Chapter 8
The shuttle to the ferry to Ometepe was running late. It was after one thirty in the afternoon, and Jo and Luke were waiting on the sidewalk in front of the apartments sharing a large Toña.
“What’s that noise?” Luke asked, looking down the street. It was a loud, constant drone, almost like an asphalt machine paving a new road, he thought, but the streets were cobblestone, so that didn’t make sense. And it was getting louder. “And that smell?” He crinkled up his nose.
“I’m not sure,” Jo said. “It’s familiar. I don’t like this shit, Luke. It smells fucking toxic.” She walked out into the middle of the road to get a better view of the end of the street.
As Luke joined her, they both noticed the first wisps of smoke, or fumes, or whatever it was, rising up from the building about seventy–five yards away.
“Oh fuck! Luke!” Jo said, still looking down the road. “I hope that van gets here soon, or we’re screwed. I know what this is.” Then what Luke still thought was smoke started billowing out of the house where the noise was coming from.
“What’s up, Jo?” Luke asked. He watched the people at the end of the road try to get away from the fumes by holding the bottom of their T–shirts up over their faces. “Is that house on fire or what?” He wondered if he should go down and try to help somehow.
“They’re spraying for dengue,” Jo said as they saw a man with a bandana over his face come out of the house. In his hands he held a six–foot–long spray tube attached to a large weed–blower–type machine on his back. “They come around whenever there’s a spike in dengue fever cases. They go into everyone’s house and yard and spray them with those thermal foggers to kill the mosquitoes that carry the virus. And they’re fucking serious. You can die from the fever, but they’re more concerned about it affecting the tourism industry. So when there’s a breakout, they knock it down as fast and hard as they can.” She glanced at their bags and wondered if they should leave.
As Luke watched, the man with the backpack fogger crossed the road to the house on the other side of the street and started spraying the small ravine next to it with pesticides. That made sense—standing water was where mosquitoes bred. The fumes were so thick it was hard for Luke to see him as he did his work. Then the man walked into the house and continued spraying until bluish–white fumes were rolling out of the windows and seeping through the tiles on the roof. The government wasn’t taking any chances. They were going to blanket the entire neighborhood and everything in it.
“They killed my friend’s dog last year when he was stuck inside the house and they came by spraying this shit,” Jo said. “It’s some kind of powerful insecticide mixed with diesel fuel. Can you imagine living in a house after they bombed it with this stuff? God, I’m so glad I’m not poor and having to put up with this fucking crap. We need out of here, Luke. Now!” Jo picked up her pack just as the shuttle came around the corner and parked in front of the apartments. “About fucking time they got here,” she said, still watching the scene at the end of the road.
The driver was in a hurry anyway, and more so seeing the fumigator coming their way. Toxic chemicals from one thing or another were a fact of life for most Nicas, and they suffered a gamut of consequences, from sterility to birth defects to cancer and death. In the cane fields that supplied the United States with much of its sugar, the situation had become so bad that chronic kidney failure was rampant among the workers, even as researchers struggled to identify which pesticide was responsible. From the urgency the driver was showing, he was more than aware of the danger coming up the road. Climbing halfway up the ladder to the roof of the van, the driver took their packs from Luke and threw them onto the pile on top, not bothering to tie them down. Jo slid open the side door of the van and squeezed past the other passengers to take the big bench seat at the back for her and Luke. Before Luke managed to get seated, the driver jumped in and slammed the van into gear. He took off down the road, watching the side mirror like he was making a getaway from a robbery.
“He didn’t tie our packs down,” Luke said to Jo under his breath. “I sure hope he knows what he’s doing.” Luke twisted around to watch out the back window in case one of their packs fell off, and in his mind started rehearsing the Spanish he’d need if it did happen. No matter how much he studied the language, he was always running into situations where he found himself lacking. And in Nicaragua, the dialect was so different from anywhere else in the world that even the best of Spanish speakers had trouble.
Jo checked her phone. “We’re running a little late. It’s an hour and a half to San Jorge, and the ferry leaves at three thirty. We might end up taking the four o’clock.” The shuttle made a U–turn on Old Hospital Road and sped off in the other direction. “Ah shit,” Jo said. “San Jorge is the other way.”
“What’s going on?” Luke asked, sure that their packs were going to fly off the top of the van at any moment.
“We must have to pick someone else up or maybe get gas,” Jo said as the shuttle pulled up to a small store and gas station. But it bypassed the pumps and instead parked next to the exit that headed back out onto the street. The driver got out and went around to open the sliding door for the passengers, letting a few of them out. He checked his watch before climbing up and lashing down the luggage on the roof, much to Luke’s relief.
