The Tragic Flaw Page 9

  The beast squeals. Kam calms her.

  “But anyway, we came across this razorback farm, and that’s when it hit me,” Kam says. “You can keep ya fucking pit bulls and ya Prussian canarios, I’ll take Ms. Piggy any day.”

  Urine flows down Pete’s pant leg and into the drain. The smell further excites the beast’s protruding snout as it squeals louder and lunges toward him, cloven hoofs tapping the cement floor. Hairs rise on the boar’s back as it salivates like a running faucet.

  “Petey Pete,” Cicero quips. “Kam tells me she hasn’t eaten in three days. Do you know that’s unheard of for a hog? And she has one hell of a sweet tooth.”

  The honey aroma is deliciously enticing to the stout-bodied mammal and it longs to taste Pete. She squeals and drools profusely.

  “No, please, dear God, I’ll…, I’ll do anything,” Pete pleads.

  “Sorry, my friend,” Cicero says. “Bon voyage.”

  Kam releases the chain and the beast dives right into Pete’s hairy midsection, gnawing and ripping open his stomach, disemboweling him and spilling his intestines onto the floor with a loud splat. Blood sprays in all directions, covering the hog’s snout, face, the floor, and Pete’s trousers. Undigested rigatoni and gooey shit splashes on the cement, filling the room with a horrible stench.

  Pete screams. Then he gurgles and passes out from the pain before bleeding to death. Blissful shrieks bellow from the swine’s germ-infested mouth while it swallows whole chunks of Pete’s fleshy tissue and organs.

  The sow roots into his torso with her snout and rips out large portions of his liver and spleen, then crunches downward through bone, crushing his pelvis and tearing his genitals into shreds.

  Pete’s eyelids flutter and his body twitches and shakes as the beast eats him from the inside out.

  Kam watches his pet feast with the delight of a proud parent. Squeals and grunts reverberate.

  “Good girl! Good girl!” Kam dotes from near the door, smiling.

  Tattered remnants from Pete’s suit and slices of skin are thrown across the room as the beast ferociously shakes its head side to side savoring the essence.

  Cicero stands next to Kam sipping his drink with a blank face, yet fully enjoying the medieval spectacle before him. The foul stench in the room takes him back to his father’s funeral, when he threw up near the casket. He thinks about his father’s distinct, booming laugh, and Cicero wonders if this act of savage revenge would have pleased him.

  As the sow continues to gorge, Cicero, seeing the job is done, turns to walk out of the room, then stops.

  “Make sure your baby doesn’t leave a crumb.”

  Kam nods and continues to watch. His baby squeals again, loving her repast.

  Chapter 8

  Aprils in Kansas City are inconsistent. One year it might snow. The next year it could be seventy degrees or raining nonstop. But tonight, it’s cool out. Lightning waltzes across the late-night firmament.

  Roughly five months have passed since Pete’s unfortunate demise, and since then, Brad, Kam and Cicero have been meticulously organizing, planning, and formulating plots to get their drug project off the ground.

  But all the effort has begun to weigh on the friends, and tonight, Cicero cannot find peace, not even in his dreams.

  Three immense rectangular paintings done in primary colors hang perfectly aligned on the living room wall. All are framed in black mahogany. The first from the front door, in ocean-blue, was created using broad horizontal strokes. In the second, created in tomato-red, the same artist employed whimsical circular brush strokes. And the third, in daisy-yellow, was fashioned with firm vertical sweeps. The walls are black.

  Lightning strikes outside. Electric-blue arteries charge the sky with energy, then disappear. Frightened children across the city dive for covers.

  Three onyx sofas, made from the skin of unborn broadtail sheep, face each other in a sunken living room. Even the king-sized mink bedspread in the next room cannot compare to their softness. At sixty-four inches, the plasma television dominates the sitting area.

  Stainless steel resides in the kitchen, wall-to-wall—the Viking stove, the Sub-Zero refrigerator, the two separate self-cleaning ovens. Thunder crackles a few kilometers away.

  The world’s finest German cutlery occupies only a small portion of the ample countertop space. And in the middle of the unwelcoming cocina is a marble-topped island with a built-in cutting board. It’s rarely used.

