I froze and hesitated to open the door. The shop closed hours earlier. Father Fidel opened his eyes wide, probably expecting salvation. Nervously, I opened the door slowly, inch by inch. Pedro was on the other side. How could that be possible? I sent him to the house front door around the corner.
“What are you doing here, Pedro?”
“What happened with Father Fidel? I know he’s here; I saw him entering your house. I was following him.” he said, ignoring my question.
“Why were you following him?”
“I want my revenge,” he said, appearing older than a thirteen-year-old boy “my older brother is with me, and he’s going to help me get even.” he continued.
I wondered how many more kids wanted their revenge.
I had a tough dilemma, but I couldn’t back out of the original plan. Father Fidel will never see the sun again. But I was forced to include Pedro and his brother in the scheme. They knew he was here. I had to let them in. I couldn’t turn them down, and I was curious about what they had in mind.
“Okay Pedro, I told you Father Fidel was going to disappear very soon . . .”
“Yes, but I want my revenge first,” he interrupted me and added, “You have to let me do it that’s why I brought my brother.”
Pedro turned around and quietly called his brother. Appearing out of the dark, he had a knife in his right hand, his arm firmly tight against his right leg. I let them in. I had no other option. I told them how the priest had been deceiving grandma and that she knew he was a pedophile. “Follow me,” I said.
We all went to the butcher shop in a single line. I was pushing grandma’s wheelchair. The brothers walked behind me, like executioners heading for the gallows to meet a condemned criminal. It must have looked like a scene from the Spanish Inquisition.
I felt overexcited with the turn of events. Three generations, a seventy-year gap between the youngest and the oldest, very odd indeed.
We found the priest lying on the floor near the front entrance. He was ready to kick the door to call for attention. He had rolled over the entire length of the shop. He had to know his end was near when he saw Pedro and his brother with a knife in hand. I dragged him back and sat him on the floor against the walk-in refrigerator.
Pedro was the first to confront him. “Pinche Padre joto!” (“Fucking homo priest!”) He said as he slapped him on the face. I wondered why Pedro didn’t confront the priest that way when he first tried to take advantage of him. But then, I realized that I had been in the same situation with my father, and I didn’t confront him until he was dead.
Perhaps, seeing how weak Pedro had slapped Father Fidel, his brother approached the priest and hit him with a solid blow. There was no doubt; the real punishment had begun.
I thought about removing the gag from his mouth to hear his defense, but he had no excuses, and nothing could save him. He couldn’t expect paradise after committing such atrocities. He looked pathetic. No one could pity him knowing the true story, not even his mother.
“Why did you do that to me? I didn’t do anything wrong; my mom only wanted me to be an altar boy. She even thought I could be a priest like you.” Pedro said with tears in his eyes.
Father Fidel had tears in his eyes too, but his tears were of fear and desperation, not of pain or repentance.
I took Pedro’s brother aside and asked him what they had in mind. He said he didn’t know yet, but he suspected that his brother wanted him to do the same things Father Fidel did to him.
“Okay, I’ll give you an hour to get Pedro’s revenge, but don’t kill him and don’t say a word to anybody about what we’re doing here,” I said, as I pushed grandma to her room.
His name was Abel. He was nineteen years old, and he didn’t speak English. He was sixteen years old when they arrived in the United States. He had been working in the fields with his dad since then. He didn’t have time to go to school to learn English or anything else. Pedro had told him all about it just this morning. They had been following Father Fidel all day long. They were waiting for him to come out of the house.
When I went back, the priest was lying naked on the floor. The brothers got their revenge. Things were even. Could they ever be?
Abel and Pedro shook my hand on their way out. Pedro didn’t look like a kid anymore. I guess a horrible experience such as that could turn a young kid into a bitter man in a short time. He would look at the world differently. He would be more cautious, but his innocence was gone.
The priest was unconscious. He was bleeding from his genitalia, and his penis was gone. I couldn’t avoid comparing this image to his smiling face on the picture with the Pope. What a ridiculous contrast.
I still felt enormous hatred for him. I decided to work on him while he was still alive. As he lay on the floor, I put a butcher block under his right hand and proceeded to cut it off with my machete. The priest regained consciousness, sat up, and lifted his right arm. Seeing no hand attached to it, he fainted again. Then, I severed his head.
Later, while dismembering his body, I smiled when I found his missing organ inside his anus. They pushed his dick up his ass with a stick or something like that. I confirmed my suspicions when I saw the toilet plunger near his body.
Many people will miss him. Probably a reward would be offered by the church or the local government. But the church choir will be singing with genuine happiness.
In the morning, grandma gave me a note, “They are going to organize a massive search. He might have been a monster, a child molester, but nobody knew about it. Everybody loved him; he was very popular too. We need to be extremely careful.”
She had a good reason to be worried.
The disappearance of a priest was not the same as a missing runaway teen or a missing homeless thief.
It could have been possible that somebody knew where he was going. Maybe, somebody saw him coming to our house. But there were no traces of him in the butcher shop. I spent a lot of time cleaning in detail with industrial chemicals and cleaning materials.
I told grandma not to worry too much. But I was worried a little.
On Saturday, as I carried the sinful ground meat to the park, for a moment, I thought, maybe someone should bless it with holy water first.
That time grandma and I refused to participate in our cannibalistic ritual. There were many things about Father Fidel that we didn’t like. He was worse than a ‘normal’ rapist; his victims were innocent children. In my opinion, he was a hundred times worse than me.
After a couple of days, Father Fidel was on the news. They were announcing his disappearance.
Lancaster, Ca. 08-22-2014