Doods, Junior Grade
They’d named themselves Lords; the only cool way to claim such honors, really. But were having trouble making it stick. They circled the marina petulantly, gunning their SkiDoos and JetSkis into little jetés over self-created wakes, simmering. Those hippies and gas jockeys would rue the day they belittled the Lords of Xibalba.
Their mounts were as expensive and up-to-date as the overstoked, Mamon-fellating consumisimo culture of Cancun would allow. And that juniors could use to establish that they might be out here in the sticks instead of running amok in the Distrito Federál with the other sons of Mexico’s ruling class: but they were every bygod bit as badass, corrupt, spoiled, rich, and full of crap as any swinging pinga among them.
The Xibalba name came not from scholarly respect for the Mayan past, but because they thought it was cool so they took it. They were the latest generation of the European conquest of these indios and that’s how things were done. Glorying in an imagined past of the people they scorned, also par for the course.
They’d all gravitated to SkiDoos as naturally as they’d all been enrolled in the same snotty, post-modern collegio with its own stadium and helicopter pad. The Yucatan was Yacht World, and everybody they knew had a thirty meter Hatteras to anchor off Isla on Sundays and drink, or a Donzi to blast around scaring fishermen and showing their ass. They were the dream market for “personal watercraft”.
They’d seen themselves as pirates, then as a trou-sagging, tattooed, crip-slouching urban gang riding expensive toys. Then they saw the film “Wild Hogs” and everything fell into place. They quickly backtracked through DVD’s, gobbling up Easy Rider, the Wild One, the jillion “dirtbiker kicks ass on Hell’s Angels” vids. They were a marine bike gang now, proud to sport the dimly understood name “Lords of Xibalba”. Then they come in here for gas and some ancient gringo hippy dickhead laughs at them. And his fuckable but snot-nosed sidekick, the built redhead buying gas in a liter bottle, calls them “SkiDoods.”
WE ARE NOT “DOODS! was their general mood and they thrashed the oily water around the gas dock into a froth trying to figure out how to make that point. But by then the old grunger and Srta. Smackdown Bitch had split. She even waved back at them! “Toasted” them with her bottle of gas!
Finally Chimi, as his cuates called him, rather than Agosto Cesar Ronchel del Cumbre, stood up on his waterbike and rallied them with a sharp cry. He dropped to his seat, pointed out to the limpid turquoise of the Bay and dialed on RPM’s so suddenly his JetSki rared up almost vertical before blasting out in the point position of a skimming diamond of Doods. Later for that pair of babosos was in his mind as he skipped along over submerged coral and tarpon.
The formation flashed by their usual haunts on Isla– Rolandi’s, O’s, Tiburon, any place with a dock and liquor license–and rounded to Playa Norte. Spanking across the shallows, they dived into Buhos, scattering swimmers and sunbathers as they drove their slim hulls up onto the beach in direct violation of the kinds of laws that sons of powerful Mexicans observe only by omission.
Chimi smoldered over a Cuba Libre. moving sideways in the little rope swing that served Buho’s beach bar instead of stools. He paid no attention to his droogitos prancing and jiveassing in the circle cleared for them by wary patrons. He had a score to settle.
Chango (known to others as Aquiles Tomaso Dominquero y Vasca) in the elaborate faux street dialect adapted by his wealthy peers, was ragging on Rambón, who was flaunting a new high-tech system that allowed him to blast out sounds even while doing the most hair-brained and waterlogged stunts. Drenching the peaceful beach with the raggedest in rap and reggaetón that money and obsession could acquire.
“It’s nothing to do with reggae,” Chango sneered. “It’s rap in Spanish. What, don’t you understand English?” A deep insult among educated, arriviste young Mexicans, for who familiarity with U.S. culture is a badge of hipness.
“Eso,” Corcho chimed in, “What’s that all about? It’s like Japanese mariachi or something.”
“You are talking about Jap Mexicans, pendejo?” Rambón scoffed. “You’ve got some Chink word tattooed on your ass.”
Chango laughed, touching his eye in the signal for having seen through a secret. “Oh, so you’ve studied his naked ass?”
“No hay pedo.” Rambón replied languidly. “I saw it bouncing around on top of that Norwegian girl with the…”
“So that’s what happened to her.”
“What happened to his pinga, too,” Corcho snickered. “That’s why he’s not drinking any beer.”
Chimi suddenly cut through the jabber. “So are we “Doods”?”
“Are we not men?” Corcho joked, but caught on that Chimi was in no mood.
“Fucking hippy, fucking redhead bitch,” was Chimi’s summation of it all.
The SkiDoods agreed wholeheartedly. “Fuck those gringo mamones,” and such sentiments were echoed around the bar.
“So why didn’t you do anything about it?” Rambón dropped out like a lead fart.
Chimi glared at him without a quick reply. But was saved from a lame one by Chango. Who up and spoke, “Well, we know where they hang out.”
He drew eyes from the whole pack, waited a beat, then shrugged, “He’s the asshole who built that floating island in the Lagoon.”
Chimi nodded gravely. Of course he’d known that. What he didn’t yet know was, “So what are we going to do about it?”
“Something chingón!” Chango blurted, part of a chorus.
Damn right, Chimi mused. Fuckin A right we will.