Covadonga

WIP

Diluvio by @James Worth

Bichiyal by Bad Bunny feat Yaviah played.

Bodies.

Bodies, and lights flickered.

Colors.

Colors of music slithered, and tickled them all.

It vibrated.

Bodies, lights, colors.

A prism, the body a prison, they figured they’d dance through it all. Mist, thin. Dry.

Tacky on skin.

Hair flipped, hair tied, pulled.

They sweated. Trapped in a sea of bodies. A rabbit farm fuck-fest unfolded like legs too loose to stay crossed.

Dank must of perfume, sweat, alcohol, pheromones, and smoke tainted the air.

Hips with hips, conjoined. She bit her lips. They were lost in the back and forth, the swaying—one ship in the rough open sea.

Hot juices flowed to every extremity.

Each pulse a pound. A swing. A pulse, his mouth, his hand, her hips. Strobes.

The strokes, his eyes, her lips, lights, and swings. She could feel his piece, he could feel her peace. Shoulder, hip-dip, swing-pull. Thin strings being pulled as the star lights pools below, as above all across the tapestry that held the planets arrayed; the dance floor winked with each jump.

Their eyes held by the invisible bridge of energy that ran straight from their stomach. Could he be more than a one night stand? How can you tell?

You want to dip out?, as he danced. Say yes, baby. I shouldn’t be out. Whatever, I ain’t scared…

What?, she heard him. She turned and parked it up, as she looked back at him, and pressed some more. Letting go made her feel pleased, soon to be satisfied, she hoped. Please, God, let this one be a good one for me.

Un Hijo en la Disco by Jowell y Randy feat Casa de Leones started to blast through the speakers.

Buy me a drink?

He heard her crisp and clear. Eyeing the floor. Spotted the bar. What do you drink?, he raised his voice, and lightly grabbed her elbow. She likes feeling his touch on her skin.

I don’t drink beer, papi. She ground on him, jean on cotton skirt, everything up a la Lazarus. Blood flowing. She felt him, that isn’t metal. Hairs on end her skin tightened.

Ok, I’ll be right back, he smirked.

Her stare followed him as he swam through the crowd, and ran her tongue over her bottom lip, and took a soft bite.

Thin purple beams cut through the haze. Moving head lights locked in-on a man that twerked. Laser beams changed from purple—to blue washed walls—to white thin lines; the fog machine blew its clouds across the floor. Right in the middle, next to the corner, below a set of cage lights, the island-bar is set with a huge display full of bottles, their glass, all with different textures, thickness, their shapes all varied, much like the people there present.

Drunks, druggies, daughters, drags, dudes, they all flocked and hounded on two bartenders, a bid for attention, for sweet liquid pain erasing agua mixed with syrups, or juices, with soda water or liquor; spirits for the spirit.

Can I get two Don Q with a splash of scotch and bitters—I want two whiskeys—What is it that I’m drinking?—Can I get a um—the shaker shook, the ice chilled the shaker in the bartender’s hands, she took and expedited the orders as swift as the men that sneaked their heaters inside their companies purse—the walls washed green. The bartender scoped the bar—her attention stopped on a man with a fitted cap, a cuban links chain, shaved, full tattoo sleeve, and two diamond earrings; strobes.

Strobes froze each move.

Hands. Hands shook hands. Bags. Plastic bags. Fingers rub back-and-forth. Pink dust. Blue bills.

One woman screamed. Futile. La Ocasión by De La Ghetto feat. Arcángel, Ozuna y Anuel AA started to rumble.

They moved towards the VIP section. Bottle Girls, ranged from petite to amazons, all types of bodies, some with cocks bigger than yours. Some of the most obnoxious, look-at-me- pube flossed pricks mingled with sharks.

