ABOUT LAST WEEKEND III: THE SEARCH FOR SPORT, PART II: INTERMISSION

LET’S TAKE A BATHROOM BREAK BEFORE CONTINUING WITH THE STORY.

Sunday, October 16th, 2005

This time, it wasn’t a fire alarm that woke K. and I up, but drumbeats in the distance. They started out as small, muffled sounds, but gradually became louder, to the point they were unavoidable.

I had been lying in bed, my forehead arched in deliberate thought about the pounding sound from the street, when K. bounded into the room and said to me, “I hear drums outside.”

“Yeah, I hear them, too,” I said. My eyes were bleary and hanging low.

“You want to go see where it’s coming from?” K. asked. The idea actually sounded quite appealing. I jolted awake, practically leaping into my pants. “Yeah, let’s go,” I said. Then out the door we went.

The weather was crisp that morning (it might have been early afternoon, technically, since K. and I had managed to sleep until twelve). As we walked past small crowds of people gathered along Brighton Ave, I began wishing I had put on more than a jacket over my shirt. I stuffed my icy hands into my pockets and huddled against K. as the cold wind enveloped us. At least the sleepiness was gradually fading away.

As we walked past the parking lot beside the auto parts store, the drumming got really loud, and we could see a small marching band through the chain link fence. Wearing the colors of their school, they practiced marching in-step with the beat. K., having done that type of extracurricular activity herself, was particularly interested. Also compelling to her, however, were the various runners in their bright sweats. After all, K. did that sort of extracurricular activity in high school, too.

During my own four years before college, I briefly wrote for the campus paper. The only other non-academic activity I remember taking part in was holding my bladder for long periods of time. American High's facilities were absolutely horrendous, and to enter any one of those grease pits was risking certain death. Now, I don't want to brag about the fortitude of my bladder, but I drank a lot of water the night before the parade. I went to bed without having to go visit the latrine, and hadn't even made a pit stop before leaving the house for this adventurous errand. Of course, it was now noon. Did I mention that I drank a lot of water? I'm sure you can guess where this is heading.

Let this be a lesson to you, kids: Never embark on a quest first-thing in the morning without tending to your bodily needs. At that very moment, standing on Brighton Avenue, I felt a strong need, but had no place wherein to tend it.

So the liquid in my bladder began pressing more and more persistently against the barricaded door which was its only barrier to freedom. Meanwhile, K. gathered information about the marathon runners, and the overall event itself. Turns out the race had already been run (The proceeds went to a foundation to fight breast cancer, I later found out). Still on the day’s agenda, however, was a parade set to march right up Brighton, turn at the nearby park, then march back down Commonwealth Avenue. We had fifteen minutes before the start, so we walked up Brighton to look for a good place to watch.

We had plenty of time to find an ideal perspective, and just as much time to grab breakfast somewhere. At this point, my pelvis felt like castle-dwellers trying to hold back an invading army at the gate. But I figured, we’re going to breakfast now. There will probably be a bathroom, so the problem will get solved. In hindsight, I should have just told K. about my pressing need to urinate. Since she had no idea what I was going through, she took her time considering which place to go eat. This, however, led to funny scenes like the one in front of the Brazilian diner.

I had pointed the place out, then said to K., rather excitedly, “Hey, why don’t we go to that one?” As K. perused the menu posted by the door, I swung the entrance open, only to be rebuffed by a sign that said, “Restroom for customers only.”

After letting the door swing shut, I looked at K., who was still thoughtfully surveying the specials of the house. True, the situation in my bladder was growing more desperate by the second. Down below, the various liquid molecules were organizing, announcing their impatience.

“What do we want?”
“TOILET!”
“When do we want it?”
“NOW!!!”

But I figured, just give K. another moment, and maybe she’ll say, “This place looks alright.” Then we’d go into the Brazilian restaurant, and I could immediately excuse myself from the table, find the nearest “banheiro,” and “alivie minha bexiga.” So I waited. I spun around in excited little circles in the middle of the sidewalk, while I waited. I’m sure it only felt like a very long time. At length, however, K. turned away from the menu, then said to me,

“No, let’s try someplace else.”

