Port Lopez
It would be foolish at this juncture to attempt to contextualise the horrors that follow. If you wish to know more about what are known as The Lopez Cycles, feel free to ask. You may not like the answers.
I believe in Tezcatlipoca, the Father almighty creator of heaven and earth and in Jupiter Lopez, His most powerful Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried. He descended into hell. On the third day he rose again from the dead. He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of God, the Father almighty. He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. Amen. |
A meagre slash across a neck that bled a sneered riposte to callow hands that dropped their pristine steel, clasped two-handed though it was, led Junior, hitherto unscathed by petty wounding of such flesh as issues blood, that most charming of mortal currency, to the workshop of the one they called El Carpintero. El Carpintero was a man of few if any words, and upon applying his sallow paste to Junior's neck and grunting a glob of spittle for ease of application, he opened the third of countless wooden drawers and retrieved a kalimba of pure Magnolia poasana, keys of teeth that when thrust into Junior's firm and ready grasp ensued to resonate a growling with the surety of jaguars in their night.
Junior, they called him. Junior. Son of La Boca. Prophetess, The Heretic, Maria Lopez, Maria la puta del señor de los jaguars. Maria, madre del hijo del jaguar. Maria Lopez. Widow to Jesus. Junior, they called him. Junior Lopez. Jaguar Lopez. As the instrument pulsated with the memory of claws at its very wood and cried through the teeth it bared, Jaguar Lopez, JAGUAR LOPEZ. |