tempering in the depths

Horror Writing Intensive

Michael Kearns

July 21 2019

TEMPERING IN THE DEPTHS

Schlopp! The chocolate ice cream cone was thrown with great force. Knowing I was the target I ducked just in time. The perpetrator was Ritchie one of my good friends. I invited him to this event, my eighth birthday party. He had a habit though, of initiating vexing practical jokes. As it sailed over my head it landed on the large world globe in the center of the room. The streaks of chocolate and other matter ran down the side table that it rested on. The lasting impression was of the planet was in the center of a cesspit.

This event got my mind to wondering. What’s it like out there? Is it possible to fall over the edge of the horizon and fall into some nether void? Does gravity work that way?  The party progressed as all parties do and life moved on.

As I moved through the scholastic and other benchmarks of life, the thought didn’t go away. What if? My thoughts had a tendency to drift southward. I was helped in this mannerism by the environment in which I lived, Torrance, California. A large Hispanic community lived there and I often engaged in activities with many of the residents. It didn’t take me long to learn to write and communicate in Spanish. By the time I reached college age it was a second language to me.

It is a difficult tendency in the United States to view alien people as lower than dirt. Hispanics often got the crappy jobs from cleaning toilets to grubbing in muddy fields. This didn’t color my attitudes but it did affect my associates.

Richie lived two doors down from me and we were still close buddies. He would often go on hiking excursions with me in the Tehachapi Mountains north of Los Angeles and we ended up great traveling companions

Hernando encountered Ritchie and me on one of our hiking excursions. He regaled us with stories of his native country, Mexico. He lost no opportunity to sport his blue and purple inked Phoenix tattoo on his chest. As our friendship grew, so did our sense of each other’s dreams and accomplishments. Hernando had a habit of telling off color jokes and pulling pranks. Little did I know how deep it went or how it might affect events to come.  The day finally came when Hernando suggested we visit his native land. I rented a car from a reputable company in El Cajon, a suburb of San Diego. It came with insurance against mishaps that can occur under Mexican law. This was a first level preparation on entering a land where things can go muy loco! 

We entered at Calexico and headed south to Otay Mesa on the northern edge of the Baja California peninsula. The draw was the word that wild parties could be indulged in there. It soon became obvious why specific insurance was needed. The road was substandard and would not have passed US standards. There were twists and turns that caused many a close mishap. We were pitched up and down, side to side and forward to backward. Hernando was ecstatic with the ride and whooping and hollering the entire stretch of highway, treated it like an amusement park ride at Disneyland. Soon the situation changed from the relatively level ride experienced. “Pendiente pronounciada por delante” (Steep grade ahead) loomed in signage with a downward inclined red arrow.  The slope began gently at first as beautiful estates with manicured hedges and flower gardens appeared. The breeze was sweet scented with an almond flavor. The people on the sidewalks appeared happy with colorful dress and called out cheerful greetings as we passed. Hernando called out to every senorita in sight and the favor was returned by several young ladies.

The neighborhood segued into light industrial park style offices. Most were of the cleaning services type. We soon noticed, upon closer distances though, the passerby belied the advertized vocation of the businesses to us. Many were moonlighting second jobs. Beneath the cursory aftershave the reek of taco sauce and flatulence permeated the air.  As the descent progressed it became obvious about the source of those odors blue neon signs advertising Two for one taco joints selling cerveza, Modelo and Dos Equis for drinks predominated.

Peepshows were advertised under garish blinking red arrowed signs. When we stopped for cerveza, Hernando showed a surprising side. He struck up a loquacious conversation with many a proprietor and some customers. It seemed to be more than casual as he showed intent of interest regarding PEMEX and its purpose in that neighborhood. Some of the questioning appeared to be furtive in nature. He cast furtive looks about even at us, his amigos.

