Will I Be Triple Fired for this?

An unnamed cemetery two miles outside of Laredo, Texas.  A well dressed man was leaning against a tree, his left hand in his pocket, a white Stetson pulled down over his face.   Around the man’s waist was the one thing he coveted more than anything, the ALIAS (a.k.a., ironically, the Gamble) Championship.   

He looked from his left to his right, the row of gravestones perfectly symmetrical across.  There was an element of quiet in the cemetery that soothed his mind.  He supposed that quality was something one would look for when searching for a place to be delivered for their final slumber.   

There was a job to be done.  A job he was uncomfortable doing.  A job that was completely necessary.   A job he knew that he would regret.  He hoped his priest would not judge him too harshly when he went in for confession the following week.  While he was Catholic, he could not say he was devout, probably another strike against him.

Since accepting his fate as a member of the Gamble Adoration Syndicate, Morty had come to appreciate the success he had garnered.   A championship belt meant more money, more prestige, more fame,   More than anything, it meant respect.  He was no longer a joke that could be flippantly tossed through a wall.  He was a champion.

But, as they say, heavy is the crown.

Morty’s Uncle Frank had imparted some wisdom throughout his life, looked after him (probably out of a certain level of guilt over what Morty’s mother did), and imparted some nuggets of wisdom.  Some pertinent in certain areas of his life, some, not so much.

As he looked over the gravestones, clenching his fist in his pocket, feeling a small measure of pain as he did so, Mortimer Byrnes was reminded of a story Uncle Frank had once told him.  Frank, being prone to exaggeration, may have fabricated some or all of it.

There was a man in Columbia named Sanchez Vibora.   He slowly rose through the ranks of some drug cartel, the name escaped Mortimer, eventually becoming the head of the organization.   He had money, he had the big house, he would generously offer the struggling people of his town assistance.  Water, food, clothing, and the like.  

One day, his most trusted lieutenant, Aguilar, noticed that Vibora was spending less time on the business and more time fulfilling his appetite for pleasure.  Food, women, drugs.  Vibora was living in excess,  It was left to Aguilar to step up and run the business but why would he do all that work for a small percentage of the profits?  The fact that Aguilar was enamored by one of Vibora’s women did not help.  Of course, she was the one who enjoyed the lifestyle more than the company of Vibora.   One day, Aguilar concocted a plan to murder Vibora.  He consulted another of Vibora’s advisors, Marco, who despised Vibora more than Aguilar did.   There was some speculation that Vibora had an affair with Vibora’s wife for no other purpose than to show Marco that he could.

Vibora could take what he wanted, when he wanted, and dared them to do something about it.   For the longest time, no one would.

But Sanchez Vibora got lazy.  Complacent.

So much so, Aguilar and Marco, two of Vibora’s closest allies for years, sensed his excesses were a sign of weakness and decided to strike.  As Vibora slept, Marco would hold the large, older man down while Aguilar would stab him in the neck.

On the night, the deed was to be done.  All went according to plan.  They sent away Vibora’s personal guards and entered his bedchamber.  Aguilar had a dagger in his hand with a serpentlike Demascus pattern on the blade.  

Aguilar motioned for Marco to hold down Vibora.  Marco fell on top of Vibora and Aguilar pounced, only to discover Vibora covered in blood.  Marco’s blood.  Vibora had ears all through his estate, he knew what was about to happen.  As Marco placed his hands on Vibora, Vibora shoved a blade under Marco’s chin, into the brain, killing him instantly.  Aguilar, shocked, hesitated before lunging towards the man he previously pled fealty towards only for Vibora to throw his knife into his gut.  The dagger fell to the ground first, Aguilar dropped to his knees a split second after.  Without saying a word, Vibora picked up the dagger, without saying a single word, plunged it into his ear.   

The following morning, there was a warning to any who might attempt to overthrow Sanchez Vibora: Marco’s and Aguilar’s heads on pikes, perched on the top of the gate.

His Uncle Frank’s message was that if you are sitting at the head of the table, there’s always somebody that wants that seat for themselves, and they should be made examples of to any who would have the balls to even think about it.

It goes against every fiber of his being.  Making some kid down a cockroach for breaking into his house was one thing, but this?   

