Siete minutos by Ismael Camacho Arango (the little red hen read aloud TXT) 📖

He might invite her to have a cup of tea the next time, but he had to go back to his customer by the counter.
“Here is your bag of coca,” he put one of the boxes by his side. .
“Ummm,” the Indian said.
“I want my payment.”
“Nnn,” the man said.
“I’ll take the coca away then.”
The man didn’t react. On opening his drawer, Homer found his gun but then he remembered the promise the Indian had made.
“Are we going to the jungle?” Homer asked.
The Indian examined the box while muttering something, as Miguel appeared at the door.
“I don’t like him, Mr. Homer,” he said.
“He’s harmless.”
“I don’t think so.”
Homer put a few tins of food in his bag, the Indian’s eyes following his actions.
“Where are you going?” Miguel asked.
“I’ll come back in a few days,” Homer said.
“Mr. Homer..”
“I’ll be OK.”
He made sure the cash machine worked properly, before looking at the clothes in the corner.
“You must write a receipt every time someone buys something,” he said.
Miguel nodded. “I know that.”
After having a last look at his merchandise, Homer put a few more things in his bag where he had a mosquito lotion and a good watch to tell the time in the jungle. He wanted many more heads.
“I thought the journalist might go with you,” Miguel said.
Homer shook his head. “He’s a nuisance.”
Jaramillo might be useless with his notebooks in the undergrowth while a shadow stood by the tree. On opening the back door, he saw no one in the backyard. It had to be his imagination, triggered by this journey to the unknown.
Homer thought Miguel would keep his customers satisfied while he looked for heads in the jungle. Then Jose appeared by his side but the child could be a fantasy like all the other things in his life.
“Go away,” Homer said.
“I never left you,” Jose said. “You’ll understand one day.”


The savannah
Miguel escorted them with his mop, as the afternoon sun shone in the sky amidst the noise of the market, full of traders selling their products to the public. Father Ricardo appeared along the street, wearing his gown and holding his rosary, a link to his God whenever he went. On seeing them, the priest stopped by their side.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
Homer muttered something but the Indian kept on walking, in a hurry to get to his homeland.
“I don’t like him,” Father Ricardo said.
“He’s harmless, father.”
“Bring him to the church on Sunday then.”
“I’ll do that.”
On looking at the Indian, Father Ricardo talked about God avenging the sinners from hell if they didn’t pray.
“He likes coca,” Homer said.
“That will be his ruin.”
“I’ll see you on Sunday, father.”
Father Ricardo talked of souls facing the fires of hell for not repenting of their sins, waving his rosary in the air. Homer wished the priest left them alone, while muttering excuses on his way to the unknown. Then a pretty girl moved along the pavement, distracting the priest for a few moments when Homer ran away amongst the shop owners offering their wares to the public.
“Buy my silk clothes,” a woman said.
He had better things in his shop and on turning the corner more shopkeepers enticed them with their wares, the Father Ricardo had got lost in the crowd doing their shopping for the weekend. A grey station loomed amidst some bushes growing in the street corner: Espresso Palmira, said in big letters by the door, as the passengers sat on the benches and a girl painted her nails behind the counter. Homer interrupted her concentration by knocking on the table.
“I want two tickets to Villavicencio,” he said.
She checked a notebook, full of names and numbers while blowing her nails.
“It’s four hundred pesos,” she said.
Homer looked at her big breasts under her frock, some of his money falling on the counter. Her teats might relieve some of the pressure of the journey.
“I’m going to the Amazon jungle,” he said.
She shrugged. “That’s good.”
Can I suck your teats behind the door?
“Your friend is waiting,” she said.
“I’ll give you a hundred pesos,” he said.
“Pervert.”
“I know.”
The heads had to be more important than her virginity, he thought, on going back to the Indian sitting by the entrance.
“We’re going to Villavicencio,” he said.
Faced with the man’s silence, Homer wondered how much money his own head might fetch in the shops.
“Are we going the right way?” Homer asked.
“Mmmm,” the Indian said.
A bus left the parking lot at that minute. It had to be their vehicle or the Indian wouldn’t look so lost. Homer rushed along the street whilst holding his case in one hand, his bag in another and the tickets in his mouth. They caught up with the vehicle by the entrance to the market, no one caring about his troubles.
“Can you let us in? Homer knocked on the bus door.
He put a fifty pesos note against the bus window, hoping the man would feel sorry for his soul.
“It will be yours,” Homer said.
On opening the door, the bus driver beckoned them inside the darkness, where the unknown waited.
“It’s not a sin to leave on time,” the driver said.
“I paid you money,” Homer said.
On moving along the aisle, they stepped on the bodies lying in the floor.
“I’ll kill you,” a fat woman said.
Homer shrugged. “I’m sorry, Madam.”
“You’ve broken my leg.”
She gestured somewhere under the people, where her legs had to be but then two empty seats beckoned them at the back of the bus. By the time they arrived at a cage full of chickens and shit a few of the passengers threatened to kill him but God had kept those places empty for a reason.
“I want one hundred pesos,” a voice said under the cage.
“Can you hear me?” the voice said.
A woman with feathers on her face looked at him amidst the chickens, although she didn’t seem to be real.
“Leave me alone,” Homer said.
The apparition pushed him away and the birds cried.
“You can’t sit next to my birds,” she said.
“Bad luck then,” he said.
As the bus drove along the countryside, the wind brought him a rain of feathers and shit while the woman laughed.
“The birds don’t like you,” she said.
“I don’t like them either.”
The Indian sat at the other side of the cage, unaware of his distress or of anything else. After chewing some coca leaves, Homer disappeared amidst his dreams of the jungle, where the heads waited for him. I’m Homer, he had said to a beautiful girl showing him her teats, bronzed by the sun.
“Empanadas,” someone interrupted the orgy.
On opening his eyes, Homer saw a woman lifting a plate full of flies and food, towards the bus window.
“Tamales,” someone else said.
They tempted Homer with their concoctions harbouring zillion of illnesses amidst the dust covering everything.
“I’m not hungry,” he said.
“He eats shit,” the woman under the cage said.
She had to be the biggest fucker in the world. Then Homer noticed the Indian had left his seat. On standing up, he annoyed some of the passengers but he had to find the man luring him on a trip to find a fortune.
“Have you seen my friend?” he asked.
“No,” they answered.
“He wore a long gown,” Homer said.
As he made his way to the front of the vehicle, he got more threats from the passengers.
“Your friend is outside,” the bus driver interrupted.
Homer saw the Indian waiting by some mules on the pavement, the vendors accosting him with their wares. The man seemed calm amongst all the problem of the world but Homer had to get to his side. After finding the bus door, he rushed across the street where the Indian looked amused at his efforts.
“I thought we had to go to Villavicencio,” Homer said.
The