At this point, I told her that I urgently needed to use the bathroom. K. responded with the appropriate seriousness, and we hurried to the Twin Donut shop located further up the street. We got a table next to a window, plus menus. Then I excused myself and went downstairs to use Twin Donut's bathroom, which was surprisingly clean. When I returned, I sat down and cheerfully flipped through the menu. I felt like a great weight had been lifted, if not from my shoulders, then some other important part of my anatomy. But wouldn’t you know it? Almost immediately, I performed a gaffe that almost ruined the morning for both of us.

That, however, is a story for next time.

TRULY FOOTBALL IS THE SPORT OF KINGS.

Nothing's cuter than a cat with a helmet!

TWO FOR THE PRICE OF... NOTHING.

My movie review blog now has items posted about Hayao Miyazaki's classic, "Kiki's Delivery Service," as well as Robert De Niro's maiden film appearance, Greetings. Sorry, but he doesn't actually appear in drag during the movie.

Read the reviews... IF YOU DARE!

ABOUT LAST WEEKEND III: THE SEARCH FOR SPORT

I want to briefly write about last weekend, which was easily the most fun I’ve had in quite a while. As most of you may have discerned from previous blog entries, whenever K. and I are together, we usually pass the time browsing in ethnic markets or eating in nice restaurants. They’re wonderful activities, though not the most touristy things to do. Luckily, since moving to Boston, I have become the local geography expert, and K. the hapless out-of-towner. Recently, she took her first weekend trip to Allston—that is, her first trip where the main goal was fun, not keeping me from falling to pieces. In giving her the grand tour of this small-townish neighborhood located on the periphery of the grand metropolis, we browsed in ethnic markets and ate in nice restaurants. We may never get back to our old ways, not after that weekend!

Saturday, October 15th, 2005

K. got in the previous night, probably around 2 am. It had been a dreary, rainy couple of days in Boston, and the mood of the weather didn’t improve with the weekend. Considering how late we got to bed on Friday, it would’ve been nice to sleep in. However, a shrieking fire alarm, not unlike the one that kept me awake the previous Saturday, sounded in those early hours. We felt compelled to get up.

Over the past few days, I had been tempting K. with descriptions over the phone of Boston’s best restaurants. The list had been put together by food critics and editors from the Boston Globe. Blurbs and photos of the various eateries, published in the BG’s equivalent of the NY Times Sunday magazine, were divided among ethnic lines: the best Italian, Indian, Chinese, etc. K. asked about the best Native American restaurant, but I found they didn’t list that. A curious omission.

But the BG Sunday magazine did give their opinion of the best New England restaurant. In case you’re wondering what exactly constitutes “New England” cuisine, here’s what the writers had to say:

“To qualify as offering the area’s most authentic New England cuisine, a restaurant must use typical regional ingredients—cranberries, squash, maple syrup, corn—prepared in ways instantly recognizable as ours.”

The magazine went on to name The Fireplace as Boston’s best New England-style restaurant. Given that the subsequent blurb about The Fireplace’s fare elicited an equal amount of salivation from me, I immediately told K. about it. She instructed me to go to their website and check if the prices were reasonable.

Being the type of gallant fool who loves a good quest, I not only checked out the restaurant’s menu (at fireplacerest.com/), but googled a few random food-related websites, to see what they thought of the Globe’s prized eatery. Ultimately, I arrived at a rather conflicted overview. On the one hand, more than a few internet critics praised the food and lauded the atmosphere. But at the same time, there were grumblings from others who said that the service was sub-par, and the prices too steep. Most of the latter group had gone to The Fireplace to enjoy dinner. Having perused the menu myself, I would agree that the dinner entrees are a little rich. Strangely enough, however, both “aye”-givers and naysayers agreed that the food portions were quite generous. There was also one particular enthusiast who went to The Fireplace for brunch, not dinner. This person seemed to have a great time, going as far in their review as to say that The Fireplace “defines New England brunch.”

