3:AM Magazine

By Joseph Ridgwell.

A strange dislocated place located way down in southern Mexico, in the heart of Maya country, on a wild and remote stretch of coastline pounded relentlessly by the mighty Pacific Ocean. The secluded beach was home to a scattered community of ex-pats, mostly old hippies who had settled there in the early seventies, and a small yet vibrant nudist colony.

Billy and George were holed up in a couple of makeshift bamboo huts nestled high on a jungle-clad cliff at the western end of Angel beach. They had named them, The Huts of the Lost Elation. They had no amenities, running water or toilet but the views were devastating.

One afternoon Billy was looking through a pair of binoculars. George was swinging in a hammock and supping from a bottle Dos Equis.

‘The money situation is getting serious,’ said George, between swigs of beer.

Billy remained glued to the bins. ‘How serious? Geez check out these tits!’

George grabbed the bins and zoned in. ‘We’re down to our last three hundred dollars. Nice baps, pert and no hint of sag.’

‘Three hundred, where’d the rest go?’

‘Fuck knows, but we need to do something to remedy the situation. Look at the arse on that?’

Billy grabbed the bins. ‘Any ideas?’

George drained his beer and gazed out to sea. Blue skies stretched away forever.

‘We take Pedro up on his offer.’

Billy dropped the bins and eyeballed his friend. ‘Hacienda?’

‘Ten thousand will be enough to get us to South America and continue our travels for another year at least.’

Billy watched a lone cloud float across the horizon. The cloud was quite remarkable in its own way. Anyway just the mention of the word South America always put Billy in a dreamy frame of mind. It reminded him of revolution, Che Guevara, and carnivals.

‘I don’t want any violence.’

‘I’ve got it all figured out. One of us let’s him suck our cock, while the other two look for the money.’

‘Suck your cock you mean?’

‘We toss a coin on it.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘It’s a small sacrifice to pay.’

‘When do we toss?’

George pulled out a peso. ‘Now.’

As the coin tumbled into the air Billy watched with an air of despondency. George always won such things; he had a magic aura about him and was born under a lucky star.

‘Heads,’ he whispered glumly.

And of course heads it wasn’t.

The two young Englishmen met Pedro in the Green Lizard. They sat in the deserted beach bar drinking beers and discussing the job in hand. The plan was simple. Jonathon was a rich British Queen who had retired to a secluded hacienda close to Angel beach. The rumour was that he kept a stash of around ten thousand dollars hidden in the farm at all times. According to local gossip there was a safe in one of the bedrooms.

Pedro was the most excitable of the three.

‘Si dis cock-sucking business is good idea.’

‘That’s right Pedro, and while gayboy is otherwise detained we take the money.’

Pedro rubbed his sweaty hands together and his black eyes sparkled with greed. ‘Si, is spoken. Once de money I drive joo de border. In Guatemala joo safe.’

Even to Billy, a natural pessimist, it seemed straightforward. Nobody knew their identity, where they came from, or where they were going. Travellers arrived and left Angel beach everyday. They would be just another couple of gringos disappearing into the sticky Mexican void.

That night Billy and George returned to their cliff top abode and lay swinging in hammocks. The sky was an alluring midnight blue and several luminous stars twinkled and shone.

‘Shit, somehow I don’t trust that Pedro character,’ said Billy into the night.

George lit up a huge weed joint that glowed yellow and then red.

‘Neither do I. That’s why we go tooled up, make sure he doesn’t get any funny ideas.’

‘And then there’s the blow-job aspect, what if I can’t go through with it?’

George handed Billy the huge spliff.

‘Just think of your first love or those fabulous breasts you saw on the beach today.’

Billy took a long, slow hit from the joint. There was a moon out and Billy could see its face smiling down at him. Nothing matters, he told himself.

The next evening George and Billy met Jonathon in the Spaceman Bar. As usual Jonathon was half-cut and camping it up.

‘Oh, boys, lovely boys from the mother country, come hither,’ he gushed.

‘How’s it going Jonathon?’ asked George.

‘Splendid, splendid, the moon is out, I can hear the ocean’s roar and Miguel makes the finest cocktails this side of Terra Del Fuego. Now what would you like to drink, on me of course?’

‘Oh we couldn’t let you pay for our drinks, that’s an outrageous suggestion,’ replied George with a grin.

Jonathon cocked his eyebrow. ‘Now boys if you think that’s an outrageous suggestion, let me tell you the story of the Octogenarian and his Filipino manservant, now that really was an….’

George raised an arm. ‘Easy, Dos Equis, no lime.’

‘And for you, baby?’

Fuck, thought Billy, he hated it when Jonathon called him baby.

‘Same, plus a shot of Hornitas.’

The odd trio sat drinking at the bar, making small talk, and laughing. Jonathon regaled them with tales from the past. He’d made his money on Wall St, in the stock market, hedge-funds, money-broking. George and Billy figured he was telling the truth, but it made them wonder. This burnt out fairy was living the sort of life they could only dream about. To them it seemed like a waste.

After a couple of hours George made his excuses. He had a date with a Swiss girl on the beach. ‘The girl wants to swim naked in the ocean and needs a life guard,’ he said with a smile.

Then it was just Jonathon and Billy. Billy gave the old fag the once over. He was balding, red-faced, and overweight. And the creased linen suit and designer sunglasses hardly helped. Billy shuddered. Then thoughts of South America flitted through his mind, Brazil, Rio De Janeiro, The Girl from Ipanema. Suddenly a fierce determination appeared in his green eyes.