  Just past the abortion sofas is a polished ebony, eight-seat dining room table that’s never hosted a Thanksgiving dinner, never seen the likes of Manwiches, nor store-bought taco shells or deviled eggs.

  Above hangs a hand-made custom Lalique chandelier. Tiny sterling silver loops attach diamond-shaped crystals to larger diamond-shaped crystals embellished on all sides with lady-bug-sized pearls. The light is the way.

  Farther to the left, near the sliding door with its Venetian blinds and the awning-shielded veranda, is a tall, lighted rosewood cabinet with a glass door filled from top to bottom with the world’s finest cognac.

  Cicero typically preferred the local family-owned vineyards with their unblended single estate cognacs from either Ugni Blanc or French Colombard grapes. These brands pervade the brass and gold-trimmed case more than any others, minus a random single-district or single-distillery eaux de vie.

  Like Gabriel Andreu, one of Cicero’s favorites, and Hardy’s Fire, with its Daum crystal decanter. On a middle shelf is Louis XIII. And even though it’s sixteen hundred a pop, it’s easier for Cicero to get than some of the others, so he drinks it like tap water.

  Every time Cicero opens his case, traces of chocolate, coffee, and tobacco flee. Hints of eucalyptus and sandalwood present themselves at the second nose. He is truly a connoisseur, and Cicero treasures his collection, which is why he locks the case every night before going to bed.

  On the wall opposite the massive flat-screen television, between the half bath and the door to Cicero’s bedroom, hang his two framed college degrees. Written in old English, his degrees are authentic, and bear the official signatures to prove it.

  A black mahogany bookshelf, nearly twenty feet long and six feet high, features the works of Erik Erikson, Sun Tzu, Niccolò Machiavelli, Sigmund Freud, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Albert Schweitzer, Immanuel Kant and Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche. On the bottom shelf, a completed Stave puzzle provides the one piece of whimsy.

  It was Nietzsche’s first title, The Birth of Tragedy, that Cicero most favored. Even as the work was criticized by some as assumption-laden and sophomoric, Cicero found it enlightening, and exceptional, as proven by the pages’ tattered edges. When Nietzsche proclaimed that God is dead, meaning that traditional values had lost their way, Cicero took it to heart.

  God was dead when his father was murdered. God was dead when his boyhood friend drowned. God was dead when crack was unleashed upon his neighborhood. God was dead when Olivia became infected with the AIDS virus.

  Nietzsche’s concept of the overman, one who is secure, independent, and individualistic, one who feels deeply, but his passions are rationally controlled, further moved Cicero. For Cicero, the overman was one who created his own morality, in which one is liberated from all values, except those he alone deemed valid. And that was what Cicero had done.

  Boom. Thunder explodes and rattles nearby homes, but it’s not the reason a restless Cicero tosses under his silk sheets and black mink spread. Usually confident, imposing, relentless, C is a little boy again, haunted by troubling night terrors.

  The silk sheets make it easier for his muscular physique to flail about as he dreams. Sweat flows.

  In this dream, Cicero is grown, sitting at his mother’s kitchen table. Everything seems smaller than he remembers. Ruth stands over the stove as she has many mornings, her back to Cicero, preparing the family’s breakfast.

  Cicero wonders why he’s there, naked, in his mother’s kitchen.

  “Cicero, do you believe in God?” his mother
asks.

  Her son looks confused, but answers, “No. No, I don’t.”

  “That’s a shame, Son,” his mother says as she scrambles eggs in that same cast iron skillet.

  “Well then, Son, I guess you don’t believe in heaven or hell?”

  “No. I’m sorry, Mom, but I don’t.”

  He stares out the kitchen window and notices two rottweilers staring at him from the backyard. The day is sunny and hazy.

  Ruth shakes her head. Her hair is drawn up tightly in a colorful scarf. Cicero can smell the enticing butter in the pan as it sizzles. His mother then lets out a deep sigh.

  “Son, you really should believe in hell,” and with that, she turns to look at her son and her face is bloodied and mutilated, eyeballs hanging from the sockets, puss oozing.

  Cicero becomes unglued and screams.

  “You should, Son! You should!” Worms and maggots dance through her cheeks from one hole to the next. She laughs devilishly and swiftly charges her son with outstretched arms.

