Of Pisco and Peru

The half-naked dwarf waving the butcher’s knife in my face has really got me thinking. He barks like a feral dog, rotted fish breath and saliva spewing out from his red Dancing Devil mask. His low-slung center of gravity feels like being sumo wrestled to death by a rabid fire hydrant.

And me? Thick glasses. Lax muscles. Pencil-thin wrists. Too much video game keyboard time lost in a virtual lifestyle.

Yet this is no game. This mismatch is all too real, and the hopeless thoughts are creeping in again.

But let me tell me something. This time, I’m dead wrong.

Dirt-stained fingernails scratch my cheek as he tries gouging out my eyes. We strain for control of the blade. Instinctively, I grab his elbow and twist and roll over on top of him next to the splintered chair. We bang into the knotted wood table, knocking over potted plants and beer bottles. He gropes for my face. A sick, metallic taste fills my mouth as I bite down on his fingers, turning his guttural wolf howls into wailing pig squeals. He rips his bloody hand away, lowering his guard. I drop my forehead square into his nose, full force. A sharp crack and a dribble of blood.

He’s a goner. . .

. . . Not.

Ow!” That damn mask is harder than it looks.

In these push-comes-to-shove moments in life, we can all be stronger than we think.

Wresting the knife from his grip, his ribs crack as I heave my entire buck-fifty of fighting force onto him. I wrap my right hand around his windpipe and squeeze. His eyes bulge open as he struggles, grunting and baring teeth like a stuck swine.

Gravity and weight prevail, and the blade descends slowly, pointing straight for his collarbone. Screams of horror echo in my skull. “SHHHhhhhhhh.”

With panicked breaths, he jabs at my face as I push down on the knife’s handle for the death blow, puncturing his throat. “SHHHHHhhhhhhh. SHHHHhhhhhhhh.”

Blood gushes out the devil mask and he gurgles up a final, pathetic cry. I twist the knife for good measure. His arms convulse in spastic circles. Then, all strength leaves him. “SHHHhhhhhhh.”

I spring up, rubbing the pain from my forehead and gasp for breath. A quick scan to my right at the disheveled kitchen strewn with Inca Kola bottles and glass carboys filled with gelatinous sludge. To my left, beyond the large painting of a disfigured woman blindfolded and bearing a torch against a black storm background, Marcello’s skeletal frame is stuck in his chair. His eyes are rolled up, locked in a distant gaze towards the ceiling. Yellow bile sloughs from his twitching lips as he finishes O.D.ing.

Catching my breath, I creep to the dwarf’s lifeless body, carefully avoiding the pooling blood as I kick his foot. “No. No. No! Can’t be! This can’t be. You can’t be. . . real.”

Yes, it’s true. Really. There is so much more we can do in our world. All it takes is the right. . . frame of mind.

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