Introduction:

Nickolas Cook has captured a moment gone wrong between drug dealer and drug lord, and through this moment we see the big world of street drugs in motion. Warning: Violence and torture. 

"Mexican Radio"
By
Nickolas Cook


The knock at the door startled Craig.
He pulled his gun from under the pillow he'd been laying on and waited, listening.
Another knock-knock-knock pounded at the cheap hotel door.
Craig sidled up to the hotel door and stood off center of it, peeking through the peephole, feeling his heart thumping in his chest.
It was just Toby.
Relieved, he opened the door, and Toby hustled inside, holding a zippered black gym bag against his chest. He looked harried and anxious.
“You got it?”
“I'm here, ain't I,” said Toby. “Think I'd risk this shit if I couldn't get the stuff? Close the door, man.”
Craig shoved the door shut.
“Lock it,” Toby snapped.
Craig locked the door.
“You weren't followed, were you,” he asked.
Toby gave him an irritated glance and shook his head. “Well, hell, Craig,” he said. “I don't know. What am I? Fucking 007 or something? How would I know if I was being followed?”
Craig sat on the bed, his shoulders sagging. “Maybe this was a bad idea, man.”
“A little too late for second thoughts, bud,” Toby told him. “We made the deal and now we're on the hook for it.”
“We could just give it back and tell him we changed our minds,” said Craig.
But Toby shook his head, frowning at his friend. “Dude, that's not how this shit works. We made the deal. They don't handle 'we changed our minds' too good,” he said. “They'll kill us. And not with a simple bullet through the head, either. These Juarez guys...man, they torture motherfuckers before they set them on fire and watch them burn alive. But that's cool. Because by the time they get to that part, you'll be begging them to do it just so's you don't have to hurt anymore.”
Craig looked at Toby and gulped, his eyes wide and wet with fear.
“Okay,” he said. “I get it. We can't turn back now.” He nodded and motioned towards the gym bag. “Have you checked the stuff yet?”
“Hell, no,” said Toby. “I just wanted to get my happy ass back here and off the streets. Know what I mean?”
Craig knew exactly what he meant. Juarez was scary as hell during the day. But at night it was like a war zone in some places. You could hear gunfire on the streets, screaming sirens, and yelling people most of the time. Coming across the border for product had become downright dangerous these days. You never knew who you could trust. You never knew who was watching you. Especially if you were two white guys from Texas with a nice car and money.
Even their over the border contact, Jorge, was sketchy. He didn't have a last name and used only burner phones for everything. So they didn't have any way of knowing he was on the up and up before they handed him the money for the stuff. It had been a gamble. But one they had both agreed was worth it at the time. They knew selling just one bundle of this shit in the US would set them up for a long time to come. Neither of them would have to work ever again if they played their cards right.
“Come on. Let's open the bag,” said Craig.
Toby sat down next to him on the rickety hotel bed and unzipped the gym bag.
Inside was a large duct taped roundish bundle.
“Damn,” Toby said. “That's a lot of fucking tape. Give me your knife.”
Craig pulled his folding knife from his pocket and handed it to Toby, who unfolded and locked the knife in place. The blade snapping into position seemed too loud for the quiet room, so while Toby went at the thick layers of tape, Craig reached over to the small bedside table and flipped on the ancient looking FM/AM alarm clock radio. An upbeat mariachi song filled the room, lending the whole scene a weirdly festive feel.
Toby's brow was furrowed in concentration, the tip of his tongue sticking from the side of his mouth, as he sawed at the duct taped bundle.
“I don't know, man,” he said. “This doesn't feel right.”
“What? You think they ripped us off?” Craig leaned in anxiously.
The knife blade hit something soft and squishy under the last few layers of tape.
Toby pulled it out of the package.
The blade was wet with blood.
“What the fuck…”, he muttered.
“Jesus, Toby,” said Craig as he pulled back in disgust. “Is that blood? Is that fucking blood?”
Sickened but knowing he had to see what was under the tape now, Craig used his fingers to peel the last layers apart and the remaining tape came away with a sticky sound.
The coppery stench of blood wafted from the open hole.
Staring back at them with dead eyes was Jorge’s head.
Toby threw the head from his lap with a high squeal.
Craig back pedaled on the bed until the headboard stopped him.
Then the door crashed open.
Three men in black ski masks rushed in.
“Puta Americano gringos, bastardos (Whore American men, bastards),” one of them shouted. “Consíguelos (Get them)!”
