Read Online Bad Juju & Other Tales of Madness and Mayhem by Jonathan Woods - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Woods
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knife into his mortal flesh before he could cry out or draw his revolver. He lay bleeding to death in the dusty byway. I thought of the dead goat lying in our yard that other time just before we were born.
That was the first.
Thank you, Raymondo. I just tried to recapture the moment.
How many?
Between the five of us, I’d say three hundred fifty, mas o menos .
Remorse?
For what!?
They were all enemies of our stepfather. Every one of them wished him harm. To snuff out his life, steal his wealth, cut off his manhood and cram it down his throat, bask in the adoration of the common man.
Payback? Yes. I guess in the end that’s what it was.
My lips are dry. Raymondo’s assistant holds a glass of water to them. I take several sips, counting the moles on her largely exposed breasts.
What happened was this:
After kidnapping us from the beach in Acapulco where we were frolicking in the waves with our girlfriends, a rival crime cartel held us prisoner for three days. They kept us in a windowless latrine. We stank to Hell and back.
When Don Silvester refused to negotiate, they did it quickly. I don’t blame him for that. If you negotiate with scum, you’re finished.
Inside the bag I could still hear everything. But I couldn’t see. The ride from Acapulco to Ciudad de Mexico was long and stifling.
The kidnappers burst into the private top-floor lounge of Don Silvester’s nightclub in the Zona Rosa .
“You’ve no right to enter here,” Don Silvester’s voice boomed with menace. “If you’re police, show me your badges.”
To which the killers replied:
“We don’ need no stinkin’ baggezz.”
Then they threw open the two burlap sacks. And out rolled our five severed heads. My four dead brothers and me.
Very funny, Raymondo. But there’s no voodoo involved.
I wink at the studio audience.
I’m here today because of a miracle of modern science.
Truly I’ve enjoyed being on your show, Raymondo. I hope you’ll have me back, God willing.
Adios .
The audience breaks into a fierce round of applause. The studio band slides into Raymondo’s theme song. Two lab-coated attendants set my head back on the life-support machine and push me behind the curtain.
Ideas of Murder in Southern Vermont
May 20th is a good day to begin cutting the grass.
— Old Farmers Almanac
May 20. Ray, decked out in a faded Batman T-shirt, stands in comic book chiaroscuro, half in and half out of the dusky tool shed. The air is redolent with wood rot and grass cuttings. A robin struts across the greensward, a bushwhacked earthworm dangling like a miniature intestine from its beak. The sky is as blue as the eyes of a madman.
From the corner of his eye, Ray catches movement in the kitchen window twenty-odd yards away. A hand pulling aside the lace curtain. Baby blues peering forth. It’s Gillian.
Too late to fade into his lair, Ray stiffens. The screen door swings wide and Gillian emerges onto the back porch. An apron disguises the skimpy details of her sundress, ordered from the Victoria’s Secret catalog. Her reddish hair hangs in curlicues to her bare shoulders. A tropical fruit color taints her lips. Harlot , thinks Ray.
“Your lunch is on the table,” she calls.
He waves at her, pretending he can’t hear, his ears sealed with wax. His lips twist in the rictus of a smile. She smiles back at him. Fake as false teeth.
“I’ve got to go to the supermarket and the hairdresser’s,” she announces.
When Ray doesn’t respond, she turns back into the house. Behind her receding derriere, the screen door smacks shut.
Stepping into the dim interior of the shed, Ray reaches down and gropes for the fifth of Old Crow hidden behind the gas can. Gasoline fumes slither up his nose like a flesh-eating amoeba, bringing a wave of nausea. He takes a long pull from the bottle. He knows that Gillian knows what he’s up to.
After a second drink, Ray hoists up the waist of his belt-less khakis, reties the leather
That was the first.
Thank you, Raymondo. I just tried to recapture the moment.
How many?
Between the five of us, I’d say three hundred fifty, mas o menos .
Remorse?
For what!?
They were all enemies of our stepfather. Every one of them wished him harm. To snuff out his life, steal his wealth, cut off his manhood and cram it down his throat, bask in the adoration of the common man.
Payback? Yes. I guess in the end that’s what it was.
My lips are dry. Raymondo’s assistant holds a glass of water to them. I take several sips, counting the moles on her largely exposed breasts.
What happened was this:
After kidnapping us from the beach in Acapulco where we were frolicking in the waves with our girlfriends, a rival crime cartel held us prisoner for three days. They kept us in a windowless latrine. We stank to Hell and back.
When Don Silvester refused to negotiate, they did it quickly. I don’t blame him for that. If you negotiate with scum, you’re finished.
Inside the bag I could still hear everything. But I couldn’t see. The ride from Acapulco to Ciudad de Mexico was long and stifling.
The kidnappers burst into the private top-floor lounge of Don Silvester’s nightclub in the Zona Rosa .
“You’ve no right to enter here,” Don Silvester’s voice boomed with menace. “If you’re police, show me your badges.”
To which the killers replied:
“We don’ need no stinkin’ baggezz.”
Then they threw open the two burlap sacks. And out rolled our five severed heads. My four dead brothers and me.
Very funny, Raymondo. But there’s no voodoo involved.
I wink at the studio audience.
I’m here today because of a miracle of modern science.
Truly I’ve enjoyed being on your show, Raymondo. I hope you’ll have me back, God willing.
Adios .
The audience breaks into a fierce round of applause. The studio band slides into Raymondo’s theme song. Two lab-coated attendants set my head back on the life-support machine and push me behind the curtain.
Ideas of Murder in Southern Vermont
May 20th is a good day to begin cutting the grass.
— Old Farmers Almanac
May 20. Ray, decked out in a faded Batman T-shirt, stands in comic book chiaroscuro, half in and half out of the dusky tool shed. The air is redolent with wood rot and grass cuttings. A robin struts across the greensward, a bushwhacked earthworm dangling like a miniature intestine from its beak. The sky is as blue as the eyes of a madman.
From the corner of his eye, Ray catches movement in the kitchen window twenty-odd yards away. A hand pulling aside the lace curtain. Baby blues peering forth. It’s Gillian.
Too late to fade into his lair, Ray stiffens. The screen door swings wide and Gillian emerges onto the back porch. An apron disguises the skimpy details of her sundress, ordered from the Victoria’s Secret catalog. Her reddish hair hangs in curlicues to her bare shoulders. A tropical fruit color taints her lips. Harlot , thinks Ray.
“Your lunch is on the table,” she calls.
He waves at her, pretending he can’t hear, his ears sealed with wax. His lips twist in the rictus of a smile. She smiles back at him. Fake as false teeth.
“I’ve got to go to the supermarket and the hairdresser’s,” she announces.
When Ray doesn’t respond, she turns back into the house. Behind her receding derriere, the screen door smacks shut.
Stepping into the dim interior of the shed, Ray reaches down and gropes for the fifth of Old Crow hidden behind the gas can. Gasoline fumes slither up his nose like a flesh-eating amoeba, bringing a wave of nausea. He takes a long pull from the bottle. He knows that Gillian knows what he’s up to.
After a second drink, Ray hoists up the waist of his belt-less khakis, reties the leather
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