Incidentally, the brunch prices were quite respectable (Just a couple dollars more than your local House of Pancakes). But at the same time, I was worried that I had raised K.’s expectations with talk of maple-glazed ribs and meat cooked on a spit.

To my amazement, she seemed to think brunch was a much better idea, and found the prospect of cornmeal waffles and pumpkin bisque equally tantalizing. Which led us to Saturday morning, when we ventured down Beacon Street, braving the rain in our galoshes-less feet, for about half-an-hour, ‘til we saw that corner entrance of The Fireplace appear in yon distance. K. briefly considered the bisque and leeks, but settled on corn waffles served with a cream and berry sauce, and maple syrup on the side (I lost count of how many authentic “New England” ingredients are in that one plate). As for me, I couldn’t decide between the bluefish cakes and the french toast. Finally, I ordered the fried eggs and duck hash.

K. and I each split our meals in half to share. Both of us agreed that the frothy, slightly sweet combination of fruit and berries perfectly complimented the dry corn flavor of the waffles. The syrup was also good, but we ended up using it only for dipping, as its sugariness threatened to overwhelm both waffle and cream. As for the duck hash, the meat was tender, though never dry. Texture-wise, it made a very good counterpoint to the fried potatoes in the hash.

Overall, everything we ordered was prepared very well. Even the fried eggs retained their yolky goodness while seeming fully-cooked. Perks included some warm bread, served with butter, for an appetizer. If K. and I had anything to complain about, it had to do with the titular hearth. Although the waitress sat us at a table near the fireplace, the crackling flames warmed us not the least. Too bad, since we were both wet from the rain, and The Fireplace itself felt unusually well-ventilated.


Evening

After napping in the afternoon, we ventured to the Super 88 Market. My apartment is located behind this Asian-themed cornucopia, which has a nice selection of meat, and a popular food court. I’ve always liked the Super 88’s décor (Paper lions hanging from the ceiling). Meanwhile, their everyday prices are better than the local megamart’s. But K. and I were looking for ingredients to some Western dish, and items like those are tough to find in a place that specializes in more exotic goods.

Eventually, we adjusted our plans, and bought Japanese bread crumbs, eggs, and some boneless pork. We went home, tossed some oil in a pan, and made crispy pork medallions, along with steamed green beans and mushrooms. K. chose a dark sauce called “tonkatsu” to serve the pork with. Flavored with apple, tomato, and distilled vinegar, the sauce is delicious. It goes well on top of ice cream.

Stay tuned for Part Two…

A CALM, RATIONAL GAME, or, RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE!

First one who replies to this post is a degenerate asshole who annoys me with his goddamn automated comment ads, only because it’s easier work than fucking his mother up the ass, which is how he normally earns a buck.

To be fair, there’s every chance that it’s a woman behind these stupid ads. If that’s the case, said person regularly bends over the hood of a pick-up truck, so ponies can bone her for ten bucks each.

Oh, and if either one has brothers or sisters, they caught AIDS from blowing African monkeys.

USED TO READ COMIC BOOKS? YOU MAY NEED “CRISIS” COUNSELING.

Who says comic books are just for kids?

I may have to peruse an alt-news outlet like “The Boston Phoenix” to find print coverage anticipating DC’s “Infinite Crisis.” But the “…Phoenix” ain’t for kids, save the ones who regularly cruise “Village Voice”-esque local tabloids, looking for phone sex and/or Asian prostitutes.

And let’s remember, about a year ago, no less than CNN.com devoted bandwidth to “Identity Crisis,” a miniseries that set the groundwork for the latest mega-event. “Identity Crisis” might have held the most appeal to twenty-somethings like myself, who grew up reading Batman, Superman, and the Justice League titles. Through the course of seven months, writer Brad Meltzer and penciler Rags Morales pulled a “Blue Velvet” on the world of costumed crusaders, digging underneath their idealized surface. What they found were some fairly unsavory details.

