|Epilogue: Final Word
Author: Guede Mazaka
Another chitter sounded somewhere near Sands' left foot, and he irritably whacked out with his cane. The ensuing squeal and little smushing thud made him grin briefly, but that smile quickly disappeared as he walked on, trailing his cane along the side so it rattled over the wooden tomb markers lining the path.
Clunk, clunk-tink. Rock.
Stopping, he made his way over to the gravestone and smoothed fingers across its rough front. Finally. Squatting down on top of the grave, Sands tucked his cane under one arm and sighed. "Jesus Christ. Fucking impossible to find, just like your husband. Guess that's why you two got married. Carolina."
No answer. "Lousy conversationalist you are," he complained. "But then again, if you had said something, I might've had to swear off the tequila. And that definitely would've been a shame, considering how good it tastes. Especially licked off El's neck."
Smirking into the light breeze, Sands shuffled momentarily in his pockets, then produced a cigarette and lighter. Sticking the paper roll between his lips, he carefully measured out the length with a finger before lighting up. "Yep, you heard me. Sheldon Jeffrey Sands is fucking your man."
Somewhere behind him, tree branches creaked almost mockingly. "All right, all right. I'm not fucking him," Sands admitted. "But he's definitely fucking me. Me, the American CIA agent-turned-pistolero. And I'm so far gone, I've got no soul to sell-it's already been claimed. I will, however, offer testimonial that tequila, lime and cordite make a very appealing combination. Maybe you already knew that."
Cocking his head, he blew acrid smoke out through his nostrils, feeling the scorch killing off his cells. "Maybe not. But what I really wonder is, did you know who taught El all…that? Did you even know he was into…those kind of things?"
Sands flicked out his middle finger and started to tick off his list. "You ever deepthroat one of his pistols? Feel it rasping the back of your throat, feel it choking you? Too bad, if not: his guns-" he grinned lewdly "-taste damn good. And every single damn time, his breath does this little hitch. I'd call it cute, but-"
Second finger lifted. "After I do that, he's got this wonderful tendency to grab whatever's around and tie me up. Phone cord, once in Veracruz. I could feel those coils for hours afterward, you know. And hell, the phone bill in that hotel…damn good thing the manager turned out to be cartel, or that would've been a hell of a lot of money."
At the third finger, Sands' legs began to cramp, and he took a minute to sit down before he spoke. "Third arm. Which, frankly, even I don't get. But whatever. As long as it gets me ridden into the goddamn ground, I could care less."
"Knife." He waggled his four fingers at the tombstone. "Now that one you had to know about. He uses your blades, after all. And none of that cutting shit-you think I'm some kind of wussy goth chick-with-dick? El uses it on my clothes-my t-shirts really annoy the hell out of him. Idiot. That's why I wear 'em, obviously."
"Car. It's a really nice one, too," Sands commented thoughtfully. "Jangling jerk-off swears it's black, and if I ever find out differently, I'll slam his head through the hood. Hell, he does that to me anyway. Once I pissed him off when he was driving, and he tied my wrists to the door handle. For the rest of the fucking day, and he kept his hand down my jeans, too." A faint mixture of annoyance and smugness passed over Sands' face. "Wouldn't let me get off till we stopped for the night, though. Bastard."
Pattering little feet circled warily around the cross-legged American, and he absentmindedly swept out his cane. Hearing the squish, Sands pulled it back in, flipped out a rag, and began to clean off the tip. "So why would I bother telling you all this?" He assumed a mock-stern tone. "Certainly not to encourage your prurient deviancies."
Finishing with his cane, Sands tossed the rag over his shoulder and reached out a hand to touch the top of the grave marker. He leaned with a confidential air. "Just wanted to let you know something: you're dead. And I mean really dead-not severely depressed like El when he's being pissy. So you can't have him anymore. He's my mariachi sextoy now. Got it?"
The wind suddenly gusted up, and pebbly dirt clattered against the side of his shoes. Snorting, Sands snapped unthinkingly, "Seems only fair to offer something in exchange. All right. You can have my isolation." Suddenly realizing what he'd said, he halted and bit his lip.
As if jeering at him, a ground squirrel chattered loudly at him from just beyond his reach. "You can have the hate," Sands added, voice thicker and lower. "And you can have my absence of faith. I used to think that's what kept me above the worms, but as it turns out, that's not the trick. Not it at all. The real thing is to pick one focus, and then wall off everything else. But you've got to be careful when you're making your choice, because you can only do it once. And that's why you died, by the way. You nominated the wrong guy, and when you finally met the right one, it was too late to take back your decision." He laughed harshly. "Your loss, pretty."
"Sands?" called a voice from the cemetery's entrance. Jerking, the American hastily stood and made his way out. "Damn it, El," he sighed irately, "I was in the middle of something."
"What? Talking to the dead?" the other man's amused voice asked as El cupped Sands' elbow and led them away. Sands covered up his startled jolt by leaning suggestively into the mariachi's side. "Maybe," he answered coyly. "They're more chatty than you are."
"You're crazy," El snorted, stroking a fingertip over the inside of Sands' forearm.
"Maybe," Sands repeated. "But what does that make you?"
"Damned," the mariachi answered, blackly humorous. A push sent the cane flying and Sands slamming backwards against a wall-oh yeah, the church-and less than a breath later, El was smashing into him, shoving a tongue violently into Sands' mouth. They snapped at each other for a long minute, and then El bent back, pinning Sands' wrists to the adobe when the other man tried to follow El's lips forward. "You…you help me think I'm somebody else," the mariachi murmured, puzzled and pensive. "Instead of a dead man."
"You're very welcome," Sands panted sarcastically, wriggling till his head knocked against El's jaw. The American lunged forward and sank teeth into El's throat, keeping them there till he could feel the warning rumble. El tightened his grip on Sands, and, shaking off the other man's mouth, slid slowly down to run his lips over the rising front of Sands' pants. He shifted the wrists he held to one hand, and then used the other to unzip the American's jeans. "Whoring Madonna, get on with it," Sands hissed.
"Fine." Hot wet warmth instantly surrounded half of Sands' cock, and he threw back his head with a thin cry. Like usual, El teased the hell out of him-swirled that tongue from base to head, dipped in to taste the precum, then raked teeth over Sands' straining skin when Sands whined. The mariachi waited till the other man was outright whimpering, and then El swallowed the whole erection, and kept gulping till he drank the climax straight from Sands.
"Christ…Christ on a…fucking cross," Sands gasped, slumping into El's arms. Nuzzling into the American's throat, El impressed a pleased sliver of a smile into the soft, sweaty flesh there while he rezipped Sands' pants. "Good?" the mariachi inquired innocently.
"Gets me closer to God," Sands breathed, to El's mocking laugh. "Only fucking way I'd bother coming near the ultimate skullfucker, thank you. Now shut up and hand me my cane."
You let me violate you
I wanna fuck you like an animal
You can have my isolation
I wanna fuck you like an animal
You get me closer to God