The Grito

The Grito

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!”

This is near the huecos of modern day. HIS auditorium voice had the pacing of an American academic who had just discovered the sweat rings on the nightstand from the previous night’s visitor. It is irrelevant, the point HE is reaching for in each pause HE takes to think through the last few days or months. There is so much missed. HIS voice is just outside the bed covers pulled over HIS head, lying face down in bed in the middle of night. It is a flashlight and HIS daddy’s voice come to tell HIM about the rainstorm coming.

“Don’t be afraid.”

There are legs which free-fall over knees, out of skirts, and HIS voice lingers on the red stained tissues in the trash can left beside the bed.

HE spoke with arms stretched out as if holding the world or bleeding from wounds. “This auditorium, the climbing hueco tanks, heard the Waldstein last night. Your voice was shaking last night. It shook the baby from the crib, raging from being unprepared. It shook like turbulent air the way it must be to give up on lift, dwelling on the weight of machines and losing speed to fall from the clouds and crash into rolling waves or rocky cliffs or sand shaped by wind from dried up seas a million years ago. You are nowhere there. A voice alone.”

HE steered young feisty bulls to the mountain with several cohorts in trance. They cut the animals, filling the huecos with blood. They spread the blood and burned the carcasses. They showered in the blood. Later they drank the blood and ate eachother. This was noticed by some elderly bird watchers with long range scopes.

This is in five minutes, illustrated.  Tarasius is a micro human built like Atlas, pushing his boat up the 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 biting at the ankles of the runners, the gun runners and the narco runners. 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 sifts into nooks and aquifers. Bodies careen against toppling rock. On the starboard side, Tarasius made his muscles hard.

This is put into sequence. Forty thousand years ago, the gods visited the earth….

Eighty thousand years ago bushy hair became the style. Sex and drugs were all the rage. An era of running and diet made herds anxious when men were near. So the men absorbed the smell of the earth to hide and hunt. In their spare time they painted and sculpted until forty thousand years ago.

One hundred twenty thousand years ago, the ink war poisoned the balloonist union. The balloonist fought amongst themselves in dark wells where they dug fuel. One balloonist went home early with an ache in his stomach and possibly heart. His wife brought groceries in to find him so distraught as to be suicidal. She wished he would do it as the bags fell to the table. She had no other burden but his grief and no children due to planned reasoning. This is how the human race dwindled in numbers until eighty thousand years ago.

One hundred sixty thousand years ago, the paper chief rules made clear the illegalities of the matryoshka spacejet clan. Concrete busters rode west to demolish the cities of the banks. The money was shredded and the concrete was pulverized to fine dust. The paper chief was burned by a new brand of liberal who burned all the books with rules. There, the human race was stranded until one hundred twenty thousand years ago.

Down by the calming water, Horserider is the bather no one speaks with. The other fellows splash the river with joking taunts, flinging their 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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