A Short Story -- Fell the Devil

What nobody knew in Diablos was that Daisy married Rainer before coming. He turned into a muslim for her. Muslims rarely turned Catholic but sometimes Catholics converted to Islam. Then he began going to the Mosques. They instructed him in the ways of Islam, in the ways of Mindanao, in the ways of Abu Sayeff, the terrorist group funded by Al Qaeda. He added a second wife—an Indonesian smuggled in from Kota Kinabalu in Malaysia to Zamboanga in the Philippines. Although he had the second wife he still sent Daisy SMS messages asking her to send money and such. He knew she was working near Manila. He didn’t know what she was doing. If he knew, he would kill her—put a knife through her kidney.      

            He was being trained at the mosque to make SEMTEC bombs, to use remote controlled fuses, to kill a man without so much as a knife. He attended a school. It was funded by foreign sources: the Brotherhood of Islamic Farmers, the Islamic Children’s Fund, the World Islamic Front for the Prevention of Hunger. Soon there were schools, doctors, medicine—all because of the Islamists. Rainer, now Mohammet Ali Iskender Maju, was drawn to this. Mindanao was having its greatest moment due to this foreign funding. They were selling a holy war in the mosques, and he was buying it. These people couldn’t be wrong. Look at the progress all around. The jihad was a necessary reality. Because of poverty his youngest brother died, because of poverty his young first wife left to make money in the city, because of poverty Mindanao was a mess. If he knew she was working for a lightly veiled brothel owned by a US Special Forces Pilot he would start shooting. If he knew that she was fucking guys for money he would put a knife into her. He messaged her asking for money. She sent him some. She considered them broken-up but still felt she could spare some of Ben’s money. She didn’t ever tell Ben she was married. She only said that she would send money home to family. What she never anticipated was that Rainer would have some money from an Abu Sayeff mission and come to diablos City. That he would come armed and feeling jihad burning in his blood was even less expected. This town was loaded with the Great Satan. An ex-US army base once blanketed with molten lava with a virtual mile of bars with girls for hire. There was blow road for quickie fellatio. All bringing the Filipina girl to her knees, all economic power tripping, financial tyranny, all proof Allah must destroy the Crusaders, the Infidels.

Mohammet Ali Iskender Maju, sent by the Abu Sayeff, walked the streets of Diablos alone. His mission was to set a remote bomb in one of these tourist places. Diablos was a perfect target.

 Jeff was with Daisy. They walked hand in hand. Jeff dropped Daisy off at the club she worked in some she could work an hour or two while he barhopped with his friends. He was about to meet the other guys: Clay, Mardy and the rest. Jeff kissed Daisy.

Mohammet Ali Iskender Maju, previously known as Rainer Ramirez, saw that when Daisy kissed Jeff and then disappear into the bar called the Lizard King she simultaneously squeezed his cock. Rainer almost screamed and reached for his weapon. The jihad was already launched in his mind but he had been taught the power of restraint, patience, and timing.

Rainer followed Jeff. He wore his white visor backwards, his hair came out like a pineapple. He disappeared into a bar. Alcohol, another devil. Then he came out with two other crusaders.

Rainer, now Mohammet Ali Iskender Maju, followed them. They went into another bar. This time Rainer went in behind them. The door slammed shut. Then a doorgirl just inside clapped her hands and said, “somebody ate fish tonight.” This was code that a native was coming in. The girls put their tops back on.

“What is a Filipino here?” Jeff asked Freddi, who had given him a blowjob in the short time room the previous night.

Rainer was sitting in the back like a dirty cloud of smoke. To fit in a little, like the terrorist training camp had instructed, you must act the part. He ordered a tequila.

“He’s in the back. You want more fun five me 700 pesos and come downstairs now.”

Jeff bought her a drink—a courtesy for last night’s service—and took his entourage to the next bar. Now Clay had a girl on his arm too. Another Ana, but, of course, not Mark’s Ana.

In the next bar the girls were wild, licking each other, giving blowjobs at the bar, and licking shots off bared chests.

This was when Jeff thrived, in this environment. A girl flicked her tongue at Jeff, then giggled and smacked her friend’s ass. Now, fifty-two thousand US dollars richer, he ordered drinks for all the girls in the place. “Lose the tops girls,” he said. They did as told. A platter of tequila was brought to the bar. All the girls, topless, huddled around picking lime and salting the backs of their hands. But then came the clapping and, “so many people wearing blue today.” The tops went back on and the dirty cloud again loomed in the back.

