Monday, October 5, 2009


by El Diablo Rojo

Before Rolando Hernandez could even work up a good, dignified protest, they had scrambled into his cramped apartment in San Jose and seized him, gagging him with a dirty pink bandanna. Now they carried him, whimpering and confused, out of his room. Rolando tried to twist his head around to break his mouth free and give the biggest scream of his life but (oh, fuck) their hands were surprisingly firm and strong, despite their nails colored a ridiculous deep red, some electric blue. The intruders stuffed the bandana back into his mouth with brutal force and bound his arms behind him with rope.

As they carried him out of his room, all four of them in their silly-looking micro mini shorts and heavily made up faces, he saw the various posters thumb tacked onto the thin walls. Various posters of women scantily dressed, some downright naked, with come-hither messages on the lower middle portion like Be My Dreamboy and Let Me Make It Up To You Tonight, lined the wall nearest to his door, and on the floor, in haphazard piles, lay the cheap, dirty magazines (both straight and gay) he had been collecting since he had first discovered the self-induced pleasures of masturbatory fantasies.

Rolando hung like a limp noodle between his abductors. And for the first time in his life, Rolando was suddenly sick with fear. He had had a couple of beers earlier that evening, sure, but he knew he wasn’t drunk so he shouldn’t have any problems tackling this bunch of sickos. Yet when he tried to struggle, kicking his legs, he found his efforts to be in vain. He couldn’t even move his arms. This is so wrong, so dead wrong. This is my room, my space. And they grabbed me. Coño vos nana! This can’t be! I’m a man! What’s fucking wrong with Zamboanga that something like this could happen!

A voice then spoke in the darkness, serious. “Buenas noches, Lando. We’ve come to take you away from the dreariness of your room so we could have a little fun.” The owner of the voice loosened Rolando’s buttoned down shirt and belt and undid his jeans. “You like that, si?”

Another one piped in, rich and full of mockery. “Oh, si. Lando sure likes to have fun. Fun. Fun. Fun. That’s what Rolando’s all about. In fact, I’ve noticed lately that he’s had too much fun.” The person casually laughed and with one quick movement slapped Rolando hard across the face. Someone else shoved a hand into his boxers and pinched his cock and balls. Rolando yelped in pain, gritting his teeth. Everybody laughed as they carried Rolando down the stairs of the building.

He was thrown in a rather ungainly fashion into the back of a pink Honda Civic, and his abductors scampered in around him, digging their knees into his groin, their hands splayed across his open chest. He was sweating profusely now, and despite the seriousness of his situation, he found himself becoming hard. He tried turning on his side so his tumescence wouldn’t show. The car lurched away from the curb, and then the voices were talking, and the bandanna that had been stuffed into his mouth came away so he could lick his chaffed lips and look at them with quivering eyes.
“W-where are you taking me, mga punyeta!” he gasped. He looked down. Yep. His cock was still rock hard. And it was showing, its dark purplish head peeking out of his red boxers.

“Lando, Lando. You naughty, naughty hombre.” The leader of the group said, looking at his groin, head shaking in pure disapproval.

“What do you want from me?” cried Rolando.

“Don’t pretend not to know what we want, Lando dear.”

“Go to hell, you fuck! Let me go!”

The car rushed down a bumpy road in the dark. The moon wasn’t in the sky, and only a few stars scattered themselves about in the black sky.

“I didn’t do anything wrong. I know all of you! Cocksucking bitches! Whores! You’re going to kill me!” Rolando screamed.

“Oh don’t be such a drama queen, Lando!” said one of them, a Zsa Zsa Padilla clone, patting his cheeks rather affectionately. “We wouldn’t even dream of doing that.”
“We won’t. I swear by my implants,” said another to the one leaning against one of the windows, the one looking like Cher, with gold tassels, puckered lips, the works.
“I swear by my botoxed cheekbones, we won’t,” Cher assured him.

Both of them grinned mischievously at Rolando. Their smiling faces reminded him of a cartoon he saw once when he had been a kid, one that involved a rather nubile blonde girl getting lost in a magical land. He remembered that bulbous cat, materializing out of nowhere, leering at the poor girl, its wide orange mouth displaying a monstrous grin. Zsa Zsa and Cher both looked like that now.

He wanted to kick in those disgusting, painted faces, but he found himself feeling very very cold. For a thought suddenly came unbidden, one that in that very instant began to grow and take up the rest of the space in his head.

“If this is about that ugly fat-ass Nora—"

His kidnappers (should you still call them kidnappers even when the victim is more than thirteen years old?) all gasped at the mention of their friend’s name. One of them, this time a bad imitation of Alice Dixon during her Dyesebel days and who was silent since the ride had started, spoke. “Don’t you ever insult that precious, precious name! You don’t even have any respect for the dead!”

Rolando shrugged his shoulders. “I have nothing to do with that stupid Nora’s death.”
Alice Dixon suddenly swung a fist right smack into Rolando’s face. It landed on his right cheek, stinging him.

