:
Regardless of what time you go to bed, if possible, you should get a good night's sleep. That's why we didn't get out of bed until after ten. We weren't in a hurry. We had two weeks. We calmly ate a modest breakfast—leftover bolillos. We waited about ten minutes for Pedro, who God knows what he was doing in the bathroom—and I was afraid to ask—and we left.
"I'm driving," I said immediately. I had no intention of getting in the car if that psychopath, drug addict, and erotomaniac was driving. He would have killed us on the second turn—and we were going to Puerto Vallarta.
"Fuck off!" Pedro growled. "It's my car and I'm driving.
" "You asshole, I'll punch you in the face, and you'll be searching for your teeth all over town! You killed a man, and what do you think? We'll get in and get killed too?"
"Shhh!" Pablo punched me in the shoulder. When I looked at him, surprised, angry, and ready to hit back, he scolded me. "Can't you get any louder? Maybe take him to the police right away, or all of us.
" "My fault," I admitted. "But come on, that idiot can't drive." I grimaced, pointing a finger at Pedro.
Pablo nodded barely perceptibly.
"Pedro, my friend," he said, patting him on the shoulder. He must have discovered a way to convince the idiot, because he smiled broadly at him. "When we get to Puerto Vallarta, I'll buy you a Playboy."
He looked at him suspiciously, calculating. He didn't seem satisfied.
"Hmm..." he muttered to himself. "Two.
" "Make it two.
" "And at the first newsstand I see.
" "Let it be..." Pablo was slowly losing patience. "Can we go now?"
Pedro thought for a moment.
"Okay..." he finally said. Without a word, he walked past me and climbed into the backseat behind me. I got behind the wheel and reached for the ignition. The keys weren't in it, so—knowing full well that only Pedro would have them—I reached back, over my shoulder. He gave them to me only after a long moment—he was probably searching his pockets for them, or staring like an idiot at my hand before he realized what I meant.
Shortly after eleven, we left San Sebastian and headed west, to Puerto Vallarta. Pablo sat next to me, a map spread out on his lap. I didn't know the route, so I had to rely on his map-reading skills and his memory—it wasn't his first time driving there. He also knew better than I that crazy Pedro—high again—shouldn't be driving. He'd almost killed us in town—a relatively flat stretch of road with right-angle turns. Now we were barreling down a narrow, steep, gravel road. No recklessness, no burning tires. Second gear, foot clutching the brake—just in case—and careful cornering. The drive took a long time; we dragged mercilessly—but, as I said, we still had two weeks, and a suicide recovery track ahead of us.
***
Well after noon, we entered Puerto Vallarta from the east.
"Playboy!"
We all jumped at Pedro's sudden exclamation—audible across the street. All three of us turned and looked at him with lightning in our eyes.
"What? We were supposed to stop at the first kiosk and buy a Playboy," the junkie grumbled. For a stoner, he had an admirable clarity of mind on this one matter. He'd only forgotten that there were supposed to be two Playboys.
"Go, or he'll tire us out," I nudged Pablo. "He's ready to make things even worse."
I stopped the car almost in front of the kiosk. The bastard reluctantly climbed out of the car, looked around to make sure no one was watching, went to the window, and in a conspiratorial whisper asked for a Playboy. He placed a wad of pesos on the counter, grabbed the newspaper, and collected his change. He returned to the car and simply threw it in Pedro's face through the open rear window.
"Here," he grumbled, then walked around the back and got in.
The junkie, completely undaunted, opened the newspaper and began to browse.
***
"Listen, since we're here, we need to take care of your papers," Pablo said. We were alone. We were waiting in the car in front of the Gigante supermarket, where Pedro and Guillermo were stocking up on the bare necessities: alcohol and food. "Well, we have the ID of a legitimate guy here, but it's always his face, not..." he started to explain, then stopped. He bulged at me. He looked from the ID—a plastic rectangle—to me. "Fuck, he looks as much like you as your ass!
" "Show me!" I snatched Ronald Ruiz's ID from him and examined it critically. He looked like me, like hell. The hairstyle was different, and the mustache was thick—but his features and eyes were almost identical. Admittedly, the photo was small and not very clear, so I couldn't tell exactly if we were identical. But the only thing that mattered was the photo—if it showed that Ronaldo Ruiz and I were the same person, then I was Ronaldo Ruiz. And we looked alike, damned alike—only he was perhaps a bit more gawky.