“What’s happening, Jo?” Luke asked. He looked at his watch. “I really don’t want to have to find our way around Ometepe after sunset. We need to make the three thirty ferry.” His voice was a little louder than normal, and he felt his stomach tighten up at his lack of control.
“Relax, Luke,” Jo said. “This is Nicaragua. It moves at its own speed, and what you want doesn’t mean shit to anyone. But yeah, I hate this too.” She lightened up her tone. This guy caught enough of my bitch act last night, she thought. “Look at it this way. If we’re late, then we don’t have to tip the driver. And I’ll call the owner and let him know they screwed us up. Okay?” She was looking at Luke when something else caught her eye. “Oh God, look at this.” She pointed outside the van with her finger but kept it below the window.
A man lurched away from the wall of the gas station as he pushed his cock back into the hole where he used to button up his pants in better days. His clothes probably fit him at one time before the glue had emaciated his body, but now they were nothing more than stained and tattered rags. He was so filthy it seemed Luke could smell him even from inside the van.
Seeing the shuttle bus, the man focused his gaze on the two women in front of Luke and Jo on the driver’s side. Leering wasn’t a strong enough word, Luke thought, as the guy approached the first window. His eyelids were opened wide, exposing two reddish–black orbs that had long since indicated any suggestion of comprehension within. He looked like a B–rated actor playing a zombie in some post–apocalyptic world. Putting his hands up to the glass like he was shielding it from a glare, he opened his mouth—a dark, toothless hole—and stuck his tongue out, flicking it up and down at the young woman only inches away on the other side of the window. After she turned her back on him in horrified embarrassment, he moved to the next window and did the same, making his way down the side of the van to Jo. Staring at her, his face no more than six inches from the glass, he began to pump his middle finger into the closed fist of his other hand as he ran his tongue in large sweeps over his lips, never taking his eyes off her.
“Oh my God, this fucking glue–sniffing shit–ball can’t really think any woman would respond to that, can he?” she asked, turning away and looking at Luke.
Looking over her shoulder, Luke saw only death in the man’s eyes. Yet as gross and horrible and shocking as the sight was, Luke still felt compassion for the man’s plight. Turning his gaze away and toward the front of the van, Luke waited until the man gave up and staggered back to the wall of the gas station, slumping down where he had just peed. Falling back on the ground, the man threw his forearm over his eyes, his legs spread akimbo as he seemed to pass out.
“I don’t have a clue what’s going through that guy’s mind,” Luke said. “Or if he even has a mind left.” Luke had lost any illusions that he was any more infallible than the next guy, and learning that lesson had been a long, humbling decline that almost killed him. “So sad.” Somehow, he thought, this man’s pain is ours too, and his life is every bit as precious as any other. But still, Luke couldn’t help thinking that death was probably the most compassionate hope for him.
***
The drive to San Jorge along the Pan–American Highway gave Luke a different view of Nicaragua, and he was thankful for it. Up until now, he had been feeling more and more disillusioned. The filth and poverty and glue–sniffing hopelessness in Granada permeated existence there, and it seemed many of the gringos weren’t aware or empathetic to the suffering around them. The little enclaves the expats had created for themselves—the bars and restaurants that seldom saw a Nica in them other than to clean—did little to lighten the weight of it all. At times, these establishments even made it worse when they took on a boutique–ish flare to cater to rich foreigners feeling justified by their wealth to remain oblivious of the poor around them. And while Luke wasn’t actually witnessing it, he knew that the energy injected into the society by the constant flow of pedophiles and sex traffickers was affecting him at some level. No wonder he got so many hard glares from the Nica men hanging around on the streets; they knew a lot of the white men his age were there to either fuck their kids or take their young women. But now he was out of the city and starting to understand why so many people loved Nicaragua. The foliage was lush and green, and little houses, family–run stores, and fruit vendors were interspersed along the road between farms, or fincas, separated with loose barbed–wire fences made with uneven tree branches for posts. Off in the distance, small groups of workers could be seen in the fields, and horses and cattle grazed across the hillsides. This was more like what he had been expecting, and he reminded himself to stay open about the country and its people, knowing that he’d only just scratched the surface.
Luke felt Jo’s leg tighten as she pushed back against the seat like she was slamming on the breaks of the van. The driver was in a hurry, and he was driving right up behind the car or truck in front of them, not putting on the brakes until the last minute. Then he would follow no more than a foot or two away, weaving in and out of the other lane looking for a chance to pass. Luke had already resigned himself to the situation and was glad that the seat belts actually worked, but he could tell Jo was scared.
Jo grabbed his arm and squeezed tight.
“Quit looking, Jo. There’s nothing you can do,” Luke said.
