Read Online The Cowboy Bible and Other Stories by Carlos Velázquez - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Carlos Velázquez
Tags: spanish, Fiction, Mexico, Crime, Short Stories, Literary Fiction, Short Fiction, mexican fiction, drug war, Border, Carlos Velazquez, Narcos, Mexican books, English translation, Stories about Mexico, Surreal, Latin American literature, Mexican music, Mexican literature, Mexican pop culture
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of their business on Earth so that they could leave in peace? Not a one. The Cowgirl Bible didn’t either, so she didn’t worry about inquiring, or arranging with her label for the remastering of her work, or leaving as a final request that she be cremated and that her ashes be scattered in the desert by the Estación Marte. She spent her time just sanfernanding, that is, spending some time on her feet, then doing some pacing, all in wait of the biggest villain in el cine de ficheras : the devil.
The omens played out exactly like the saying The pig with the thickest lips will get the best ear of corn. First, there was a scarcity of pot in the state. It was a tragedy of Dostoyevskian proportions because, with their soothing weed gone, the potheads had turned into dangerous creatures of unclassifiable sorts. They were stuck seeking work as mini-golf caddies, pizza-delivery persons, fried-chicken peddlers. Second, the local team fell into a ten-game losing streak. The city was a neurotic chaos, and in each home we saw unchained scenes of unnecessary violence. Third, the idiots working for the city forgot to spray for dengue and the mosquitos went on an epidemiological spree.
As the omens got more intense, the devil’s presence seemed more palpable. But still Satan didn’t appear. And he won’t appear, somebody said. For these kind of gigs, he counted on proxies, gangster lawyers, licensed trinketeers, magicians, flatterers, politicians, conspirators, scribners, tramps, black-market runners, umpires, arbiters, referees, beatniks, pencil pushers, tunicked eunuchs, hippies, etc. As soon as the soul was taken, the devil entrusted the act to a minion. He hated his clients, he bitched that they were all whiners, always asking for postponements. Just like concertgoers, they wanted more, an encore, one more, one more, one more. The Cowgirl Bible just didn’t know. She didn’t realize the agent she’d hired to contract her for a show on the El Paso highway was actually at the service of the Axis of Evil International Company. She had accepted. I’ve had it up to here with hiding from this cabrón, she said. He’s supposed to be thehottest tamalein the world, but he always winds up mocked in Hollywood-style rom-coms. A little show on the border with minimum backup is gonna help me get over so much delirium.
She arrived in Juárez on a Transportes del Norte bus. She watched two movies on the trip. The Devil Wears Prada and The Day of the Beast . From Juárez she hopped over to El Paso. Texas smelled insufferably of plagiarism. When the air smells so strongly of imitation, it can only mean one thing: sulfur. The gossipy sulfur that indicates the devil ‡ is once more among the people.
The Cowgirl Bible knew that establishing herself in the USA was a task for talking machines. Satan’s powers were like those of Corona beer: It was unfazed by borders. Or perhaps as potent as the services offered by UPS (which was suddenly shit too). Evil depends on express delivery. So as not to continue her avoidance, The Cowgirl Bible didn’t move; whatever happened, she would confront her rival. The power of the highest high is the power of the highest high. Here, there, over here or over there, or a little more over here, right here, right right here; there you go, right there. There it was. A perfect place for an altar.
At midnight, she entered the bar with the epic all-encompassing patience of an à la carte menu before it’s even been read. But there was no sign of the devil, not even his gleaming sandals. He was flying the colors of the Mexican All-Stars at a game against Panama in Houston. In his place, and to go on with the show, the devil had sent his top doggest of top dogdom: Steve Vai, who, in less time than it takes to fill a fried-chicken order, challenged The Cowgirl Bible to a razor duel. She knew she couldn’t turn it down. To refuse a dignified death meant, in times of Reformation, to spend all of eternity wandering the
The omens played out exactly like the saying The pig with the thickest lips will get the best ear of corn. First, there was a scarcity of pot in the state. It was a tragedy of Dostoyevskian proportions because, with their soothing weed gone, the potheads had turned into dangerous creatures of unclassifiable sorts. They were stuck seeking work as mini-golf caddies, pizza-delivery persons, fried-chicken peddlers. Second, the local team fell into a ten-game losing streak. The city was a neurotic chaos, and in each home we saw unchained scenes of unnecessary violence. Third, the idiots working for the city forgot to spray for dengue and the mosquitos went on an epidemiological spree.
As the omens got more intense, the devil’s presence seemed more palpable. But still Satan didn’t appear. And he won’t appear, somebody said. For these kind of gigs, he counted on proxies, gangster lawyers, licensed trinketeers, magicians, flatterers, politicians, conspirators, scribners, tramps, black-market runners, umpires, arbiters, referees, beatniks, pencil pushers, tunicked eunuchs, hippies, etc. As soon as the soul was taken, the devil entrusted the act to a minion. He hated his clients, he bitched that they were all whiners, always asking for postponements. Just like concertgoers, they wanted more, an encore, one more, one more, one more. The Cowgirl Bible just didn’t know. She didn’t realize the agent she’d hired to contract her for a show on the El Paso highway was actually at the service of the Axis of Evil International Company. She had accepted. I’ve had it up to here with hiding from this cabrón, she said. He’s supposed to be thehottest tamalein the world, but he always winds up mocked in Hollywood-style rom-coms. A little show on the border with minimum backup is gonna help me get over so much delirium.
She arrived in Juárez on a Transportes del Norte bus. She watched two movies on the trip. The Devil Wears Prada and The Day of the Beast . From Juárez she hopped over to El Paso. Texas smelled insufferably of plagiarism. When the air smells so strongly of imitation, it can only mean one thing: sulfur. The gossipy sulfur that indicates the devil ‡ is once more among the people.
The Cowgirl Bible knew that establishing herself in the USA was a task for talking machines. Satan’s powers were like those of Corona beer: It was unfazed by borders. Or perhaps as potent as the services offered by UPS (which was suddenly shit too). Evil depends on express delivery. So as not to continue her avoidance, The Cowgirl Bible didn’t move; whatever happened, she would confront her rival. The power of the highest high is the power of the highest high. Here, there, over here or over there, or a little more over here, right here, right right here; there you go, right there. There it was. A perfect place for an altar.
At midnight, she entered the bar with the epic all-encompassing patience of an à la carte menu before it’s even been read. But there was no sign of the devil, not even his gleaming sandals. He was flying the colors of the Mexican All-Stars at a game against Panama in Houston. In his place, and to go on with the show, the devil had sent his top doggest of top dogdom: Steve Vai, who, in less time than it takes to fill a fried-chicken order, challenged The Cowgirl Bible to a razor duel. She knew she couldn’t turn it down. To refuse a dignified death meant, in times of Reformation, to spend all of eternity wandering the
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