Free Philippine Speculative Fiction by Andrew Drilon Page A

there.
    It was John Joe’s unrelenting stare and his friend’s repeated prodding that eventually got him to talk: I took her home on my motorcycle, the young man said, she didn’t say
anything, she even stopped asking me about John Joe,
ambot
, I don’t know why, so I didn’t say anything, too—we got to her apartment,
kuan
, not talking to each
other.
    John Joe’s eyes told him that he wanted to hear some more.
    And so he added: “Something weird was going on at Lia’s house.”
    “What?” their friend asked.
    “I saw some other guy at her apartment.”
    At this, the creature’s eyes widened, almost regaining their human aspect: the other guys said nothing, simply scratching their heads or rubbing their chins—sighing deeply, the
storyteller continued: he was standing outside the gate, like he was waiting for Lia, of course I didn’t know him, but the guy was
sputing,
like he was going to church—I stayed
outside, watched her walk up to the guy, and then I left—I mean I made it look like I was leaving, but I just hid at the end of the alley—and then I saw them fucking kissing there, on
the street.
    One of his listeners piped up: “
Madahan
—what a fucking bitch.”
    And then they noticed John Joe glaring at them, growling harshly.
    That night, the barkada went back to John Joe’s house: they had decided after leaving earlier that evening to free him and let him see if the story about Lia and her lover really did check
out—also, they wanted him to exact revenge on the bitch who had screwed their friend over like the goddamn slut that they had discovered she was. (One of the troop’s members had coerced
the rest into the operation—this was not a good idea, the rest had said, what will we do if something goes wrong—saying that this was their job as John’s friends: he’ll do
the same thing for us, the guy swore.)
    And so the outfit snuck back to the house late in the night.
    They had parked their multi-cab some meters off John’s house, at the other side of the road (fortunately for them, Dumaguete streets are practically deserted at night), and then slithered
toward his gate. Armed with a long piece of wire, they picked the gate’s padlock (after five or so tries) and snaked past the garden gnomes and the motorcycle to reach John Joe at the
backyard. From time to time they looked around to check whether people had noticed them, and when no alarm had been sounded, they returned to their task: the friends released John Joe from his
chain, led him outside, and lifted him to the back of the multi-cab—the creature himself was meek and acquiescent, as though he had already known why they had visited him and where they had
planned to take him.
    Inside the vehicle, they discussed their next destination.
    The driver asked: “Bay, did you text Lia already?”
    “Yeah.”
    “So, where is she?”
    “She hasn’t replied yet.”
    “Pastilan, she must still be fucking that guy.”
    They said nothing.
    Leaning into the front window, the guy in back said: “I wonder, bay.”
    “What?”
    “You know—if John Joe ever fucked Lia like this, like a dog.”
    “There’s the dog-style already, right?”
    “Sure, but I mean when John is like this,
bale pud.
”
    “Ah,” the driver said, smiling. “Well, it would be very fitting.”
    Here the guy on the passenger seat laughed.
    And then—after a few seconds—the guy behind laughed, too.
    Even John Joe himself seemed to smile at the remark.
    This laughter continued for a while, until the guy in front alerted them that Lia had finally replied: she says she’s still at her apartment, he informed the group, she’s asking why,
again—without further ado, the driver started the engine and zoomed straight to the girl’s house over at Piapi: it was located past the alleyway fronting the road from the Neva’s
restaurant and pizzeria. The guy in back shielded John Joe from the eyes of the people—who did happen to be out late—and for his