What You Don't Dare The People

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Mysterious man enters the voodoo den.
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cowboy109
cowboy109
313 Followers

The seersucker shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. A dark stain worked its way down the spine as the tropical island sweet dripped. Khakis accentuated his athletic butt cheeks. His feet swiftly stepped past the discarded plastic piece and exposed-bone carcass of a dog. A baby tied to the back of a black mother with a cloth cried with the lethargy of having cried for hours with its fingers inside its mouth. The mother kept humping her big butt to soothe the child while pumping a stick inside a bucket.

Starch white eyes on coal black faces watched the white man with the mysterious overhead large backpack. They had stopped their soccer game with the paint thinner box as a ball. A three sizes too large purple soccer jersey with the straps being so large that the kid's nipples were exposed. A donkey rebelled with hee-haw against pulling a cart, the overcrowded conditions, the battering sun, life in general, the lack of union-induced rules for regular breaks, or god knows what. The man stopped in front of a store with a red, hand-painted sign: Avis.

"Xavier, my plane was delayed. I have to get a move on before sun down. There is no time for tea this time. I swear, I'll bring Legos for your kids next time."

"Americans, always rush, never love our people."

"I fucking told you not to refer to me as American. I'm a bird watcher from Europe. That's what you tell people."

"Calm down, grumpy. I got the keys right here. It's a 2014 Range Rover. There are only two of that year on the island. You won't find a better car anywhere."

The man looked at his gold rimmed aviator wrist watch: June 20th, 2016, 2:31 PM. He pulled a thick, folded vanilla envelope out of his front pocket. Xavier smiled exposing a gold tooth sparkling in the tropical sun. "I love you European birdwatchers."

"Fuck you, too!" growled the muscular, white man as he swung himself into the driver's seat of the SUV heralding from colonial times of conquering remote, rugged terrain. He pulled out a laptop with reinforced metal corners and a handle. It was a big bulky thing as useful for battering a skull into pieces as it was for computing tasks. He flipped it open and held his eye still in front of the camera until a chirp released him and send the screen flashing to life. MIL-56 was the model number printed on it. A gray scaled satellite view was transposed to a brown-and-white image. An orange circled pulsed in the middle of the city. Circles of light lines extended outwards to help him find the range.

He pushed the gas. The heavy roar of the engine warned people milling all over the road to get out of the way. The expanse of the rubbled city stretched out with black faces and bare black legs in flip flops slowing him down like molasses slows down a drowning fly as it tries to escape from the deadly embrace of being caught on an underplate filled as a trap.

The hood got blocked from advancing by a tightly packed crowd wielding signs with "Bronte a la presidencia." The angry crowd started rocking his car. He put his hand on the back of the passenger's head rest to twist his body around to look for an escape back. The crowd chanting "Bronte" had fully enclosed him. He let the car slowly roll forward. The soft offroad tuned suspension made the rocking even more intense. A bug-eyed woman with a rainbow towel wrapped around her heard got in front of the windshield and stared the man down.

The crowd on top of a nearby white-washed one story high building unrolled a banner with "Dieter a la presidencia." The crowd poured towards the building. They started banging against the building with sticks and rocks. A lad jumped onto his hood and climbed the roof with the national flag that he waved in big wide swings.

The sentiment of the crowd towards the driver changed. A woman placed a small, white candle on the hood. She let the liquid wax first drop onto the hood and then pressed the candle into it. A sticker with Bronte's face was planted on the side window. A mango was placed on the hood as an offering. A voodoo doll was placed on his hood. A man sprinkled goat blood in three wrist flicks across the hood. A twenty year old woman screamed hysterically at the car and went into a full body convulsion with her eyes rolled back to expose the white. A priest in full dress stepped in front of her, put his palm on her forehead, and after a ceremonial moment of pause pushed her backwards onto the filth of the floor.

A drummer with a heavy candombe drum hanging from a sling over his shoulder started walking next to the Range Rover and fired up the crowd. A baby was placed on the hood that was increasingly decorated as an altar. The baby was tied up into a bundle and softly munching with his teeth on nothing. The mother had seemingly faded away. Fist pumping locals walked alongside the Range Rover, which had become somewhat a leader of the marching crowd.

