part0011

I LOUNGE ON A SUNBED covered by a towel with the words Daytona Beach splashed across in neon blue. But I have never been to Daytona Beach, nor do I have the faintest idea where it is. Two young people speaking English laugh and splash each other as a waiter, Lorenzo, brings out another bucket filled with Coronas buried in ice. He avoids eye contact because these assholes have a way of being rowdy and rude. Entertainment is as cheap as their manners. I’d only intervene if I caught a prick getting rough with the staff.

One of them, a skinny gringo with pimples on his lobster-colored back, attempts to rap to trap music that plays loudly from a small speaker attached to a phone. I smile because it’s not even noon and I can smell their intoxication, sweat, and desire for sex. The only missing ingredient is their fear.

I want to nuzzle in their heart chambers and soak in their blood. I want to fill this grubby, over-chlorinated pool with their limbs. Their severed heads will float like abandoned inflatable toys. Some of them will have their flesh made into strips of jerky while I slurp on their chilled brain matter like a piña colada. In the morning, I will moisturize my tan skin with their melted down fat because it prevents me from burning beneath the hot Mexican sun.

I am the Cucuy of Cancun.

Do you know what a Cucuy is? It is a boogeyman, a harbinger of nightmares that skulks in the dark. I am not a man and I detest the dark, but I am a nightmare. Older than humans, I remember what you now call Mexico before Chichen Itza and Tenochtitlan existed. There were only the primordial creatures, the earth, and pure oceans after the mighty beasts died out and the frozen wasteland melted. There were no borders or passports. Then humans moved from their bellies to two legs, and in time spread like toxic ash across the land.

Like a true predator, I remain still and silent on my sunbed, watching behind heart-shaped sunglasses so dark no one can see my eyes.

By nightfall, one of them will be alone—too drunk to piss or stand—and that is when I slink next to them. My bikini top and frayed cut-off shorts distract them. My elongated fingers are topped with hooked nails strong enough to cut through jungle vines and used for slicing like a machete.

I hate spring breakers. Their waste, their noise, their entitlement. They remind me of the invaders who colonized this part of the world just when us dark creatures were beginning to get our groove on with the humans. All of us non-human creatures and shifters were driven from sight and from our homes. We call the margins home, scary stories you tell your friends. That is when we began to feed upon them. You encroach on our habitat and we will encroach on your liberty by taking your life.

Ages passed under occupation, war, disease, and democracy. With no control to stop it, the first resorts cropped up, which were new invaders of sorts. Sun-lotioned, money-waving gluttons wanting to be served during their vacation from their lives. My taste for flesh began as I saw other supernatural creatures in the dark partake with delight. How could I not? Revenge is best served raw.

Today my sights are set on this group of three. Very rarely do I fuck any of these young ones. I prefer the middle-aged married folk, sex-starved and desperate to have a break from their hectic rat-race lives. Second marriage bachelor and bachelorette parties are the best. Oh, and business conferences. Those, I fuck and consume. When they think they are catching feelings for me is when I catch their tongues between my teeth and pull. All a tragic accident. Hold my margarita on the rocks while I cry.

I promise beautiful views from the 18th hole on a perfectly manicured golf course only to lure them to the lagoons where the crocodiles dwell. I take what I want and leave the scraps for the animals—animals that are in a constant state of anxiety with golf balls plunking into their homes and the sound of mowers cutting grass non-stop. Poor beasts.

I continue to observe the three while listening to Depeche Mode’s “World Through My Eyes” on an iPod from one of my victims. The synth beat makes my sweaty, sizzling body move in place and I tap my toes. I like the vocals of David Gahan; the deep, rich tone makes me think of a priest who worshipped me centuries ago. I tested his faith and the lengths he would go to for the pleasure of my hands and mouth. In the end, I had to put him out of his misery. He could not believe his God would allow a creature like me to exist.

By the expression on the female’s face, I can tell the young woman is complaining about the food. The one with the pimpled back is now slathered with white sun lotion post sunburn and he pulls Lorenzo to the side to whisper in his ear. Lorenzo shakes his head and glances toward me before shuffling off with half-eaten plates of food. I know exactly what the spring breaker has asked. After another bucket of beers, they will slowly leave, and I can formulate my plan.

It is nearly 4 PM by the time they gather their belongings to make their way back to their rooms. One stays behind. He remains rather sedate, more interested in his phone and his beer. He wears a pastel pink polo shirt and simple board shorts. Lorenzo returns to clean their mess. The quiet one stops him. Lorenzo keeps shaking his head even when the polo-wearing guy flashes a wad of dollars. This is my moment.