The driver pulled into the small town of Rivas and took a left at the main intersection where a sign said that San Jorge was three kilometers away. Luke looked at his watch. It was 3:20 p.m.
“Good,” Jo said. “He’s going straight to the dock. We don’t have to pick up or drop anyone off here. We might make it on time yet.”
The shuttle stopped outside the gate to the pier, and the driver climbed up onto the roof of the van to get their luggage. Luke took their backpacks, then paid the twenty–four–dollar fare for both of them, tipping the driver an extra three bucks.
“The three thirty ferry isn’t running,” Jo said after talking to the lady collecting the tourist tax at the gate. “I guess it didn’t matter if we got here on time after all. We’ll take the four o’clock instead.”
After paying the ten–córdoba tourist fee, they walked through the gate to the pier. The guard had a well–worn, pistol–gripped 12–gauge shotgun slung in front of him, and he seemed intent on not showing any sign of recognition as people walked by. Luke had noticed this with many of the policemen and army types in Nicaragua. But while some of them seemed hard, lean, and serious like this guy, others seemed just the opposite. Either way, getting on their bad side was not a good idea. Although with the cops getting paid only about five dollars a day, the possibility of bribing one’s way out of trouble was an option. Not that Luke was a fan of police corruption, but he also wasn’t going to spend time in a Nica jail if he could help it, no matter what the reason. And judges always cost more than street cops. So he kept a US twenty–dollar bill in perfect condition in a throwaway wallet in the front pocket of his pants. No sense letting the cops see how much money he really had if he ever needed to use it. And if anyone ever tried to mug him, it made a handy distraction he could throw down the street while getting his ass out of the area. Even if a guy did take down someone rousting him, in Nicaragua it was usually the gringo who went to jail, regardless of who was at fault.
Walking a couple hundred yards, they came to the end of the pier where the ferry Che Guevara, a large mural of his iconic image looking down on the cargo deck, was moored taking on cars and people. Several local women with covered baskets meandered around and through the crowd selling baked goods to the passengers.
“I need a cigarette before we board,” Jo said.
“I’m going to get a picture of the volcanoes,” Luke said. He dropped his pack against the sea wall and walked to the end of the breakwater for a better view across the lake. In the distance to the east was Ometepe, a figure–eight–shaped island with a cloud–covered volcano at each end. Concepción, the larger and active volcano, was to the left. The other, Maderas, was off in the distance to the right. The ferry was going to take them to the port of Moyogalpa, situated on the northwest side of the island. The small finca and eco–resort they were going to stay at was all the way across the island at the base of Maderas. The ferry would take an hour to make the passage, and then the taxi would be another hour and a half to the farm, if the driver showed up on time.
“See the windmills?” Jo asked when he returned.
Luke looked over her to the south, toward Costa Rica, and nodded. He could see a line of tall wind generators on the horizon across the lake. Standing behind Jo, he wrapped his arms around her waist and held her tight, kissing the side of her head. Neither said a word as they looked into the breeze and watched the giant fans rotate far off in the distance. Part of Luke wanted to ask her about wind power in the area, but he couldn’t bring himself to break the moment. When he held her like this, it seemed he lost all sense of his surroundings, and he just wanted to bask in her presence.
“We should board,” Luke said, letting her go. He picked up his rucksack and threw it over one shoulder, waiting for Jo to take the lead.
***
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Once on the ferry, they made their way to the top deck and took a seat near the pilothouse. After they got underway, the conductor came through and collected the two–dollar fare per person. Luke decided to stand up on the voyage across the lake. It had been a while since he’d been on a boat, and he missed the feeling of motoring into the wind.
“Want to share a beer?” Jo asked. “There’s a lady down there with a cooler. Thirty cords.”
“You bet,” he said. As Jo went below for the beer, Luke watched the deck hands in the cargo hole at the bow of the ferry. They were checking the rigging for the voyage, just like sailors would all around the world, and he thought about how much more humans have in common than not.
“What do you think of the name of the ferry?” Jo asked when she returned with the beer and stood next to him. “Che is all over down here.”
“Che’s a nice fairy tale,” Luke said, noticing Jo glance around to see if anyone else could understand him. “At least in the sense that he brought anyone freedom. The Cubans weren’t liberated when Che and Castro overthrew Batista. They just let another dictator assume power. And over fifty years later they’re still suffering for it.” It’s a classic example of why you don’t want to use violence to try to transform your country, he thought. The results were often just as bad, or worse, than what was in place before. Luke shuddered every time he saw some young man who didn’t know any better running around with Che’s image on his chest. “And since it was a violent revolution,” he continued, “the people never learned the nonviolent tactics they needed to oust Castro when he consolidated power. Instead, they only know the rule of the gun. And the state has a monopoly on that form of power.”
