Welcome to Brazil!A Story by bbaA vacation to one of the most beautiful places in the world: Brazil.I woke up in a bathtub filled with ice in a small
dingy bathroom. My throat was dry, and my mouth tasted blood. My head felt as
if it was being split in half but the rest of my body was numbed. There was a
thick mass of blood slowly seeping through the ice. My kidney would be put down
the black market and would probably be on in its way to surgery in a day or
two. I could only wish that that
would be what my police report would say. I didn’t know if anybody
would believe me if I told them the truth. It all happened in Brazil. I had cashed in the cheque
for my last college loan. I didn’t actually need the loan but I needed money
for my vacation. What do you expect? I was in my last year in college and I
wanted to end it in a bang. And what a bang it was... I was sitting in a small rusty bus that God only knows
how old it was and how long it had been traveling the rough back-alleys to Rio
de Janeiro. Beside me was José, another backpacker I’d met at the Freyre
International Airport in Recife, northeast of Brazil. José had just been to
Thailand and told the craziest stories about the Walking Street of Pattaya - the
cheap sex, accessible drugs, over-flowing booze, and how he realized that life
could end quickly. On his first night, he
witnessed two Americans, US Marines on an offshore visit, got killed. While
they were groping at the two prettiest girls in the bar, the man across their
table stood up, drew a hatchet from his belt, and swung at the faces of the
Americans. Then the man walked casually out of the bar. Nobody dared to stop
him. We partied in
Salvador where the beaches were extraordinary. The clear blue sky held a spell on
everybody that walked on the foot-friendly sand or lolled under their colorful
umbrellas. There was always an affable game of beach volleyball under the scorching
sun that amused everyone. And the beautiful native girls we’ve met were angels
sent down from heaven, flashing their perfect smiles, dancing, and making sure
every man gawked at them. I thought I died and went to heaven. José wanted to meet more
women, get drunk, and get high. But I wanted to climb the Corcovado Mountain
and see Christ the Redeemer along the way down south. He agreed to see the
great statue and take some pictures before crashing to any beaches. So we took
a ride from Salvador to see the beaches of Rio de Janeiro and the coast of
Espirito Santo. The ride, however, was at variance with the beautiful
scenery, the high yellow sun shining brightly on the floras, and lovely
countryside scent carried by the warm wind. It was as comfortable as sitting
atop a buckling rodeo horse. The bus trundled down the roads, ignoring every
pothole and crevice, and swerving past other vehicles and commuters across its
path like a bike being handled by a kid just learning to ride. You’d know who had taken
this ride before by looking at their faces. Everyone stayed calm as the bus
flew off the damned road. But me, José, and a couple of foreigners, our faces
white as sheet, clutched the handle bar and hang on for dear life. And when we thought that
nothing else could go any more wrong, the raging bus drove into what it seemed
like the largest pothole on the road. The front wheel exploded. The bus moved a few more
feet and stopped. The bus driver shook his
head, stood up and headed out of the bus. Then all of the passengers
stood up, grabbed their things and went after the driver without a word as if
what just happened was the most natural thing in the world. José and I looked at each
other, a disbelieving expression on his face, and shrugged. The heat of the sun remained high and unchallenged.
The high noon brought out the locals from their houses to loiter on the
streets. And the explosion of the bus’s wheel gave them a new source of
entertainment. They gathered closely around the bus to see the damage,
exchanged their opinions, and nodded their heads. José tugged me away from the
other passengers who scrambled out and walked to the middle of the street to
catch a new ride. Looking at the favela was
like looking at Lego blocks stacked hither and thither atop one another. Most
of the houses had gray colorless walls, while the other houses had red. I began
to wonder if those red houses were the ones people should keep out. There was a white VW Kombi
van parked a few feet in front of the broken-down bus. José’s eyes twinkled
with mischief, and before I knew it, he was briskly walking toward the van. “Rent a van!” he shouted
over his shoulder, and he raised his fist and extended his thumb upwards. The
driver of the van greeted José, and I followed. The run-down Kombi was
parked in front of a red house. On the doorway, a small boy sitting on a
makeshift skateboard was staring at the van. “Hurry, man! Rent a van!”
