The Beasts of Juarez R.B. Schow (reading the story of the .TXT) 📖

“One hundred percent.”

“Alright then,” Otis replied, the tension in his chest easing. “I’ll make the call.”

The line went dead, and just like that, his colon let go. Gripping the side of the bathtub and the side of the vanity, Otis started breathing heavy, little beads of sweat popping out of his shins, his lower back, and the skin behind his ears.

“Mother of God!” he bellowed.

His eyes flashing from the cramping, a groan escaped him. The groan quickly became a steady growl until the full grumpie was crunched and life inside his otherwise unhealthy body had the chance to return to normal. Dripping with sweat, breathing hard, he sat up straight and swore he’d stop drinking and binge-eating if he could just get through this moment.

Unfortunately, the pain just didn’t want to let go. Seeking distraction, he went back to his phone, saw the time, and then accessed his “Live TV” app. He found the station he wanted, knowing what he would see: Fox at the Border. This was a one-hour Saturday morning special featuring Congressman Camden Fox of Louisiana. He was a huge advocate of border security and immigration reform.

This blowhard son of a bitch was too pretty to be interested in women and too clean to know dick-all about the border, dealing with migrants, cartels, coyotes, and stolen or borrowed children. But there he was in his fancy suit with his Ivy League haircut and all his disdain for border politics, even though his entire career was built on border politics.

Otis knew he should call the client, but he decided to wait three minutes to watch Camden Fox do a five-minute leg of his crybaby tour. He didn’t feel bad about what was going to happen to the man as much as he felt sorry for Fox’s wife and kids. They didn’t deserve what was coming.

A second and third wave of rumbling started in the middle of his belly, the sad promise that this nightmare was still far from over. Still squatting on the toilet, marinating in turd vapors, bad breath, and body odor, Otis Fykes focused hard on Camden Fox, praying that the pain inside of him would just stop.

On the live broadcast, the congressman was touring the border patrol’s newest detention facility in Northeast El Paso. It was clean and well run but crowded. Shocker. To the BP’s credit, none of the detainees were sitting in cages or lying on their sides in their own filth. Otis knew the other facilities were far from presentable, which was why the president had ordered a media blackout.

Thinking about kids in cages reminded him that he had his own child to attend to. He really should check in on her. Pulling the toilet roll, collecting another wad of TP, he wiped the moisture from his face, under his eyes, and around his neck.

“I know that you have given me the chance to tour this facility,” Fox was saying to the border patrol representative, “but truthfully, this is your newest, shiniest facility.”

“We want to put our best foot forward,” the rep said, too experienced to ever look uncomfortable, “which is why we wanted to show you what taxpayer dollars have done for those making the dangerous trek north.”

“America loves to put their best foot forward,” the congressman countered. “But nowadays, the public isn’t interested in the latest and greatest. We want to see the status quo, and we want to know why those other facilities are off-limits to the press.”

“Tell ‘em where to shove it,” Otis said, squeezing out a pathetic turd that was more bark than bite.

“With all due respect, Congressman Fox,” the BP rep said, “you asked to tour the first available facility and this is it. The other centers are overrun, we don’t have the funding to handle the latest influx of refugees, and I’m spending my valuable time with you when I should be spending it protecting the border for you and people like you.”

Otis laughed at the jab then paused when a text came through. The text notification box blocked part of the live broadcast.

DID YOU CALL YET? IT’S TIME.

Frowning, he texted back immediately: CALLING NOW.

With his good looks and eloquent way of speaking, Camden Fox was the epitome of a southern gentleman. It was all a ruse, though. It had to be. In politics, as in much of life, you almost always manufacture a public persona, some rendition of yourself that speaks to a better version of your character, your morals, and your work ethic. Camden’s public persona was disgusting. Otis didn’t hate the man because he was a faker, though. He hated Camden Fox because of everything the politician tried taking from others.

“You’re about to have the worst day ever, fart-knocker,” Otis mumbled as he shut off the internet and switched over to his contacts screen.

He found the client’s number, dialed it, then clenched tight as the bottom of his bowels crashed and growled again. He stifled a groan as the physical agony of last night’s indiscretions persisted.

“Yes,” the client said, drawing out the word with his gravelly voice.

“We’re ready to light this fuse, sir.” Otis was trying hard not to sound like he was on the can. Then, with as much authority as he could muster, he said, “You just say the word and we’re a go.”

“Do it,” the client said.

Otis was about to respond when the line went dead. Shaking his head, he opened the text box to his contact, typed in the words, then thought: When you send this text, everything is going to change.

The funny thing was, he wasn’t thinking of the money or even the congressman and what he and his family were about to go through. He was thinking of his own daughter, Janie. At that moment, he wondered