The Range Rover had slowly inched forward and separated its followers from the main movement. The followers one by one realized that the march was elsewhere. They trickled away until only four weary black faces that rather looked gray from tire were still marching next to him. The baby was still on the hood. He opened the car door, grabbed the baby in a swift motion, pressed it on the next woman together with a twenty dollar bill, and disappeared back inside the safety bubble of the Range Rover before the tired followers reacted.

He punched the gas. The ceremonial offerings on his hood were lifted into the slipstream, hopefully not hitting pedestrians too painfully. A big, colorful voodoo snake stabbed by a dagger and eating a card emblazoned his driver side window, painted there by one of the protestors. The suburban space was emptier and let him drive faster. The potholes with waste water splashed high, when a tire hit it with a hard knocking sound. The inhabitants were stoic to the filth rain coming down on them.

The single story barracks gave way to corrugated sheet metal huts. Those gave way to tarps hanging from branches of the increasingly richer plant life until the thick jungle with its plethora of large, vibrantly green leaves swallowed the road. Leaves and small branches were hitting the windshield. He was a in a tunnel of green. The tires carved a heavy groove into the wet, muddy dirt. Occasionally, a tire spun out and flicked mud on the side of the Range Rover.

He stopped at a voodoo altar. Sticks were poked into the ground. Flower garlands were hanging from the sticks. A bundle of leaves was placed in the center. Someone had painted circles with white powder. He got his Cold Steel SRK six inch stainless steel combat knife out to scrape the political stickers from the car. A black monkey with oversized limbs was watching him. The fingers were skinny and long. They wrapped around the branch with a fluidity that betrayed the straight lines of bones so much that they looked like tar oozing around the branch. It was a stomach sickening sight. The tiny black eyes twitched following the man with every movement, as he wiggled the tip of the knife under the stickers. A low cargo boat horn rolled over the bay from the distant harbor.

He walked to the passenger side to pull a book out of his backpack. It was a pristine field guide for birds. He fawned the pages open against the palm of his other hand. Then, he firmly grabbed the spine and vigorously bent the book back and force. He let it drop to the ground and kicked it around a bit, almost getting into the passion of playing soccer, as the corners of the book dug into the soil. He picked it up and very carefully wiped away all dirt to give it the air of being a much loved for yet very worn book. He threw it on the dashboard and drove on.

The road got steeper. The tires had to fight with increasingly large rocks that stuck out of the packed, muddy road. The sunlight pierced the canopy increasingly as the thick shrubbery vanned with increasing altitude. By the time the sun turned the sky into a shimmering orange, the jungle forest had receded enough to reveal the city far beneath with the long fingers of land extending into the Caribbean Sea. The bump of the tires hitting a large tree root shook him out of his dreams about the distant beauty of scenery.

A small collection of huts opened up the tight space that had been hugging the road. A black dog chained to a stick was barking at his arrival. The beam of his headlights made the dog jump to the side. He stopped in front of the last hut with the sign "Maria." A chubby woman with a large rump and large breasts that rested on top of her rump stepped outside. "Master, master," she called out waving at the man.

He stepped out of the Range Rover, the engine shutting down, the air fan still whirring to cool the engine. "Maria, I'm glad to have made it. The city is explosive like a powder keg."

"Come here," she pulled him into a warm hug, "you don't need to be down in the filth. Stay up here in the beauty of the mountain. There are a lot of bad people down there. When our nation is in its darkest time, the cockroaches come out from their crevices. Here at the mountain top, we are so close to the sun that no cockroaches dare coming here."

"Do you have the room ready?"

"Of course, John. I also have supper for you. You must be hungry. You are such a large man."

Maria hurried to get around the hood with her fat thighs and toes pointing outwards. She opened the passenger door to grab his backpack. She struggled with the weight. He swiftly took the backpack from her hands. She fought him for it.

"Let me be a good hostess."

"You let me be a gentleman," John added with a smile. She submitted with a blush on her cheeks and went waddling off in a hurry to pull the curtains to the hut aside. The curtains looked like a discarded shower curtain from a first world nation. It had images of Donald Duck and Daisy Duck printed on it. Both entered into the dark inside.

Maria ladled food out of a pot into a bowl. It smelled like beef and beans. The aroma was savory. The smell felt holistic like home, like from a time before dangerous preservatives and nutrition fads, simply hearty meals. The sound of tree frogs entered the hut through glass free windows. His eyes adjusted to the darkness to see the mattress on the ground. It was a small room.

"Where will you sleep?"