I jump from my sunbed and readjust my bikini bottom before approaching the two men.

“Lorenzo, water, please?” He leaves with a look of relief to see me saving him from this uncomfortable situation.

“You know, just because we are south of the border doesn’t mean drugs grow on trees.”

The young man blushes. It is the same shade of pink as his shirt.

“Why do you think . . .”

“Save it. I’ve lived here all my life. I’m not an idiot.”

He looks like a kid being told off by an adult.

“May I ask what you are looking for? Snow or grass?”

His eyes widen before looking around to see if anyone is in ear shot.

“I don’t know. It’s not for me. Um. I guess both.”

I motion him to follow me to my sunbed. I know he is watching my wide ass jiggle. From the pockets of my shorts, I pull out a tiny packet of cocaine and half a joint.

“This is all I have for now, but if you tell me where you will be tonight, I might have more.”

He reaches for both. I put them back into the pockets of my shorts. “Later. Tell me where you will be.”

“The plan was to go to some bar, Amigos, for a sunset party that starts at 6 PM, but after that I’m not sure. You wanna meet at the bar?”

“No. How about here, say midnight?”

He glances shyly at my breasts then tries to get a look at my eyes beneath my sunglasses and my Princeton baseball cap.

“Hey, Princeton. Did you go there?” He gives me a look like it is inconceivable that someone like me would be an Ivy League graduate. My face remains blank.

“I only ask because I go to Penn, in Philadelphia.”

“Midnight. Room number?”

“Oh, right. 95.”

I lie down on my sunbed and put on my earbuds. He should get the hint he can leave now because he is blocking my sun. All I need to do now is wait. It gets them every time, a little bag of flour and rolled paper filled with oregano. Dumbasses.

When the sun sets, I retreat to my room for a siesta until it is time to feed. Refreshed from my dreamless sleep, I change into a black string bikini top and matching black shorts that are cut high on the ass. They might as well be big underwear. But I like how I look in them, how they make me feel. I wear black because blood stains.

I bring a different iPod from another victim. Although, this one I did not kill. He was the only black kid in a group that acted like he didn’t belong. I exchanged his life for his music because it spoke to me. He also had to promise to never speak about me; otherwise, I would hunt him down in the middle of the night. The sight of my nails stained with his classmate’s blood was enough to keep him fearful of the dark for the rest of his days.

The motel is dark and quiet except for the ice machine and distant bass pumping from the clubs along the beach. Lorenzo waits for me by the pool. I hand him three hundred dollars before kissing him on the cheek. He walks away to keep the area around room 95 free from guests. His family owns this motel, my home of sorts .

I knock on the door. The young woman from the pool answers. “Guys, did you call for housekeeping?” She looks me up and down, “Or a hooker?”

Her blood will taste even better after this insult. A housekeeper? Do I look like a housekeeper? A hooker? Everything I own is taken from the discarded luggage from my victims. Women not from here. Her judgment is sand in my eye. Now she will pay for that.

“May I come in?”

“I guess.” She opens the door wider and I step in. The skinny obnoxious one and my pink Penn student sit on the bed, scrolling through their phones.

“Hey. You showed up. Wasn’t sure if it was real.”

The young woman scowls before turning away to mix herself a drink of Stoli vodka and cranberry juice.

A small speaker is to my right, on the dresser with the TV. The rest of the place is a mess with towels and clothes tossed in cyclone fashion.

I take out my iPod. Jay Z’s “I Just Wanna Love Ya” will do just fine for this occasion. I enjoy rap as much as I like Depeche Mode and Santana. I turn the volume all the way up, signaling to Lorenzo lounging next to the pool that it is about to begin. My breathing is growing rapid, as is my heart rate. The muscles in my throat relax.

The skinny one turns his cap backwards and begins to bob his head as he approaches me. His eyes scan my flesh on show; the bikini top contains even less than my shorts. I allow him to awkwardly try to dance with me, a grind that wouldn’t even remotely feel good if we fucked. “You got the party bags, baby? I’m thinking you should stay and have some fun with us. Becky won’t mind.”

“No. That wasn’t the plan, Brock.”

I lick my glossy pink lips before smiling and removing my sunglasses. They are jade marbles with obsidian pupils in the center. There is no time for him to scream before the bottom and top rows of Mako-shark-like teeth rip out his vocal cords in one swift bite. Blood sprays across the room like candy from a broken piﬞñata. My right hand plunges into his chest. I possess his heart and I shatter it with a single squeeze.