Numb throats, and locked jaws, eyes wide—Guess how much I had in my account this morning after I looked at my portfolio?, inquired some douche to an Ukrainian Bottle Girl, jet-black hair, with the grief of a thousand deaths hiding in the corners of her smile; sublime not in the vanity of her physical beauty, no, sublime in the way it waved and rippled, the way it engulfed you in its waters and crushed your chest with the beauty in its sadness. One more year for this nightmare to be over, mused the Ukrainian. Another Bottle Girl, Yuli, Venezuelan, had a whole group of football players—there for some charity event or some important unimportant money funnel contest disguised as a cause worth championing—under her spell. Liquid poured. Men got hard, grabby, entitled.

Mist—laser lights shot through everything and everyone—Black fit cap, man, not drinking. Full BBL on the face of the man with the dead stare, her curves drew in looks, his attention displayed in how he scanned the crowd. He smacked her ass, and continued to scan. Xavi, Xavi… let me catch you lacking, sato… , he wished, cock half hard. In that pool of flesh, the woman he came in with, adjusted her cinched dress as she moved, and made her way to the bar.

Get me a French 75 and a Manhattan with Rye, ordered the man with the heart that beat inside his jeans.

Rocks?

Hard.

Neat. He looked back to see if she’s looking at him, and she was, but he didn’t see her, couldn’t find her.

Rye whiskey stirred in the glass, a copper swizzle stick held by well-formed photogenic hands, micro tattoos on her fingers, her brown hair up in a checkered claw clip. She looked at the man’s lips—Nice kisser, bet he’s cheap—her way of listening, she read lips. His were full, two drinks, nobody’s with him , she noticed—vigorous shakes of gin, ice, and simple syrup shake in the shaker—the tattoos, her hair, the neckline, nose piercing, fox eyes, her lips. He felt warm soft flesh press against his back, two arms shooting around his ribs, they roped him in a tender embrace. The bartender asked, 75, Rye Manhattan up? I want tequila now. Hurry up, papi. I love this song, her cotton skirt riding up. Esclava Remix by Bryant Myers played.

Shorty with the piece in her Gucci purse approached the bar, her dress, one of one, appeared to have been sown on her, gold, heels, black hair up, green eyes, a birds mouth, with a nine millimeter nose.

The bartender handed the drinks.

Name on the card?

Xavier Cintrón.

Xavi el ‘Potro’, as they called him.

The room blinked.

Piss on the floor, one motherfucker with bleeding nostrils did rails to later get railed for more rails in a never-ending disgusting cycle of get-fucked.

You got Zelle?, some ginger kid with soft skin asked.

Bitch I ain’t sellin’ books, boy. Where’s ma fuckin’ cash, boy?

Bathrooms—a liminal space of shit, they attract all kind of shit: junkie-shits, lying-ass-shits, brokenhearted shits, an appropriate place for all shits to convene; you can smoke, shoot, snort, snack, suck, stick—up your ass—shit, and also shit, f’course, all sorts of shit, one universal place; the fiend wondered if Heaven had bathrooms. Gingerbread boy ran out to the dance-floor, panicked: his peepers sucked in and overfilling their sockets at the same time.

In the VIP , the only man not drinking sparked a blunt, coconut, five grams. People around eyed the man and whispered. Pendejos , he thought, itching for shit to go left. Where the fuck is this sopla-bicho? I know he’s finna be here. Pulsing lights, thumping music, sultry bass and the thudding kick of the drum-machine gave a beat and a counter to the coddled soft-serve white boy with red hair: he moved through the horny sardines crammed together, lubed in sweat and hubris.

What the fuck is up, hijo e’ putas?, animated the host. We get it in or what? It’s ladies night, all night,baby. Hit our oasis bar and get the alcohol flowing ‘cos we ain’t slowin’ down any time now. Nope, not tonight! Happy Hour’s done but we got Rum Punch—ALL NIGHT— fifty-cents a cup, don’t say we don’t wanna get you fucked up. You’re welcome, and with that the host blended back with the atmosphere.

We’re going on a brief intermission, said the DJ blending in another song into the mix and cranking up the volume: Diluvio by Slick La Mina played.

Back at the bar, the man grabbed his Rye Manhattan and handed the French 75 to his newfound shortie. Jade eyes with the gold dress recognized Xavi, but not the candy next to him. She clutched her purse. Xavi recognized her.