The seeds of “Infinite Crisis” may have been in the works for months, even years. But the event that really started the ball rolling was the murder of Sue Dibny at the beginning of “Identity…” Married to Ralph Dibny, a super-stretchy sleuth who moonlighted as the Elongated Man, Sue was, as recently as a 2004 miniseries called “Formerly Known as the Justice League,” an extremely likeable character. Needless to say, her death threw old-time comic fans like myself for a loop.

But that was nothing compared to the revelations that followed. After Sue’s funeral, Ralph Dibny, along with a group of superheroes that included Hawkman, Black Canary, the Atom, and Green Arrow, went looking for a B-class super-villain known as Dr. Light. Soon it was revealed that, years ago, when this particular set of heroes made up the Justice League of America, Dr. Light somehow gained access to their headquarters. He snuck in while the heroes were off saving the world, and raped the non-superpowered Sue Dibny.

Eventually, the League brought Dr. Light down, and used sorcery to erase knowledge of the crime from the villain’s brain. But the League didn’t stop there. Zatanna, then a fledgling member, used her powers to alter Dr. Light's personality. As a result of her mystical lobotomy, he became a bumbling, stumbling shell of his former self.

Ever since the first comic book writer decided to introduce a twist, wherein a hero’s nemesis gains knowledge of his/her secret identity, amnesia and/or mind-wiping has been a convenient tool for re-establishing the status quo. Messing with a character’s thought processes, however, seems to cross a moral line. About midway through “Identity Crisis,” Oliver Queen, a.k.a. Green Arrow, admitted to the Flash that more than one villain had been tampered with by the League. The Flash then discovered a more shocking secret: During the session with Dr. Light, Batman tried to stop them. Although the Dark Knight didn’t remember, Zatanna altered his memory, too.

Which brings us to “Infinite Crisis,” which is being marketed as “the worst day in the history of the DCU.” For wizened old vets like myself, the word “Crisis” in the title alone promises drastic change. Twenty years ago, Marv Wolfman and George Perez unleashed “Crisis on Infinite Earths,” a storyline that consolidated several comic book universes (these were different comic book lines bought up by DC). Before the smoke cleared on that event, which spanned twelve months, Supergirl was laid to rest, as was then-Flash Barry Allen.

This year’s “Crisis” also promises a body count, and there are even Internet rumors that Wally West, the current Flash, will bite the dust. But having read the first issue, which arrived in stores yesterday, I can only report that some fairly obscure characters—Ratcatcher, Black Condor, and The Phantom Lady—may have met their demise. More noteworthy is the sense of dread writer Geoff Johns and penciler Phil Jimenez have crafted. Up until now, the Justice League of America (retitled “JLA,” more recently), would be able to handle such threats as a tear in the fabric of the universe, armies of killer robots, or a team of super-powered villains. After all, the JLA includes DC’s “Big Three:” Superman, Wonder Woman, and Batman! However, the last few months have seen the heroes falling out.

Batman discovered what the League did to him; he created the OMAC Project (the aforementioned killer robots) as a possible countermeasure. Meanwhile, Wonder Woman unapologetically murdered bad guy Maxwell Lord, alienating her from the others in the Big Three. And Superman, in Batman’s eyes, hasn’t been doing enough to lead Earth against the growing threats.

They try to hash things out on the moon, where JLA headquarters, along with J’onn Jonnz, the most powerful telepath among DC heroes, exploded unexpectedly. “I’m not a God,” Superman says. Batman responds that the last time Superman really inspired anyone was when he was dead. While this exchange goes on, there’s a pointed panel showing Wonder Woman with her eyes closed in resignation. She seems to know that the days of the Big Three are over.

Will Earth’s mightiest heroes get their act together before the end of “Infinite Crisis?” Batman believes the JLA must stay dead, since absolute power has proven its tendency to corrupt. But only a unified league of superhuman heavyweights can contend with Lex Luthor’s new Secret Society of Super Villains. Their roster is a veritable JLA of bad guys: Bizarro (an imperfect Superman), Sinestro (evil Green Lantern), Reverse Flash (as fleet of foot as Wally West, if not more so), and Black Adam (Captain Marvel’s evil twin). In “Infinite Crisis” #1, they make short work of the Freedom Fighters. A clash between the revamped SSSV and JLA would doubtlessly cause fanboys to salivate, but the chances of that seem slim, since the latter are no longer on speaking terms.