Morty squeezed his hand so hard, he hoped it would cut off the circulation.  He had to feel the pain, it would be his atonement for this act.

Two shadows appeared in the distance.  One, a large familiar man.  The other, a frail frame, staggering to the left and right.   

Three minutes later, a dapper but sweaty Frank Pastore was standing before him with a another young man, whose greasy hair clung to his scalp, his face scarred with acne scabs, his complexion was more yellowish with red splotches on his neck, face, and arms.  The young man was sniffing and fidgeting incessantly.   He was slowly moving his head up and down, back and forth, looking behind him and overhead as if he were Marty McFly looking at Hill Valley for the first time after traveling back to 1955 while at the same looking as if he were to pass out at any moment.  Mortgomery Byrnes subconsciously took a couple of steps backwards as if breathing the same air as this lad would cause leprosy, anal bleeding, and his perfectly topazian brown eyes to melt from their sockets.

 

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  This is what you found?

FRANK PASTORE:  He fit the criteria.

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Did you give’em some water?

FRANK PASTORE:  Yeah, plenty of fluids like you said.

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  How fuckin’ high is he?

FRANK PASTORE:  I’d say pretty high.

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Shit.  He know why he’s here?

FRANK PASTORE:  I told him but….

 

Frank Pastore offers up nothing more than a shrug,  Mortgomery Byrnes shook his head and then snapped at the junkie with his freehand.

 

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Hey!  You!  You know why you’re here?

JUNKIE:  Suck your cock?

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Fuck no! 

JUNKIE:  You want to suck mine?

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  No one’s suckin’ nothin’!  Fuck!  Show’em Frank.

 

Frank Pastore reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills.  Two hundred dollars.  Mortgomery Byrnes snatched the bills from his associate and began waving them in the junkie’s face.  The sight of the ten Andrew Jacksons that flitted in his face was almost hypnotic to the junkie.  He instinctively reached for them only for Mortgomery to pull them away which caused the young man to lose his footing and drop to the soft ground.

 

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  What’s your name?

JUNKIE:  Bill….iam….

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Billiam? 

BILLIAM THE JUNKIE:  Yeah….Wait….

 

Billiam squinted his bloodshot as he finally realized that underneath the cowboy hat, Mortgomery Byrnes was wearing his back and teal mask.

 

BILLIAM THE JUNKIE:  Are you a Birdman?

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  No, I’m not a…forget it, you like movies, Billiam?  

BILLIAM THE JUNKIE:  Huh?

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Movies!  Films!  Art de Cinema!  

BILLIAM THE JUNKIE:  Yeah?

MORTGOMERY BYRNES: You askin’ me?  Geez!

 

Morty turns towards his G.A.S. associate.

 

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  You know what I’m doin’.  You think I’m the villain in this whole thing?

FRANK PASTORE:  I don’t see Luke Skywalker doing what you want to do.

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  So I’m the Iago.

BILLIAM THE JUNKIE:  Darth….Radar….

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  No!  Iago!  “Othello”!  Open a fuckin’ book you junkie fuck!

BILLIAM THE JUNKIE:  I read a book….what was…..it…..

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Shut up.  Now, I’m more of a rom-com fan, myself but I’ve been known to branch out.  If you’ve seen a Bond movie or some action movie, there’s always that scene in the end when the bad guy has the hero right where he wants him and instead of shootin’ him in the fuckin’ face, starts yammerin’ on and on about his grand scheme.  Really hate that shit.  But, considerin’ you ain’t no hero…shit, you’re not even a human bein’.  You’re a human nothin’.  But you don’t really give shit what I think about you, do you?

BILLIAM THE JUNKIE:  Huh?

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Yo!  Wakey-wakey!

 

The ALIAS Champion once again waved the cash in Billiam’s face and once again, he perked up as if he were sniffing the fresh aroma of Columbian coffee as he awakened from a bed.  Byrnes pocketed the money as he began.

 

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  You know what a legacy is?

BILLIAM THE JUNKIE:  A car?

