further. I liked it a lot. Thanks.

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