  Cicero suddenly awakens, frightened and drenched in sweat. He’s shirtless, clad only in boxers. His breathing is rapid, as is his heartbeat. He sits up and checks the digital wall-mounted clock to his right. The large rectangle reads 5:44 a.m. in dull red lines.

  Shaken, the avowed gangster and hustler reaches over to the black leather-padded nightstand and dials his mother’s number; she was always an early riser.

  The phone rings twice, then, “Hello?” Her voice is soothing.

  “Hey.”

  “Cicero?”

  “Yea.”

  “Hey, honey,” Ruth says with joy. “Why are you awake so early?” She pauses. “Is there something bothering you, Baby?”

  Silence fills the phone for several seconds, as a woman’s hand appears from beneath the sheets and begins to rub Cicero’s chest.

  “Can I come by to see you today?” he asks his mother.

  “Of course,” Ruth responds. “You know I have to go church, but I can go to the early service. Other than that, I’ll be home all day.”

  “Okay, good.”

  “Oh, and Lucia is coming by, so you can see her too.”

  “Really,” Cicero tries not to sound surprised. “Okay, cool. Well, I’ll see you later on today.”

  “Okay, Son, see ya later,” Ruth says before hanging up.

  Cicero gazes over at tonight’s companion, she smiles, and he descends under the covers to satisfy both of their primordial urges.

  Chapter 9

  Later that morning, water runs in one of the black marble double sinks in the restroom. The place is warm and cozy. Cicero sits on a negro leather bench in front of the bed buttoning his pale-pink, ultra-soft cotton shirt. It’s finely pressed, and matches nicely with his light-gray English-tailored suit.

  A newscast blares from the flat screen in the living room on the digital sound system.

  “The U.S. Supreme Court is expected to decide tomorrow whether all religious material and historical references to religion, will be completely banned from America’s public domain, including schools, libraries, privately owned businesses, and the Internet. Top legal experts close to the matter say the ban is inevitable. For more on the story, we go to the nation’s capital…”

  Oblivious, Cicero stands and ambles over to a tall, slim, rosewood and glass case that holds his two dozen timepieces. A bright solitary bulb at the top illuminates the case magnificently, highlighting his many Swiss minute hands and bezels, sweeping second hands, multiple complications, one hundred or so total carat weight in diamonds, and over seven hundred and fifty-thousand dollars in gold and platinum. Time is of the essence.

  Cicero gazes over the collection for a few seconds, then decides on a plain-face platinum piece with a single flawless carat where the twelve would be. The bracelet is flush and impeccable.

  It’s Sunday, and since he hasn’t shaved in two days, stubble begins to bloom on his face. Shower waters continue running in the restroom. It’s 9:18 a.m.

  Cicero glides out of his bedroom to his prized cognac mélange, unlocks it, and selects the Louie, pouring it into a simple red plastic cup kept in a cabinet under the glass shelves. The crystal Trece bottle is now more than half-empty. Truly the breakfast of victors.

  Exquisite dark chocolate appears in the bedroom doorway, fresh from the massaging showerheads. She’s five feet eleven without the pumps, and a prime example of what an African queen looks like. She possesses blemish-free skin from face to foot, and tightly wound spiral curls protrude from her head like a God-given crown. Under her towel, her large firm breasts resemble sacred Indian burial mounds.

  Cicero looks at her and takes a long sip, thinking, “Damn.” His penis jumps beneath his slacks. For a split second he ponders bending her over the sofa and pounding her firm round ass from the back, but decides not to. He’s got shit to do.

  She strides into the living room with her undergarments and moisturizer in hand, sits on the loveseat, then slides her hot pink thong over her infinite legs. A glimpse of shaven vagina reveals itself. Her lips look like flower petals; eyes set at nearly forty-five-degree angles.

  The towel falls to the divan; her bosom, divine. Areola, saucer sized.

  “You leaving?” she asks while rubbing cocoa butter on her long stems.

  “Yes. You can let yourself out,” Cicero says, then takes a swig.

  His guest looks disappointed.

  The man of the house strolls over to the front door and sits on a mahogany bench where he slides on his Italian loafers.

