This is Another Thing 02 Mar 24, 2018 22:58:30 GMT -5
Post by Amy Jo Smyth on Mar 24, 2018 22:58:30 GMT -5
In the Continuing Adventures of Our Hero...
◀◀ Be Kind, Rewind
Theresa grabs my head by the temples, pulls me away from my journey following the trail of stars, and drags me up to see her face. Except it isn’t Theresa Guyon, the DGSE agent and my partner in this investigation. Rather, it’s Allison Crane, my wife and my partner in all other things, looking back at me. Her hands hold me in place and she looks me dead in the eye. A smile grows on her face. There is a beauty in my wife, something in her eyes that makes me feel safe and like I am the most important person in the world. This woman loves me but I still don’t know how.
“There is a rabbit on the moon that rises over the ruins of New Mexico,” she says, confusing me.
“What?” I ask.
“The serpent has two heads,” she says. “Four eyes made of gold but only fools believe that it is real.”
I continue to look into her eyes, absorbing her words, even though they make absolutely no sense whatsoever.
She presses her palm against my stomach, “Do not be dazzled. Trust Coatlicue and her creations. Most important, trust yourself.”
Things go fuzzy, flicker like a television screen losing satellite service. Allison starts to laugh but it isn’t Allison’s guffaw and chortle. It’s Theresa’s laughter - her flirtatious giggle. The woman in front of me, this mixture of my wife and partner in espionage, lifts my hand, starts to shake it.
“It’s time to wake up,” Theresa calls out. “Fleur de Paille Dorée.”
My eyes flutter. The moment is gone, fallen away just like that, and there is pure blackness now. The blackness grows brown and redish, that familiar color of looking at the back of your eyelids.
“Réveille-toi!” Theresa calls out again. “We have places to be and things to do.”
I pop my eyes open, sit upright. Something crashes to the floor. Theresa is kneeling in front of me, smiling at me. The haze of sleep still has a hold on me and my boy is throbbing with my abrupt accelerated heart rate, increased blood pressure, and surge of blood to my head. Shit.
“What?” I sputter and then clear my throat. There’s this whole process of me just violently rubbing my hands across my face and over it and all through my hair.
Theresa starts laughing. “You nap hard,” she says. “Your hair is a mess.” She starts playing with my hair, trying it put it back in place and make it look somewhat normal.
“That’s probably a lost cause,” I say. I take stock of everything around me. There are books and papers spread out all around the bed, some of them making a pseudo blanket over my lap and left leg. The sky has turned a pinkish-red with the sunset. “What time is it?”
“Time to get up,” Theresa says and then kisses my forehead. “We have a date.”
“What? With who?” I ask and then stretch my arms.
“Jay,” she answers as she starts picking through the new wardrobe furnished by the CIA. “He’s taking us out for drinks. Going to show us around.”
I slide to the edge of the bed and just sit there for a little while, watching her. She undresses right in front of me, even changing into a fresh bra and panties. Nothing I haven’t seen before, not with this girl and her shamelessness. Maybe it’s a French thing. Maybe it’s just her. She turns to me, shows off the dark and all too tight blue jeans and loose-fitting layered, silky tank tops, one in maroon and one in black.
“Do I look okay?” she asks, pressing down on fabric.
“You’ll need a jacket. It gets cold at night here,” I say, not really thinking.
“I’m planning on wearing the leather jacket,” she answers.
I nod. “What are you going to wear?”
“My beautiful smile,” I say and then grin wildly.
“If that’s all you wanna wear, I wouldn’t mind, but,” she says, smirking.
I climb off the bed and get to my feet as I roll my eyes. “I’m going to take a shower.”
↼ ⟡ ⇁
The bar is downtown or uptown or somewhere in town. It’s definitely in Mexico City, that much I know. It’s a simple place, a classic hole in the wall dive bar situation that caters to the locals. Mexican beer is absolutely terrible so it’s easy to nurse the drinks these men keep buying us. It’s easy to leave one on the bar or a table and accidently forget where I’ve left it. The CIA taught us ways to avoid drinking too much or becoming drunk or drugged but it has its limitations, especially when drinking is the classic gambit of information gathering. The trick is letting your target get drunk so they loosen up and start talking while you stay completely sober to actually obtain and retain the information you’ve collected.