Sup, it’s been a minute, Xavi voiced to Green Eyes.

What’s with the fluff? You know they lookin’ for you.

Na, ma. It ain’t like that. The way I see it, I ain’t gotta do shit if I don’t fuckin’ want to. If Indio’s got something’ to say ‘bout that his dick ridin’ ass knows where I stay at.

Green Eyes, put her left hand on the purse’s zipper, fingers like spider legs, still.

Papi, who the fuck’s this bitch? Who the fuck are you talkin’ to my man like that? You got me fucked up, hollered Xavi’s fling.

Girl step your corny-ass back. You don’t want none of this, threatened Green Eyes. Step the fuck back you nosy, ratty hair, plastic filled cheeks looking-ass ho’. One group of four girls shuffled their eyes from Xavi to Jade Eyes and said something in each other’s ear; nervous.

Bitch this ass’s real, grabbing a handful of cheek, Lemme tell you sum’. I don’t know who you are but I know that if you don’t get the fuck out my face Imma rearrange your face real quick, baby girl. Xavi stared at the woman’s purse while his new guard dog barked.

Say less. You looking fly, tho’—fixed on Xavi’s thick gold link chains. New frost on the wrist? You DO have big balls. I gotchu. Green Eyes stepped to the side, the piece shuffled along a YSL lipstick, condoms, phone, keys, a bag of tusi: and not breaking eye contact with Xavi, Xavi’s girl not breaking eye contact with her; Xavi scanned the crowd as they navigated their way out, his eyes darted from person to person lookin—Indio. Fuck. Rising from his lower back up his spine, he felt it flow up behind his neck, legs turned stuffed soft like pillows. He took a sip of his drink and a shot of confidence when he remembered the tool on his waist. Indio hadn’t seen him, yet. Just a matter of time until Green Eyes made her way with the news and her drink. Throwing hands, his best bet. No way Indio could go punch for punch, not with Potro, his knuckles had knuckles. Sound technique, too. Indio wouldn’t give two shits. He’ll just take his piece out and blast whoever, wherever, whenever.

Let’s get out of here, said Xavi grabbing his girl’s hand, the bartender watched the whole thing. What, papi, don’t lose your sleep over that ho’ back there. Yo’, I said: let’s get the fuck outta here.

Ight, papi, chill, her voice hardened. Don’t talk to me like that. I ain’t like them other bitches.

Come on, let’s go. Paying no attention the ginger ran straight into Xavi and his girl, knocking her French 75 on her blouse. What. The. Fuck! Are you blind? Who the fuck runs in a club? , argued the woman. Xavi lost no time and lunched a heavy right straight to the ginger’s slit for lips, blossoming them on impact. Yes, that’s my man…

Fridays, the only undying tradition, doesn’t matter what you do, just go out spend and consume, doesn’t matter the occasion, you don’t need one. Blow your hard earned bread on the obscene birds of night.

Caging his heart, ribs contained the exhilarated organ that pumped massive amounts of its liquid, it escaped his arms and legs and went inwards: he could stay and fight or he could run and keep looking over his shoulder. At his feet the man he just punched lay ass flat on the floor, doe eyed, brain toasted—what Xavi avoided, getting toasted is not it. Shit, what am I doing? Why Am I so pathetic? Dad’s definitely going to cut me off. I don’t want to die… Ight, baby. Why don’t you go to the restroom and dry yourself up. Papi, but—Melissa, I’ll take care of this clown. Xavi pulled an unbothered smile, Go.

Just shoot me a text when you’re out if you don’t see me right away. Some stared at the scene but getting checked isn’t worth the headline. Hesitating—she looked at him with honey in her eyes, sighed, and walked to the restroom. Once there she touched up her make up, dried what little hadn’t already turned into a sticky patch, doing lines in front of the mirror, a white girl spun herself out, observing the white smoke turn into a horse. Xavi clenched his drink, his ear thrummed with an acute ring he knew nobody else was hearing. He shrugged his shoulder, crunching his ear lobe, covering his ear hole, once and then again. Pulling his phone out, he sent a text to his people. People you don’t text unless you’re sure of what’s happening next.