Before either of them could reach for their hidden guns, the masked trio was on them.
He saw Toby kick one of the men in the groin and he doubled over with a curse and a moan, but another was on him before he could strike out again.
Craig heard his friend gasp and cry out as the other masked man laid into him with his fists.
Before he could try to help him, Craig felt some kind of wet fabric being suddenly clapped over his nose and mouth from behind. He tried to scream, but his throat and lungs were filled with a choking chemical stench and a curtain of darkness fell over him.
He woke slowly to the muffled sounds of someone screaming and sobbing.
When Craig tried to move, he realized he was sitting up and his hands were tied in his lap. He made a small groggy sound of confused protest and tried to move. But he felt weak from whatever had been used on him.
“Está despierto (He's awake)”, he heard a man say from nearby.
“Está bien (That's good)”, another man said.
Craig's eyelids weighed a ton, but he forced them open.
Four grinning Mexican men were standing around him.
Looking past them, he saw he was in the middle of a warehouse. Street lamp light was pouring in from the night outside through a series of large high broken windows, hitting the dirty, trash-littered warehouse floor. There was a large fire burning in a barrel a few yards away.
Toby was near the burning fire, naked and also tied to a chair.
His face looked lumpy and bloody and he was shaking and sobbing. Craig could see several long gashes along his arms and legs. It looked like someone had been at him with a knife.
One of the grinning men stepped forward, blocking his view of Toby. He leaned down and shoved Craig's chin up so he could gaze into his bleary eyes. “Hablas inglés, señor (You speak Spanish, mister)?”
It took Craig a few moments to process what the man had asked. He shook his head.
The man stood, towering over him. “That's okay, senor,” he said with a thick accent. “I know your English well enough.”
The other three men backed away, giving the other man room.
“Your friend over there.” He motioned towards the quivering bloody Toby. “Do you know what he did?”
Craig managed to raise his head to look up at the man. He shook his head, feeling the world spinning from the after effects of the drug they'd used to knock him out.
The tall man began to pace back and forth.
“Your friend,” he said. “He stole from us. Along with your other friend Jorge.”
Craig heard Toby wailing and sobbing.
“They gave us counterfeit money as payment for your drugs, senor,” the pacing man said. “Do you know how disrespectful it is to do such a thing, my friend? They thought we were fucking stupid. It hurts to be disrespected, you know?”
Craig shook his head slowly, trying to keep the dizzy world from spinning.
“I-I did-didn't know,” he muttered, his voice still weak and slurred.
The man stopped pacing, smiling down at him.
“Oh? You didn't know, eh? You. Did. Not. Know.”
He looked around at his men, who were also smiling and chuckling now.
“I...didn't...know,” he said again, his voice weak and trembling. Once more, Craig lifted his heavy head and gazed up at the smiling men and their smirking leader.
“So, your friend lied to you, too, eh?”
Craig nodded.
“Well, my friend,” he said. “You should appreciate what comes next for your unfaithful friend.”
His smile faded and he turned to give a nod to his three men.
They moved towards Toby.
One of them drew out a long blade that reflected the leaping flames of the barrel fire.
Toby saw them coming and began to twist in his chair, his sobs growing louder as he begged for mercy in a sloppy wet voice filled with terror.
Craig tried to turn his head, but the leader grabbed his hair and jerked his head up.
“If you close your eyes, senor, I will take them out,” he said in his ear. “Do you understand me?”
Craig felt sick to his stomach and lightheaded, but he nodded.
The man with the knife held Toby's twisting head. Then he sawed off his ears, tossing them into the barrel fire. They sizzled and hissed as they burned to cartilage and flesh ash in the roaring flames.
Toby screamed so loud his voice cracked.
When the man with the knife was done he released his head and Toby leaned forward and puked.
The lead man called over his shoulder, “Toma su nariz a continuación, Hector (Take his nose next, Hector)!”
Hector took Toby's nose next, slicing through flesh and cartilage like it was warm butter.
Toby yowled like an animal, his cries echoing in the dark warehouse, thrashing in his chair.
Hector threw the nose into the fire as well.
Craig tried to turn his head away, to close his eyes. But the man before him pulled a small blade from his pocket and held the point of it against Craig's right eye; he could feel the sharp tip digging into the soft flesh half an inch from his eyeball.
“I mean what I say, senor,” the man said, pressing the blade. “Turn away again and I take this eye first.”
Craig felt hot tears roll down his cheeks but he didn't fight the man's grip on his face as he forced him to watch what came next.
