Cowboy Bible’s rival behaved like an anxious swimmer, the kind who’s so nervous he dives in before the starting shot. The only person missing was the champion, who also had the record for the slowest speed onto the track. A world record and a Gatorade-ad image. The people were behind him. He had every right to be brazen; it’s not every day you can write an exemplary novel.
A limousine waited outside The Cowboy Bible’s house, the motor running. Inside, on his knees, looking very cowboyish in a chapel improvised Malverde-style, the champion prayed. He dedicated the fight to Saint Jude. In song, he asked that if he did not come back alive, his family be taken care of.
Solemnly, he got up and made his way to his dressing room. He put on his cowboy suit and helmet, and went into the kitchen. Before each bout, he engaged in the ceremonious act of eating cooler burritos. He had to eat something greasy in order to deal with the brew. Sussy didn’t serve him from the stew in the pot. Instead, she pulled four pork burritos from her socks that she had spoiled earlier that day. She stripped them of their wrapping and threw them on the fire. Once warmed, she wrapped them in napkins, like astronaut food, and handed them to The Cowboy Bible, burrito master. He packed them up. The underworld needed entertainment. Fresh meat. It didn’t matter if it was sirloin steak or dried beef. Sussy didn’t want to go with him. She refused to get in the limousine. How can I possibly go dressed like this? Besides, I have to go take an order to some lady’s house so her little princess won’t cause a scene in the middle of her quinceañera .
On his way to the duel, the burritos began to have an effect on The Cowboy Bible. Digestion was not imperative. The limousine pulled to the side, and the champion exploded. Instead of flour and pork, it looked like he’d been stuffed with pig’s feet stew. It hurt so much, it felt as if the pig’s entire foot—hairy and chewed up and without a pedicure—had come up his throat.
An impatient Don Lucha Libre dialed the limousine’s number: Goddamn it, you sons of bitches, where are you, why the hell aren’t you here? The driver, also The Cowboy Bible’s bodyguard, answered, bewildered, The Kid has fallen apart, boss, he’s vomiting. It can’t be. Fucking Christ. Take him home. I’m on my way. Don’t tell anyone.
The winner of the competition to see who could lift more rolls of Bimbo bread with one finger walked inside trembling. He was in a cold sweat. A fever of a hundred and four degrees was burning his guts. He threw himself into bed.
Once things were in motion, Sussy put on the new dress San Pedro had sent her. The six ice coolers fit in the taxi. The trip cost fifty pesos. She finished her task, and the lady of the house complimented her on her evening dress: How handsome, Susanita. She left with money in hand. She was looking really good; she looked like a narco’s woman.
She took another taxi to La Cuauhnáuac. The riot of the party could be heard four blocks away. Big rigs—brand name: Truckalicious—formed a long line of this year’s models as if in a showroom. Cars kept coming, and people kept jamming the streets. It was a herd of groupies. They came down from the trees, up from the gutter, and out from under rocks.
Security was thick, lots of former-drivers-turned-badass-bodyguards. It took Sussy ten minutes to reach the line separating the chosen from the undesirable. It was hard to tell which performance on which side of the line was more grotesque.
Sussy’s name wasn’t on the list. Like my mother told me, never trust a narco and even less one who had glass balls as a kid. And if her name wasn’t on the invite list, there was even less chance it’d be on the bettors list. Damn life, damn misery.
She hung around outside the bar for half an hour. The bartender looked out the door because he’d been accused of cheating. He’d given courtesy passes and sold memberships