Free Moist by Mark Haskell Smith Page A

man, my arm does not look anything like that arm.”
    Bob winced as the Mexican grabbed his arm and roughly jerked him so that his arm was next to Amado’s severed arm. Side by side it was easy to see that Bob was right. The severed arm was dark, hairy, and muscular. A man’s arm. Bob’s arm looked pale, sickly even. An intellectual boy’s arm. No amount of tattooing was going to change that. The Mexican looked at Bob.
    â€œYou a faggot?”
    Bob shook his head.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou got a faggot’s arm.”
    Bob didn’t respond. He didn’t agree, of course. The gay men he knew were extremely buff, muscular, and handsome. His arm didn’t look gay at all.
    The older Mexican turned to the ponytail guy.
    â€œFind him.”
    Bob was amazed. The guy with the ponytail just nodded and split. Bob realized that this older, scary Mexican guywas some kind of juiced-up Godfather or something. Why else would a Mexican in a toupee have some clean-cut white guy hanging around with him and be bossing some tough young hombre around like he was a five-year-old? Bob was in some kind of shit. That much was obvious.
    . . .
    Amado sat up in bed watching television. He’d gotten into one of the soap operas, enjoying the backstabbing, lying, and cheating of the characters. It was familiar turf, though he couldn’t understand why young Jax didn’t take a fucking shotgun to that evil bitch Helena after what she did to Francesca. Maybe Jax just was some kinda fucking
huele-pedos quebrachón
. Amado would’ve shoved both barrels up Helena’s ass and pulled the trigger. Let the
jodida pendeja
have it.
¡Qué te jodas!
    He often found himself shouting at the TV. Attempting to warn someone not to sell their shares in the overseas corporation because it was a trap. A scam. Don’t do it!
¡Cuidado!
He’d scream and shout, sometimes waving his arm around frantically, trying to warn them, and then realizing he didn’t have an arm anymore. Still it felt like it was there.
Qué raro.
    He was happy to see Norberto when he came into the cheap motel room. Norberto was carrying a greasy brown paper bag. He handed it to Amado.
    â€œHow you feeling?”
    â€œHow you think?”
    Amado opened the bag and was hit by a rich pungent aroma. He broke into a grin.
    â€œÂ¿Carnitas?”
    â€œCarnitas pibil.”
    â€œQué bueno.”
    Norberto sat down on the end of the bed and watched as Amado pulled one of the foil-wrapped tacos out of the bag and struggled with one hand to unwrap it. Norberto made no move to help.
    â€œDo you miss your arm, man?”
    â€œI dream about my fucking arm.”
    â€œWe got it, you know.”
    Amado stopped what he was doing.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWe got your arm, man. You should see it.”
    â€œWhat’re you doing with my fucking arm,
pendejo
?”
    â€œKeeping it from
las placas, maricón
.”
    Amado glared at Norberto. Smart-ass little fucker.
    â€œEsteban has my arm?”
    â€œSí.”
    â€œQué bárbaro.”
    Amado shook his head and went back to unwrapping the taco. He eventually got the taco out and jammed half of it into his mouth. He chomped down on it, grease and salsa spraying out of his lips. Norberto smiled at him.
    â€œÂ¿Quieres cerveza?”
    Amado nodded, a big smile on his face. He was moved by his friend who cared enough to bring tacos and beer. A tiny tear formed in the corner of his left eye. Norberto reached into a grocery bag and pulled out a cold can of Modelo Especial. He popped the can and handed it to Amado.
    â€œGracias.”
    â€œDe nada.”
    Amado took a long pull on the cold beer and then let out a blistering belch. The air was suddenly scented with pork, chilies, and beer. Norberto turned to Amado, serious.
    â€œEsteban needs you, man.”
    â€œNeeds to kill me.”
    â€œNo. Stuff’s come up. It’s important.”
    Amado looked