The man called to Hector again. “Su polla siguiente (His dick next)!”
Craig saw Hector lean in and roughly snatch at Toby's genitals, getting a firm grip on his dangling penis.
The knife flashed in the firelight.
The sound Toby made next was unearthly.
Blood splashed across the dirty warehouse floor.
Hector laughed and threw Toby's dismembered penis into the fire.
The smell of burning fleshy parts wafted through the air, making Craig want to turn and gag. But the knife point was still pressed into the flesh under his right eye, so he called on all his willpower to keep from turning away from the hellish and grisly scene.
The leader yelled once more to Hector.
“Cállate (Shut him up)!”
Hector nodded and went behind the yowling, bleeding Toby, pulling his head back to expose the tender flesh of his throat. He ran his knife blade across the struggling man's neck, and a long final dark line appeared and arterial blood spurted into the air.
Toby gave one last small animal mewl and bled out, convulsing as he died.
Craig felt like he was going to pass out.
Toby's body slumped in his ropes, his nose-less, ear-less head sagging to his gore-covered chest.
Hector pulled Toby's dead head up by his hair to make sure he was gone.
“El Jefe (Boss),” he called to the man with the knife point to Craig's eye. “Está muerto (He's dead)!”
“That means you're next, my friend.”
El Jefe tucked his knife away and grabbed the back of Craig's chair.
Tipping him back, he began dragging the chair to where his dead friend was slumped.
“Wh-what are you doing,” Craig whimpered. “I didn't know anything about this shit. I didn't know!”
El Jefe chuckled.
“Senor, this has to happen,” he said. “If I let you walk away, everyone will know I mercy and mercy is bad for business.”
He thumped the chair down next to Toby's corpse.
Craig closed his eyes and shook his head.
“Please, please, please,” he begged. “Don't do this!”
But El Jefe ignored his teary pleas and nodded to his man Hector.
El Jefe and the other two men stepped back so he could get to work.
Hector leaned in and jerked Craig's head up so he could see his terrified, hopeless eyes.
He smiled at him with yellowed, broken teeth, stinking of blood and raw booze, showing Craig the bloody knife. He felt his whole body trying to get away from the blade, straining futilely against the tight ropes holding him in place.
Then the door to the warehouse suddenly exploded.
The impact of the explosion sent Craig's chair over and he hit the dirty concrete floor with a grunt of pain.
Startled, the men in the warehouse whirled around, drawing their guns.
Smoke boiled into the warehouse, obscuring the scene.
Armed men appeared out of the clouds of dark smoke, rushing through the devastated opening, yelling in Spanish and firing wildly at El Jefe and his stunned men.
A bullet hit Hector in the head and his body collapsed without a sound.
The knife skittered across the warehouse floor and came to a stop next to Craig's tied feet.
Chaos was all around: the deafening sounds of screaming men, gunfire from all directions, choking, blinding smoke.
Craig used his bound legs to scoot himself around, gazing at the fallen knife so near.
Someone's booted feet ran past him. The man turned and fired into the smoke, yelling curses in Spanish at the small army of intruders pouring in through the blasted doorway.
Craig used his bare foot to kick the blade closer to his hands.
Someone fell nearby, choking on blood, and then dying.
Craig ignored him, getting closer to the fallen knife.
He managed to get his right hand on the hilt and pulled it to him, almost sobbing with relief.
He sawed at the ropes at his wrist, slicing his own flesh more than once in his hurry to get loose.
The gunfire was beginning to become less random and the intruders were taking aim now, firing only when they had El Jefe and his surviving two men in their sights.
The ropes fell away and Craig went at the rest of the ropes securing his legs to the chair.
After a few quick slices, he was free.
Panicked and gasping for air, he skittered on hands and knees, making his way towards a side door across the way, feeling bullets whiz and sizzle overhead, the yelling and gunfire fading behind him.
He half crashed and half rolled against the door and it popped open from the force of impact.
Fresh air roiled in.
Naked and terrified, Craig staggered to his feet and stumbled into the humid Juarez night, the knife still clutched in his hand.
He didn't stop running until he found a dark alleyway, where he crouched down in the shadows, heaving and shaking.
After a few moments, he looked around and realized he didn't recognize any of the immediate geography. Craig had been unconscious after the three men had kidnapped he and Toby from their ratty hotel a couple of miles from the Texas border, so he had no idea where he was.
He was lost and he was naked.