José said with his thick Mexican accent as he waved at me enthusiastically. The boy on the skateboard
turned and looked at me. I thought there was something wrong with him before.
And now that I’d seen his face, I could see what it was. He was not a boy at all. His face looked worn, and
set with deep baggy eyes and frown lines on the forehead. His blonde hair was
short and greasy. He wore a once-white I-heart-NY shirt, and washed out jeans
sewn halfway to cover severed limbs that now lay stretched across the
skateboard, useless like a discarded doll’s. Both his arms were nothing more
but an ugly stub above the elbows. He had sunburnt skin. And his eyes, his
bright blue eyes, stared at me with a startled expression. I averted my eyes from the
quad-amputee and looked at José and the Kombi with its rusty hatch weeping
rust-red tears. “Look out, man! He will get
you! He will get you!” José pointed pass me and laughed hysterically. I looked
back and saw the man waving his stub-arms, shaking his head, and making
incomprehensible sounds. The door of the red house
opened, and a shirtless Brazilian man came out. He was tall, dark, and
muscular. He grabbed the man on the makeshift skateboard on the shoulders and
started pulling him in the house. The quad-amputee struggled to get away, but
all he could do was wave his stub-arms and scream wildly. Then the shirtless
man raised his right hand and smacked the struggling man loudly on the side of
the head. “Hey, man! Take it easy!” I
said before I could stop myself. The Brazilian raised his
hand again - this time he had his fist clenched. I thought he was going to hit
him again, but all he did was slap his fist on top of his other hand. I felt José tugged at my
shirt. “That means screw you, man,”
José said and led me inside the Kombi. The Kombi roared and sped
off leaving only black smoke behind. And as the red house slowly receded from
my sight, the man on the makeshift skateboard with his I-heart-NY shirt, his
blonde hair, and his bright blue eyes stayed on my mind. He was an American. And the sound he was making
that I thought made no sense, the noise he made over and over until he was shut
inside the red house, was the word No. The ride on the Kombi was considerably smoother than
the bus ride earlier. The driver steered clear of the potholes and drove just
within the speed limit. So our butts were spared the torment from bouncing and
bumping on a hard seat. José stared at me wide-eyed,
grinning as if he had discovered a terrible secret, then slowly he reached
inside his shirt pocket and took out two joints. “You’ve read my mind, my
friend,” I said as I reached for one. A couple of drags sent me to
wonderland. Outside, the favelas had
become a rendition of Van Gogh’s painting. Everything was bright and colorful,
the clouds in the sky swirled and fluffed like marshmallows, and I saw sunshine
thickening and beaming down everywhere like strips of lasagna falling down from
heaven. “Strong s**t, man!” José’s
words crawled out of his lips. I laughed idiotically upon seeing his distorted
face. “You boys want something
crazy to smoke?” The driver peered through the rear-view mirror; his face
throbbed as he asked the question. “Sure s**t, man! Yeah!” It
took time for José to answer. My jaw felt like jelly so I just nodded and
laughed some more. The driver stuck his hairy
hand between the two front seats and held out a joint that was rolled in a
brown paper. José reached slowly for the joint and carefully plucked it like a
delicate flower with his index finger and thumb. He placed the brown stick on
his mouth and flicked his lighter. The fire danced on his faces as he held his
lighter close to the brown stick. Half an inch away, José stopped and looked
back to the driver. “How much, man?” José asked. “Sixty dollars,” answered
the driver without looking up at the rear-view mirror. “Sixty? You crazy, man!” “You can’t find that kind of smoke anywhere in
the world. That’s a strong smoke. Only in Brazil!” retorted the driver. José looked at me. I lifted
my shoulders and raised my eyebrows. “Okay. Have a try first then
pay me sixty dollars,” said the driver. “You’re a good man!” He lit
up and took a long hard drag. Then he closed his eyes and extended his hand to
me. I took the brown stick. It
was hard as tobacco, and the skin was not brown paper as I thought but some
kind of dried leaf. The smoke did not smell like the fumes that come out of a
joint. It was sweetly fragrant with a little tang of some herb - thyme and
basil perhaps. I placed the stick on my
lips, and it tasted just like how it smelled. I took a drag. I held the smoke long and
deep. And puffed it out. As the smoke escaped from my
lips, the color of it began to change. The blue smoke turned red, then green,
and it faded away toward the open window. I laughed again but the sound came
out differently, muffled as if by a pillow. José had his head tilted
back and propped up on top of his seat. His Adam’s apple bulged like some alien
mountain. His eyes were still closed but his mouth gaped open. And he was
making a gargling sound. At first I thought it was just the sound of the Kombi,
but José’s head was quivering as he made the gargling sound. And then he changed. His cheeks slowly sagged
down…sagging, and sagging down like melted butter… until his jaw dropped down
to his neck, exposing the insides of his mouth. The gargling sound grew louder.
