Finish the Fiction Story Contest - Week #12

Meat Festival in St. Judas

"Mendo, d’you know where you can stick your fucking sense of adventure next time?" Tres-Culos, bassist of the Tortillas de Pelo, broke the silence suddenly in his usual volcanic style.

Mendoza, continued to observe a mummified bug, relic of past winters, stuck between the window and the cracked sheath of the old Chevy van. He was about to reply when a burp of Tres-Culos banished the words from his mouth, making the interior of the van rumble with an echo-like effect between the cardboard walls of the vehicle.

For a fraction of a second, Machete stopped the chord progression of his new-born piece - somewhat way too similar to Ramones' “Do not Want to Grow Up” - and he cast a sardonic look at Tres-Culos. At the wheel of the Chevy, Tío Billy was a monolith in a leather jacket and Tom Ford.

After all, TC was right, the journey through the glacier was a bad idea. The members of the punk-rock group had come out with their bowels well tangled and the alpine vegetation, more than relaxing them, made everyone feel like sugar cubes dipped in a glass of viscous absinthe.

At least, now the van was sailing calmly through the grassy sea of that mountain valley.

Mendoza thought back to how they had ended up accepting that unusual engagement and how unlikely it was that the mayor of a small village, nestled in the middle of the Alps, could have paid them handsomely and in advance to perform at the "Meat Festival".

They had accepted without asking too many questions. Only God, or someone else in his place, knew how much they needed a healthy injection of money and he was tired of recycling picks from every piece of fairly stiff plastic.

Meanwhile, Tío had nailed the old Chevy in front of a crossroads, undecided on which way to get to the village of Saint Judas, their final destination.

From the dusty window, Mendoza's attention was captured by a roadside shrine. It contained a simple painting, representing a lady dressed in a blue tunic and with open arms. On closer inspection, the madonna showed an awkward bright red skin. "Almost skin stripped" he thought, increasingly immersed in the picture. The protruding black eyes of the figure were pointy and vivid blades, thus contrasting with the pale, expressionless faces of the faithful kneeling around her. Only the noise of the Chevy starting to climb the mule-track broke the hypnotic observation of that strange religious representation.

The vehicle was trudging for a good hour through an anaconda of endless hairpin turns. Machete was almost interrupting the arpeggio to complain about the roadmap’s delay, when finally the village of St. Jude was revealed to the band's eyes. A myriad of small houses proliferated under the geological anomaly called Butcher’s Hook, a mountain whose top was bizarrely bent over itself, casting a perennial shadow over the village.

"I will need a steady and uninterrupted supply of booze tonight" Tío Billy solemnly noted.

My entry:

The van cruised through St. Judas during the twilight hour. The streets were empty. Not a soul stirred for “Meat Festival”. In the center of the village sat a gothic beer hall. Tortillas de Pelo would be playing their final gig here.

“Where the fuck is everybody?” Asked Tio Billy half to himself.

“I don’t know? If they hadn’t of already paid us a bunch of money I’d say let’s get the hell out of here,” said Mendoza.

Tres-Culos burped again and laughed. Only no one else joined in the fun.

“Keep the van running Tio,” said Machete.

The band Tortillas de Pelo sat in the van trying to stay warm with the heater on, and the engine running. It didn’t take long before the sun went down. Then, as if on cue, the streets were crowded with young beautiful people all dressed in black. A white fist knocked on the window.

Tio Billy rolled the window down to a handsome face greeting him.

“You must be the band! Perfect timing. My name’s Constantine, I’m the mayor of St. Judas, are you Mendoza? We spoke on the phone.”

“No, I’m Tio Billy, he’s Mendoza,” Tio Billy said pointing to the passenger seat.

“Hi Constantine! We’ve had a long drive and enjoyed the adventure. We’re ready to rock the Casbah. Where do we setup?”

“OK. Rock’n’roll. Let’s go. Just follow me,” said Constantine.

333

Tortillas de Pelo killed it. They were playing their music, and got inspiration from the sensation of the crowd. The alcohol flowed. Sexy women adored them. Laser lights filled the room, as the smoke machine injected misty vapor along the floor. Mendoza, Tre-Culos, Machete, and Tio Billy all felt euphoric and wished this gig would never end.

And they continued the punk rock symphony that energized the large room of the gothic beer hall.

As the midnight hour drew near, Tortillas de Pelo got the signal to take a break, and Constantine took to the stage.

“Are these guys great or what! Everyone, give it up for Tortillas de Pelo!” Constantine yelled into the microphone. The crowd erupted in cheers and applause. As it died down the mayor continued, “with Easter right around the corner, we now must celebrate our Meat Festival in a time honored tradition, so without much ado, the moment we’ve all been waiting for, the reenactment of the crucifixion of Judas!”

The crowd roared again, even the band gave a cheer, only Machete seemed puzzled.

“Don’t you mean Jesus?” he asked Constantine.

Constantine laughed and the audience got quiet.

“Jesus didn’t get crucified. Judas did. I know because I was there.” And Constantine smiled revealing his pearly white fangs.

Tortillas de Pelo cried out in pain as each member of the band got nailed to a cross. The vampires reveled in the moment and got drunk on their alcohol infused blood.

Thank you,

Cyrus Emerson

Fear and Loathing in the State of Jefferson
https://read.amazon.com/kp/embed?asin=B079R5KLPN&preview=newtab&linkCode=kpe&ref_=cm_sw_r_kb_dp_GsURAbAVDYNEM

The Clash – Rock the Casbah

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