The night has mostly been listening to and putting up with these men hitting on us, talking about futbol and rugby, and of all things, the economy. Mexico apparently has the 15th largest economy in the world and has a lower unemployment rate than, shock, the United States. The hot topic is the decline in Mexican immigrants into the United States yet Mexicans being the scapegoat in illegal immigration, border hoping, and the big old wall that will stop all the crime, drugs, and weapons. Mexico has a strong economy that is growing by the day and because of this, illegal immigration into the U.S. for jobs is dropping. In messing with trade relations and hurting the economy of other countries, problems erupt, including a drop in the value of the country’s money, and shock, more illegal immigration. No selling of products means no making of products which no jobs, no jobs means no money. No money means extreme poverty. Extreme poverty leads to rampant crime and a mass exodus to nearby countries to make money, even if illegally.
Big fucking shock.
But who fucking knew that these guys would know so much about it. There is also a lot of anti-American sentiment amongst this group, too. There’s about ten of them and they all pretty much hate America - mostly the government and the fucks that have taken it upon themselves to guard the border with their wannabe military circle jerk. It’s just super that I get to play the downhome Southern American. Why couldn’t I get to play a Frenchwoman, too?
They don’t seem to mind me, though, and thank God for that. I guess it was something I said or that I’m actually interested in their culture and could play a good game of hating my government as much as they did - it isn’t too far of a stretch to say I’m an anti-fascist socialist with a strong distaste for my own government. Really, though, If only they knew that I was working for the very government they hate in an attempt to keep innocent alive and the economy somewhat stable. Then again, I’m not really sure what these guys are after - are they a terrorist group aiming to destroy America or are they just really into their homeland and running drugs? Drug running is a capitalist enterprise like any other, of course they’d be interested in their economy. More jobs means more money, more money means more people buying drugs.
It’s really simple math.
Economics really isn’t that hard when you understand that it works in a big circle. Disrupt the cycle and you’ve got yourself a huge fucking mess. These guys don’t want that. Or maybe they do? Who the fuck actually knows other than these guys. Shit, maybe they don’t even know what they’re after and just live in the moment.
One of the guys corners me toward the back of the bar. This isn’t the first time we’ve chatted but I guess he wants a little private time with me. Who am I to deny him of that? Especially when he’s had far more to drink than I have. His name might be Hector or Hernan or Hidalgo - wait, that was the guy from that Disney movie. Whatever, his name starts with an H and that’ll be enough.
He hands me a fresh glass of golden beer. I take a sip; at least it’s cold. I wonder how many of these guys I can outdrink and can leave passed out under the table. At least half of them I could leave literally passed out in a booth.
“Gracias,” I say, pretending that I don’t speak Spanish very well. “Eres muy amable.”
“Your Spanish is very good,” he says in a thick accent.
“Your English is even better,” I answer.
I watch him closely as he brings his beer glass to his mouth and takes heavy glups of the golden liquid. It gives me a great view of his hand. He has the two headed serpent on the purlicue. Exactly the same as his some of his friends. A few others have different symbols, including what I’ve come to learn is the symbol for gold.
“So what, uh, what do the tattoos mean?” I ask, pointing at his hand. “Are you guys in some kind of club?”
He looks down at his own hand as if he’s forgotten about the ink that has been embedded in his flesh for what I can assume is years based on the fading and distortion. That’s followed up a light chuckle. “Oh, this? It’s just… Um,” he pauses, thinks. His eyes move up, to the left, and then toward his left ear - the telltale sign that he isn’t lying but that he’s trying to remember something, a sound, in his case, a word. “El Patrimonio. I don’t - don’t know the word for it in English, I am sorry.”
See, I know that El Patrimonio means birthright or heritage, but he doesn’t have to know and if I pretend to know, it sorta blows up my whole spot. I tilt my head in flirtatious curious ignorance. If growing up in the South taught me anything, it’s how to play dumb and cute to appease a man.
“It is - is family, our blood,” he says with a passion in his voice. “Our people’s past. Tradición familiar.”
“Oh,” I say, nodding with feigned interest. Special skills.