This time Rainer, now, as you know, called Mohammet Ali Iskender Maju, had two more tequilas. The room started to loosen a bit. There was all this sex in front of him. He wanted to be all cock and put himself inside all of these different girls. This was like the martyr paradise of a thousand virgins. Here they were in front of his eyes. But Daisy. The fury was still foremost—now copulating with this sexual depravity. He went back to the bar in which Daisy worked. She saw him immediately, came down off the stage, tied a sarong around her plump and cute ass, and confronted him.

“You can’t be here,” she said.

“This is the devil’s work,” he said. “You’re a Muslim. You should be home, with a veil.”

“Not here.” She took his hand. “Wait here.” She let go and went through a door at the back of the club. He saw the girls. They were dancing to “In Da Club.” Most looked at the mirror and watched there dancing wearing serious faces. There were three older men drinking beers while sitting with young girls in bikini tops and sarong bottoms.

Many of the girls looked at Rainer closely. He looked different, like he was from far away. There were no sneakers, instead he wore sandals, similar to a Hindu or a Muslim. Different from the hip hop styles of the north of the country. When he looked they looked down or back to the mirror. There was a certain tension there.

Daisy came back with in jeans, a black blouse, and her purse and took him by the hand.  She led him past the bar to the door. “Remember you’re barfined. I’ll text you if you’re not back,” Mama said.

Mama sensed it was an old boyfriend. She didn’t know he had recently been secretly staying with her. They left and a new song “Smoke Weed Everyday” came on and the girls exploded on the stage—free again.

It was hot and dusty on the street. Daisy walked fast, heading toward her apartment so that people wouldn’t see them together. Just being around Rainer made her nerves vibrate.

“Give me three hundred pesos,” he said.

“You’ve been drinking. I can smell it.”

She led him to a tiny road. The sun was nearly completely down. Dust whipped up in the wind. She wanted to get away from people. Daisy counted 300 from the 1000 Jeff had given her earlier.

Then Rainer, now called Mohammet Ali Iskender Maju, messenger of Allah martyr for Abu Sayeff, took out a gaucho knife. The knife was the kind used in the Argentine pampas for cutting beef. Nobody was there but the two of them. He intended to stab her in the ass, teach her a lesson, but something moved. Perhaps the prophet Mohammet (Rainer’s namesake) shook the earth at exactly the moment he stabbed her. The blade went into her kidney. She collapsed on the street, and bled to death on the dusty road.

Rainer ran back to her house. He was drunk from the infidel tequila. Some guys found her body and rang the police. Nearby vendors saw them walk into the alleyway. They could indentify Rainer. They also saw him with Daisy before and knew he was staying in her house. They told the officers her exact address. The police went to her place. Outside they stopped and had cigarettes. There’s a joke in the Philippines: Jesus went to the top of a mountain and told the Filipinos, ‘don’t do anything until I get back.’ They haven’t lifted a finger since.

The police wouldn’t go inside, where Rainer, now Mohammet Ali Iskender Maju, was sleeping off the terrible drunkenness he was suffering, because they didn’t have a search warrant.

Jeff never saw the body. He never cried. He went to get Mark but Mark didn’t answer—he was on the phone with Ana. What he did do, Jeff, was he cracked the shit out of everything in his hotel room while snorting a ton of Shaboo. The mirror lay shattered on the floor, the chest of drawers was splintered in a thousand shards, his room had become rubble and debris.

Buzz. The phone electric shocked him while he lay in his stupor amid the pieces of wood and glass, or actually volcanic hematite. Buzz.

He reached for the phone and read the display: “You ready to boom me?” Maricel. He smacked the phone against the smudged wall where the mirror used to hang. The phone bust into a thousand little pieces, semiconductor, sim card, and battery now mixed with mirror and wood.

“It’s all your fault, Mark. Fucking tennis.”

He lay there comatose for nearly four hours. Blood dripped from his knee where a shard tore through the skin. Maricel knocked but he didn’t respond. She let herself in.

When Jeff woke up his knee was severely cut. He should have gone directly to the hospital but instead he went directly to the Shabu dealer.

Jeff was beat up. When he finally went to the doctor he found out that he had torn a ligament in his knee. He wouldn’t be able to play for some time. Also, he was almost out of money because of the girls and the Shabu.

Mark entered the Philippine tournament instead of Jeff. A new mindset came over him. It was a job nothing more. What he had to do was do his job. On his first serve he hit the ball with the frame and it went into the audience. The next serve was a screaming ace up the T.

Mark advanced easily and with it saw his confidence rise. He took home the trophy.

            He lay in bed that night thinking of Ana. Eight months had passed. He now did  what she always had wanted him to do. He played for himself. She wanted what was best for him. He was just too timid to see it before. He picked up the phone to dial her number. A rush of blood filled his face. Weird, he didn’t know one on one situations made him nervous. He thought it was just crowds. He looked at the trophy on the vanity counter—reflected by the mirror. Then he dialed.