Of course, the SSSV are probably the least of the DC Heroes' problems. There are, after all, hundreds of OMAC’s gathered above the sky in Bludhaven. And that hole in the center of the universe isn’t exactly getting smaller. Hope does exist, in what appears to be an alternate reality version of Superman, who escapes to Earth in the issue’s final page. I am personally at a loss to explain where this older Man of Steel comes from. But thanks to Geoff Johns’ knack for delivering last-second surprises, I am definitely looking forward to next month’s issue.

Having cruised the message boards leading up to this “Crisis” to end all crises (at least until the next “Crisis”), comic book enthusiasts seem to be diametrically opposed. Many vehemently dislike the idea of making the DC Universe, traditionally a beacon of optimism, darker and more serious, like its little rock n’ roll brother, Marvel. Even those who happen to be stoked by a possible shifting of the status quo express concern regarding what favorite characters will look like, post-companywide event. Certainly, it’s too early to tell whether either camp’s fears will be allayed or confirmed by “Infinite Crisis.” But whether the company’s ambitious machinations make fans angry, or excited, it’s the scope of the story, and the dramatic conflicts, which hook you and have you anticipating the next installment.

Sure, the central protagonists wear tights and fly around on a cape. But intrigue is still intrigue, and good storytelling is still good storytelling. The secret of every successful serial is to keep the audience wanting more. So far, what the writers and artists of “Infinite Crisis” have done isn’t that much different from the staff of “Desperate Housewives.”

As I stated before, who says comic books are just for kids?

EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED

Originally, my plan was to get up early Saturday morning, and take the train to Worchester (pronounced “Woo-ster”), where they have a museum/theme park called the EcoTarium (pronounced "Ee-ko-tear-ri-yum). Throughout the summer months, up until October 23rd, the EcoTarium hosts these tours where ordinary joes like you and me can experience what it’s like to be a treetop scientist. Imagine wooden bridges “spanning 150 feet,” suspended roughly “40 feet in the air” (I’m quoting directly from the Eco-Tarium’s web site, EcoTarium: Tree Canopy Walkway). Close-toed shoes only. Harnesses and helmets provided for your safety. Sounds like my kind of danger.

However, after getting off the phone with K. around 11 p.m. last night, J. (my roommate) knocked on my door, which was perfectly alright, since my light was still on. Her friend from school, the one who gave her the wireless router, had stopped in with her, and wanted to check out our Internet problem. M. was his name, and he asked me to bring my laptop out of my room, and leave it on the living room table, so he could make the necessary adjustments.

I suppose that I could have gone right back to bed, but I thought, What the hey, I’ll stay out here and observe M. as he performs technological wizardry. His technological wizardry, as it turned out, involved mostly unplugging cables, replugging them someplace else, then switching those cables with other cables. It was a lot of fun, but the wireless internet still didn’t work.

At some point, I did ask him if we needed some sort of CD, which might have come with the router. M. seemed to think that was a distinct possibility, but first he wanted to take the router home, hit it with a hammer or something, to see if that got it working right. So he left with the router at around midnight. I plugged my laptop directly into the high-speed cable internet, went to the Netgear web site to see if there was software to download. Not finding any, I just opted to pack up and go to bed.

All went well and slumberlike ‘til about 2 am, when I found myself woken up by this klaxon coming in from the window. I muttered something about goddamn car alarms, went to my desk, and got out a pair of earplugs. After plugging my ears, I hopped back into bed, and pulled the soft, cool bedsheet over myself. Then my eyes kinda jolted open, and I thought to myself, Hey, that loud, annoying alarm wasn’t coming from outside the window.