Hounds can smell blood from miles away, so do sharks, a predatory instinct that builds up, creativity injects it with life, and it runs without learning to walk—because it doesn’t have to; death as a means of survival is an art: it is how it’s always been: Indio’s attention snapped to a ginger on the ground and the frozen wrist of a—Hijo e’ puta. Gotchu! Indio pulled his phone out and texted:

Today 12:36AM

potro’s here

12:38AM

gettim some melatonin $

That is all he needed to know. All he had to do: wait for Green Eyes. Bouncing her ass, her friend kept close to Indio, skinny jeans, open toe beige heels, baby blue open back laced top. Days before her and Green Eyes were stripping at District 14, they’ve known each other for a few years now. Neither could remember the exact time frame. Truth is their friendship is but one of the many quid pro quo’s that go on day to day basis, the transactional nature of relationship’s not lost entirely in this generation, Sin Panty María by Jowell y Randy played. Xavi loved Jowell y Randy, Indio too; they’ve been together to many parties where they rapped live, perreo of the nastiest order, how it’s meant to be.

He knows where he is, the grave can always wait. Indio grabbed BBL’s waist and with calculated rhythmic hip movements he mounted her, his face serious and focused as when hammering down whoever is at the end of his sight: his dance partner hinged at the waist jiggling her huge truck with a sassy smile, her eyes clouded with controlled desire: Green Eyes made her way back.

Un Hijo en la Disco

Pick a renaissance painter: debauchery worthy of being immortalized: brush strokes—textured in all types of fabrics, colors, oil or acrylic all under the roof over the canvas floor linen. Fogged, the space between the bar and the VIP got thick—Fuete Billete started to perform 100. The crowd howled, some girls fainted, others started their plans to capture the rappers attention.

Indio kissed Green Eyes, hand on her plump glutes.

You know who I just saw, right?, she asked, swaying side to side. Clocked him. He alone?

Nah, responded Green Eyes, Some trashy bitch’s wit‘im.

And?

Fuck her. Spray her too.

This shit’s fire, reacted Indio to Fuete Billete, I didn’t know they were finna be here today. Bet this motherfucker thinks he’s finna sneak up on me.Security made its way to the VIP and stopped in their tracks when they saw Gemelo, who you know as Indio. Let me catch that purse’o yours, he grabbed the purse, one of the players felt the shift in the air long ago, he watched. Those palestinians in the cah are finna get fired tonite, thought the football player. Although a professional footballer he still felt the need to prove something: knowing how to recognize the cues he picked up on Gemelo: his rising anger and laser focused attention towards the dance floor—he knew that motherfucker isn’t thinking about no dancing. With a second wind of delusion, the ginger got on his feet. Everyone ignored him, he isn’t even on Xavi’s radar. He looked for the dealer that sent him running in the first place.

Aaahhh!—the Ukrainian shrieked—Pig, I do not want to touch the dick! I am not prostitute. Security! Indio lost sight of Potro. Space stretched for Xavi, the exit—somehow farther than what it should, Melissa could find her way home, just call a ride, she’ll be ight. Ay, you going somewhere, boy? Frankie, Keys they called him, and that he had—both white and city connections. I heard you were gone, boy. Guess you’re back, huh? Yeah, listen I ain’t got no time—Bullshit, boy, come'ere. Ya’ know I always gots sum-sum on me. Got that Gargoyle. I’m good, old man, dismissed Potro. Good? The fuck does that mean, boy? Let’s have a drink, don’t get to see ya’ errday. Keys, listen: I ain’t fuckin’ around sato, and I wouldn’t be talking all that jazz ‘bout carrying crap when you ain’t in yo’ turf, “boy”, he advised as he pushed his hand on Fank’s chest. Franky swallowed what felt like a gallon of warm saliva. Ok, take it easy, young-blood.