Becky screams then tosses the bottle of vodka at me. For these occasions I wear cowboy boots. In two long strides I’m close enough to Becky that I can pin her against the wall. All her breath escapes. She tries to recover, but I grab her by the neck. “Little bitch, I am not a hooker nor a housekeeper. I am a Cucuy that has forever been, and will forever be. Your existence means nothing.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

I hate when they beg. With a swipe of both of my hands, I break her neck then let her body fall to the floor. From my peripheral vision, I see the Penn student retreat to the bathroom. He is probably trying to get Wi-Fi or a signal. Too bad I have thought of everything. This is a dead place when it’s feeding time.

I knock the door in with one kick. He is sitting on the toilet frantically trying to find help on his phone. He is on the verge of tears, seeing me for what I am. The jade in my eyes glows and reflects his fate. Jade is sacred, you know. Blood speckles my skin and clothes. But I know it is my full mouth and nails, dripping crimson, that frighten him the most. “Wait here.”

I back out of the door so that he never leaves my sight. I drag the girl by her hair to the front of the bathroom threshold before straddling her. A single punch to her chest reveals her heart. With a second thrust, I remove her liver. Filled with lust, I consume both organs as they limply wobble in my hands. The flesh rips; small pieces flop between my breast and tumble to my thighs. Both morsels are gone within minutes.

“What is your name?”

He is shaking, looking at me instead of at Becky’s body as he clutches his phone like a rosary.

I lick my fingers and then point to the sink. “Do me a favor and hand me one of those.”

With a hand that won’t stop trembling, he hands me the glass. I snatch it from him and dip it into Becky’s chest cavity, which is filled with pooling blood.

“Sit down. Next to me.”

He obeys wordlessly, sniffly from his crying.

“Tell me about Philadelphia and your school.”

“Um. It’s a big city. Not as big as New York. Good restaurants. Really cold in winter.”

“Not all the time. Just in winter. My school is great. One of the best in the country. My parents went there. Why do you ask?”

He doesn’t move. The expression on his face says he is scared shitless and confused by this conversation.

“I said have a drink with me.”

He scrambles to his knees and grabs a bottle of tequila off the bed. It’s Patron. Good.

“Here is the deal. I’ll spare your life, for a price.”

“Anything! Please. My family has a lot of money. Here. Want this watch? It’s a Rolex I got for high school graduation.”

“I don’t want your fucking money. I want to see your world. Take me to your home.”

Thomas looks confused again. “But you don’t have a passport. You will get stopped, or even detained at the airport.”

“You think anyone could stop me?” I raise my hand, dripping in blood, and show my jagged-toothed mouth.

He gulps a mouthful of tequila with eyes quivering. “I suppose not. We will have to drive maybe. What will you do when we cross the border? And why do you need me?”

“Sounds like Philadelphia is a fun place. A college town. There is somewhere in Philadelphia I have wanted to visit for a long time, but this will be my first time away from here, and I would like a guided tour. Once there, I will do what I have always done. Feed. Live.”

I lift myself from the dead body to sit, cross-legged, in front of Thomas. He still doesn’t move, but at least he is no longer trembling. I take the bottle from his hands, necking it for a good, long drink, and then hand it back to him with smears of blood on the top. “Your turn.”

He stares at the blood he will have to taste. Small eddies of red float in the bottle. I can tell he is contemplating wiping it first. Without looking at me again, he drinks.

“Great. Tomorrow you will help Lorenzo and I clean this mess. Finish off your vacation with me. There is no way you could have known how or why your friends went missing if you spent the entire night in my bed. Multiple witnesses can attest to that.”

He doesn’t move. He is wondering if there is any way out.

“Grab your shit. Let’s go.” He moves quickly now; this is his only chance at surviving.

Before we walk out, I rummage through Becky’s luggage, taking only her beach bag. I shut the door behind me and remove the numbers on the front. At the end of the week, when the new guests arrive, the configuration will be different. But I won’t be here to enjoy the fresh arrivals .

I search the beach bag from dead Becky. She had decent taste. I slip on a spaghetti strapped sundress and floppy red hat that matches the new sunglasses named Prada. I twirl in front of the mirror, admiring the way the sun has brought out the red hues in my dark brown hair. Next stop is The Pink Agave Motel in Philadelphia, USA.