So I put on some pants and went to the bedroom door. Upon opening it, the klaxon did indeed grow louder. But clearly, it originated from the hallway outside the front door. Since the protracted, mechanical horn sounded exceptionally strange and unsettling (and most likely, my late night bleariness contributed to my off-kilter state), I found myself actually quite worried about opening the door, lest some monstrous Grendel with an iron lung happened to be waiting to devour me. Now, we have a pair of deadbolts on the door, was well as an indentation in the carpet, in which we place an iron bar—our official New York-style police lock. At my most adorably paranoid, I removed the iron bar, and held it at the ready, while slowly undoing the deadbolts with my other hand. As I let the door swing open, I stepped back and held up my makeshift weapon like a spear. No doubt, any unnatural beast that might have been dwelling in that adjacent passageway would have been instantly intimidated, having come face-to-face with me, a not-so-tall, not nearly as tattooed version of Queequeg.

But wouldn’t you know it, there was no monster. Instead, I was greeted by a hallway full of smoke. The old saying goes, where’s there’s smoke, there’s… In this case, however, there was no sign of fire, no shimmering haze announcing the presence of escaping heat. But there was definitely smoke. So I woke my roommate, and we promptly left the building. We stood underneath the awning in the entranceway (It had already begun raining as early as Friday night) with several other tenants, whom by this time had hypothesized that there were no flames about to engulf the building, that a fire alarm had been pulled as a prank. Then two fire trucks arrived (It seemed like an overreaction, but better safe than sorry, I guess), and a line of firefighters, wearing their heavy black jackets and helmets, axes at their sides, proceeded to enter the abandoned edifice with all the seriousness of a procession of pallbearers at a funeral. Several minutes later, they emerged, and informed us that a fire extinguisher had gone off, which in turn set off the fire alarm, somehow.

So you figure, the firefighters check out the alarm, find out there’s no fire, so they turn off the alarm, and send us all back to our warm blankees. Right? Not quite. Turns out someone had to call the Hamilton Building Company, and tell them to send over a guy (or gal) to turn off their alarm. J. and I made the call, but the fella didn’t arrive for who-knows-how-long. Sure, we both went back to our respective rooms and the business of trying to fall asleep again. But since the klaxon emanated most strongly from outside our door, no sleep was to be had, at least not by me.

In closing, I’m not sure how many hours I slept last night, but I was shocked to see the time when I finally crawled out of bed. It was still raining pretty bad out, so the day was shot. It’s Tuesday today, and it never did stop raining since Saturday. Maybe the entire week will be shot. Weather’s just too yucky, you know? On the bright side, I have a DVD of "Kiki’s Delivery Service," with the original Japanese audio track. I could watch that.

SEASON PREMIERE

I haven’t actually been dead the last few months. In fact, couple hours after the tall, reedy dame with the derringer got the drop on me, I opened my eyes and found myself tied to a chair in the middle of a dimly-lit garage. Out on the periphery were yahoos in dark suits, wearing faces like vengeful angels. She was with them, too. Leaning against what seemed, in the vaguely-hanging shadows, to be a very menacing-looking table saw, she smoked a cigarette in one hand, and turned this business card over and over in the other.

“Phil Parma,” she said. Must’ve filched it out of my wallet, after I had gone beddy-bye. It ain’t my real name, but I wasn’t about to tell her that I keep fake business cards for occasions like this.

“Just looking for a cigar,” I said. Or more like I tried to say. The words came dribbling out like I had tried to say them through a mouthful of marbles. Like she’d care, anyway.

“Yes, you were looking for a cigar, Mr. Parma. Specifically, a parejo cubano. The most difficult cigars in the world to find.” She crept up closer on her silent, spider-like legs. We were practically face-to-face now, and I couldn’t tell whether the tobacco I smelled was the cigarette on her breath, or the workplace on her clothes. “Well, weren’t you? Answer me!” she roared.

I tried to play it cool. “Lady, I just stopped in to buy a cigar. This how you treat your customers, I think I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

A pause, then a sharp, backhanded slap across the right side of the face. By now, I figured out these jerks wanted me to confess something, I just didn’t know what. Then a voice spoke up that put everything into place.