Brucey and Gilbert, the bouncers, paced towards the bottle girls. Indio studied the floor, he opened the purse and took the LCP MAX out, nobody noticed—tucked in his waist, under his shirt. Green Eyes took the purse back, Gemelo lunged to the depraved man not far from him, He’e take this, throwing a wad of cash that scattered when it hit Gilbert’s chest, raining down on the floor. Brucey—about to call it in his radio—No, stop. There’s no need, right?, Gilbert kneeled and picked the crumpled bills off the floor. Indio snatched the perv by his shirt. What the hell?, asked the girl that called security. Alvaro Díaz came out and performed Gastar with Fuete Billete. What’s your name, babe?, Gemelo looked at the Ukrainian. Vyktorya. Ight, Vyktorya we’re finna get this loser to cough up some coin, you good with that? A tax for being a pig and shit. What cha’ think ‘bout that, bitch? I’m talking to you, bitch, smacking the white man straight across the face—Vyktorya squirmed seeing the impact on the man’s face, it aroused her—sending his glasses flying across the section; synched with the bass each smack seemed to be part of the song. The man sobbed, trembled, could barely stand, and pleaded: Come on man, I didn’t do nothing. How Am I even supposed to control that, I mean look at her. All over me, it’s just a natu—Indio smacked him again, the bass thuds, Shut the fuck up. Run ya’ shit, the people around dispersed, a men couple pulled their phones and recorded. What? Bass thuds. Indio smacked him again, this time with his right hand, his mouth bled, empty your fuckin’ pockets you fuckin’ goofy. Phone, wallet, keys, a dime bag of snow with a Gargoyle sticker, no passcode on the phone or any app, one-thousand dollars cash in his wallet, the keys to the car is easy enough but motherfucker’s address is written on the keychain where his house key is at. Take your watch off too, bitch. Here you go, babe—he handed her the phone, cash, and the watch—you won’t be seeing this piggy ‘round this parts, you can bet on that. Green Eyes drilled a hole with her stare in the Ukrainian girl’s face. Up to the lights the Gargoyle dime bag shined silver, Scales. You got this he’e right?

The footballer’s gaze lost trace nor step, it zeroed in on him, Indio felt it, he is in somebody else’s end-zone.

Get the fuck up. Come on, demanded Gemelo and grabbed him by the arm, like a child that’s broken the neighbor’s car window to get in and steal their radio. It isn’t normal, him being alone that is, Green Eyes didn’t count if it is time to throw down, which is why they always hung out in droves. No point in a tribe if they’re going to be alone, but he loved the thrill. Didn’t even see it as a challenge, he is too cocky, in his head he’d never met an equal. Anybody could get it. Case in point of why without his knowledge a troop moved to bring the storm in aid.

Distracted by the music, Melissa moved from the restroom towards the stage, avoiding both the VIP section and her potential man. Cotton skirt swayed, her Bordeaux red thong peeked from time to time, tree trunk legs of a volleyball player. Beach volleyball, she played back in the day. Ditched the sport kept the stamina and the legs. Olatokumbo, Kimby for short, good at everything he did. Not that it made any difference when you consider being good at anything means shit, might as well consider making pro sheer luck. Didn’t notice when Indio hid his hammer. Swarms of sweaty people lost track of time in the trance—filled to the brim with bodies, they begged them to perform Aceitao’ and they did. Goosebumps spread across the whole club, the fuckin’ bass. Urine leaked from Ginger-man’s soft hiding penis, as if it with a cold, fuckin’ bass. Where’d you get this dime?, asked Indio, he stared at the Gargoyle sticker, Goliath stood tall cool as fuck, he remembered liking the cartoon show back as a child.

Potro displaced himself through the mist, lights flashed, washed his face in neon, LED’s, gel, phone screens, bobbing-heads swinged between their shoulders joints, loose, thoughts silenced, booty juice soaked underwear; Indio clenched the baggie in his fist: Who…; Keys held a Rum-Punch in each hand down at the bar, he would’ve brought some arm candy if he knew Fuete fucking Billete and Alvarito were going to be live. Easy money, thought the old man, I ain’t gotta ask for no fuckin’ permission .

what if this mo’fucker’s trynna squeal. He moves, looking for Potro. Melissa as well. Her head replaying Green Eyes words. Rather have your mom’s cry over you than mine over me., thought Potro. Indio’s sixth sense feels the stare gnawing the back of his head, reacting with a glance, startling Kimby, whose quick peek at the man’s windows sent a shiver up and down the back of his body, taking a sip of his drink a sweat drop breaking down his jaw line runs cold, his whole mental picture editing live right then and there with jagged cuts with a tilted-off angle—the walls wash yellow, Breathless. Godard with a Gaspar Noé fever dream inducing live rip on a rig, thousands of feet above the sea level—nosebleeds.