But, unlike Toby, he still had both of his ears, his nose and his dick, and he wasn't dead, tied to a chair in an abandoned warehouse.
Toby...
That bastard.
How could he have screwed him like that?
One of his best friends had almost gotten him killed over a stupid act of greed. Part of him was furious. But the other part of him felt sick to his stomach knowing his friend was gone. He would never forget the horrible grisly images and the terrible sounds of his torture and murder.
Minutes passed and he decided he couldn't sit here and wait for someone to find him.
First thing, he needed some clothes, but he had no money and no credit cards.
Craig looked around the alleyway and saw a collection of overflowing garbage cans filled by the nearby shops. He clung to the deeper shadows, avoiding the bare streetlamp light near the alley entrance, and dug through the cans until he found some old newspapers and garbage bags. He opted for the garbage bags, using the knife to cut apart and then tying the ragged plastic pieces together to fashion something to cover his genitals and his bare ass. Then he made his way out of the alleyway, looking down both sides of the well lit and still busy streets beyond. Barefooted, he started walking to the left, looking for anything he recognized.
He soon found a road sign that said the Rio Grande River was two miles ahead and he almost sobbed with relief. The Rio Grande ran between the southern border of both the US and Mexico. There would be border stations and, as an American, he knew he could get help. All he had to do was find his way to one of those stations.
Craig chose to keep to the backstreets as much as possible, staying away from the more trafficked areas, avoiding the tourists and vehicles moving seemingly without pause up and down the busier streets. Out this far from the main routes, there were still people and bars and vendors. He even passed a stand selling BBQ iguana.
He eventually came upon a bar that rumbled and thumped with Mexican pop and mariachi music, filled with young American college students drinking cheap beer and tequila and listening to very loud music on a jukebox.
He stopped when he saw a large doorman kick open the front door and toss a young white man out onto the street.
“Stay out, you puta,” he shouted as the kid landed on his ass and rolled over.
The young man tried to sit up, but it was obvious he had imbibed in way too much border fun and he kept falling back to the trash-littered street. Other tourists stepped over him or went around him, ignoring his futile attempts to get up.
Craig paused, looking the guy up and down from across the street.
The other drunken tourists ignored him as well as he walked casually across the street and helped the kid to his feet. A naked, barefoot man wearing a jury rigged garbage bag diaper and a shitfaced college boy weaving into an alleyway was a seemingly typical sight here in Juarez because no one said anything to him or even looked twice at them.
Down in the shadows of the alley, Craig laid the other man down and stripped him of his clothes and shoes. The clothing was all baggy white kid American college stuff, so it was loose enough to fit him even though he was slightly larger than the now naked and passed out guy laying on the urine scented alley ground. The shoes were at least half a size too small, but Craig forced his feet into them.
Exiting the stinking alleyway, he headed for the busier border streets.
With any luck, he figured he could cover the last mile or so and be in a border station in an hour or less.
He made quick time, weaving through the crowds and traffic and saw the bright signs of the Texas-Mexico border station ahead. The wet earthy scent of the river wafted into the night air across the way.
But apparently lady luck had abandoned him, because as he was crossing the street to get to the border station across the river when El Jefe spotted him.
The smirking bastard had somehow survived the attack on his warehouse. He had a gash across one cheek. His face and clothes were covered in grime; dark splotches of drying blood speckled his torn shirt. He looked grim and enraged, and gleeful he'd found Craig once again.
“My gringo friend,” he called. “I see you made it out as well!”
He started across the street towards Craig, smiling with his big predatory teeth, his dark, murderous gaze locked on him, death in his every move—the lion coming upon the gazelle.
But Craig smiled, too.
He walked towards El Jefe.
“See? I know you puta Americanos,” the Mexican said, getting closer by the moment, his nasty grin getting wider and more sadistic. “I knew you'd run for your border patrol. I knew—”
As soon as the man was close enough, Craig thrust the hidden knife deep into his stomach, puncturing his soft organs.
El Jefe's eyes went wide with pained surprise.
He twisted the blade, feeling the bastard's intestines tear apart, watching the murderous drug lord's mouth opening and closing, gasping for air.
Craig pulled him close as if they old friends hugging one another. And as El Jefe's body began to sag against him, he drew him towards a bench next the Rio Grande burbling and singing in the night between the two nations.
He sat him down on the bench seat and left the knife deeply embedded in the dying man's torso.
Craig walked past him for the border station entrance, smiling.
And the Rio Grande kept on running.



THE END