Preview of 'Angelhunter' Chapt 13

Chapter 13

As usual, Mario did not know what time it was. The sunlight invaded his sight blinding him as if he were lying right next to the sun. He climbed over one of his “commodities” as he liked to call them. Mario was the type to use words he overheard. He did this to seem more important or smarter than he was capable. Last night was just like all the others: make a little scratch, spend some, no, most of it. They would spend it on marijuana, some coke, some liquor, etc. Mario was not making money, not really. Things had not been the same since he lost his money horse: Maria. Yes, things were rolling then. He would turn $500 a night with Maria on the stroll. How the hell did he lose her in the first place? That damn dopeboy Arturo Briggs was the cause of his misery. He had wanted to kill Briggs. Of course, he did not have the courage. Mario was a little twit of a man. He made his livelihood off the misery of others. He kept his commodities strung out to keep control over them. If they ever got up any nerve, he wouldn’t have any power, and thus no money. Everyone knew his whores were the city’s skankiest. They were more into feeding their habits than making a real change in their lives. Classless, it probably was just a matter of time before all five of them were dead. Shared needles, sometimes unprotected sex, were all a part of the loaded gun. It was a Russian roulette lifestyle worst than the sexual revolution and the freewheeling disco age combined. They lived in a world below the caste line of decadence. They were just substandard. They were barely above the roaches, representing the worst the city had to offer. They were the bastard children of the metropolis. If the city was repulsive, then they were irreprehensible. Utter filth could not describe them and Mario knew it. He looked at his stable and shook his head. “I gotta get me a new team.” He moaned. He looked at the bodies sprawled all over the place. He made it into the old kitchen with the well worn appliances. He was in a daze of daytime as if he were a vampire. He was one with the nighttime, the city’s feeding time. He was a supplier of the food chain, even though he was a bottom feeder himself. He reached into the cabinet above, waving off fruit flies that seemed to swarm. They were attracted to the old fermented alcohol that was left in the mass of beer bottles and Chinese food containers. He knew that he wasn’t high enough because he could smell the sour things. “Awh! Maria needs to clean this shit up!” he said. He opened the cabinet when came falling a six-legged paratrooper from high. A roach had landed and took off like it was fired from a rocket. Mario had too big of a headache to care. He reached for the sink, managing to survive the dog-whistle pitched whine of the faucet. He drank from the city water and the taste merely pushed through the dry in his mouth. He needed a damn drink and settled on a cigarette. Lighting it, he pulled up a chair to the 70’s style table with the vinyl floral seats. Each pull seemed to ease the hangover he had. He knew that he needed to get some food in him. The diner was not too far up the way. He would let the girls sleep and go for a walk to help clear his head. He went to his bedroom looking for one of his shirts to just throw on over his wife beater. He couldn’t find it immediately. “Maria got my shit?” He knew it wasn’t even in there, but in an effort to retain some sort of ignorant hold over her, he would invade her space. He went in looking around peeking in her bathroom. He then sat on her bed yawning. His hand landed on her mail. He looked at it and waved his hand splashing the ads and envelopes across a pillow. One of the pieces stood out from the rest. Mario picked it up. “City General. What’s wrong with Maria?” he questioned. He flipped back the divided pieces of paper to reveal the shock of his lifetime: it said Maria was pregnant. “What the fuck? I’m going to be an uncle?” Mario said in disbelief? He couldn’t believe it. His headache had intensified. He stumbled in silence to his room looking as if he had been shot. Without realizing it, he put a shirt on seemingly simultaneously grabbing another smoke. He somehow found his shoes and put them on. He was still lost in thought almost colliding with one of the girls trying to unzombie herself, getting to the bathroom. He managed a coat on. Already having slept in his pants, he was ready to make way to the café. The weather was decent. He meandered down the block. “how the fuck could she not tell me? I’m her brother!” He stopped after some jerk in an El Camino honked at him and he looked back in a semi-scowl cursing back. He was back on his walk lost in thought, though he felt the need to verbalize. “and who the hell is the daddy? Hope it’s not one of them damn drug lords at the Vicki. I’ll kill one of those chocolate muthafuckers.” realizing that he was talking out loud, he glanced around making sure no Blacks were in the vicinity. He finally made his way to the diner. Greasy spoon was an understatement. It’s workers just as seedy as it’s customers, he was seated with surprising efficiency. “Coffee?” the waitress asked. “yeah” he called back. He was in a booth as it was catch as catch can with the seating. She was an old redhead with a hairnet to catch that mess of a mop. “thank God.” Mario muttered. Just then the waitress brought the cup of joe. He was glad. He would need all his senses to make head or tails of this new development.