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  No…maybe….whatever.  Look at all these gravestones.  Generations of dead people who’ve left somethin’ behind for their ancestors.  Wealth, reputation, businesses, maybe it’s the tools to continue in the family business….farmin’, actin’, blacksmithin’, bankin’, whatever.   Each one with a story to tell and no one to hear’em.   Fuckin’ tragic.  Ya know what my legacy is, what my ancestors got me?  Jack-fuckin’-shit.  That sperm donor, Vincent Van Vroomen, he didn’t give me shit.  He refused to accept me.  A vile twat, that prick.  And what about my ma?  If that disease is heredetarial, well, I’m pretty much fucked.   Now, this guy right here….

 

Mortgomery Byrnes gave a wide berth between he and the junkie as maneuvered to the rear of the tombstone.  He placed his hands atop of it as if it were a podium and leaned forward.

 

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Accordin’ to my research—-

FRANK PASTORE:  Google.

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Bing.

FRANK PASTORE:  That’s still a thing?

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Anyway, this man right here, assumin’, of course, that this man is the man of which I am I am referrin’, he left a legacy.  A legacy to his son.  A, uhhhhh, what’s it called, a libra labrador….

FRANK PASTORE:  It’s lucha libre, the luchadore is the wrestler wearing the mask.

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  What I said, “luchadoree”.   This guy, handed down this legacy, this longstandin’ tradition of wearin’ the mask and wrestlin’ all around the country.   Mateo de Leon…..

 

The tombstone did, in fact, state that it was the final resting place of Mateo de Leon, Father and Husband, Born July 12, 1964, Died April 22, 2015.  According to the Bing Search Mortgomery Byrnes ran, this Mateo de Leon did wrestle in the eighties in Puerto Rico as “El Caballero de Verde Honor” and he did sire a son named Carlos (being that he was not the most technologically savvy when it came to smartphones and computers, it was entirely possible he completely missed the mark and they could be completely different people, but, to Morty, an example needed to be made and if he was wrong, “Fuck it, Rocky would get the point.”) and Mateo did live in Laredo, Texas, the hometown of one Rocky de Leon.

 

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Now, this Rocky de Leon prick thinks he can just waltz and hop step right into The Pit in New Mexico and take what belongs to me?  He thinks just because he has some bullshit family legacy that he’s somehow better than me?   Fuck his family and his traditions.  What pisses me off the most is his complete ignorance, rubbin’ his happy fuckin’ family life in everybody’s faces.  Fuck him, too.  Which, now, you can earn your….Oh, what the fuck….

 

Billiam the Junkie appeared to nod off and fall over onto the lush green grass.  Mortgomery Byrnes let out a gutteral sound of frustration somewhere between Chewbacca and a bear choking on Gollum from “Lord of the Rings”.

 

FRANK PASTORE:  I think you bored him to death.

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  He’s breathin’.  Wake him up or somethin’.

FRANK PASTORE:  I’m not touching him!

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Poke him with a stick or somethin’!

 

As Mortgomery stared at the junkie who had started to shake uncontrollably, Frank Pastore started looking at the ground, walking in circles.  He looked up at Morty and slowly shook his head as he waved towards the ground.

 

FRANK PASTORE:  I can’t find a stick!  This place is pristine.

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Right?  They take care of this place real nice, don’t they?  

FRANK PASTORE:  It’s impressive

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  If it wasn’t in fuckin’ Texas, I might consider this a good place to spend eternity. 

FRANK PASTORE:  The upkeep is amazing.

 

Mortgomery slowly approached the young addict as he would a wounded rabid dog that took his keys.  He pulled out the wad of twenties, extended his arm as far as it would go, and began fanning Billiam with them.   Billiam began to stir, he blinked tiredly, and rolled onto his stomach before getting to his feet.   Morty took several steps back with a fistful of dollars in one hand and his other was a painfully clenched fist in his pocket.

 

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  You up?  You listenin’?

BILLIAM THE JUNKIE:  Yeah, yeah….

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Now, all you need to do is piss on this here grave. 

BILLIAM THE JUNKIE:  Huh?  That’s it?  

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Yeah.

BILLIAM THE JUNKIE:  If..uh…if you just wanted someone to….uh….piss on a grave…couldn’t…uh….couldn’t you do it?

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  No!  This is sacrimonious ground!  That would be blasphemy.  Besides, I want you, you junkie fuck, to piss all over this grave of Mateo de Leon.  The stone and grass in front of it.  I want your degenerate, drug infested, disease infested piss to trickle down from the grass, to the roots, all the way down to Mateo de Leon’s rottin’ corpse.  And that’s two hundred bucks to you.

