Meat Festival in St. Judas
"Mendo, d’you know where you can stick your fucking sense of adventure next time?" Tres-Culos, bassist of the Tortillas de Pelo, broke the silence suddenly in his usual volcanic style.
Mendoza, continued to observe a mummified bug, relic of past winters, stuck between the window and the cracked sheath of the old Chevy van. He was about to reply when a burp of Tres-Culos banished the words from his mouth, making the interior of the van rumble with an echo-like effect between the cardboard walls of the vehicle.
For a fraction of a second, Machete stopped the chord progression of his new-born piece - somewhat way too similar to Ramones' “Do not Want to Grow Up” - and he cast a sardonic look at Tres-Culos. At the wheel of the Chevy, Tío Billy was a monolith in a leather jacket and Tom Ford.
After all, TC was right, the journey through the glacier was a bad idea. The members of the punk-rock group had come out with their bowels well tangled and the alpine vegetation, more than relaxing them, made everyone feel like sugar cubes dipped in a glass of viscous absinthe.
At least, now the van was sailing calmly through the grassy sea of that mountain valley. Mendoza thought back to how they had ended up accepting that unusual engagement and how unlikely it was that the mayor of a small village, nestled in the middle of the Alps, could have paid them handsomely and in advance to perform at the "Meat Festival".
They had accepted without asking too many questions. Only God, or someone else in his place, knew how much they needed a healthy injection of money. He was tired of recycling picks from every piece of fairly stiff plastic.
Meanwhile, Tío had nailed the old Chevy in front of a crossroads, undecided on which way to get to the village of Saint Judas, their final destination.
From the dusty window, Mendoza's attention was captured by a roadside shrine. It contained a simple painting, representing a lady dressed in a blue tunic and with open arms. On closer inspection, the madonna showed an awkward bright red skin. "Almost skin stripped" he thought, increasingly immersed in the picture. The protruding black eyes of the figure were pointy and vivid blades, thus contrasting with the pale, expressionless faces of the faithful kneeling around her. Only the noise of the Chevy, starting to climb the mule-track, broke the hypnotic contemplation of that strange religious representation.
The vehicle was trudging for a good hour through an anaconda of endless hairpin turns. Machete was almost interrupting the arpeggio to complain about the roadmap’s delay when, finally, the village of St. Jude revealed itself to the band's eyes. A myriad of small houses proliferated under the geological anomaly called Butcher’s Hook, a mountain whose top was bizarrely bent over itself, casting a perennial shadow over the village.
"I will need a steady and uninterrupted supply of booze tonight" Tío Billy solemnly noted.
..
"You're not the only one who will need it," said Mendoza, mostly to himself. Tio looked at him with a shit eating grin. "Someone a little nervous?" Then he let out a whoop as they approached the back lot.
Mendoza has made this same trip a few times, so he knows what is in store for this pathetic group, especially TC.
A beautiful woman approached and shook his hand. "It's nice to see you again, Mendoza." At that, the rest of the band stared at him. "Say what?" said Tio.
Oh, Mendoza and I go way back. My name is NATAS. I take it he has never mentioned me?"
"Must have slipped my mind," Mendoza cut in, before anymore questions arose. "Shall we get started?"
They all walked to the stage, which had been set up in a circle. Mendoza stood with his back towards the truck. He had the rest set themselves close to the middle. They started playing Band on the Run, and the other band asked if they could join in. Mendoza said it would be great. TC chimed in, "this should shake up the dead now. Speaking of dead, my bottle is empty. Where can we get more beer?"
NATAS went into the bar and brought out more beer, and a bottle of whiskey. "I think this calls for a great celebration. Two wonderful bands playing as one, like it was meant to be."
"Alright, I can drink to that," said Machete. "Besides, I'm sure my blood could use a little thinning. Helps the alcohol buzz last longer."
Mendoza half mumbled, "good, thinner blood works better." Machete turned to look at him, "what the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Just thinking out loud." TC walked up, patted both on the backs, "hey come on guys, this is supposed to be fun. Lets get back to playing."
NATAS gave the signal, and Mendoza stood as they then played Highway to Hell. Just as he took a few steps back, the people standing around the stage moved in. Tres was the first one who was pulled down, then nailed to floor of the stage. TC almost knocked Mendoza over before he took was yanked down. Mendoza ran to the truck, while his "band" was being used for the yearly sacrifice.