  The mocha queen stands, then turns to enter the bedroom to get dressed, but Cicero stops her.

  “Hey,” he yells to her.

  “What?” she replies with a hint of attitude.

  “I need fifty bucks.”

  She looks stunned.

  “What? Um, C, you’re ballin’, right?” And she smiles.

  Cicero just smirks. “How you know I’m ballin’? Let me get that out of you.”

  His overnight friend goes into the bedroom and retrieves a canary-yellow canvas tote. She walks over to the foyer and pulls out a one-hundred-dollar bill.

  “All I have is a hundred,” she tells him.

  “Cool, that’ll work.” He snatches it, opens the door and turns to leave, then pauses.

  “Hey, on second thought, go ahead and get dressed and leave now.”

  She frowns. Upset, she hurriedly tosses on her saffron designer dress, grabs the rest of her things, and leaves. Cicero locks the door and heads toward the parking garage and his seductive sport coupe.

  Once inside, Cicero places his drink in the retractable cup holder and turns the stereo on. Commercials advertising parties in death-trap locations and rent-to-own centers, seem to be on every station.

  Put off, he slides in a CD and increases the volume. The singer’s voice is internationally known, and it helps to calm him. He is still seeing visions of his mother’s grotesque appearance.

  After exiting the garage, Cicero drives several blocks from his condo, just south of downtown. He passes several Spanish-inspired fountains spewing waters from serpents’ mouths and babies’ penises. There isn’t a cloud in the sky. The music is relaxing, and he takes a swig of his cognac.

  Fuck, I need some breakfast, he thinks.

  His thoughts then run the gamut: from Olivia to Kam to Brad, to his mother, to his father, and to his sister. He wonders how Brad’s work on their new dope is going, and he considers stopping by his house before seeing his mother. As he ponders making a quick detour, he comes to a yellow light and plans to run it, but decides against it, slamming the brakes.

  While sitting at the light, he is engulfed in the lyrics of the French African songstress.

  “You give me the sweetest taboo.”

  He feels the tranquilizing melody.

  “That’s why I’m in love with you.”

  As he vibes to the slow jam, a moss-green 1968 Camaro pulls up on the left side, but a few feet from the intersection. Cicero gla
nces over and sees only the passenger, a scruffy guy with dirty blond hair.

  Cicero turns back to the light, which is amazingly still red. Rock-n-roll thumps from the Camaro and the passenger bobs his head to it. The man then looks over to Cicero, as the sunlight bounces off the coupe’s twenty-inch chrome ceiling fans that are still spinning.

  The ruffian, clad in a hand-me-down Chiefs jacket, sees his reflection in the rim, and is mesmerized. He grins, looks at Cicero again, then leans over to his boy in the driver’s seat and whispers in his ear. A rear passenger in a filthy peacoat leans forward to hear what they’re discussing, then he too looks over at Cicero, then his rims. They’re spectacular, and at twelve thousand dollars for the set, they’re a liability.

  Bored with staring at the light, Cicero glances in his side-view mirror back over at the dudes in the unwashed Camaro, and he notices the sunroof is now open. Cicero is still eyeing it, when the third man in the backseat pops out of the sunroof with a pistol-grip shotgun pointed at his coupe. His bearded face shows heinous intentions. Seeing the weapon, Cicero punches the accelerator and darts through the traffic light that has yet to turn green.

  “Come off those rims, bitch,” the man in the sunroof yells as he pulls the trigger. The blast shatters Cicero’s rear driver’s side window, sending glass flying and buckshot into his seat. One grazes the top of his head, breaking the skin.

  Cicero’s foot is planted in the pedal, cutting corners at breakneck speed. High-performance Japanese tires clutch the asphalt. And even though the Camaro needs some serious bodywork, the engine is police chase ready and the driver clings to Cicero’s bumper.

  “Catch me if you can, you punk-ass bitches,” Cicero says to himself in a low voice.

  Left, right, straight away. Straight away, right, left, he can’t shake the threesome. Since those nights of sneaking out the house in eighth grade and joyriding in stolen cars, Cicero has considered himself an expert driver. But the Camaro’s driver is no slouch, and the sunroof gunman fires again, this time taking out the coupe’s rear window with a loud blast. Shards of glass spray.