Christmas Evil: An Excerpt from the Agoraphobic Travelogue by Richard Tater

Dec. 24th - The Other White Meat

For several minutes the pig wailed, its voice growing more horse to the last death rattle. It took about five minutes for the poor bastard to kick. All the while, a group of young men looked on at the spectacle, making jokes with a satiated glee in their eyes and voices.

That was last night at sunset. This morning the fly covered remains were hanging off the Reverend's shed as he finished up butchering the meat for its various uses. Several dogs were fighting over the spilt entrails, their snouts covered in viscous blood and goo. MERRY CHRISTMAS PORKY. I really enjoy bacon, loin, chops, ham and other choice cuts of that healthy "other white meat", but I'd have to admit there's a soft spot in my heart for the little snorting porkers. I'd be hard pressed to bang one in the head with a .22 cal., much less hold it down and stab it in the fucking heart -- keeping it pinned to the ground while it screams and squirms. Oh well, as long as the entire DEATH CO. discreetly does my killing, I'll continue to consume the swine, the bovine, and anything else they'll bang, hack, and plasti-package.

Christmas. Once again the great consumerist skull fuck is upon us. Even in this third world hole the great whore of Babylon is spreading her fecund gash and raining meaty blood upon the innocent, jungle cherubs. Electricity came to this village around three years ago, and with it immediately followed the great manipulator, DAS TUBE. Television, with all of its myopic marionette fumblings for all the little goodies that the wide eyed kiddies can blindly grasp for, has hit this vil' and many others like it around the "developing world". But, here in the jungle there is a refreshing element of scorched Earth to the consumerist festerivities. Fireworks, rum, cocaine, animal slaughter, roving bands of candle-lit Catholics doing their Tom Slick audience style prayers through the streets, fire and brimstone preachers crying the name of Jesus into the largest P.A. systems they can rent from Belize City, random acts of drunken violence and lots of fucking (especially little girls). Following the big dance tonight many an unpunctured hymen will no longer be intact. Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration. Many of the young ladies broke them while riding a bike. (Yeah right!)

Speaking of young ass and slaughter, the good Pentecostal reverend who whisked young Porky into the great beyond has several young daughters. I came across one of them yesterday. I had left my shack and ventured out to the Madre-Padre shop around the corner to pick up my daily bottle of local brewed cane swill. As I approached the store, I saw what appeared to be a short petite woman in sexy canary-yellow lingerie. I knew it couldn't be the shop keeper or any of her daughters, because they are all rotund and have a striking similarity to the bug-eyed, 1940's character-actor Peter Lorre. As I stepped into the shop, the little lingerie model turned my way. She was in full whore-style make-up and appeared to be very flat chested. I got closer and noticed that this slatternly dressed little thang couldn't have been more than ten years old. I was looking at a KP wet dream in the startling flesh. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I don't swing that way, even where it is legal and tolerated. She passed by me and took notice of what must have been a rather puzzled look on my mug. As she stepped out the door, she gave me a haughty "in your dreams buddy" kind of look.

I watched her sashay down the dirt road, then turned toward the elder, female Peter Lorre impersonator and asked, "What was that?" Her round, wretched mug had even more than its usual level of disgust, and in her pinched English she explained to me that the girl was one of the Reverend's daughters. Long story short, the good father went a little nutty after his wife kicked it, ironically from complications due to a snake bite, and he's rekindled the fires of his marriage with his pre-pube' daughters. The lord does indeed work in mysterious ways. The town and the congregation are obviously in the know of his pedophillic-incestual dalliances, but as I've been told before, for the exception of the brotherhood of mutual fellatio, they're very tolerant here of peoples' sexual peccadilloes. No fucking shit. When I heard from the Ol' Man that they like 'em young 'round here, I thought that they could wait for a little hair to sprout -- following that old maxim "grass on the playing field . . . PLAY BALL!" Looks like the men, even the Rev., follow the addendum to the maxim "that sometimes you have to play on a dirt court."