Fortunately I had researched PEMEX, the Standard Oil of Mexico before traveling. I learned that not all dealings were as pristine as overtly advertised. Many a borehole was used to dispose of bodies of those who offended the drug cartels. Also, a network of tunnels was constructed that ran through all of northern Mexico. Drug runners called mules plied these conduits like maggots crawling through a rotting corpse. The predominant, in fact the only, cartel in the area was the Sinaloa Cartel led by Joaquin Guzman (El Chapo)  Sinaloa State lay to the south and east of our present location in Baja California Norte state. To get there one had to cross the dried up mouth of the Colorado River and head south through Sonora State. Sinaloa ran north to south like a vertical twinkie half the length of California. The cartel was run out of the Capitol, Culiacan in the center of the state.

The Guzman cartel ran the area with an iron hand. When present, ordinary citizens stayed well away from Guzman, crossing the street on recognition. “Ahi va el monstruo” (There goes the monster) was a common saying under ones’ breath. Guzman wreaked havoc on any disloyal subordinates and their families. If one had their Achilles tendons cut to prevent mobility, they were getting off lightly.

His deeds spoke his demeanor and it was noted by many that he made “Tratar Con el Diablo” a deal with the devil. It was not hard to believe such statements. The story goes that Guzman was approached by a Dark Man with a wide black sombrero and an even wider grin who made him an irresistible offer of wealth and more importantly status. No offer of consequences was made for the long term but there didn’t need to be. Such a deal was innately and instinctively understood and agreed to by both participants. His neighborhood of origin wallowed in the depths of poverty and the desperation there can fuel such motivation. 

As we passed PEMEX headquarters, we were appalled at all the information Hernando related regarding Guzman. It appeared Hernando had an admiration of Guzman.  Richie and I became a bit wary of him, but young as we were we had an attitude of tolerance and “soldiering on.”                                                                                                         Suddenly it appeared we were entering the realm of purgatory. The scene was no longer of businesses but a residential neighborhood. This was called a barrio by many. You could tell by the noise that a line had been crossed. Boom box vibrations rattled the car windows and contemporary American rock and rap music pervaded the atmosphere. Mariachi music with the beat of castanets kept rhythmical accompaniment. Latin countries, not just Mexico love to hold dances in the main plaza and most Latin countries have one.  Against my better judgment I stopped the car at Hernando’s request, A few pesos in the hands of small ninos ensured passable security. Many a young senorita was calling out “queres bailar conmigo?” (Do you want to dance with me?) He was drawn to that request like a moth to a flame!  Soon all of us were dancing in the central plaza and having a great deal of enjoyment. This couldn’t last and it was not long before some natives appeared disgruntled at the gringos mingling in with the women. A number of gang associates sometimes crashed the street festivals and committed atrocities fueled by drug money. In many instances La Policia could not be found and there was nothing to stop the frightening proceedings.

 Sometimes a piñata pole was set up in a central area and the heads of victims were fastened to it with chains and were bashed with a stick. These proceedings were established as rites of passage to erstwhile locally recruited gang members. The heads were left in the area for days. The stench brought in flies and other noisome pests and signified an object lesson for offenders. As it appeared we were instigating problems, we beat a fast retreat back to the car. As we proceeded out of the area a full riot began. Any disorder like this was an open invitation to pickpockets on a minor scale and muggings on a deeper scale. Looting began in some of the shops and a shower of rocks pelted people and vehicles in and on the streets. We were not unscathed as two side windows were broken.

As we drove rapidly out of the area, nether horrors began to appear.  We soon arrived at the central court plaza to which all roads led. A series of burn barrels ringed the area. Residents were drinking cocoa and warming their hands over fires lit in the barrels. The season was in the fall and the air was quite chilly.

