Chapters One and Two
After many years of abuse a troubled man gets his revenge. First, he kills his father, whom he deeply hates. When he accidentally kills a thief, a serial killer is born. His loving grandmother becomes an eager accomplice. To get rid of the bodies he begins to feed the homeless, winos, and drug addicts that gather in a decrepit park across the street from his butcher shop.
Visalia, Ca. September 2012
The prolonged mental abuse my dad inflicted on me created long-lasting scars on my mind. He never abused me physically. But the negative impact of his cruel comments contributed to my weak mind.
My dad was the first person I killed. I never reported him missing and I never filed a police report. I just said to anyone who asked that he had decided to retire to Mexico and that he was staying there indefinitely. But in reality, I made him disappear.
My grandfather Genaro was born in Mexico in 1912 during the Mexican revolution. In the 1930s, he immigrated to the United States. At first, he worked in the fields of Central California. After four years, he saved enough money to buy a small grocery store which he later converted into a butcher shop. When my grandfather died my dad kept the shop and bought the house next door.
We connected the butcher shop to the house by building a hallway between the two properties. Our house was behind the butcher shop.
My occupation required being in constant contact with my customers. Butchers, like barbers and taxi drivers are very communicative. They develop an extroverted personality that they adopt for the rest of their lives. In my case, after I closed the shop I became quiet even in my thoughts.
My grandfather was a big man. He had dark brown skin and a heavy mustache. The hard work in the fields and later, the heavy chores in the butcher shop made him strong as a bull. When he died, he was eighty years old, and he could still lift a quarter of a cow to a six-foot-high hook. Whenever he comes to my mind, he appears wearing his apron. The only time I saw him wearing a suit was in his coffin.
My grandpa never learned how to speak English. My father did, but he never absorbed the American culture. He always felt he was a hundred percent Mexican. My grandpa never pushed dad to go further than high school. I had the choice to go to college, but I never consider it seriously. I always thought I was going to end up in charge of the family business. Some of my Mexican friends said my dad looked like Pancho Villa. His name was Ramiro.
When my dad died, he left me the shop and eleven houses surrounding the shop. The entire block was ours. We lived in one of the houses and rented the rest. I guess we were rich, but I never felt or looked like a rich person. Maybe because we never learned how to spend our money.
My grandma was eighty years old. She had been in a wheelchair for the last few years. She had bad knees, and she lost her ability to speak when she slipped in the kitchen and hit her head on the countertop. Her name was Sandra. She was my only friend.
Her head injury caused damage to the left side of her brain. She developed a rare speech disorder called aphasia. Within days she became mute. Partial recovery was possible, but that depended on the age of the patient and motivation. None of that was in her favor.
The doctor recommended treatment with a speech therapist, but she only attended a few sessions. She claimed the therapist didn’t speak Spanish properly.
I bought her a wheelchair when the increasing pain in her knees prevented her from doing all the things she used to enjoy. The wheelchair remained unused for months until I stopped begging her to use it. Once she started using it, the pain in her knees went away. She never walked again. She was a quiet person.
Like my grandfather, my grandma never learned to speak English and hated anybody that didn’t speak Spanish, including Americans. She still considered California to be part of Mexico.
One day, before she lost her speech, a brown-skinned boy, obviously of Mexican descent, started talking to her in English, and she told him, “Aprende a hablar en español como tu papá, mocoso!” (Learn to speak Spanish like your dad, brat!) And she became furious when he responded, “Learn how to speak English, like your grandson, old lady!” I couldn’t help but laugh, but I turned away so grandma wouldn’t notice.
I began to cook after watching grandma struggle around the kitchen. She was still able to attend to her needs. Her hygiene had been impeccable all her life in all aspects of our lives. Tidiness was high on the list of her virtues. The house and the butcher shop were always clean too.
We installed wider doors and ramps so she could gain access to every room in the house. She could do anything but cook. After some time, I became a decent cook.
I enjoyed her company, and the fact that she couldn’t verbally criticize me made me feel like I didn’t have so many flaws. I loved our one-way conversations. Her face became very expressive, and I could read all the gestures and signals. She wasn’t very devoted or virtuous, but she spent a lot of time in church.
The butcher shop was in front of the Lincoln Oval Park, a small, decrepit park where the homeless and drug addicts spent their leisure time doing nothing. It was the poor side of town where most Mexicans used to live. Having the police station two blocks away wasn’t a deterrent to crime and violence in the area. There were four second-hand stores in the neighborhood, including the Salvation Army.
The place was in Visalia, in Central California. Population: one hundred thousand. The biggest attraction was the Sequoia National Park, thirty minutes east of town. Agriculture and dairy were the primary labor sources.
The business at the shop was good, considering the bad economy and the high unemployment rate.
My name is Angel.
Visalia, Ca, 08-27-2012
The name of my father was Ramiro. He had demons like me. My grandma said I was his replica. If Grandma was right, then I was a total screw-up.
He was always home, but to me, he was always absent. He was a good provider, though. I never knew what hunger was, I always had shoes on my feet, but that was basic stuff. What he lacked was more important than that. It would have been better to be a poor kid with a great dad than a rich kid with a bad dad.
When I killed my father, I was thirty years old. I had endured over a decade of false accusations from him. He accused me of being gay. I repressed my rage and resisted his suspicions and insults quietly. He never knew how badly he wounded my pride with his sarcasm. He would say: “You’d make me happy if you bring a girlfriend, but if you bring a faggot like you, I kill you.”
