Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

LVII. Letʼs Paint The Town Red

6
Oro
Chiloéʼs Island, Chile 
Islet: Wh*reʼs Bay
July 1st, 2004
Time: 12:00 AM 
_____________________________

It was Godʼs country out here, but this time, the blood ran different.

Where the sun met the sky, the f*cking was still deep, and the fighting was still raw, with the Wolves still neck-deep in their own p*ss and sh*t. Like a Guadalarajan smoke cloud, Oro watched as Chiloé came to life underneath him. Wh*reʼs Bay was a nightmare of sodomy and sin; the moon slung itself low against the sky, sitting on the clouds all plump and fat as the stars kiss her passionately, and then, she sucks it in. One by one, that feeling, that numb feeling, was all that came up to the surface. That loudmouthed leering Lucifer beckoned the mouths of monsters towards her, towards him, and he felt nothing. Submerged in hell, but nothing. The blood was thicker than water.

Hot and heavy.

But it ran different.

First, you burned. Then, you bled.

The girls didnʼt satisfy him; their corpses simply circled him, like long lost ghost ships, making him hollow. It was Godʼs country out here, and instead of being surrounded by newly christened moonlight and the promises of His nature, green and endless, clumps of bloodied flesh consumed and corroded his strength until he was ghostly himself. Rotting underneath a rotting sky, lost and broken.

The f*cking...the f*cking grew animalistic for him, the fighting uninhibited, neck-deep in a toxic need that never calmed, never quieted. Choking on every fume, every breath. Chiloé, where Oro felt atop the world, was a prison that ate him alive. Slowly feasted on his skin, ravishing his organs, and leaving the most fearful part of him: himself.

He lit a cigarette, burning and bleeding.

"You always did like this spot," a voice interrupted, velvety, smooth like butter. Oro felt his bones melt for a split second, an exhaustion laced with a bone-chilling rush, and so, he exhaled, the smoke dragging across his lungs.

Robin.

She stared out, a stormy collection of cold indifference.

"It ceases to amaze me...this is Godʼs country. Untamed, untouched, thousands of years of dominance...only to be taken by the Spanish one day," she murmured.

Oro stared back, a stormy collection of malice and unbridled anger.

"You came back," he said, lost for words.

She crept towards him, scars ripe with blood and scabbed wounds, mirroring him, a darker, more refined image.

"I came back," she offered back, also lost for words. "Took the Hangmanʼs road through Cockburn, passing Tonoho Oʼodham."

"Why?"

The blood was divine.

Nearby, the Company had broken bread with Escobar and his sicarios. Quentin Tarantinoʼs ghost lingered where cueca vocalists were, and the men filled their lager up to the brim. Robin and Oro watched the stripper poles glimmer like the alcohol, the neon lights glaring down onlookers with the power of gritty ambiance. The urge to drink, and to f*cking especially, fills Oro and he watched as the girls come in: stumblinʼ drunk, singinʼ drunk, whistlinʼ-dixie-drunk.

"To warn you; I ran into a few Order operatives a few days ago, theyʼre searching for the Domingo treasure, too," Robin said simply, staring at the battered bodies of the underaged girls coldly.