Behind the Mask

      This story was written for @F3nix's Finish the Fiction Story Contest - Week #13. Each week, he posts a beginning script of a story, then asks that the participants write an ending and post it on their blog or in the comments. He rewards three of his favorite endings with shares in the Steem Basic Income program and splits the SBD payout with the
honorable mentions. Grazie, F3nix!

      Now, on to the story...

Little Jazz and Lot of Hair in New Orleans

What the fuck is doing a punk-rock band like the Tortillas de Pelo – a bunch of idiots who think a jam session is a type of orgy –in New Orleans, the homeland of jazz? You won’t believe it, but this is the simplest part of the whole story.
There’s no doubt that the Tortillas play like dogs. The fact is that "play like dogs" is still too euphemistic to describe the kind of noise that this band of demented produces: a concoction between an alpenhorn’s bellow, played by a crack whore, and the fornication of a pigeon with a dying elephant.
The only consequence can't be other than their chronic broke-ass status.
The money made in Saint Judas was drying up faster than their beer reserves and they quickly needed an idea, before their musical independence was jeopardized. In case the band couldn't self-sustain anymore, the alternative would have been to go back working as clerks in the filthiest sex shop of all New York, property of a third cousin of Machete.
That’s why - in front of the chance of a payment that, for once, was not limited to the booze during the concert - Mendoza did not hesitate to sell the Tortillas as refined jazz musicians and to conclude an engagement for a wealthy cocks’ private party in Louisiana. This was not before having sold to the organizer, a certain Madame Laveau, a whole amount of references, later confirmed by an old alcoholic xylophonist in debt with Mendo for a couple of favors.
After all, what did it take to learn a bit of fuckin’ jazz? They would have had plenty of time during the long trip aboard their rusty van to try something.

The Chevy left The Big Easy behind, spinning along Interstate 10 as a suppository stuck in a well-oiled colon. Mendoza stood thoughtfully at the back of the van, laying his back on his Marshall tube amp and using a tangle of wires like a pillow. From the window, the monotonous landscape did not show much of the bayou beyond the trees, beckoned only by a group of herons.
The singer thought back to that absurd weekend, all those hours of travel just to be thrown out from the sumptuous farmhouse immediately after their first song "Spiderman has hemorrhoids". He did not understand: the arrangement in a jazz fashion should have worked. Fortunately, they had not left empty-handed from that party of pricks. Machete had stolen a strange mask that had all the appearance of being ancient and very precious.
In fact, readily resold in the French Quarter, the mask had yielded them a nice nest egg. Everything that had happened after the sale of the object was very confused in his mind and had to do with Cajun boudin and cracklins, sailing in rivers of Brandy and Gin. He also remembered anatomically confused female details and, in the chaos, the blissy and sweaty face of Tres Culos, who was watching him clinging to a huge seventy-year-old-heavily-made-up lady like a lemur to a baobab.
He smirked… this was part of a true punk-rocker’s life, too. The fresh air filled the van and laid a regenerating feeling of unrealized adventures on his tired face and... fresh air?!
"Tìo Billy... for the dangling Jude’s nuts! Tell me that TC is there in front close to you"asked the singer, his voice imperceptibly trembling.
"What the fuck are you talking about, Mendo? Isn’t he there with you, farting as usual? " In answering, the drummer's voice had lost courage and momentum while something was becoming clear even for a Machete in the grip of his obsessive-compulsive riffs: Tres Culos was missing.
The sound of the nailing Van recalled a moan. The same prolonged moan that, at that moment, not far from the interstate 10, filtered through the basement of an old ruin among the cypress trees of the bayou.

      It had taken the better part of the day for the Tortillas to track down the woman who had purchased the stolen mask. Their knocks and banging on the door of her stately house went unanswered. The others were deciding what to do when Machete took a rock, proclaimed an unconvincing "Ooops!", then smashed it through a window. They all looked to each other and silently agreed, it was like that when they arrived.

      The lavish house seemed empty and Mendoza was about to head to the upstairs when a familiar moan filtered from below. Quietly, the three searched for the doorway to the basement. Finding one, they descended, listening to the groans and waiting to be caught trespassing. In front of a wall of masks, they stopped, they'd found TC. They wished they hadn't.

      He was nude, thrusting his flabby ass up and down over a lithe dark haired woman who was cooing in his ear. Both wore masks. Their humping stilled at the retching noises that the three couldn't contain. Jumping to his feet, Tres Culos' voice cried out happily, "Amigos!" He pointed to the naked woman as she stood and crossed over to the wall. "Not bad, eh?"

      Before his disgusted, and secretly impressed, friends could respond, the woman's voice, smooth as silk, spoke. "Thank you. That was all that I needed. Now," her hand held out towards TC, "give me back my fertility mask."

      "Yeah, keep your tits on." The naked man removed the mask and tossed it to the woman. "Wait. Fertility mask?"

      Removing her own mask, she smiled at TC darkly, her teeth looking like fangs. "I wear it for my Loa, Ayida. So that she'll deliver unto me a beautiful blessing. Little ones to keep me company in my web." Her face began elongating, black and yellow markings flowing across her skin. From her torso, four long, hair appendages unfolded. Their pointed ends stretched and flexed as the four men watched in stupefied horror!

      The room went silent. The Tortillas de Pelo and the revealed spider woman completely still.

      A sound of a wet trombone over a 1000 Watt amp cut through the silence. The fart, and the accompanying smell of rotten eggs with a side of pork skin that had been baking inside Tres Culos' rectum, smacked the staring Tortillas out of their frightened stupor. Panicking, they bolted for the stairs!

      Once they hit the main floor, Mendoza snagged a blue piece of clothing from the neatly folded pile on the table and threw it to TC. "Cover your huevos!" Machete protested loudly as they leaped off of the porch steps for him to cover his backside. He was going to puke if he had to keep seeing his band mate's naked hairy ass!

      They all piled into the van, Tìo Billy revved the engine and peeled away from the curb while the doors were still open. Eyes averted, they cursed at Tres Culos for getting them into shit with crazy bitches. The panting man ignored them, using the cloth to wipe the sweat from his balls. Looking down, his face blanched. "Fuck!" He jerked open a window, chucked the terrifying thing outside and ordered, "DRIVE FASTER!"

      Tìo Billy didn't ask why. He pressed the pedal to the floor, thinking longingly of the bottle of booze he had under his seat.

      The bright blue onesie flopped to the pavement as the van sped away. The cheerful white lettering upon it meant to adorn a little bundle of joy.

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Thank you @Omra-sky for my sweet Squirrple Necklace separator!Main image via
pxhere

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art and flair courtesy of @PegasusPhysics

SquirrelWorld by @Omra-sky. Thank you!😻
GIF by @Omra-sky. Thank you!

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Thank YOU for reading!