‘Get me another Dos Equis and a double Hornitos, I feel like getting loaded.’

Jonathon smiled somewhat smugly. ‘Yes, the night was made for loving baby. Miguel, Tequila and more cocktails, tonight I’m celebrating.’

Billy downed several beers and tequilas in quick succession. Then he faced up to his responsibility. ‘Jonathon were you serious about taking me to see your hacienda?’

Jonathon nearly choked on his pina colada. ‘Of course, why don’t we go there now? This bar is wearying, all these tedious backpackers.’

Billy rubbed his chin. ‘OK let’s do it.’

Once inside Jonathon’s spacious hacienda Billy gazed around wide-eyed. This was the sort of joint he’d always dreamed of owning. There were a multitude of rooms, a large veranda, luscious tropical gardens, even a swimming pool.

While Jonathon fetched more drinks Billy contemplated the situation. What if there wasn’t any cash on the premises? What if something went wrong and he received a blowie from an old fart for nothing? And what if they all got arrested and thrown into a filthy Mexican jail?

Moments later Jonathon re-appeared with a bottle of tequila.

‘To hell with everything, let’s get roaring drunk, baby.’

There he goes again with that baby shit, thought Billy angrily.

‘Is it true you keep a stash of cash hidden somewhere around here?’

Jonathon poured two large tequilas over ice and looked up in surprise. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

‘The rumour on the beach is that you keep ten thousand stashed away for a rainy day.’

Jonathon laughed a little nervously. ‘Hell no, I’d be mad to do such a thing, what with all the thieves and bandits in this area.’

After two or three more tequilas Billy decided he was drunk enough to have his pecker sucked by a rich old homo.

‘Lets go to one of the bedrooms, I fancy a blow-job.’

Jonathon’s face went redder than it already was and beads of sweat began popping out on his forehead. ‘Oh good god boy, are you sure, I mean you’re comfortable with this?’

‘Yeah, I want you to suck it and suck it good.’

The two men manoeuvred into the master bedroom. Billy dropped his pants and lay down on the bed.

‘Leave the lights off.’

Billy was drunk to high heaven. He closed his eyes. His cock entered something warm and soft. He thought of all the naked girls on the beach and imagined screwing, sucking, and fucking each and every one of them. He visualised breasts, thighs and cunts, and was soon harder than he’d ever been before. Jonathon had an effective technique, better than any girl, and god was he making him hot.

Then, just as he was about to come, he yanked his cock out of Jonathon’s mouth and frosted the old man’s sweaty face.

‘Urghh, arghh, ugh,’ he grunted, as six or seven spurts jetted out. Jonathon was on his knees, taking everything Billy had to offer, lapping it all up.

‘That’s it baby, give me all of it, all in my fucking face.’

Billy felt a sickening sense of revulsion. He pushed Jonathon away and pulled up his ripped shorts.

‘Get the fuck away from me you dirty old cunt.’

Jonathon touched his lips. ‘Why you ungrateful little…’

Suddenly the door burst open and somebody hit the lights. It was Pedro.

‘Where de fuck de money ole man?’ he growled.

Jonathon looked up from where he knelt, a large blob of spunk coated his chin like a white beard.

‘Pedro, what the hell are you doing here?’

Pedro walked over and hit Jonathon hard across the head with a cosh.

‘De nero queer bastardo, de ten thou.’

‘What are you talking about, have you lost your mind?’

Pedro struck Jonathon again square in the face. ‘De money, where is?’

Jonathon nose exploded and blood run into his mouth. ‘Oh my god, oh god,’ he groaned.

Billy watched in stunned silence as Pedro hit the old man repeatedly over the head. He saw some teeth go flying. Jesus Christ, he thought. He’s going to kill him.

‘Pedro, what the fuck are you doing?’

Pedro spoke without interrupting his frenzied attack. ‘Shut de fuck up English, dis shit-eater know where de money is.’

Jonathon slumped to the floor, blooding pouring from his mouth, nose, and ears. Billy jumped Pedro and began punching him. They wrestled to the ground and then Billy felt two heavy blows to his head.

Billy awoke to find George wiping the handle of a knife and carefully placing it into the limp hand of Jonathon. Lying motionless in a pool of blood next to the dead queer was Pedro.

‘What the fuck happened?’

George wiped his sweaty brow. ‘You were right not to trust that prick. He couldn’t wait, a loose fucking canon. Well he’s dead now, so fuck him.’

Suddenly Billy didn’t feel so good. ‘What the fuck we ganna do?’

‘Get the fuck out of the fucking country a.s.a.p. It will look like they killed each other.’

‘Jesus Christ!’

George pulled a thick wedge of cash from his pants.

‘I found the fucking money though and there’s a lot more than ten grand that’s for sure…’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Joseph Ridgwell is the author of three books of poetry, Where Are The Rebels? and Load the Guns published by Blackheath Books and Lost Elation published by in New Zealand by Kilmog Press. His debut novel, Last Days of the Cross was published by Grievous Jones Press. His work has appeared in short story anthologies, literary collaborations, and numerous online publications. His debut collection of short stories, Oswald’s Apartment, has just been published by Blackheath Books.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Monday, March 1st, 2010.