Saint Monica stood up on the dash, hair whipping around her hot bod framed by the cherry red sunroof. As Enriquo hit the hydraulics and the cherry red Lincoln bounced along Monica's namesake boulevard, El Lay Woman caught a vibe, flew out the roof and landed on her feet by an office building sidewalk.
Enriquo was a crazy SA mofo, but not crazy enough to interfere with one of Monica's "spells", so he kept driving, flashing some gangster signs thru the sunroof as he split. A malo chickeetahhh like Saint Monica could handle any hood, any time, anywhere; except, there was that time when she publicly broke down when that Carlos asshole bendejo chump nagualito gardner was talking trash to her at one of his aerobics classes. What the hell kind of gardner teaches aerobics? Saint Monica swore that one day his shriveled up testicles would dangle from her rear view mirror, bronzed. Either that, or she would bear his children, or steal his mojo, or, maybe write a book about voodoo economics and dedicate it to him. She was confusing that way.
Everyone called her Saint Monica only because it pissed her off, and she insisted on it. She was a strange woman. A stock broker by day, and a freaked-out, scary ass witch by night; Saint Monica didn't "run with the wolves", she barbecued the bastards and ate them with salsa. She stood in front of the unfamiliar office building on her namesake boulevard still feeling the vibe, only stronger. Once inside, she read the directory and recognized a name: Cloudy Amber Corp. They published cookbooks and were rumored to be contemplating a move into electronic digital media. They also financed and profited from the aerobics classes. Saint Monica was a woman on a mission.
She headed for the nearest elevator as the metallic doors parted, spewing forth a stumbling, dark brown man who walked right into her. He looked totally out of place and about as crazy as they come. Recovering himself, he asked her: "Do you know the passes?" She didn't really understand him, nor did she care to, so she reached in her purse, brought out a small bottle of "Beano", placed it in his brown hand, said: "Here", and then boarded the elevator. He thanked her and blurted out his name: "Eboka", but she was already 5 floors up.
Eboka, the father of eboga, second cousin to enola, now returned downstream to obtain the final packet of powdered bark which he handed to the mother of eboga. The initiate, stripped entirely naked, was rubbed down with this bark powder. This powder was a mixture from the bark of twelve trees (one was actually a forest bush). They were named to the initiate one by one. They were described as good and pure trees, well regarded by the ancestors and all of important medicinal use. "Learn these trees!"
They were interrupted by a squad car all lit up and two of Santa Monica's finest. Arrested for public indecency and creating a nuisance, the three were also suspected of possessing a controlled substance or substances. The three were handcuffed and squeezed into the backseat of the squad car. When they arrived at the station for booking, only Eboka was in the back seat. The officers tried very stoically to calm each other, but were generally unsuccessful. Since the naked man covered with powder and the old woman with the packet were nowhere to be seen, the officers freed Eboka right there on the spot. One officer started to say something to his partner about mixing donuts with chili and too much coffee with antacid, but his voice trailed off to nothing and they both just stood there like defeated men. Eboka felt so sorry for them that he did the only thing he could think of, which was to give the one who had last spoken to him his bottle of "Beano".
Meanwhile, when the elevator arrived at the specified floor and opened its doors, Saint Monica suddenly found herself in the middle of a jungle. No elevator, no building, just a river at her feet and some naked guy down stream with what looked like his elderly mother, both sporting shiny handcuffs. This is not good, she said to herself as she headed toward the kinky couple, diahrrhea trickling down her leg, heels sticking in the soft river mud.
[See also: KALI ... and/or: Enigma of a Sorcerer ... or/and: Amy Wallace]
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