Peter Lorre's Latina sister made some comment pertaining to men being pigs and not being too selective in their breeding habits, pluggin' away at any port in the storm. I looked at her eight months pregnant, squat, beast-uglyness and merely smiled and nodded in agreement. I wondered who was the horny bastard in that little coastal town that jumped off the fishing boat with a wad of coke money in his hands and choose her as his DNA receptacle. I thought Popeye and Brutus were some desperate rutting bulls to slug it out over Olive Oil's skeleton love. Next to this bitch she's a TEN and a fat bowl of grits, although, with every drink of this 80 proof piss, I think I understand that desperate man and his senile urge to penile purge. I just don't think the good folks at the Cuello distillery in Orangewalk Town could steam out and charcoal filter enough liquor to take me to that level.

Dec. 25th - It's A Wonderful Death.

Six drunk "fishermen" (read: "cocaine runners") are sitting at the picnic table in front of my shack. Machetes, several bottles of rum and probably a bit of blow running through their "strength in numbers" kind of hearts. Continually I'm the topic of conversation. Machete chops on the table and ticklish laughter at the end of stories that involve my demise. MERRY CHRISTMAS AND GOD BLESS EVERYONE.

It's almost admirable how they spend the Christ Child's birthday around here. I just wish I could watch it happen to someone else and not be the target. I guess these pricks couldn't get no ass at the big dance last night, so if you can't fuck that breed-power-mantra has to go somewhere . . . KILL THE GRINGO!!! These pent-up, galled little gallo's are probably still pissed about my little altercation and macho freak-out at the bar down the road. In country three days and I wind up in a brawl over some coke-whore. I prevailed with a little help, okay a lot of help, from some "cane cutters" i.e. "pot-growers" that I was hanging with. Unfortunately, they're not here right now. It's going to be a waiting game. These dicks will run out of blow and coke-courage before I run out of canned food. And, if they want a piece of my ass, I got six .38 special hollow points, one for each of them, if this rusty pistol I borrowed can still shoot straight.

It's two hours later and the shit-bag convention is still going strong. They've stopped using soda pop as a mixer. They're now cutting coconuts and using the milk to cut the rot-gut. How quaint. It's nice to see they can use their machetes for something other than making Picasso faces out of the tourists. I love this fucking place [sarcasm]. The dead-flat-green-glass Caribbean, so calm mosquitoes can breed in it. Swaying palm trees that drop coconuts onto the tourists with the random lethal infrequency of lightning strike fatalities. Bugs and poisonous reptiles straight out of an Indiana Jones flick. Rickets ridden kids beating spindly dogs and polo swatting chickens (pollo polo?) as they fly by on bikes stolen from touristy San Pedro. Well water microbes that keep the system lubricated and constantly flushing, and the dread, gold-toothed smile of the local "elderly" females who are considered spinsters by the ripe old age of 18. This place does age the women pretty fuckin' quick. The old men are amazing. Unless, they're total drunks, they're in better shape in their fifties than I've ever been in. The women are fat, toothless cows by their early twenties. Shitting out kid after kid once they start bleeding doesn't do the body good.

I'd have some pity for them, but just like respect garners respect, so does empathy. After a couple three weeks of being called Gordo Gringo (fat white boy), I feel like brushing off the complete un-P.C. English vernacular and all of its hateful potential. But, I'm too big for that, well, at least in my idealized written world I'm too big for that kind of "hate-speech". Maybe I should use racially charged expletives, because, as Rex Church (the head of the Portland hub of the Church of Satan) told me over an angry cup of coffee (while we discussed the taboo subject of using such cutting verbal delectables as "Kike", "Spic", "Nigger", etc.), "Dick, I'm not a racist, I just prefer to give my anger no boundaries whatsoever." I'd like to give my anger no boundaries round here, but I'm not rich enough or packing enough fire-power for returning one of their "gordo gringos'" with an untethered retort of "ignorant, toothless, brown person". If I did that, it would make me a racist. But not them, they're just getting a little payback for several hundred years of oppression. Hey, sorry if we spoiled your jungle nirvana with our murderous, white ways. I wish we could have left you alone to your heart-ripping, eviscerating, Mayan ways. If we're going to hate each other let's find more creative ways of hatred. Skin pigment is such a benign reason to channel laser pin-pointed anger at someone. Hate me because I'm a condescending, pseudo-intellectual snob. I'll hate you for being a brain-dead toad acting on gross impulse and accepting the answers to life's most minimalist questions from an incestual pederast of an idolater and/or the local government stooges who are growing fat from incomes simultaneously derived from the "war on drugs" and drug money.