“We have a long tradition, history. It was exploited, ruined, destroyed,” he explains. The passion has given way to a kind of anger. “They paved over our temples to build castles… Genocide.”
He inhales deeply.
I touch his hand in a sign of compassion and to help bring him back down. The power of the human touch can be powerful.
“You’ve got me all worked up, guera,” he speaks softly then takes a sip of his beer.
I giggle. “Lo siento.”
“It is not your fault,” he confidently says. “Your novia says you study history…”
I quickly interrupt with, “she’s not my girlfriend, not like that.”
He sips his beer as he nods but it's unconvincing. “Muy bien… Whatever.”
“But yes, I study history… It’s why I’m here,” I say.
“It isn’t good to tell lies, guera,” he guips.
I giggle nervously. I’m lying that I’m not lying about lying. What a tangled web weave when we choose to deceive. At least it fits the pattern and is completely realistic. “I’m here for fun, too.” Complete with an innocent shrug that suggests that I know that he knows and that we might be all doing something we shouldn’t.
“Don’t worry,” he reassures me. “Your husband won’t find out from me.”
“What he does not know, it will not hurt him.”
“Who said I have a husband?” I quickly retort.
He winks and then turns slowly to face Theresa. “She’s very pretty.” There is lust in his eyes, once you get passed the drunkenness.
...To Be Continued…
I like Etsuko, I really do. I’ve got nothing but respect for her. She is Breakout Champion after all. Then again, a championship does not automatically make a good wrestler or one worthy of respect. There are a lot of bad wrestlers out there with titles. Remember, a title does not make a wrestler.
That aside, Etsuko sure is something else.
A mainstay in L.A.W. since, well, what could be considered the beginning of time. Poor gal has never gone beyond her station, though. The Breakout Title seems to be her station and just like a certain Marquee Champion, has never strived to go beyond that spot. Etsuko could have a lot of promise in her. There’s potential there but it’s untapped. Mainly by her own doing.
How is that serving The Red Lady?
Tell me Etsuko, wouldn’t it be something to bring back the L.A.W. Title to the lady in red?
I guess you and I have very different opinions about things. I mean, my opinion on this subject should be that this match should be a title shot so we could have a new Breakout Champion but hey, we can’t have it all in this life. At least I get a win and you get a slap on the behind by The Red Lady. Kinky. It doesn’t take a fucking genius to realize that this match is going to be one of, if not the hardest in your entire career. Look at who you’re up against?
Now, my question is… And this is a question I’ve always wanted to ask you because let’s be serious now, I knew our paths would cross eventually and you’re a hard woman to miss considering your fun-filled antics… My question is - and cults have always been fascinating stuff to me… What’s the appeal of a cults? You’re in a cult, Estuko, and I hope you know that. I hope you find your way out of it, too. For now, that doesn’t look like something that’ll happen. Unless I drop you on your head so hard that it knocks you to your senses.
One can only hope.
What you did two weeks ago was certainly something stellar and thank you for that. You’ve got my appreciation for that - that was a good fucking time. Girl, you got some fight in you. Not enough to sustain yourself against me win but fight nonetheless. I’m looking to it. We are gonna have ourselves a good time. But I am not - I am NOT going to fall to The Red Lady and I will not be a sacrifice to her. Not now, not ever. The Red Lady can suck donkey dick. I won’t be another ribbon tied around your bicep. I do not need to be saved or wish to serve. The Red Mask won’t scare me or intimidate me. There is nothing particularly scary about a thing made of red plastic that a person can hide behind. There is nothing wrong with my life and in no way can it benefit from joining a cult.
I’m not Kenzi or Maki or Zoey or whoever else you’ve beaten over the years.
This isn’t going to be what you want it to be, little lady.
Keep your cult thumping to yourself. It’s great that you have something that fight for, but you should be fighting for yourself and the love of the sport. Those are the only two things that should get into that ring. You’re not doing it for yourself and that depresses me. Doesn’t depress me enough to fight as hard I do every time, but just makes me a little sad. Nonetheless, I still like ya. I’d probably like you more if you weren’t in a g-dang cult but hey, nobody’s perfect. Not even me.
I can’t wait to meet you in the ring for the very first time.
I’ll see you then.