“Don’t mess up that mug of his too much, Miriam. Like any other liar, Parma’s got two faces, and he needs to keep both of them in pristine condition.” I knew the voice, and craned my head around to be certain. It was her. Alexandria Figueroa. El diablo amarillo, as she was known in the barrio. She was the one who paid me in the first place to find an authentic Cuban parejo. So I did. At least, that’s what I was going to tell her, after slipping her the Nicaraguan-grown cigar.

This was an unexpected complication. But again, I tried to play it cool. “Hey-ya, Lexy,” I said. “Whaddaya happen to be doin’ out here…?”

“What am I doing out here, you ask? Well, you see, I was lounging about in my study earlier today, when the thought occurred to me: ‘I’ve paid a great deal of money to this most direputable type. He’s supposed to search high and low, and return to me with an authentic Cuban parejo. Now, I know this man wouldn’t dare double-cross me. But just in case, perhaps I should get the word out to all the local cigar-rolling establishments, especially those who deal in Cuban tobacco transported to other locations…’” By now, she was standing next to her lady-friend Miriam.

“You didn’t really think you could pull a fast one on me, did you, Parma…?” she said.

I laughed uncomfortably for a moment. “Yeah. You know, I guess I did.”

“The tobacco switch might be the oldest trick in the book, Parma. I guess you’ve learned your lesson.” She motioned to the darkness, and out stepped one of her henchmen, whom I recognized from my first meeting with El Diablo Amarillo. “Too bad it’s destined to be your last.” Turning to the wide-shouldered, oily-slick-haired man, she told him, “I want you to shoot this fucking bastard in the head. Shoot him twenty times in the head, then cut off his hands, feet, and tongue. After you’ve cut off his hands, feet, and tongue, I want you to take one of these fuckin’ retard cigarros… (At this point, she picked up one of the Cuban Bullets in her fist) …and I want you to cram it at least three inches up his asshole. That clear?”

The oily-haired goon turned to his boss with a dismayed look. “Aw, Lexy. Why not have these cigar-rolling mutherfuckers do it instead,” he said, indicating Miriam, the old cigar-roller, and some of the other men in the room with his arm.

“Hey asshole,” the former walk-in humidor receptionist protested, “We make cigars. We’re not sanitation men. You want this con artist chopped up and gotten rid of, you handle it yourself.”

“Shut up, bitch!” oily-hair cursed bitterly. “You know who you’re talking to? You have any idea who you’re talking to?”

“I’ll tell you,” I suddenly chimed in. “Miriam, that your name? This man with the Crisco melted all throughout his air is Armando Baptiste-Salazar, one-time enforcer of General Hector Castillo, himself a former strongman of aspiring Cuban dictator Fidel Castro. Castillo lost his rank, however, when he went to prison for excess brutality.”

Looking away from Miriam, I noticed that I had the attention of everyone in the room, especially the grease monkey and his boss. “Should I continue?” I asked. Miriam gave me a nod. “Right. Where was I—Oh yeah. General Hector Castillo. He had a knack for just… inexplicably killing people. Presidente Castro locked him up, supposedly to reprimand him. Later on, when the prisons were emptied, and the inhabitants sent off to American shores, Castillo was among the rafters.

“Funny thing is, I’ve heard rumors—maybe you’ve heard them, too, fellas—that Castillo was purposely locked up, then sent off to the States. According to the rumors, Castillo was actually an agent of Presidente Castro, sent to infiltrate this country. For what purpose? To track down all the names on El Presidente’s former enemies list. Dissidents, intellectuals, artisans. After he finds them, his job is to murder them.”

This last remark elicited a laugh from El Diablo Amarillo. “A very entertaining story, Mr. Parma,” she said. “For your next trick, perhaps you will actually produce this General Castillo.”

“I don’t have to,” I said. “The CIA has been keeping tabs on Hector Castillo ever since he arrived about twenty-eight years ago. They know he’s been living in Cocoa Beach. They know he’s become a major player in the Cuban-American underworld. And they know… (Here I paused a moment, to let the suspense build up) …he underwent gender reassignment ten years ago at a secluded hospital in Buenos Aires. Procedure was paid for up-front, in cash.