On a similar tangent, a friend of mine that I played music with a couple of years ago, besides being well traveled, a fantastic musician, a talented artist, and banger of many women, was (and probably still is) rabidly hateful and ever so slightly racist. I wondered how a man could see the world as he did, living abroad all over the globe for a decade, and come back even more the ugly-American. Three weeks in the place and I can see how easy it would be. Xenophobia, fear and hatred of the "other", especially an outsider, is probably the way of the world; a constant in the collective subconscious, something akin to shaking ones' head from side to side as a universal sign of disapproval.

Well, looks like the young-turk-turds are getting bored of waiting for me to show my face. They appear to be heading back to the bar. Color me a piss-colored stain of coward if I'm not going to fight six machete wielding, coked-up drunks, especially on Christmas morning. If bravery is my pureed ass being sent back for a closed casket funeral, or at best facing multiple murder charges in a Central American judicial system, then I'll choose cowardice.

More Yule-tide spirit: I was supposed to head inland to Chunox to spend Christmas day eating freshly murdered chicken with the Ol' Man's extended, Belizian family, but a tiff between his angry, young wife, her fat, cunting sister and sour-sow of a mom made us remain on the coast. Well, it will be canned food, cheap booze and solitude for the holidays, just like back home. Welcome to the third world. At least here the liquor stores and bars will be open. Can't say that for the USA. Nothing more depressing than having that family-get-together spirit foisted upon you when you're already flat-lined in the beta wave department and ready to head down to the nearest large grouping of sheeple and play a little game of murder/suicide.

Speaking of suicide, I took a trip out to get my bottle and some corned meat food product and found out the scoop to the renewed hostility toward me. At Peter Lorre's store I rapped with one of the few gringos in the area, an expat Brit S.A.S. soldier. Apparently there was a little shooting at the same bar where I had my little tiff. A local who was "house-sitting" for an American who has a little "import business" was about to get slammed by the same group of "fishermen" who fucked with me. Not having a yoked and coked crew of "cain-cutters" around him, he took the classic wild west approach. He pulled two pistols and tried to shoot his way out. Unfortunately, he didn't kill any of the macho shit-bags. He just scored a couple extremity shots and a grazing throat shot. After arresting the shooter, the local fuzz, aided by a lovely group of US trained and supplied "war on drugs" thugs called thunder-fist, power-punch, or some other cartoonish WWF name, raided the gringo's "vacation home". They confiscated two-thousand rounds of pistol ammo. While seeming innocuous enough, this unlucky foreigner of a fuck doesn't have a weapon's permit, and it's a $500.00 (Belize) per round fine. Do the math kids, that's a cool Mill' for a weapon's violation. No Second Amendment or N.R.A. here. So much for this dude's "vacation home" and "import business". Goes to show that you better choose the right people to house sit for you and lay down some good ground rules, "Eat my food, drink my liquor cabinet, fuck my young maid, but whatever you do, don't shoot the locals with my guns. Okay?"

Turns out there's a heavy anti-Gringo vibe following the gun-fire, and the little cadre of coke boys were hoping I'd leave my fortified shack, so they could continue the world wide practice of xenophobia, scapegoating, and reduced stress through random acts of violence. I didn't come down to Central America to get killed by an angry group of Latino coke thugs. I can have that treat in my own beautiful, well paved, drive-by nation, and get a decent cheeseburger as a last meal.

Just 39 more days till I get back to convenience culture, if I don't join Porky.

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