"That makes things sooooo much easier for us," Pablo grinned. "You have an ID card that looks completely legal. And it doesn't matter if it isn't. Appearances are what count. "
I put it in my pocket, pleased with how smoothly everything was going.
"Now we just need to quickly snap a few photos of you to get your passport.
" "Oh no, you can't drag me, even the three of you, to the passport office. They'll start looking, searching, and then they'll find out you screwed up the other guy's papers, and they'll catch me when I come to collect it.
" "Nobody's going to drag you to the consulate. How are you supposed to have a legal passport if you don't have a birth certificate?
" "You could... fake a birth certificate? That's something you can arrange, right?"
"And what else? Maybe a First Communion certificate?" Pablo snorted. "Everything can be arranged here, it's just about the money. You already have the ID card, so that's a plus." Now all you have to do is go where you need to go, throw in some cash, and in a few days you'll have a beautiful, new, authentic-looking passport. You could wait two weeks at the passport office, but unfortunately, we don't have that much time.
"Well, there's no point in wasting time," I said, patting the steering wheel. "Where are those idiots? What took so long?"
As if on cue, Pedro and Guillermo stumbled out of the shop through the sliding doors, rattling their stuffed shopping bags. I sincerely doubted they had anything but bottles in there.
***
I was alone at the photographer's. I tried to act like Ronaldo Ruiz. Especially for the photo, I adopted that gawky expression I remembered from the photo on my ID, which I'd practiced a few times before getting out of the car and entering the shop. A moment later, the photos were ready. I paid for them and examined them on the spot. They were perfect. That is, essentially terrible: I looked clumsy, wrong, and unlikeable. But that was the point.
Satisfied, I returned to the car.
"We have to go to a clothing store," I said. Only now did it dawn on me that I'd been wearing the same underwear for days. My shirt and jeans were new, but I hadn't thought of buying anything else. I stopped at the first clothing store I came across. I grabbed a handful of socks and a full set of boxers. As I wandered around the store with my shopping cart, I also spotted a nice red short-sleeved blouse. I paid with my own money and, finally well-stocked, left the store.
"Where now?
" "We'll take you to the hotel. You already have a room booked at La Jolla de Mismayola, under the name of Ronaldo Ruiz.
" "You're fast," I said admiringly.
"We have to. Business is business, and there's no messing around.
" "How do I get there?" I asked, starting the engine.
"Turn left at the end of that street."
From downtown, we entered the hotel district from the north. We passed hotel after hotel. I glanced from their names—some in Polish, some in English—to Pablo, waiting for him to tell us to stop. He just stared ahead, repeating every now and then,
"Go.
" From the northern hotel district, we entered the southern one. I drove calmly, waiting for the command: "Stop. It's here." I passed the southern hotel district and exited onto the highway. We were leaving the city. I looked at Pablo with desperation in my eyes.
"We're entering Mismaloya now," he said calmly. "You're terribly impatient."
I didn't say anything. I drove silently, scanning the hotel names, hoping the one I was looking at was the one I was supposed to be staying at—La Jolla. Not Camino Real. Not Costa Vida. Not Sun Resorts. Passing the Presidente Intercontinental, I began tapping my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel and glanced quickly at Pablo. Nothing but the same sly smile.
"There you go," he said, not looking at me.
I guessed La Jolla was next. When I spotted two identical white buildings above the palm trees, hidden behind a green hill, I asked,
"Which one?
" "Both."
A moment later, we pulled up to the hotel. I parked in a free space in the parking lot beneath the palm trees and turned off the engine. I got out of the car, followed by Pablo; Pedro and Guillermo stayed inside. The erotic maniac was still leafing through Playboy.
"Now where?
" "To the front desk. You're going to check in. And grab your... luggage.
" I grabbed my bag of belongings—a plastic bag with the red Gigante logo—and together we walked to the low reception building. The receptionist, a rather unassuming but pleasant woman in her late thirties, with a shock of curly hair, quickly and efficiently logged me into the computer. She handed me back my documents and handed me my key card.
"Third floor, second door on the left from the exit," she explained, then added, "Take a new photo for your ID. You can barely tell it's you."
I nodded nervously and stepped aside. Pablo was waiting for me nearby.
"Well, I'll leave you here," he said. "Give me your ID."
I handed him the plastic rectangle, hidden in my hand.
