“Sounds like a plan, Matt,” Austin said. “Are the local bitches into brothers?”
“If you’re a guest of Matt Tisdale they are,” he said.
“Out of sight,” Austin said.
“When you say, ‘local bitches’,” Corban asked, “what exactly are we talking here, dude? Do you mean Mexican women?”
“We are in Mexico, dude,” Matt reminded him. “Do you have something against Mexican gash?”
“No, not at all,” Corban said. “I mean ... I don’t think so, anyway. It’s just that I’ve never had any of that.”
“It’s just like American gash,” Matt told him. “Except a lot of times they don’t speak English. Oh ... and they don’t tend to shave their pussies like American bitches do.”
Corban’s eyes widened. “They don’t shave?” he asked, frowning, as if he had never conceived of such a thing.
“At least they shave their fuckin’ armpits,” Matt said. “When we were touring over in Europe, you should’ve seen some of the shit I fucked over there. Most of the bitches there don’t shave anywhere.”
“Anywhere?” Corban asked, appalled.
“Anywhere,” Matt confirmed. “Hairy fuckin’ pits, hairy fuckin’ arms, hairy fuckin’ legs. I boned this one French bitch that had so much hair on her gash I had a hard time even finding it. That shit grew all the way past her asshole in the rear and all the way up to her belly button in the front.”
“That is disgusting!” declared Corban.
“Why?” Matt asked. “There was a pussy under all that, and it still felt like a pussy once I managed to search it out and stick my fuckin’ schlong in it. Variety is the spice of fuckin’ life, dude.”
“I’m feeling a little bit sick,” Corban moaned, tossing the remains of his burrito into the ocean.
“Did I tell you that they don’t wear deodorant over in Europe either,” Matt said with a smile.
“Dude,” Corban said, shaking his head. “That is not all right.”
They talked a little more about Matt’s road history, including the time he managed to score some genuine Icelandic gash on the beach in France (this was one of Matt’s proudest accomplishments of his life and career). By the time this tale was told, they were back in the safety of the harbor and motoring toward the boat’s berth.
They dragged Steve ashore and parked him under a tree while they attended to their fish. It took less than thirty minutes for the two elderly women who worked the dock to gut and clean their catch and pack it into vacuum sealed plastic bags separated by species. For this service, Matt paid each of them ten American dollars, plus two bucks apiece for a tip. They thanked him sincerely in Spanish and Matt answered them in the Pidgin-like method of expression he’d adapted when dealing with the non-English speaking locals.
“All right,” Matt said, once the fish was all packed away. “Let’s get a taxi home.” He looked down at the drummer, who was slumped over beneath a tree, his eyes tightly closed, his skin red with sunburn. “You gonna live, Calhoun? I hope so. It’s too late for me to break in another drummer.”
“The nausea is better,” he croaked, “but I think I’m suffering from dehydration. Is there a hospital in this place?”
Matt laughed. “You don’t want to go to no fuckin’ hospital in Mexico, dude. This is a like a fuckin’ third world country here. They’d charge you money just to walk in the door, some dude who got his medical degree by bribing their board would examine you with dirty hands, and then they’d give you the fuckin’ hiv when they started an IV on you by reusing shit they’d already used on someone else.”
“No shit?” Calhoun asked.
“No shit,” Matt assured him, although he had never actually used the Mexican healthcare system in any capacity or even heard anything about it. He just assumed that was what it was like.
“What do I do then?” Steve asked.
“Get your ass up and get in the cab,” Matt told him. “Drink some of the bottled water I have back at my place when we get there and then smoke a few bonghits of the gold. Best cure there is for everything up to and including pancreatitis.”
The drummer thought this over for a moment and then nodded. “All right,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
They did it, helping Steve into one of the cabs and then piling in after him. The trip to Matt’s 3200 square foot house, which sat on two acres of beachfront property on the Sea of Cortez, took only ten minutes and cost Matt ten American dollars, including the tip. They dragged their drummer and all of the ice chests inside and then, while Steve started quaffing down water bottles, and while Corban and Austin headed to their respective rooms to shower and then take some much needed naps, Matt carefully packed up all the fish he was going to ship home and moved it into his walk-in freezer. Tomorrow, while he was out rounding up some local snatch to come to his fish fry, he would pick up some dry ice to put in the shipping boxes.
Once the fish were tended to, he went upstairs to the master suite, which featured a large picture window that looked out over his deck and the shimmering blue Sea of Cortez beyond it. He took a moment to appreciate the view—at least playing with those fucking sellouts for the first part of his career had allowed him to lease this property and the house upon it—and then stripped off his fishy smelling clothes and took a long shower.
He dressed in a pair of tattered gym shorts and a faded Corona t-shirt that had holes in the armpits and several permanent stains from spilling bongwater on it. Still, it was one of his favorite shirts and he couldn’t bear to part with it. He headed back downstairs to the entertainment room, where a sixty-five-inch projection television and a top-of-the-line sound system were installed. The television was hooked to a satellite dish that had been installed beside the house and pointed southeast, where it was able to hook into the feed from a Hughes communications satellite in geosynchronous orbit over the coast of Brazil. Though his setup—which had cost him twelve thousand dollars to install—was not exactly legal, and the Hughes Telecommunications Company would undoubtedly disapprove of it, this was Mexico and if any legal authorities decided to look into how he got his television programming, a few envelopes full of greenbacks would quickly make them conclude that Matt’s satellite dish was nothing more than a yard decoration.
Steve was sitting in one of the chairs, still wearing the clothes he had gone fishing in, still looking like death warmed over. Four empty water bottles were sitting on the end table next to him and he was sipping out of a fifth.
“I should kick your ass for sitting on my fucking furniture after being out on a fishing boat all day,” Matt told him, “but it’s not like you actually touched any fish, right?”
“I don’t ever want to see or smell a fish again,” Steve groaned.
“Fuck that shit,” Matt said, walking over to a cabinet next to the entertainment center. “You gotta try the beer-battered marlin filets I’m going to be cooking up tomorrow night. I won’t play music with any man who won’t eat my fish.”
This caused Steve to groan and swig down some more water.
“Here,” Matt said, opening the cabinet door. “Let’s get you fixed up.” He pulled out an old water bong and one of his baggies of Acapulco Gold and carried them over to the couch. “Pour some of that water in here,” he said, holding out the bong.
Steve poured some in, filling the water chamber.
“All right,” Matt said, opening the bag of pungent, sticky cannabis. “Let’s go medicinal here.”
They took three hits apiece, and Steve actually reported he was starting to feel a little better as the THC surged through his system.
“Told you,” Matt said. “You up for some chow yet? We got some leftover pizza in the fridge.”