Killing Time
by Paul Lockey

Standing on the crowded wharf, Raul watched the river men grunting and sweating as they unloaded crates of soft fruits and other exotic cargoes from their wooden boats onto the muddy shore. Others would then lug the crates among ankle-deep garbage onto lorries, while black urubu birds circled overhead on the lookout for easy pickings. The huge expanse of water - the Negro - shimmered blood red beneath the setting sun.

Raul sighed. It was all supposed to have been cleared: a three month foray into Roraima, Brazil's northernmost and still largely unexplored territory - reputed to be the location of the mythical El Dorado. Only it wasn't just gold they were being paid to find but other rare and precious minerals too. So why the fuck were they still sitting around in Manaus with their thumbs up their asses? Politics, that's why. Apparently the Yanomani were not happy about the company prospecting on their reservations, and some administrator over in Brasilia had decided to make an issue of it. Christ, everyone had to earn a living. The sooner those dumb savages quit complaining and learned to embrace the millenium the better it would be for everyone, Raul told himself.

In need of some distraction, Raul left the wharf and ventured among the shanties which had been thrown up around the old port area. He had heard talk of several bars and pool halls in the favela where he might relieve his frustrations.

A familiar, pulsing drum beat grew louder as Raul walked between houses that were balanced precariously on stilts. An overpowering stench emanated from the rows of cages containing live pigs, goats, chickens. . . Beneath one of the houses, a group of children scavenged in the rotting debris. They reminded Raul of his youth, when he had roamed the slums of Rio.

Like many orphans, Raul had stolen from tourists and sold himself in order to survive. The rich folk in their big security-ringed houses still connived with paramilitary death squads to sweep the narrow streets and alleys clear of criminal vermin. Chances are he, too, would have been disposed of accordingly had it not been for Father Joseph... That missionary sure had a lot to answer for, Raul thought ruefully to himself.

The constant, pulsing drumming appeared to come from a bar directly in front of him.

Standing at the bar's dark entrance was a rotund black woman, garishly dressed in an orange skirt and yellow blouse which were obviously several sizes too small for her. Around her neck was an amulet of a clenched fist with the thumb poking through the first and second fingers - marking her out as a devotee of macumba.

Raul shuddered. He knew all about macumba.

As a boy, Raul had witnessed the voodoo-like rituals and was eventually initiated himself. Father Joseph had sacrificed a live chicken, and blood from its severed neck had been dripped onto Raul's shaven head. The carcass had been burnt as an offering to Exu, chief demon. Father Joseph had buggered him while the rest of the worshipers danced themselves into a frenzy. In spite of himself, there were times when Raul almost ached to be back with his adopted family.

The woman gave Raul a gap-toothed grin as he approached.

'Bless you, Mother,' he said, as he stepped passed her and entered the bar's gloomy interior.

The atmosphere inside the smoke-filled hut was electric. Raul craned his neck to get a better view of the proceedings as he pushed his way through the screeching men and women who were standing in a kind of circle.

In the middle of the human ring, an Indian boy was desperately trying to avoid the clutches of a colossal black who wore nothing other than a blindfold. Above the noise, a rather insignificant-looking mulatto with a pock-marked face was shouting directions to the big man. Raul's instinct told him it was not going to be much of a fight, and as he watched the macabre dance he almost pitied the young fool. But like Father Joseph always used to say, to endure and overcome pain is the way of all flesh.

Eventually, the exhausted boy sustained a bloody nose when Khalil swung his arm to deliver what American wrestlers would call a clothes line. In desperation, he pleaded to be let out of the ring but the audience was not having any of it. Someone pushed the terrified youth straight back into the arms of the lumbering Khalil, who promptly administered a crushing bear hug. Despite the boy's agonised screaming and the baying of spectators, Raul clearly heard the sound of ribs being cracked.

Grinning triumphantly, Khalil threw his victim face down on the floor and proceeded to rape him - much to the delight of the crowd. Raul felt conflicting emotions as he watched Khalil work his flesh into the wretched youth. On spending himself, Khalil demonstrated his merciful nature by twisting the boy's neck until it broke. He then ripped off the dead boys testicles and threw them into the appreciative audience.

Fight or flight? That was the question. Raul could feel his adrenaline surging as Khalil paraded around the human ring with both arms raised in victory.

Raul had always been impetuous. Exasperated by his adopted son's behaviour, Father Joseph had used his influence and Raul was eventually given a job down the mines. He had applied himself, and his efforts had been suitably rewarded.

His work with the company these past few years had taken Raul all around the world. He had seen and done many things, only to realise that his own country still held more secrets than anyplace else. The Roraima assignment had seemed to Raul like an ideal opportunity to indulge his wanderlust, and he had accepted the responsibility gladly. But right now the mighty Khalil appeared to be an even bigger challenge, and Raul needed to know if he was up to it.

'I will fight you without the blindfold,' he said on stepping forward.

The blood-thirsty crowd erupted. Khalil exchanged a few words with his minder, who turned to Raul.

'Your name?' he asked.

Raul told him.

'No rules. Agreed?'

'Yes.'

Smiling as he introduced Raul to the hostile audience, the mulatto then stepped aside as he called for the contest to begin.