"You sleep here. My house is small. Yet, up here it is a palace. I will sleep with my sister. You pay me good money, right."

"Of course, do you want to see it?"

"You pay me when you leave. I trust you. You have a good face."

She left him with the heat of the bowl hurting his fingers and cozying them at the same time. He let the pain seep into his little finger bones. The air was cooling. His body was drawing tight from the cool air. His mind was fatigued and weary. He let himself sit down on the small chair. His face let the tension drop. He had made it. The end of his journey.

He let the meat cubes melt on his tongue into individual fibers. The beans had been stewed for a long time. Their flavor had infused everything, the beef, the potatoes, and the cooking water. His eyes softly gazed out into the jungle. The young trees were standing closely together. There was peace out there, a lack of movement, a lack of threats - simply static, consistent.

Eventually, he tore himself out of his lethargy to get real rest. He opened up his backpack and pulled an olive green square out of it. He placed it into the center of the room. With the push of a button, a ball sprung out of it. The ball moved in swift random patterns, silently. Here and there was the flash of a bright red laser glare. The walls got tinged in a soft red. He put a Bluetooth earpiece on. The box transmitted humming static to his earpiece as he moved around the room waving his arms. The sound turned shrill when he stood in front of the door. It turned back into a humming as he moved inside of the room.

He pulled a white mosquito net out of the backpack. He undressed into his underwear and wrapped himself into the mosquito sack. He was instantly out cold on the mattress. A jungle downpour drummed on the roof. He slept through it like a rock. The whine of a horde of mosquitoes intruded in the early morning hours. They tried in vain to suck his blood. He slept through it.

The wonderfully fresh jungle air with the scent of freshly rained on dirt and the aroma of flowers caressed him to lucidity. The light had a modulated brightness and clarity without its overbearing intensity in the morning. A wild boar was grunting and running through the forest. Salsa music came from a thin speaker somewhere in the road outside. A female singer undulated her voice in drawn out vocals while the drums beat a fast rhythm with driving whistles cheering up the song.

He dressed himself into the wrinkled and smell dress from yesterday. He neatly packed the box and gear back into his pack. He locked the pack in the Range Rover and stepped over to the popup bar in the street. There were four stools in front of a counter, nailed together from rough wood planks. A cheery looking, tall fella was rubbing a white towel inside of a glass. A small hand radio was hanging from the edge of the counter playing wonderful music from a cheap speaker.

"Buenas dias, hombre. ¿Qué puedo hacer por ti?" said the bartender with the cheer of a cheerleader and the innocence of a virgin.

"A coke, son," replied John.

"Veo, usted es americano," said the bartender with a warm smile and admiration in his eyes.

"I'm not a fucking American. I'm a goddamn European birdwatcher," replied John. He angled his elbows to flap them like a bird. He whistled. And then he made binocular movements in front of his eyes. "Bird," he drew out, "watcher."

"You are American. Europeans learn Spanish before they come here. And I speak English very well. You can be with me anything you want. For all I care, you are Japanese, yah!" said the bartender with Caribbean friendliness without a hint of sarcasm. "I am Angelo."

"Nice to meet you," replied John shaking his head. "I'm John."

"I would have thought your name would be Johannes if you were European. Shall I call you Johannes?" continued Angelo with innocent demeanor. Angelo's slender long fingers fished a coke bottle out of the ice box, where it bobbed in melted water with a few ice cubes bumping against the glass. Angelo perched the cap against the bar counter and swiftly hit down with his fist to pop the cap. Then, he lined up a little snake, the length of a hand with the head already chopped off. Blood was running on the cutting board. With a cleaver, he chopped off a round piece of the snake and popped it through the bottle opening before John could say anything. The bottle was put down in front of John with a straw quickly following into it.

"What d'you put the snake in for?"

"It's protection against curses. You need this in the mountain country. There are only very few people up here and a lot of magic floating through the land."

"Can I get another bottle without snake?"

"I strongly advice against it. You don't understand what you are dealing with. You European birdwatchers are very naive."

"Don't worry about me. I'll take my chances."

"As you wish, master," replied Angelo serving another bottle of coke. "I have to charge you for both." Angelo took the first bottle back.

"Lucy," yelled Angelo, "I've got a free coke for you. The American who wants to be referred to as a European birdwatcher doesn't want it. Come quickly, it's still cold."

"God dammit," cursed John. "The whole village knows now. I'm John from Austin, Texas. And I'm here to watch the mating of Hispaniolan Trogan."

