12.1 Wall of Doom

Winds picked up and sand blew in our faces. We had to leave the beach at that point around ten. Reaching the parking lot I said goodbye to her, “I left my bike here.”

“Oh, you left it there!” She insisted, “Saturdays I am at home. I will leave a message in your inbox if I want you.”

“Thanks. I will watch it.”

I rode home on my motorbike wearing that piece of boyshorts. The walls of Huvafen were discoloured with black paint. They just threw paint cans to the wall. By the corner, it read ‘YOU ARE DEAD! SUVARA!’ with reference to a native. My name was written on the wall with skull and crossbones drawn over it. ‘KAWLA!’ – a death threat.

They used a chemical substance so thick to stain and penetrate into the mural and wall paint. It was crude oil. Reed was out. Sabo was out. Two football enthusiasts. I could not do anything there to wash it off.

At home, I thought about Shalin for a moment but I could not figure it out. She was a Nadine girl and a relative of Usi, single, never married and her age around mid-twenties. She could not be an architect so qualified. Mind blowing!

That was too great a day that I enjoyed like the heavens so I decided not to talk about it. Often, I was the one who could not keep a secret. I told Asmr that we had a chat online and that she was not interested to blackmail anybody to solve her problems.

“Just not yet,” said Asmr, “We surely have to get this Suvargedor going and she will change her mind.”

I frowned, “She won’t. She’s a person much more stable than you think.”

“Twenty-seventh is the New Moon,” he was mean to say so, “Whether it rains or not, we are getting into the cemetery to do this ritual. Friday night and the sun will rise for Saturday the Twenty-seventh.”

“Less than two weeks!”

“I will arrange everything and let you know.”

A week later, Bienvenidos guys repainting their walls rolled the brushes on my wall and to a great extent those stains were gone, still visible faintly like an undertone. Hombre was there painting my wall.

Within those twelve days, I was able to have brief chats with Sophie a couple of times. She talked about the coming holidays and to plan something unforgettable.

In fact, it was 26^th Friday when I got that message in the inbox from Sophie Nadz that Asmr contacted on the phone to say I should get ready and meet his team at Mirador Cemetery by the main gate at 10:00 pm.

In mixed thoughts I left her mail unanswered. I should have accepted her invitation. Instead, I happened to be replying to his calls. Time approached. I shutdown my PC, locked the doors, put on my dress and yes, I wore those pink panties because they would obviously ask me to get undressed. That worn-out pair of pink panties had been in my possession now for four years. I filled gas to my bike on the way and cruised to Orange Hill.

There were twelve men on their motorbikes that looked like Viking helmets: Harley-Davidson motorbikes. I call potato bikes. They were all Divi people from Nativa. They all wore those black wraps called falda and chains around their bodies, necks, wrists, arms and legs. I was a little scared. And remember; a falda has to be worn only a falda.

Asmr instructed, “Leave your motorcycle by the front gate. We enter from the back gate. Get undressed!”

I knew it. I removed my cigarettes, phone, keys, wallet, lighter, everything and left with the guys. I pulled down everything on my body and they put a pair of handcuffs on me with my arms behind my back.

“Is this necessary?” I felt they were going to pull another trick on me.

“Don’t talk!” Asmr voiced, “Climb a motorcycle. We go to the back gate.”

They did something to my motorbike and then we were rolling on Avenida Medio, turned to Orange Hill Road and reached the back gate of the cemetery. It was a dark night, cloudy, but no wind or rain. I could hear the chirps of the crickets pretty loud in my ear. I noticed the row of skulls and bones on the top of the wall.

Asmr gestured, “You may enter!”

I was paraded through the back gate, walking on barefoot, up the wet soil through the Goat’s Foot Morning Glory vines some hundred and fifty metres. I believe we came to the relative middle of the graveyard. It was a flat land without a tombstone and no big trees.

They unfurled straw mats and we positioned to sit facing the main gate, meaning west. There were many things happening and I could not remember every detail though I keep hearing those clings of their ornamental wear. Pop sounds of zinc tins they carried. The chirping ceased and I began to smell hemp. Handcuffs removed.

The guy on my left passed me a bong with a fire. It was an amber glass bottle. We all smoked cannabis for a while. Then two guys worked on my body, shaved with a razor, the entire body. Then they began to wear an oily substance on my body topically. This application was thoroughly thorough, by that I mean, his fingers ran deep in my groins.

Afterwards, we sat in a semicircle smoking that stuff and they began to hum. It started from a low note and it continued infinitely without breaks like when six reached their breath, six others would resume. Not very loud and we smoked pot of the best quality that certainly came from the southern grassland. If the chorus ceased, they resumed the low hoot, “WHOOOOO!”

At one point I began to laugh silently because it looked so ludicrous. Asmr noticed and gestured to calm down. He sat on the far right.