"I'll give it back to you with my passport, tomorrow or the day after," he continued. "Oh, and the keys, please.
" "What?" I asked, not so much surprised as indignant. "I'm supposed to be stuck in this backwater, ten kilometers from the city, without a car?
" "What? Are we supposed to walk from this backwater to the city?" he snorted.
I reluctantly handed him the keys.
"So what now?"
"Here's your cell phone," he said, handing me a small Nokia. "We'll keep in touch. Don't call me. If I want something or have something for you, I'll call myself."
I put the phone back in my pocket.
"Now I'm off. See you tomorrow or the day after," he said, then tapped me on the shoulder. "I'll come when I have my passport.
" "YOU'll come? You... How old are you? Do you have a driver's license?
" "I have a license, of course. But I don't like to overwork myself, and besides, the car is Pedro's," he replied with a smile. "And I'm twenty-one."
I looked at him with such a surprised expression that I was sure it looked stupid.
"The important thing is not to look like who you are," he laughed in my face. He turned and walked away, his hands in his pockets.
I watched him disappear through the hotel door, then went to the elevator, which took me to the third floor. There, I found my room without any problem. I swiped my card on the reader, and the door opened smoothly before me. I walked in and threw the bag onto the first chair at the far end. I stood for a moment, looking around the room that was to be my home for the next two weeks; I was practically trapped in a room where I didn't have a car to drive into town if I wanted to. I was furious about it, and I wanted to give Pablo a good scolding for leaving me like that. But the room was... nice. White, clean walls. Apricot curtains. Marble floor. And all the comforts. A couch, a few tables and pouffes. A desk with a TV on it—in case I got bored. I went out onto the terrace and pulled a chair up to the railing. I sat down and, leaning on the railing, gazed at the view unfolding before me and below me—the pool, the palm trees, and in the distance, the sea. It was good, really good.
***
The next morning, I was awakened by a persistent trill. For a few moments, I resisted, pretending not to hear, wanting to go back to sleep—but then I realized it was my cell phone. I dragged myself—or rather, fell—out of bed and groped my way to the desk, and on it, the screaming phone.
"Hello?" I muttered into the receiver.
"I'll be there in half an hour. Be there," Pablo said curtly. The city noise echoed in the background. "And don't eat anything," he added sharply, before hanging up.
It was eleven o'clock, and yet I didn't feel the slightest urge to get up. I could barely keep my eyes open, thinking hard, and yawning repeatedly. I sat up in bed, struggling to stay awake again.
"Uaaahhh!"
Any longer, and I would have truly fallen asleep. I would have pulled the covers up to my head and slept until nightfall. I would have ignored Pablo and my work. I hadn't had a proper night's sleep in days, and the soft hotel bed was tempting me to make up for it. I jumped up, though, and dragged myself to the shower. Only under the icy stream, which I deliberately let fall on myself, did I begin to recover. I turned off the water only when the cold water began to hurt, to twist my bones. Stiff, sore, and chilled—but fresh—I climbed out of the shower and dried myself off. I had pulled on jeans and a red shirt when a quick, sharp knock sounded on the door. Without waiting for a response, Pablo barged in.
"Hi!
" "Has it ever occurred to you that I might be naked?" I grumbled in response.
He pondered for a moment, then said, unfazed,
"No, probably not."
"Think about it next time.
" "You lock the door if you don't want anyone to come in," he shrugged.
"If you want to come in, you knock! And then you wait for the command!
" "You're grumpy, buddy," Pablo grimaced. He settled comfortably on the couch. "I brought you breakfast, you bastard!" He changed the subject. He lifted and rustled the bag in his hand.
"What do you have there?"
In response, he reached into the mesh bag and slowly pulled out a long chain of... sausages. I stared at him in utter astonishment.
"What the fuck did you bring me here?!" I exploded. I could handle being woken up at unbearable hours, and I'd somehow given up on entering without asking, but those sausages were pissing me off. "Is that why I wasn't supposed to eat anything? Fuck off and bring me something normal.
" "You want this job?" he hissed, raising a finger at me. "Eat it!"
I was dumbfounded. This was getting really fucked up! He'd brought me sausages for breakfast instead of the usual, and now he was making our business dependent on it. He was ready to convince me that churning out sausages was crucial to this job.
"How are you supposed to handle the job if you're getting too many sausages?" He spread his arms dramatically.