A twenty-five year old woman appeared out of a wall of torso sized leafs. She had a white complexion. Yet, her eyes were larger like that of black women. She had dark thick hair like a black woman, yet straight hair like a white one. Her breasts and hips were round like a black woman. Yet, her skin was fair, clear, and youthful. She was tall with 5'10". She had a disarming smile and thick red lips. A peasant dress was obscuring her figure.

John's face snapped to attention. He immediately wiggled a stool into perfect distance to the counter.

"Will you marry me and take me to America?" said Lucy with a light hearted laugh that marked it a complete joke. John's eyes were fastened on her to take in the nuances of her eyebrows and guess the shape of her naked belly underneath the fluffy dress.

"Our American looks very hungry. You should feed him before he eats me," flirted Lucy unperturbed by his stare.

"Johannes, do you want some eggs. We make a good omelet."

"That would be delightful. Would you like to join me Lucy?"

"My brother wouldn't like that. He is very protective of me. I shouldn't even be sitting here with you. You'd be in big trouble if he found out." Lucy had this way of constantly laughing, throwing her head back with liberty, and letting her eyes sparkle at him. He knew that her breasts would fill his hands. With hungry eyes, he measured that they would be perfect for titty fucking.

She got up and left, sucking seductively on the coke bottle with her luscious lips. She disappeared behind the wall of large leafs.

Angelo lit a portable stove and moved a pan through the flame. "You don't want to mess with her brother. He is very vicious. He put a curse on my uncle. My uncle was driven to gambling. He got in with the wrong people. They extracted their money by cutting off his hand. Only then was the curse satisfied and lifted. And you know what my uncle did? He declared his love with a song in front of Lucy's house. There is no man in this mountains who dares being disrespectful to Lucy."

"A drunk man ones yelled at Lucy. Her brother brooded for days about a torment. Then, her brother bewitched a monkey to follow around the drunk man. Whenever the drunk man lifted a glass or bottle, the monkey would throw a rock at him. The man now lies down and drinks from a river. The drunk man's tried shooting the monkey. Yet, a magic spell give the monkey a bullet proof vest."

"Has anyone ever asked her brother for permission to date Lucy? That would be the respectful thing to do," said John.

"Oh, never mutter his name. He might here it and come. Trust me, you don't want to ruin your day. And yes, there was a young lad, who asked for his permission. Her brother said that to date Lucy, the suitor had to pass a magic trial. So, the suitor went with her brother into a cave. The suitor was fed magic mushrooms. He hallucinated about meeting Lucifer. And Lucifer turned to smoke and entered his body. The brother said that the suitor's blood was bonded. If he ever disappointed or hurt Lucy, he'd die."

"The lad was overjoyed. When he held Lucy's hand, his smile was as happy as any face I had seen. Lucy, she was angry. She didn't like the guy. Yet, she obeyed her brother. The lad was very respectful and bought her beautiful clothes. One day, he took her down to the city. There was a big festival. As it happened, there are many beautiful women in the city. He got an eyeful. When Lucy saw that, her anger erupted. That moment, the lad's blood turned black, black like a darkened soul. And his heart jammed up pumping the black blood. He died on the spot. No nobody, dares approaching Lucy. She is a forbidden flower."

Angelo scraped the yellow omelet onto a plate. John, full of though, got a good grip on the fork. "I'm too busy anyway. I better stay focused on my Hispaniolan Trogan. I'm trying to get a shot that'll land me on the cover of National Geographic. Then, I can maybe get a nice house in the suburb and find me a good girl. When you are young, you have to prove yourself. I'm about old enough that I should be done with the proving. You know what I mean?"

"I'm a business man," explained Angelo. "You might see me as the simple bartender here. However, this is my own business. There is a future. Once the election is over, I'll market this as a weekend adventure to the city. I'll tell them about the beautiful outdoors and the freedom. They will come. See, I have four chairs now. I will build out. I might double the counter. You just see, one day, I'll take an advertisement in one of your travel magazines and more Americans will come, paying good money. This is a gold mine. I'll hire Lucy. I know how you look at her. You'd tip her good if she poured, you a coke, yes. I'll make a deal with her brother. You see, business is all about hiring the right people. You will make photo for Facebook of her, yes. You will share that with your friends. Your friends will want to come here and meet her."

cowboy109
cowboy109
313 Followers