buy. The splendor of my new abode would be such to even dazzle the most jaded of aristocrats.
After departing work, I returned to this temporary home, listened to a scratchy recording of Rossini and studied the atlas, closing my eyes, imagining where next I would call home.
Iwould have my revenge. After retrieving my fortune, Jenkins would watch in horror as slowly his skin was peeled off his quivering skeleton, the chest ever so slowly torn open, his heart ripped from his chest, his life blood squeezed into my mouth from a heart beating its last.
Catemaco was found in my atlas as the Italian maestro reached a stunning crescendo. Yes, this tiny pueblo on the Gulf of Mexico, just south of Vera Cruz, seemed perhaps a good place to lose oneself; Jenkins would never suspect the visitor he was about to entertain.
It seemed an easy task, thanks to the typically excellent and thorough job by my former aide-de-camp, Bob Johnson. Simply travel to this quaint little pueblo and seek out the local witch doctor who would direct me to my quarry. Travel expenses would eat up much of my savings, but this seemed quite the clever investment. Quite clever indeed.
****
I have been too long away from the tropics, too long exiled in the deadly silent, lifeless wasteland calledWisconsin . Strolling through the jungle surrounding Catemaco, jolts of electricity coursed through my body, the sweet scent of mammoth flowers wafting into my nostrils, along with the musk of all that hidden life. A jaguar screeched, monkeys shrieked, macaws squawked, toads croaked and a thousand insects clicked, chirped and whistled. This symphony of life filled me with the indescribable vitality of all that impending essence out there just for the taking.
With my first step inside Catemaco, my boot sank into the mud of what was considered a street, a waterlogged quagmire in a place that apparently possessed no knowledge of cement, asphalt or even gravel. Six blocks was the mere extent of the village. Above, a lone electrical cable snaked from one end of the pueblo to the other, satisfying Catemaco's modest desires for power, a strong contrast to the insatiable hunger back in theUnited States . There, high tension wires connect the vast gulfs separating communities, mounted upon those ubiquitous steel structures so much like the persona of those poor souls crucified in ancientRome . This procession leading from community to community has always reminded me of the accounts of how the Romans had lined the entireAppian Way with crucified Spartans. Indeed, all roadsdid in fact lead toRome !
Darkness had descended prior to my arrival. Most of the inhabitants seemed to have retreated into their modest casas, built from sun-hardened mud or sod, roofed with tin or palm thatching, the occasional corrugated steel abode a sign of wealth and status.
A loud crash drew my attention to a nearby cantina. Silence, then a shouted exchange: one low, gravelly voice,"Pindejo!" and a high-pitched reply,"Chinga tu madre," then a cacophony of smashing furniture and broken glass, leading undoubtedly to the spilling of blood.
Bloodwould be spilled tonight, but not that of these peasants, fighting over insignificant insults that would surely be forgotten on the morrow. Blood would be spilled because of this insult to me: that someone in my employ could take my fortune, rob me of my livelihood and force me to serve others like a common mortal.
The sounds of the fight inside the cantina faded from my hearing as I focused on the sounds from the jungle creatures rising in the night, fighting their ongoing battle to survive, killing merely because it is what they do.
Ahead stood the Catemaco's only church, its spire majestically piercing the blackness of night. The Catholic church was my marker, for so often theBruja lives next to the church, being a religious as well as a medical leader in any given community.
Without seeing the church, the bitter scent of datura, along with the smell of garlic and a dozen powerful herbs, said the lovely hacienda next to the church was the place I sought. An immense shrub bearing several brilliant white-trumpeted flowers of datura sat before the abode. I smiled ironically at how beautiful the flowers were, yet how badly the drug had been misused by those unfortunate miscreants. Surely, they would exist today had they been instructed by this, or any,Bruja instead of that dangerously deluded vampire whom they had called father.
This was not a rich person's hacienda, but with its stucco sides, corrugated steel roof and the