Rood Dood

Chango rocked his scorpion-tattooed wrist, dialing off and on the “R’s” that impelled hisKawasaki JS750 watercraft in sharklike lunges, emphasizing the jagged white teeth newly-painted on the prow and cowl. Rich, bored, and stupid, the punky scion of the Domingero clan was a sort of secular saint to Cancun’s hop shops, aftermarket purveyors, and thieves. The custom pitched Solas Dynafly impeller–his latest and most noticeably effective modification–growled savagely as it punched out a firehose column of water, jamming the boy in toward the beach.

But let’s not forget the Blowsion mat kit with side lifters, rule 500GPH bilge kit, R&D billet angled spacers for the V-Force Delta 2 Carbon reeds. the blast fine-tuned Wamiltons scupper and pump mods, Jetworks mixture screws, R&D 6º ignition adv kit, pro-tuned Factory Wet Pipe, all screaming psychotically from the gleaming throne of a magnafluxed Girtled head kit, electronically torque-balanced to the overbored case. And all of it protected from the bumps and grinds or its owner’s crazed desire to break the world down to size by ODI filters, ride plates and intake grates.

With only the assistance of two dozen technicians he had single-handedly quadrupled the cost of a massive overpriced personal watercraft. And what had it bought him? Less than nada, as a matter of fact. He has lost the race to the point and back–his fellow Lords of Xibalba being just as spoiled and feckless, and also better jockeys–so he had to run to land for more Tequila and key limes. Smarting under the humiliation and jeers of his so-called compas, he tore to the sand like a buzzbomb, threading between terrified swimmers and hysterical children before driving his hull up onto the wet sand.

He paid no attention to the shrieks and insults of the people he had come within millimeters of impelling into fish chow, and even less to the police officer in snappy pith helmet and dorky white shorts who was approaching him as he sauntered towards the palapa bar for provisions. He was a gold-filled “Junior”, his parents were bulletproof and omnipresent. He and his class paid no tickets, obeyed no signals or sirens, copped no shit. He was shocked when the cop grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, giving him major stinkeye from under that snappy white brim and leather strap.

But of course he not only wasn’t up in Mexico City, frolicking with impunity among his fellow “Juniors”, he wasn’t even in Cancun, which his caste saw as a sort of beach extension of the Capital. But he assumed that even hick-ass Cozumel cops could read his status and unimpeachability off his light skin, frosted hair, and smug attitude. He waited until the cop wound down his rant about aquatic safety, smirked, and turned back to the counter, pointing to the top shelf Tequilas and holding up five fingers.

Imagine, if not delight in, his amazement when the cop jerked him around again and sunk a fast, hard-moving fist into his gym-sculpted abs, right on the button known as the solar plexus. The amazement was a brief flash, followed by gasping pain, fear, and rage. When he could breathe again he raised a flushed faced to the cop, who waited serenely flanked by a big crowd of pissed-off bunch of almost-victims of his approach to land. He hated the creaky, babyish voice with which he attempted to intimidate, saying, “Do you have any idea who my father is?”

“Nope,” the cop laughed. “Do you?”

The crowd went wild over that one, as they did over the encore: the grabbed Chango by his collarbones and jerked him to his feet, then held his throat in one hand as he slapped and backhanded his face to punctuate his concept that he wouldn’t tolerate any such driving around the swimming areas and if he ever even laid eyes on Chango again, it might be the last time anybody had the dubious privilege. He then dragged the boy to his jet ski, hurried the awkward launching of it with kicks and cuffs, and tossed the kid on it. But held him for a parting moment, rough hand deep in the spiky hair. While he whipped out a radio and gave a quick description of the miscreant and his hyper-priced toy. The kid was going to drive very slowly out to that huge, ugly yacht, the cop told the listeners and was not going to leave it again unless he felt like swimming. Otherwise he was hoping the listener could sweep in and arrest him, if not just run him down. He released Chango to a ragged, heartfelt cheer from the mob of beach-goers and chilango-haters and stood waving as the little delinquent crept back out to the Nahual in something so far beyond humiliation that he would have needed intravenous self-esteem to get suicidal.

Chimi would be the worst, playing host/God on his old man’s yacht while Ronchel pere was conferring and hobnobbing ashore with bigwigs who had flown thousands of miles to meet him and wouldn’t even get to see the already famous yacht. It had seemed like fun, the Lords hoisting their wetbikes aboard and setting out in ridiculous luxury to ply the waters and women of Cozumel, but it had turned into a pain in the ass and he couldn’t wait to get the hell back to Cancun. And was suddenly wondering just how that was going to happen, anyway.

He looked up and there was fucking Chimi, standing on the helipad laughing his candy ass off. And the other guys drifting out of the aft bar to whoop it up over him creeping back in like an old lady. He was so pissed off. He wanted to have that cop killed, wanted to pound on his “amigos” with piece of pipe, wanted to fuck somebody to death.

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