Dia De La Muerte, the day of the dead, was not far off on November 1 and 2. The holiday occasion originated in Maya and Aztec tradition thousands of years ago. It was picked up by the Spanish as soon as it became an occasion to control the interests of the people. The original intent was beneficent in nature as a remembrance of departed loved ones. However, the cartels wasted no time in corrupting the process. The area where we were now reeked like a combination bacon processor and charnel house at times when the cartels performed their dumping operation Bodies of their victims were stuffed in the very same barrels as here and burned. After 3 escapes Guzman was captured in 2017 and extradited to the United States. His successor Ismail Zambada Garcia, alias “El Mayo” currently ran the cartel with the same depravity and was reputed to be in the area.

Hernando was conspicuous by his more recent absences and this worried Ritchie and I. Hernando soon returned from a visit to the local cantina and brought us some little candy skulls and other local knick knacks attributable to the coming holidays. He also brought some pulse, a fermented drink made from the Agave cactus After trying some Ritchie and I started feeling quite groggy. The last thing we saw was Hernando’s triumphant grin as a curtain of darkness descended on us.  The next several hours went by as we slowly recovered from an obvious doped kidnapping. I soon confirmed with Ritchie that we both had black cloth bags with air holes placed over our faces and hands tied. Hernando had joined a confederate who commanded the car and we settled in for a long drive. It soon became clear that we were headed to Culiacan, a 120 mile drive further south. When we questioned the reason for this treatment we were told by Hernando that Garcia wanted to see us. We needed to pass a test to be employed by the cartel. We eventually arrived at the headquarters ranch of Garcia and were separated to different rooms like lambs to the slaughter.  Piercing shrieks came from the direction Ritchie was taken followed by an ominous deathly silence. Soon Garcia entered the room with a wide grin indicating he had gifts for me. He presented me with two packages. Upon unwrapping the first package and appropriate signage, Ritchie’s head appeared. The flesh had been steamed off and a sugar coated substance covered it in entirety. “Su comida” Your food, Garcia indicated. The second object appeared to be a large football. “por tus juegos” For your games, Garcia mentioned. The football had a predominant purple and blue inked phoenix inked into the hidebound covering.  As I quaked with terror at the fate of my friends’ Garcia explained the situation. Hernando was an ally of the cartel who was on the lookout for those considered “gente rico” (Rich people) in the United States. However, he suffered the fate of a traitor as an object lesson to me by being skinned alive and having his hide used to construct a football. Ritchie’s fate was a reminder that a close friend can be taken from you in a flash.

With this “lesson” learned Garcia led me to my car and provided gasoline and a driver to take me back to the United States. Instructions were clear. Replace Hernando or suffer the same fate. The drive was long and made in numbing horror at the results of our sojourning. The atmosphere was accentuated by the corpselike stench of the tuna catch wafting in from the Gulf of California. Finally, I reached Calexico and it was a pyrrhic relief to cross back into the United States. It was influenced, however, by the realization that the cartel’s reach extended throughout the United States. I turned in the rental car, thanking what Gods there were that the insurance covered all the damages. I retrieved my vehicle and made my way home.

Guzman was incarcerated at the “Supermax” maximum security prison at Florence, Colorado. As the days passed, I nurtured some hope that the course of events and dislocation of formal leadership might change the power regimen of the cartel, affecting its effectiveness in the United States. I looked forward to a new day the next morning. I poured a glass of orange juice, Reached for the morning paper and looked forward to a rare sunny day with clear blue skies. 

Aieee! When I saw the newspaper headline everything changed. There was an earthquake which hit the Florence Colorado area the previous night. The Supermax was hit with a temblor at 7.1 Richter. The prison was leveled. The prisoners who were kept in virtual indoor pits which resembled dry swimming pools were the only ones to avoid destruction. El Chapo was free again for the fourth time!  

I hurriedly made plans to evacuate to areas I had discovered in the mountains while hiking. As I loaded up on survivalist gear and provisions, I reflected that sometimes evil gets the upper hand in life. That reputed Dark Man from so long ago reached out from below and freed his most faithful disciple. God help us all!