I threw myself away from José with my back against the door. Then I saw something poked
out from his mouth. It was a fleshy thing. I thought at first it was José’s
tongue but when it protruded out a couple of inches more… I screamed. I screamed as loud as I can.
But no matter how hard I screamed, my scream came out muffled. I looked at the driver but
the driver was not our driver anymore. His curly hair thickened like gnarled
roots. His eyes glowed red and hot like burning coals. His nose dipped down,
the nostrils looking like two screaming mouths. And his dark skin became
mottled and gray. “What’s the screaming
about?” he said. His voice became deep and soulless. I scrambled to open the door
and after a few hard nudges, the rusty door of the Kombi gave in. Then I jumped
out of the moving van and ran. I ran away from the driver
and the stub arm coming out of José’s mouth. The asphalt felt hot under
my shoes. The Kombi had stopped, and the driver ran after me, screaming with
his soulless voice. The road appeared long and
endless. I knew five minutes away I would reach one of the favelas we passed
earlier. The trees on the side of the road swayed and trembled. Their leaves
stretched down from their twisted branches like hundreds of long fingers…or
hundreds of stub arms. Then out of the sky, a thick
column of gray stone slammed down the road. It smashed the asphalt underneath,
sending thousands of pieces of rocks scattering everywhere. The ground trembled
and then was covered with a thick cloud of brown smoke. I looked up and saw Him. Standing one hundred and
thirty feet, His head tilted down at me. His eyes were black as the pit that
leads down to hell. His arms were raised in a welcoming gesture for the sinful
and the lost. Christ the Redeemer. He came to get me. He opened His big gray mouth
then came out the loud sound that echoed to the mountains and on the ground. I
covered my ears and felt the thick blood coming out of them. Then the shadow of
His arm fell on me as He bent down to reached me. My gut lurched as He lifted
me up from the ground. I saw the true beauty of
Brazil from this height. The blue coast glittered from sunbeams like gems
spread on the beach. The favelas on the face of the mountain were alive and
buzzing with life, and the trees all around waved a cordial wave. The Corcovado
Mountain was surrounded with thin white cloud. But it stood empty. The platform
on top of the mountain was unadorned, standing like an empty throne. And the
great statue that stood up there looking down the city was now here looking at
me. I felt the air vibrate from
the booming sound that came from the statue’s gray mouth. And the statue brought
closer to His mouth. And closer. And closer until I was
completely inside the mouth. Then He swallowed me. I didn’t know how long I’d been in this tub. I didn’t
know where José was. I didn’t know where I was, or what time it was, or what
day. A single streak of yellow
shone from the square window. Outside, the sun glared angrily down on the
mountains, and the beaches, and the people of Brazil. Pretty soon the ice in the
tub would melt, and I would sink and drown. I knew there was no use
calling for help - my screams would only come out as incomprehensible noises,
for I could feel that my tongue had been cut off. And there was no use flapping
my legs, or trying to stand up, or holding the sides of the tub to get out. I knew all my limbs were
nothing more now than ugly stubs. The End © 2011 bbaAuthor's Note
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Added on January 15, 2011Last Updated on January 21, 2011 Tags: Horror, Short Story, Fiction, Brazil, Christ the Redeemer, Favela, Bathtub, Quad-amputee, Travel, Joint, VW Kombi Van, Brian Ayson, I really don't know how to tag m AuthorbbaPhilippinesAboutI write short stories mostly, somewhere within the realms of horror, fantasy, drama, dark fantasy. Please feel free to read and write a quick review of what you think of my stories. Any comments gr.. more..Writing
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