"But I only have to swallow a couple of capsules the size of candy drops," I protested, and only then did I realize how wrong I was. "These capsules... Why do I think they're not tiny and easy to swallow?
" "Damn, you're so presumptuous.
" "So why did you tell me about the candy drops and nothing about the sausages?
" "Have you ever seen an advertisement tell the truth?" He shrugged. "What was I supposed to do? Come up to you and ask if you can swallow coke capsules the size of candy drops?
" "True, that would be stupid... But...!" Damn, you should have told me sooner!
- When?
- Right away, or at least as we discussed back in San Sebastian.
"And then, of course, you'd agree and everything would be nice and fine and easy?
" "No... I mean, yes! I guess... Damn, I don't know!
" "Five grand," Pablo reminded.
"Okay, I'll manage somehow..." I said, resigned. "Besides, I guess I can't really back out now?"
Pablo just snorted. Apparently, what I'd said was funnier than I thought.
"OK, let's try," he said, pointing at the string of sausages. Looking at him questioningly, I tore one off. It wasn't terribly big—fat, because it was fat, but short as a thumb—but I still couldn't imagine swallowing it whole.
"Where are those teeth?" Pablo reprimanded me. "Swallow, don't bite."
I looked at the sausage doubtfully, turning it over in my fingers. I tilted my head back and, holding it with only two fingers, forced it straight down my throat. I closed my mouth and swallowed. The bastard watched me expectantly. He grimaced along with me. He swallowed hard when I did. His gaze followed my breastbone as if scanning me, his eyes tracking the sausage as it slid downward. When it finally—as I thought—fell into my stomach, when I finally stopped choking as if I were trying to swallow my own hand, I felt relief. Pablo perked up as I breathed a sigh of relief.
"There! I told you you could do it!" he said. "Now for the next one.
" "What?!?
" "Take another one and swallow.
" "We have two weeks!
" "That's your meal plan for today.
" "What?!
You have to eat these sausages today. I'll bring the next batch tomorrow.
" "Put it out of your head!
" "Eat it and don't talk! In two weeks, you'll be so trained that you'll be popping them into your stomach one by one, and I want to hear the splash of gastric juices!" Otherwise, the first pill right behind that little thing will get stuck at the end of your throat and you'll be lucky if you don't choke.
"I still have a nose," I replied matter-of-factly.
"If you screw up my business, I'll shove those sausages up your nose and make sure you choke," he hissed, bringing his face close to mine. "What a psychopath! And I know what I'm talking about, because one knows one's own. But he was scared shitless, because if something goes wrong, he'll pay the price. And me with him. The money keeps coming—and money doesn't come from nowhere. He had to earn his keep. And I—my keep. So I had to swallow my pride, and then another sausage.
Without a word, I tore off another sausage, counted to three, shoved it down my throat, and swallowed it, killing Pablo with my eyes and mentally drowning him in my stomach juices, like that sausage.
***
I was swallowing them without the slightest problem after just two or three days. Two days earlier, I thought I'd die when I had to swallow one; now I was guzzling one after another. Pablo dutifully brought me a new string every day, and I snacked, sitting on the couch or on the balcony.
It seemed all well and good, but I practically never left my room. I snacked constantly, and it made me completely lazy. I didn't want to do anything. Not to go anywhere, not to drive, not even to leave my room. I shuttled between the balcony, the couch, and the toilet. This sausage diet made me nauseous – I could drink whatever I wanted, Pablo would bring me orange soda or beer, but I practically ate only raw, dry, cold sausages. I felt awful and bored, which, combined, was unbearable; one made the other worse.