Raul stripped off his shirt and was shocked when Khalil removed his blindfold - the big man really was blind, judging by those milky white eyes. Raul had no time to protest, however, because Khalil suddenly ran towards him like an express train.

Adopting the stance of a capoeira fighter, Raul stepped smartly aside and Khalil's momentum carried him straight into the wall of bystanders, scattering them like ninepins.

'Behind you! He's behind you!' the mulatto screeched when Khalil grabbed hold of a panic-stricken whore and ripped her face open with his teeth. Realising his error, Khalil cast her aside like a rag doll.

He turned to face Raul, who jumped to deliver a roundhouse to the head. Khalil staggered backwards, and Raul sought to press home his advantage with a flurry of kicks to Khalil's midriff. Unfortunately for Raul, Khalil managed to grab hold of his foot and tip him onto his back. Raul then screamed as Khalil started gnawing at his Achilles tendon.

Somehow, Raul managed to twist and kick himself free of Khalil's vice-like grip. Capoerira was a foot-fighting art, but Raul was effectively hamstrung and could do little other than limp out of the way each time Khalil bore down on him. All the time he was conscious of the jeering and booing he was receiving as he tried to postpone the inevitable. For Raul, the humiliation was worse than his physical pain, and he could scarcely believe his life was about to end in such an undignified manner.

Khalil was relentless in his pursuit. Raul ducked, dived, turned, and twisted in order to evade the giant; but the ring appeared to be getting smaller as the crowd grew hungrier for his blood. Khalil and his minder were as one - the mulatto seemed to guess Raul's every move, and his verbal instructions enabled Khalil to keep up the pressure. In sheer desperation, Raul did the only thing he could think of.

Feigning a move to his left, Raul changed direction and silenced Khalil's minder with a vicious chop to the throat. The mulatto dropped to the floor, clutching at his neck as he choked on his own blood. 'No rules!' Raul shouted to the crowd, who clearly did not approve.

Without the minder to guide him, Khalil began to panic and it seemed to Raul that he might actually be in with a chance. He circled around Khalil, who swung wildly with his fists but was unable to make contact.

Dropping to the floor, Raul lashed out with his good leg in an attempt to sweep the big man off his feet: it was like kicking a granite column. He rolled as Khalil tried to stomp him. Khalil anticipated well, and moving swiftly was able to wind Raul with a kick to the ribs. Raul grunted with pain as he scrambled to his feet but Khalil was too quick for him.

Charging like a rhino, Khalil knocked Raul to the ground and fell upon him. Trapped beneath the man's crushing body weight, Raul felt genuine fear as Khalil proceeded to bite chunks of flesh out of his chest. Despite the pain and the sound of his own screaming, Raul willed himself to remain calm. Think, think, think, he ordered himself, as Khalil's hands locked around his throat.

Twisting like a snake, Raul groped for Khalil's face and he was gratified to hear the big man's roar when he sank his long, bony thumbs into those diseased eyeballs - bursting them like soft boiled eggs. But Khalil refused to let go, and Raul could feel the blood pounding in his head; feel his consciousness fading as his larynx was being mangled. He pushed his thumbs further into Khalil's eyes until they pressed against the sockets. Raul wasn't sure if it was shock or brain damage which then killed Khalil as he penetrated through the paper-thin bone into the brain case itself.

Weary from his exertions, Raul crawled from beneath Khalil's dead weight and staggered to his feet. There was no sound from the stunned onlookers, save for one or two hushed whispers. He had won, yet it was not enough for them. As Raul looked around at the sullen faces he felt outraged that they could not bring themselves to acknowledge his victory.

There was no dignity in defeat, and Raul intended that everyone watching should now learn this.

Kneeling beside their fallen champion, Raul lubricated his hand with his own blood and inserted two, three, four fingers into Khalil's anus. He pressed his thumb and finger tips together so that they formed a cone-shaped wedge and worked his whole hand all the way up inside Khalil's body - just as Father Joseph had taught him all those years ago. Deeper and deeper he went, up to his elbow. Digging his nails into the soft viscera, he made a fist and yanked his arm out quickly; the vacuum effect created enabling him to draw out almost a yard of Khalil's colon. Raul saw the fragments of tapeworm wriggling among the blood and excrement and used every ounce of willpower he had to stop himself vomiting.

Suddenly, the crowd started cheering and chanting his name. Out of respect, they made way for him as he hobbled out of the bar into the street.

Raul, Raul, Raul. . . he could still hear them in the favela when he finally made it to the deserted wharf. He collapsed down among the stinking garbage and closed his eyes. As he listened to the sounds of the night, he began to wonder if maybe those Yanomani did in fact have a point. After all, was it not the Company that once controlled the rubber trade upon which this place was founded well over a century ago?

The more he thought about the Company's long-term plans to bring civilisation to the jungle, the more convinced Raul was that the natives would be better off without it.

©1997/2000 Paul Lockey

Paul John Lockey lives and writes in Keighley, West Yorkshire. He also edits UNHINGED - 'a magazine which likes to explore the darker side of human nature.' His short stories have appeared in a variety of independent publications -
including Nasty Piece of Work, Roadworks, Sackcloth & Ashes, The Dream Zone, and Visionary Tongue. In 1999 he was honourably mentioned in Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling's Year's Best Fantasy & Horror #12.