“After twenty hours under local and general anesthesia, Hector Castillo emerged from that hospital as Miss Alexandria Figueroa.”

A stunned silence permeated the room. Miriam turned to El Diablo Amarillo with eyes laden with disbelief. “You’re… the dreaded Butcher of Bogota? You?”

“Believe it, pretty lady,” I said. “And if that wasn’t enough of a plot twist, guess whose cigar-making father likely appears on the former general’s ‘to kill’ list?”

“Enough!” El Diablo Amarillo roared. “You gonna kill this big-mouthed mutherfucker, or should I?”

But Miriam ignored her, completely engrossed by the story. “Miriam,” I said. “I met with some pals in the Agency before I came out here. There’s some pictures in my coat pocket, shots taken before and after his procedure…” Since I couldn’t reach them with my hands, I motioned towards them with my chin.

That was when El Diablo Amarillo produced a gun. Miriam pointed one right back. Just like that, the two sides of the room—one half made up of the commie general’s wannabe gangsters, the other half composed of Miriam’s boys from the barrio—had barrels drawn on each other. Things were looking ugly. It felt like we were perched on the edge of a cliff, dangling forty feet above an ocean full of rocks. It wouldn’t take much to send us tumbling to our doom.

And that was when the old cigar-maker went crazy.

He held this old, rusty, double-barrelled shotgun in both hands. Suddenly, he started screaming about how the Communists took everything away from him. He screamed that he could see the spirit of the ‘Butcher of Bogota’ in the beady little eyes of the middle-aged woman across the room. The old man raised his shotgun to shoulder-level—I remember seeing him do it. At that moment, I knew all hell was about to break loose. So I tipped my chair backwards, caused it to fall. Hit my head on the concrete floor. But it saved me from taking a dozen bullets to the chest. Or more, given how much gunfire followed. It just seemed to go on and on. Like a long, steady rain that would not quit.

There was a long wait after the shooting finally died down. Friedman, my pal at the agency, was the one who stumbled upon me. I’d only been shot once, and that was the bullet in the back from when Miriam got the jump on me. It’s funny, but I could have sworn she’d shot me twice. Must have been the shock that made me pass out, is all.

Friedman told me the old cigar-maker was dead. So was that Armando, the old lady’s enforcer. The old lady herself got away. Miriam escaped the net, too. That was about it, however. County bagged up everybody else, had them hauled away to spend a cool night in the local morgue.

“Shit, Friedman,” I said, puffing cigarettes in the driveway of some spooky suburban neighborhood I’d never been in. “What took you assholes so long to come to my inevitable rescue?”

He ignored me. “The main bad guy got away, but lots of her buddies got iced. Good work today, Parma.”

“I asked what took you guys so long.”

“We don’t like you, that’s why it took so long,” he told me with a straight face. “You’re a guy living out on the fringes. Not everything you do is reputable. Christ, if you owned a boat, you’d be Humphrey Bogart in ‘To Have and Have Not.’ Truth be told, Parma, I didn’t give the order to bust in the door until after the first hundred rounds went off.”

“But I’m still alive,” I said.

“That’s the least of your problems,” said Friedman, that fucking fed.

But he had a point. Alexandria Figueroa had gotten away, and seeing as how she had connections up in New York, the fact that she didn’t know my real identity was of little comfort. I had a bullseye on my back, and if I went back to the city, it was only a matter of time before some scuz or dirtbag recognized it. There was only one thing to do.

The next day, Friedman showed me a list of places I could go. The feds would find me a new life, a new job, a new identity. It wasn’t a particularly appetizing list. But one or two places stuck out, and they weren’t exactly Buttfuck, North Dakota, or Middle of Nowhere, Mississippi. Of the options that actually seemed okay, the least advisable was another major city, only two-hundred miles from the Big Apple. Friedman told me it would be a big mistake to relocate there. Not only a big mistake, but probably my last mistake, given how easily Figueroa and her people would be able to find me. But I guess I’m just the kinda fella goes fishing for trouble.

“I’ve made my decision, buddy,” I said. “Send my ass to Boston on the next train.”