I close the blinds to my cubicle. There is no breaking news so important at noon that can't wait since I have a 10 p.m. deadline. The discovery of Marisol's body, of course, alters my schedule since I'll need to be at El Bravo to co-op Fidel's information, write the story and e-mail the finished product with acceptable photos back to the Herald. To the management's credit, they have given this crime front-page coverage. They will have to run the blockbuster discovery of the body over the masthead. After all these years, I remain top billing. No matter what we utter for public consumption when we're occupying our Zen-like spaces, it's good to know that the competitive fires burn. I suppose it's similar to summoning a hard-on at the appropriate moment. As much as the meditative states bring peace, the animal states are an affirmation of life. I page through El Bravo, which I read more than the Herald or any other South Texas daily. The international coverage far exceeds the American papers' offerings because, unlike gringos, Mexicans don't feel they occupy the center of the universe with all the planets rotating around them. The Latin America section is far superior to anything available in the United States. Hardly a day goes by that I'm not reading about Bogota or Caracas or Santiago or Buenos Aires. For soccer aficionados, El Bravo is in a league of its own compared to the English dailies. Without forgetting to post the results of the major sports in the U.S. since Mexicans are avid fans of football, basketball and baseball, there is never a championship boxing match that doesn't receive coverage even if it's a flyweight bout between a challenger from Thailand and the champion from South Africa for an obscure organization. But soccer dominates and there's something expansive about living in Brownsville but wanting to know how Milan, Real Madrid and River Plate fared over the weekend. Section C concentrates on the local scene on both sides of the river. El Bravo sends three reporters to the U.S. side who cross the bridge on foot and descend on the municipality with the responsibility to write five stories each and provide accompanying photos. When I was writing my column, I would read their submissions because the quantity of their production would yield a tidbit or two. They photographed everyone in town so they kept me up to date if there was a new face or I could observe firsthand how someone I had known since childhood had either grown fat or grown old. The mentioning of a name or a glance at a photo would elicit memories of an individual whom I hadn't thought about in 15 years and a story line would spring to mind. It's the police section that exerts a magnetic force. There is no murder, no car accident, no rotting body too repugnant for observation. Last month a house burned to the ground, consuming a mother and her three daughters. Besides the tragic retelling of the conflagration, there were a half-dozen pictures zooming in on the charred bodies. Last week a transient passed out on the railroad tracks and a train reduced him to scattered human chunks. Z featured a different part of his body in several different photos. "We whore the gore," Fidel once told me. As absurd as it may sound, there were three suicides in Matamoros yesterday, two hangings and a shooting. The newspaper refers to suicides as "escapes through the false door." One of the victims hung himself from a tree in his backyard. Fidel is standing next to him with a notebook and pen in his hands. He gives the impression that he is privy to the subject's last interview. The phone rings. "Are you sleeping?" It's Estanislao. "I'm surfing the net. What's up?" "You want to play tennis this afternoon?" "I need to blow the carbon out of my system, but I can't play until five. They found Marisol's body." "Was she nude?" "I'm not sure." "Since you've been castrated, you're not the man you once were. You mean to tell me an alleged professional like yourself hasn't been to the scene to smell the fetid air and scrutinize the decaying body?" "Whatever you've been smoking, I hope you have at least a joint of it when we hook up in the afternoon." "If you want to nail your readers' attention from the first word, you need to open with this line: 'Marisol Miraflores' bones were discovered in a sorghum field glistening under a yellow sun.'" "I'm making my living as a journalist. When I start the novel, I'll confer with you before I type a single word. The body was discovered off the road to the beach." "That's better. The mafiosos drop their victims along that route. Try this one: 'The authorities are accustomed to making gruesome discoveries along the highway to the beach as a consequence of the drug wars, but they weren't prepared to encounter the decomposing and partially clad body of TV personality Marisol Miraflores.'" "Why don't you apply at the Herald and maybe that imbecile publisher will hire you to replace the punk editor and I can return to my glory days as La Voz del Pueblo." "We don't live in a pueblo anymore. Brownsville is a metropolis. You're outdated. We need visionaries who comprehend the future and not reactionaries who are mired in the past. You have found your niche. Write police stories and save us from the excruciating experience of your expertise. You should thank management for relieving you of your burden and setting you free to frolic amid the blood and guts of Matamoros." "I can't think of anything more enjoyable than chatting nonsensically with you all day, but I have to go. I'll see you at five." "Good. Now do your public a favor and write a great story." Adriana has sprouted a huge set of tits. At 14 she is turning into a delectable dish. I have often said that I don't fear a nuclear attack by the Russians as long as I'm in a place filled with young girls. I'd grabbed one by the wrist, lead her to a secluded place and spend my last 15 minutes cheating death by fucking the life out of a little girl. Will the Apostles drive me into such a fit of madness that I'll take out a gun and fire a bullet into Fabiola's head. "Why did you fuck so many guys and how many guys did you really fuck?" I can hear myself saying as I pull the trigger while she sleeps. Would she open her eyes for a second before that look would freeze for eternity? Would she die instantly or would she thrash painfully, thus necessitating a second shot? I would then walk down the hall to Adriana's room and crawl into bed with her. I don't know how much she would struggle. Maybe she would just lie there as I pulled off her pajamas. In a kneeling position, I would spread her legs and contemplate her untouched tits and pure pussy. I would lick and suck her nipples. I would eat her luscious little cunt and then I would push my cock into her. I don't know how many times I would fuck her, but the moment would come when I would have to end it all. Would I be so insane that I would stick the barrel inside her hole and fire? At best I would press the gun against her chest and kill her. I would not murder the boys. Instead, I would call the police so they wouldn't be left unattended. I don't know which room I would choose to commit suicide. Maybe I would sit on the toilet and end things. I shake the craziness out of my head. How can I allow myself to remain in a relationship when out of sexual frustration a double murder and multiple rapes of a 14-year-old are exciting me? I scratch my head. The stubble on my face is as long as the stubble on my head. I don't like to shave and I don't have to comb my hair. If I commit suicide and my loved ones are trying to make sense out of a senseless act, I was on the verge of committing a terrible crime and I opted for my only option in the waning moments of my sanity.
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