BILLIAM THE JUNKIE:  So, you, uhhhhhhhhhhh, just want to watch?

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  No.  Frank’s gonna watch.

FRANK PASTORE:  What?

BILLIAM THE JUNKIE:  Whatever gets you, uhhhhhhh, off.

 

Billiam the Junkie dropped trou in the middle of the cemetery causing Frank and Mortimer to turn away.   Mortimer forcibly turned Frank Pastore to face Billiam.  And they waited…..an ounce of impatience became a gram, Mortimer’s squeezed his hand tighter and tighter, his arm began to shake.

 

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  What’s takin’ so long?

BILLIAM THE JUNKIE:  I can’t do it when people are watching me.

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  If you can suck a dick for a dimebag, you can piss if someone’s watchin’.  Chop-chop!

 

Billiam the Junkie began to sway to the left and right as Mortgomery Byrnes  turns his head slightly towards Frank Pastore who uncomfortably stares at the junkie.  With his free hand, Morty tipped his Stetson.

  

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Whaddya think?

FRANK PASTORE:  About what?

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  The hat.  I got it at the airport last night.   I’m like the Manhattan Kid.  Yippee-Kayak-Ka-Yay.

FRANK PASTORE:  You shouldn’t wear it with wingtips.  It clashes.

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Look at Michael Kors over here.

FRANK PASTORE:  Who’s that?

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Fashion designer.

FRANK PASTORE:  Never heard of him.

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Do you know any other than Armani?

FRANK PASTORE:  Tommy Hilfiger, Michael Strahan, Nautica.

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  I’m talkin’ fashion with a mook that buys his suits from ReeseMart.

FRANK PASTORE:  I’m frugal.

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Didn’t the fabric give people rashes and boils and shit?

FRANK PASTORE:  Allegedly.

 

Rather than continue discussing fashion with his less than enlightened associate, he leaned his head towards the slovenly and bare assed man who was rocking to the left and right behind him.

 

MORTGOMERY BYRNES (to Billiam):  How we doin’ over there?

BILLIAM THE JUNKIE:  I’m trying!

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  One-eighty!

BILLIAM THE JUNKIE:  Huh?

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  Every minute you don’t piss, I take twenty bucks off the table.  You’re down to one-eighty!

 

It was if the thought of losing out on the agreed upon amount of two hundred buckaroos unleashed a stream of urine onto the tombstone, Mortimer could hear the sound of the pee hitting the stone before the aim shifted to the grass in front of the stone.  At first, silence, but as more and more piss developed onto the grassy area, it grew louder as if it were striking a puddle.  Morty leaned over towards his disgusted G.A.S. compatriot. 

 

MORTGOMERY BYRNES:  He is pissin’ on the right grave, right?

FRANK PASTORE:  Uh-huh.

 

Morty nodded as the stream continued.  After a heavy twenty second pee, Morty heard the sound of clothes, probably pants being pulled back up, followed by the sound of the jingle-jangle of a belt buckle.  The good Mister Byrnes turned around and went to hand the junkie nine folded twenties and tossed them in the general direction of Mateo de Leon’s gravesite.   Billiam dropped to the ground, greedily grabbing the money as Morty and Frank (who may have been traumatized by witnessing a junkie relieve himself on the burial place of “A” Mateo de Leon) walked down the rows and rows of tombstones.  

In the distance, Morty could see a beat up El Camino parked next to a Cadillac Escalade.  The silhouette of Domingo Cruz standing next to the vehicle could be seen.  Mortimer could feel his teeth clench and his stomach tighten.  There was regret for what he just did to someone’s grave and that someone may not have been the someone it had been intended for, which increased his guilt (perhaps, if he was wrong, he would send an anonymous fruit basket, one of the more expensive arrangements with exotic fruits).  As Mortimer continued towards the car, he pulled out his hand from his pocket, his hand was tightly wrapped with a black satin tie, his fingers were blue verging into purple.   He stopped and stared at his hand for a moment, unsure what to think…..he wiggled his fingers and placed the tie, a gift from a very special person, back into his pocket before continuing ahead as the scene comes to an end.