I casually grabbed the TV remote. I turned it on and stared blankly at the boring movie for a moment—I had no desire to watch it, and I didn't feel like changing channels. I placed the remote on my knee; my index finger hovered over it until it finally landed on the "PR+" button, and the channel jumped up. This happened several times—because nothing I was watching either interested me or moved me. I was about to turn the damn thing off and go to sleep, but "PR+" was closer. And at that moment, something began that would move any Latino like nothing else—even after eating a mouthful of hot dogs. It was called M—a big, fat M—and on top of it, in thin, crooked letters, was "TV." It was music. And a movie, at that. Someone had made a little movie to go along with the music—one with these people singing and acting. I watched, fascinated. We didn't even have a TV at home. We had a radio. And the music came from the radio. We went to the cinema to watch movies. Later, when I was an adult, I saw a TV at my boss's, and once when I was in jail; the guard watched it. But those were movies or other crap. Here, I had movies to go with the music. When one song ended, another one started – and a movie was made for it too. A completely different one, with completely different music. About three girls – one uglier than the other – supposedly work in a beach bar or something, but they actually sing. And they were quite good, although with three voices it's easier to sing because you can't hear how bad each one is individually. But they were ugly. In general, the more I watched, the more disappointed I became. When "La Bamba" came on, I noticed with horror how fat they all were, those guys. Then Carlos Santana, with some young American—you could tell it was Carlos by his hat and his guitar playing—but as I looked at him, I wondered if it was him or his grandfather. The Macarena guys—I didn't think they were such old farts either. Ricky Martin—I thought it would be some guy like me, but here I see some ostentatious faggot. Wait a minute, isn't that the little fag from Menudo? It has to be him—older, taller, but with the same cow eyes and that "Please, punch me in the face" expression. Probably the most disgusting guy since Tino and that "Por Primera Vez" cover—a guy in a white T-shirt, sprawled out like a whore in a window, groping his stomach. But when Ricky Martin stopped twirling and shaking his buttocks and they played something new, I changed my mind—Marc Anthony was the most awful compared to what I'd imagined. A skeleton in pinball, as usual. I was starting to get really angry because Latin music legends were dying before my eyes – they turned out to be fat, skinny, old, or just plain gay.
My mood improved dramatically when I saw a woman for a change—neither old, thin, nor fat. Although she wasn't exactly shapely. With those hips, she could have fathered twenty children. But it was... hmm... alluring! That ass, and those strong thighs! And who cares that she sang to me in English. She rocked it just right. And even though I'd had an aversion to women for a while, I was so taken with this one that I couldn't stop watching her shake her ass and fan those legs. I simply fell in love with her. Of course, I still hated women, and I didn't make an exception for her—but I loved her platonic. For the way she looked, not for who she was. Even if Jennifer Lopez had been a greedy whore or a complete idiot, I didn't care, because I was in love. Head over heels, madly in love. I had palpitations every time I saw her on the channel with the capital M, with that skinny, crooked "TV." God, how I loved her. That is, until they showed Shakira. She swayed her ass again and again—and I was all hers. Those hips! Compared to her, Lopez looked like an eight-year-old girl. And I didn't care that she suffered from the same disease as Jennifer—singing in a non-Spanish language, having bleached blond hair and a non-Spanish name—because I loved her, completely and platonic. I wanted her all to myself, right here, in this hotel room, and to fuck her without a condom day and night, so we could have a hundred children. And when she finally sang to me in Spanish, about how she was looking for a man with beautiful eyes and would turn the world upside down for him—I went completely crazy for her. But why, then, did I, the stupid bitch, show up in some sappy song not only as someone skinnier, with no hips at all, but also with some guy? I wanted to strangle her with my bare hands and wring the guy's head. In despair, I took my broken heart and poured the entire depth of my platonic feelings on Christina Aguilera.
***
When, on Tuesday, four days before my flight, Pablo brought me carrots instead of sausages, I almost threw him out of the room over the balcony. It wasn't that I liked sausages. I hated them, I puked on them, and if I had to eat them longer than Friday, I would have hanged myself with a string of those sausages. But those carrots were too much. I was going to eat the damn thing! Dry! In pieces, of course—but a carrot is a carrot. Corny, hard, and disgusting. We fought over it for a good half hour, and when I tried to swallow a piece and almost choked, I wanted to shove the rest of it into every available orifice in his body and make a few more. He started to placate me, calm me down, tempt me with money—five grand—and finally I gave in. Obediently, I began to let the hard, angular carrot cubes slide down my throat.
On Friday, Pablo finally arrived with the goods, the money, and the tickets.
"Come on," I said, before even letting him into the room.
"Easy," he replied, pushing his way inside. "That wasn't the deal, remember? You swallow the stuff, and then the cash comes.
" "At least show me you have it."
He pulled out a hefty stack of hundred notes and ran his thumb across them, showing me that each bill was a hundred, not a blank sheet.
"Fifty for one capsule. You'll get it if you swallow it," he added.
"It's all hundred notes here. What if I swallow the wrong pair?
" "Then you squeeze in another one, matching the pair, and another hundred is yours. If not, there's no hundred," he said. "So, can we get started? I have tickets for you here for tomorrow morning, so it's time.