1:45AM

we out here

Xavi sees the text, and Indio: not too far from a good spray to get his brain juice running. Slipped and pinched in between his cock and the belly button, resting, the Beretta itched to get stuffed to then vomit its wisdom into whoever’s body dared question its knowledge.

Placing his drink on a high table he kept walking zeroed in on his target, noticing Green Eyes; Fuete Billete bumped in the back, muffled, in one swift move one hand pulled an extended magazine from the back of his waist the Beretta straight out lined with his chin, tight movements; everybody under the lights kept in trance music lacing the movements to the atmosphere the atmosphere holding hands with the cosmos spinning in an orbit of violence—bodies are violence to the spirit, spinning: clicking the clip in.

A swarm of corpses yet to be so, dozens and dozens of blinged and soaked sweating peoples heaving breathless with their hands up in the air as they jumped on their toes not feeling gravity, clad from designer ware to fast fashion rocked like chairs with splintered wood tearing fabrics with skin and muscles behind jeans sullied from the day before and the alcohol warmed their faces, orbitals orbiting and circulated in the cosmos inside Kronos bowels lit by LED’s and gels or strobes striking ears thick with synths or drums crashing or hi-hats and rolling bass notes rumbling like empty stomachs full of rum or tequila or whiskey no water or crumbs to soak the spirit or base to stand and energize the planets that clashed moving across up and below the bellowing high that tempered an energy channeled through a string running in connection to all heads there except the hyperaware or not aware enough Xavi raising his iron fire breathing cannon roaring with a point five second squeeze of his index: spitting seven rounds dispersed and tilting the gun five degrees up, Bad Bunny’s La Romana started bumping ending Fuete Billete’s set and the flash of the gun lit and froze the trembling faces and the bullets deviated with a push coming from the shooter’s back one round gracing Indio’s head from behind landing on the center of the diaphragm of a man celebrating his daughter’s birth, the spared man’s attention snapping like a wire, second and third round ripping fat and flesh: tearing and lodging in organs of nobodies that somebody loved, a horrid craze slapping their heads into a reality not theirs but fragmenting in a framed collective mosaic of bloodstained tops and panicked zombies tumbling and splatters with splashing spats of gushing blood from throats, chests and chin struck with round five breaking into bits with most squatting in Vyktorya’s cervical vertebrae: slashing inside the throat splitting cartilage and windpipe her reaction etched in Gemelo’s memories forever—swishing his head back watching the wave of bones wrapped in clothes-covered flesh falling and stomping over each other: they screamed, their pulsing adrenaline shooting in all directions a: raaaaaa—of one whole second pressed and breathed in as a burst of fourteen projectiles rocketing in the web of carnage and the necks nicked and eyes blown and cheeks and skulls shattered: walls, lights, speakers and panels on the roof above the undulating crowd as they fought to escape.

Indio ducked. Clocked Xavi—who dropped the emptied clip and merged with the chaos.

Not before a roar of his own caught Keys in the legs and a woman—pregnant two nights before the night she met her demise not knowing she carried a life other than her own. Strobes froze the chaos. Lights kept the show rolling. Smoke from guns and machines spread. Bashed-head and stomped lay the ginger faced down on the floor wet with blood, spilled drinks, piss, shit, sweat, saliva, fear, hope, a love for life: soaked. Xavi ran. Green Eyes body was slumped on a bean bag like chair. One eye less. Kimby pushed out. Close to the entrance. Xavi tagged behind his back. Melissa waited, Please, be okay. Outside was no better.

La Ocasión by @James Worth