The Grito (a low B drone throughout)

A banditi swarm is anxious, oily and sweat through their sand stained shirts. The razor wire strung along territory boundaries keep those bandoleros at bay briefly before the grito takes a shot at a son of a bitch on methamphetamine.

“Maten a esos hijos de su chingada madre!”

Tarasius is a micro human built like atlas, pushing his boat up a desert mountain. His abdomen sparks like a pinwheel firework, shooting off arcs of orange. Down one side, in the sand, pistols whipped up bloody sand, coagulated and sprouting with fire ants. The micro atlas man puts a shoulder to the hull as he pushes it up the rocky mountain. As it teeters on the rocky peak, Tarasius swipes his brow and shoots yellow beams of light out his eyes, striping the blue sky. His abdomen is a firework of spinning embers which cool to droplets of water beginning a cascade down the mountain side. Water levels rise. The residue of fighting men sift into nooks and aquifers. Bodies careen against toppling rock. On the starboard side, Tarasius made his muscles hard.

Down by the calming water, Horserider is the bather no one speaks with. The other fellows splash the river with joking taunts, flinging wrists and aggressive palms through the water. Skinshaver beats his razor out on the banks. Some bitch left a note for Horserider about a kid being born soon and that it is his. Skinshaver had it folded in his sack. Horserider kept busy figuring a way to keep his wife at home out of this. The boys washed out the deep seeded discharges from all the whores they had been seeing and some pissed in the water. Skinshaver yelled, “Jesus don’t give two shits anything about it son! He know what go down out here. Fuck that bitch!” Horserider prayed he was right.

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