And the more he accused me of being gay, the harder he made it for me to take the decisive steps to find a girlfriend.
I didn’t understand the reason why he was so homophobic. He acted like a typical Mexican macho man. I wasn’t gay. I was shy and never learned how to behave in front of women. My dad had just worsened my traumas with years of constant false accusations.
One time, I finally had enough and said, “Dad, I’m not gay, please stop suggesting that I am because I’m not.” and he responded, “The day you impregnate a girl, I’ll stop thinking you’re a faggot.”
I even thought I wasn’t trying hard enough to find a girl just not to give him the satisfaction. And the years passed. I had had sex once in a while with prostitutes, but it was never satisfying, as for a long-term relationship with a regular girl, it seemed impossible.
The irony of it all was that my father had not been a playboy either. He was as shy as I was. Grandpa had to take dad to Mexico to find a wife for him. My dad was fortunate to have found my mom, but I couldn’t say the same for mom. After dad died, I stopped feeling so miserable.
One day, a friend of mine showed up at the shop. I introduced him to my dad. After my friend finished his shopping, my dad told him, “You should take my son out one of these days and help him find a girlfriend or a boyfriend. I still don’t know what he likes.” In an instant, I felt the heat coming out of my face. It was by far the most embarrassing moment of my life. I dropped my apron and went out through the back door.
That night I killed my dad.
I went to my room, sat on the bed, and started crying. Then, I heard the squeaking sound of a wheelchair. Grandma looked at me with her sad face. Her bright black eyes had two sparkling tears in them. I just shook my head. She knew my dad was the only person that could make me feel so sad. Without saying a word, grandma was able to comfort me with a simple hug. But it wasn’t enough.
Before she left the room, she mentioned that she suspected dad had killed my mom.
For a second, I thought about killing myself, but instead, I decided to kill him. The shop was closed when I came back. Dad was in the walk-in refrigerator. All I had to do was to slide the bolt. Through the small glass window on the door, I could see the shock in his eyes.
As if nothing had happened and without any remorse, I went to the kitchen and started cooking dinner. At the table, looking at the empty chair, grandma questioned his whereabouts. I moved my head sideways and shrugged.
It was past midnight when I went back to check the situation. Seven hours had passed after I locked my dad. Before I opened the refrigerator, I noticed some words written on the fogged-up glass window. At first, I thought it was something written from the inside. When I figured out what it said, I knew somebody had written it from the outside. It said, “ti evresed uoy”.
I saw dad in the corner, lying down on the floor in the fetal position. He had been cold all his life, but in that moment, he was just frozen dead. The temperature there was -10 degrees F. I could never stay in that room for more than three minutes.
I was a little nervous because I thought he could still be alive. But he was as hard as the rest of the meat in there. I grabbed the meat hook to move his body, but I thought it was disrespectful. Instead, I dragged him out of there by his feet.
First, I sawed off his head with a hand saw because he was too heavy to lift to the band saw table, so I dismembered his extremities. His blood was frozen, so I wasn’t too worried about making a whole mess.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t afraid of hearing back about his sarcastic comments. With unrelated sentences and with short intervals in between, I began:
“I told you a thousand times that I wasn’t gay,” Then, I cut in between his ribs, from the neck to the stomach.
“Grandma was right. You deserve it,” Then, I removed his intestines.
“You’ll never meet your grandchildren,” Then, I removed his cold heart.
“You won’t be so cold in hell,” Then, I cut off his penis.
“Even your mother hated you,” Then, I turned him over.
“You won’t be calling me all those ugly epithets with your filthy mouth, like faggot, gay, homo, homosexual,” then, I sliced his buttocks.
“I saw you killing grandpa, you cold-hearted bastard!”
Then, I grabbed his decapitated head by the hair and put it in front of my face.
“Did you kill my mom, mother fucker, did you kill her? Answer me, you piece of shit!”
I had to use all the equipment in the shop, three different knives, a cleaver, a skinner, and a cimeter. Also, the handsaw, the table saw, and the meat grinder. I sawed all the bones to three inches or less, even his cranium. Nobody would recognize those bones as human bones. Intestines and organs went straight to the trash, including his sexual organ, ugh! I put it all in a tightly sealed double heavy-duty plastic bag and in a separate bag all the bones. Hands and feet had to be cut into tiny pieces and then to the grinder.
Out of two hundred and fifty pounds, I could get only sixty pounds of ground meat. On Saturday morning, the homeless, winos, and drug addicts had free hamburgers. Dad was finally giving back to the community for years of loyal support.
I ended up with a big mess after all. I was glad dad had installed tile on all walls and floors, with Stainless steel equipment, a commercial water pressure washer, and plenty of drains. When I finished, the place looked shiny new again. The shop was free of bacteria and parasites. My dad was finally gone. Hallelujah!
Mexicans had a few exclusive advantages. For instance, we could kill another Mexican, and if somebody asked for him, we could answer: “He went back to Mexico, indefinitely.”
The next day, I opened the “Carnicería Jalisco” or “Jalisco Meat Market” for the first time as a sole proprietor.
Visalia, CA. 09-02-2012
*** Two new chapters will be posted every week starting on Saturday, Sept-18-2021