“W-what the f-fuck! What did I do? What did I do? You assholes, you good-for-nothing putas! Just you wait till I get out of these ropes! Just you wait, you goddamn, ball-licking pussies!” Rolando raved, spittle flying from his open mouth.
Zsa Zsa pulled on Rolando’s hair, hard. Rolando screamed and his eyes burned, filling them with tears. And something else, something that looked like rage, now swirled in their pools.

“You are guilty, Lando. We saw the note. We know the reason why Nora did what she did. Poor wretch. She loved you, Lando. She loved you,” the leader said from the driver’s seat.

“And now, you have to pay for what you did.”

Rolando shook his head, shook it for all its worth. “No! No! I didn’t do anything! Please believe me! I didn’t do anything to—“

Cher shoved the bandanna back into Rolando’s screaming mouth. “Oh, shut your trap!
Really now! Are we there yet? This animal is giving me a headache.”

Cher looked out of the window and stared at the scenery. They had already gone past the foothills of Barangay Pasonanca. Now, the car zoomed around a curve and began its slow ascent up Abong-Abong Mountain where fourteen crosses marked the uneven road, all the way up to the cruz mayor which stood sun-bleached and proud, overlooking the city. Tomorrow was Maundy Thursday, and people would flock to this holy site, lighting their candles and wishing that the burdens of climbing up, doing the way of the cross as a form of penitence, would be enough to cleanse them of their grievous sins. Rolando didn’t know it yet, but he was going to be the first one to do it among all of them.

“I hope no one’s up there,” said the leader, a frown crossing her hairy face.

“It’s way past twelve midnight, Kayla,” Cher said. “I’m sure no one’s about. I hear the place is kind of spooky.”

“Yes,” Zsa Zsa confirmed. “No one would dare stay up there at this time of night.”
Soon after, they arrived. Kayla parked the car near a waiting shed, a few meters away from the cruz mayor. They hauled Rolando out of the car. By now, both his jeans and his boxers were way down, around his ankles. Kiss and teeth marks were all over his thighs, groin and on the flat of his stomach. On his broad, rippling chest, a crude message had been written with red lipstick: He is the Sacrifice.

All four of the abductors then carried him to the cruz mayor. Rolando felt tired, though his eyes were open wide. He didn’t struggle as they undid the rope and retied his arms around the cross. He stood there, swaying, a prisoner for all of them to see.

The four let out a whoop of joy and gave each other a high-five. The leader took out a cigarette from her breast pocket and lit it.

“So, Lando,” she began in between puffs. “Do you now confess?”

“I difnt kno whartf yorf talkling abouft!” Rolando tried to scream.

“Sister, wait. Let me just take the bandanna off his mouth.” Cher walked up to where Rolando stood and for the second time pulled the piece of cloth away. Before she left him, Cher stood on her toes and brushed her pink-colored lips on Rolando’s.

“Sayang, Lando. Tu muy gwapo era. Handsome, true, but what a heartless brute.”

“You bitch!” Rolando spat at her. It hit Cher in the eye, and he laughed, laughed so hard.

Cher only stared at him with her cold eyes and went back to the group. Then they all began to say some things.

“Confess now, Lando. Because of you, Nora is dead.”

“Nora had been good to you, Lando. Gave you your every whim.”
Even when she had none to give.”

“You know she had that operation. All of us in the group did. She had no money left.”

“Still, you insisted. Cellphones. A digital camera. Lifetime membership at the gym.”

“She had nothing left.”

“So you left her.”

“She hung herself! It’s not my fault!” Rolando screamed.

“It’s because of you she did it!” Kayla shot back, hurling her cigarette at his naked chest.

Rolando laughed. “She deserved it. The bitch was so stupid. So she killed herself. Is it my fault that your kind lusts after me?”

“You ingrate! You selfish oaf!” cried Zsa Zsa, biting her lips.

“The likes of us should get rid of you!”

“No longer will gay men take to straight, stupid guys like you!”



“Short dick!”

“Enough talking!” the leader shouted. “Let’s begin.”

And so the four of them began to take off their ballerina shoes. Then, they slowly took off their tops—cherry pink, ocean blue, melon green, earthy brown—and their tight stone-washed jeans. Then their panties. They unloosened their long, black hair from their ponytails, shook them and let the night breeze do the rest. Pretty soon, all four of them stood naked.

Rolando stared at them. He stared at them really hard. Stared at their faces, and then at their humungous boobs which he knew couldn’t be real. And he stared at the area where their dicks used to be; only now there were no ding-a-lings there asking

“How’s it hanging, Juan?” Just precisely cut, vertical slits that passed for pussies.

But that wasn’t the worst part. Oh no. Not by a long shot. For in the four transvestites’ hands were all sorts of dildos, some unbelievably thick. Others came in odd shapes and hues. Kayla was holding an electric pink one. She was twirling it like it was a baton.

Horrors. Horrors.

Rolando shivered.

“Someone’s going to be realllyyyy sore tomorrowwww!” Zsa Zsa said in a sing-song voice.

And somehow, standing there with his pants and boxers down, the four of them slowly approaching him with menace and lust in their eyes, Rolando did not for a moment doubt what he had heard to be false.