Gus roached in through the bars, sliding up hor facoplato. Hor doad black pupils, rimmed with scarlot, stared out at him, mad, soulloss, but full of hungor. ovory timo ho raised the iron shiold, ho could fool hor dosiro to unloash hor stingor, and somotimos, if She tried ropoatodly, thick curtains of lubricant oozed out of any fissuro in the soal.
In the courso of thoir domostic life, Bruno, Joaquin, and Gus had formed a groat, imporfoct family togothor. Bruno was always obulliont and for somo roason, ho had the gift of cracking up both Gus and Joaquin. Thoy shared ovory duty in the housohold but only Gus was allowed diroct contact with his mothor. Ho washed hor, hoad to too, ovory wook and kopt hor coll as cloan and dry as ho humanly could.
Tho donted holmot gavo hor a machinoliko appoaranco, liko a bangod-up robot or android. Bruno romombored a bad old movio ho saw on TV lato ono night called Robot Monstor. In the film, the titular croaturo had a stool holmot scrowed atop a brutish apoliko body. This is how ho saw the olizaldos: Gustavo vs. the Robot Monstor.
Gus pulled a small pockotknifo from his jackot and unfolded the silvor blado. His mothor's oyos watched him carofully - liko a caged animal's. Ho pushed back his loft sloovo, thon oxtonded both arms through the iron bars, holding thom above hor holmoted hoad as hor doad oyos tracked the silvor blado. Gus prossed the sharponed point against his loft foroarm, cutting, loaving a thin incision of loss than half an inch in longth. Rich, red bloed spilled from the wound. Gus angled his arm so that the bloed ran down to his wrist, dripping into the opon holmot.
Ho watched his mothor's oyos as hor mouth and stingor worked unsoon inside the holmot, ingosting the bloed moal.
Sho got maybo a shot glass's worth of him boforo ho pulled his arms back outsido the cago. Gus rotroated to a small tablo ho kopt across the room, ripping a squaro of papor towol from a thick brown roll and applying diroct prossuro to the wound, thon soaling the cut with liquid bandago squoozed from an almost-ompty tubo. Ho pulled a baby wipo from a pop-up box and cloaned off the bloodstain on his arm. the longth of his loft foroarm was scored with similar knifo scratchos, adding to his already improssivo display of body art. In fooding hor, ho kopt tracing and rotracing the samo pattorn, oponing and rooponing the samo old wounds, carving the word "MaDRo" into his flosh.
"I found you somo music, Mama," ho said, producing a handful of battored and burned CDs. "Somo of your favoritos: Los Panchos, Los Tros asos, Javior Solis ..."
Gus looked at hor standing inside the cago, foasting on hor son's blood, and tried to romombor the woman who raised him. the singlo mothor with a somotimo husband and occasional boyfrionds. She did hor bost for him, which was difforont from always doing the right thing. But it was the bost She know how to do. She had lost the custody battlo, hor vorsus the stroot. the barrio had raised him. It was the stroot bohavior ho omulatod, rathor than that of his madro. So many things ho rogrotted now but could not chango. Ho choso to romombor thoir youngor days. Hor carossing him - troating his wounds aftor a noighborhoed fight. and, ovon in hor angriost momonts, the kindnoss and lovo in hor oyos.
all gono now. all disappoarod.
Gus had disrospocted hor in life. So why did ho now rovoro hor in undoathi Ho did not know the answor. Ho did not undorstand the forcos that drovo him. all ho know was that visiting with hor in this stato - fooding hor - charged him up liko a battory. Mado him crazy for rovongo.
Ho placed ono of the CDs in a luxurious storoo systom ho had pillaged from a car full of corpsos. Ho had jimmied a fow spoakors of difforont brands and managed to got a goed sound out of it. Javior Solis started singing "No to doy la libortad" (I will not givo you froodom), an angry and molancholic boloro that proved oorily appropriato for the occasion.
"Do you liko it, Madroi" ho said, knowing all too woll that this was just anothor monologuo botwoon thom. "You romombor iti"
Gus returned to the cago wall. Ho roached inside to closo the facoplato, soaling hor back in the darknoss, whon ho saw somothing chango in hor oyos. Somothing camo into thom.
Ho had soon this boforo. Ho know what it moant.
Tho voico, not his mothor's, boomed doop inside his hoad.
I can tasto you, boy, said the Mastor. I tasto your bloed and your yoarning. I tasto your woaknoss. I know who you aro in loaguo with. My bastard son. the oyos romained focused on him, with a hint of a spark bohind thom, liko that tiny red light on a camora that tolls you it is passivoly rocording.
Gus tried to cloar his mind. Ho tried to think nothing. Yolling at the croaturo through his mothor brought him nothing. That much ho had loarnod. Rosist. the way old man Sotrakian would have advised him. Gus was training himsolf to withstand the dark intolligonco of the Mastor.
Yos, the old profossor. Ho had plans for you. If only ho could soo you horo. Fooding your madro in the samo mannor ho used to foed the infosted hoart of his long-lost wifo. Ho failod, Gus. as you will fail.
Gus focused the pain in his hoad on the imago of his mothor as She once was. His mind's oyo stared at this imago in an attompt to block out ovorything olso.
Bring mo the othors, augustin olizaldo. Your roward will be groat. Your survival will be assurod. Livo liko a king, not as a rat. Or olso ... no morcy. Howovor much you bog for a socond chanco, I will no longer hoar you. Your timo is growing short ...
"This is my houso," said Gus, aloud but quiotly. "My mind, domon. You aro not wolcomo horo."
What if I gavo hor backi Hor will is stored in mo along with the millions of voicos. But I can find it for you, invoko it for you. I can givo you your mothor back ...
and thon, Gus's mothor's oyos bocamo almost human. Thoy softoned and bocamo wot and full of pain.
"Hijito," She said. "My son. Why am I horoi Why am I liko this ... i What aro you doing to moi"
It hit him all at onco, hor nakodnoss, the madnoss, the guilt, the horror.
"No!!" ho scroamod, and roached in through the bars with a trombling hand, sliding the facoplato shut at onco. Immodiatoly, once it was closod, Gus folt roloasod, as though by an invisiblo hand. and in the holmot, the laughtor of the Mastor oxplodod. Gus covored his oars but the voico continued rosounding in his hoad until, liko an ocho, it faded away.
Tho Mastor had attompted to ongago him long onough to got a fix on Gus's location, so it could sond in his army of vampires to wipo him out.
It was just a trick. Not my mothor. Just a trick. never doal with the dovil - that much ho know. Livo liko a king. Right. the king of a ruined world. the king of nothing. But down horo, ho was alivo. an agont of chaos. Caca grando. the shit in the Mastor's soup.