" "Is that it? Now? Without warming up?
" "You had two weeks of warming up. Come on, let's go with this coke."
He pulled a box of chocolates from a large plastic bag. Clever, very clever. He didn't have to hide with the sausages and carrots, and if they caught him, he'd lie about being a gourmet. With a hundred capsules of coke, loose in a bag, he wouldn't get away with it. And they wouldn't bother with the guy with the chocolates.
He also put yogurt on the table.
"What's that? A diet for constipation, so I don't shit out the stuff before it's time?" I looked at him suspiciously, raising my eyebrows.
"No, it's a slippery slope, so it's easier for you to get in. "
He removed the wrapper, then gestured at the box with an inviting gesture.
"Help yourself."
I took one capsule and, holding it in my fingers, examined it uncertainly. It wasn't wider than the sausages, nor any bigger. But despite everything, these weren't trials anymore—this was real work. It seemed nothing more difficult than stuffing carrots into my stomach, but this wasn't just a disgusting, dry vegetable—this was coke. If something like that burst in my stomach, I guessed I'd have to have my stomach pumped and then spend a month in the hospital.
"What would happen if it burst there?" I asked out of curiosity, wanting to reassure myself that I might be overreacting, like with those sausages and carrots.
"Death on sight."
I looked at the capsule in my fingers as if it were a grenade without a pin. I was swallowing a dud, ready to explode at any time and for any reason.
"Swallow it, don't stare like a calf," Pablo urged.
I closed my eyes, counted to three, and with a mechanical, practiced movement, released the capsule into my esophagus. It went down smoothly, but I was paralyzed by a fear worse than the first sausage. It somehow got through and sank to the bottom of my stomach; but that wasn't the end. With a trembling hand, I took the next capsule and looked at Pablo, perhaps even more terrified than the last. With each capsule, the chances of something going wrong doubled, tripled. The more capsules I had in my stomach, the more I feared that one—or all of them at once, crammed, squeezed, and consumed by gastric juices—would burst and I would die a terrible death. I forced subsequent capsules down my throat as if in a trance—one after another, with mechanical movements. I stopped even thinking. I simply, like a robot, took a hundred, swallowed the next two. My entire esophagus began to ache, became tighter, and it was hard to breathe. Then Pablo would dip them in yogurt, and they would slip smoothly down my tight throat. Twenty, thirty, forty-eight. Fifty-three. I had twenty-six hundred in my account—or rather, on the table—and then I felt I couldn't earn any more.
"I can't...
" "Go ahead... Eat this and you'll have twenty-seven hundred," Pablo encouraged.
"Fuck, I say I can't..."
I was covered in sweat. I'd put on a bit of sausage in those two weeks, and the carrot diet hadn't really slimmed me down. My belly was sticking out, my stomach was stretched, and I had fifty-three capsules in it—and I couldn't fit any more in. Despite this, Pablo wouldn't budge. He tried to feed me like a caring mother feeds a child—forcefully and against my will, just to get more, regardless of the fact that there was no room left.
"Eat, eat..."
Barely breathing, I weakly argued with him to piss off. I called him a pimp, a whore, and a dickhead, and he called me a wimp, a perjurer, a thief, and a cheat. And he kept trying to convince me to swallow at least that last one. To which I invariably told him to piss off.
"Seriously, can't you handle it?" he asked, clearly resigned.
"What have I been trying to tell you for the past ten minutes?!
" "OK... So you have the twenty-six hundred... You have the tickets, you have the passport... You're flying out at six in the morning, so you better go to bed now. Tomorrow I'll pick you up at dawn and take you to the airport," he assured me, and began slowly walking to the door. "Now, good night, and take care of yourself."
With that, he slapped me in the stomach with the back of his hand. A friendly way—my swollen belly, full of delicate plastic coke capsules. I felt something burst somewhere deep inside. The sharp plastic edge scraped the lining of my stomach. I don't know how, but I felt the white powder spill out and spread throughout my insides. I looked at Pablo with unspeakable horror. I started spitting foam and blood. I stumbled forward, bumped into Pablo, and puked all over him. He pushed me away and knocked me to the ground. I lay there writhing in pain as the puked-up, bloody bastard stood there, staring at me, unsure of what to do. He ran out of the room and slammed the door behind him.
The shaking became more and more intense, but finally I felt nothing.
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