“I should have figured you’d say something like that,” Jo said. “Even Che’s a phony in your eyes. Keep that up, you might have a hard time finding people to buy your ideas. I mean, you do have to have a target audience for this stuff, right?”
“Of course. But it’s not people who fret more about someone dropping an F–bomb than they do about the real ones we drop around the world every day,” Luke said. He felt that society had reached a level of absurdity beyond what anyone like Orwell or Huxley ever envisioned. “And by the way, I don’t think Che was a phony at all. He fought against injustice the best way he knew how. And that’s better than doing nothing. But Che isn’t an example to follow, at least not if the goal is a freer or more fair or more equitable society. And another thing, today the state has such superiority in weapons technology that the idea of an armed revolution by the people is ridiculous.”
“Not according to the gun lobby in the states,” Jo said. “Fuck, some of them actually think there’ll be a revolution back home. Not that I think of the states as home anymore.”
“It won’t happen unless it’s government sponsored,” Luke said, noticing Jo raise her eyebrows. “In other words, if our government wants to tighten up the police state, then they’ll help a few idiots think they’re starting a revolution just to put those people down and justify harsher laws.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Jo shook her head. “You don’t really believe that conspiracy crap, do you?”
“No,” Luke said. “I’m not kidding. The stakes are too high. I believe the people controlling the world system are capable of anything.” And they’ll feel justified doing so because they’re the elite, Luke thought, and with that comes the sense that their “exceptionalism” is their right—or divine will, or some other such bullshit. “At least if they feel their power is being threatened. It’s stupid to think otherwise, given the world’s history.”
“Wow,” Jo said. “I don’t know. I guess I just have a hard time seeing that happen in our country. I mean, we areAmerica.”
“Our country has been changed,” Luke said. “The people no longer have a say in how they’re governed. I’m not saying we can’t get that back, just that it won’t happen by force.” And what the bozos talking about armed rebellion didn’t realize, he knew, was that there had never been a successful violent revolution against a representative government or Western–style industrialized country. And even if they did manage to pull it off somehow, the result would be even less freedom for the people. “It’s pretty ironic, but if we do have to protect our right to bear arms, the only way we’ll do so is through nonviolent methods. Today, personal firearms in the US are for sport and hunting and self–defense against criminals, not protection from or rebellion against the government. Not to mention the population is split on these issues. Any armed rebellion in the states would be a minority effort, and it would eventually result in a civil war, which is the worst–case scenario for everyone.”
“But in a way it almost sounds like that’s being patsies for the government,” Jo said. “Like they’re playing us. Some people say that by not endorsing violence we’re just letting the state do what it wants.”
“That’s what some anarchists say,” Luke said. “But their arguments haven’t stood up to scrutiny. And it’s hard to support people who hide their faces and disrupt peaceful protests by destroying property.” That’s playing into the government’s hands, he thought. They’re the perfect excuse for the cops to use more force and Congress to pass harsher laws limiting our ability to protest our government’s actions. “Not only that, but they make the perfect cover for federal agents sent to create violence so the cops can put down the people.”
“We’re getting underway,” Jo said as the engines started sending a vibration through the hull. She took the beer bottle to the trash, and then sat down on the bench next to where Luke was standing against the rail. Between the trip and talking to Luke, she was tired. Closing her eyes, she decided to get some rest.
***
The passage across the lake was uneventful, other than passing the other ferries returning from the island. Each one was unique, and all looked in need of maintenance and fresh paint. As the Che Guevara pulled into Moyogalpa, Luke could see women standing in waist–deep water off the shore of the lake, washing clothes under small wooden shade stands. No wonder the Nicas tried to eradicate the freshwater sharks in the past, Luke thought.
Joining the other passengers, Jo and Luke headed below to disembark. Once off the ferry, they made their way through the small crowd of taxi drivers and found their driver holding a cardboard sign with the name of their finca. After introductions, the driver loaded their packs while Luke walked over to the port store to pay five cords to use the bathroom. On the way out, he bought himself another Toña for the drive.
The trip to the finca took them through several of the small towns on the island. Darkness came quickly after sunset, making it hard to see anything not right in their headlights, like the huge ox lying on the side of the road that flashed by in a blur, no more than a foot away from the van. Their driver was another tailgater, causing Luke to wonder if it was the norm. After an hour on the road, the driver yelled back to them that it was going to get rough. He wasn’t exaggerating. For the next forty minutes, they crawled along at five miles per hour, getting knocked hard against each other and the sides of the van. Finally, Luke felt the van turn onto another road, and he saw the sign for the finca in the headlights. After a few minutes, they pulled up alongside an open restaurant and lounge area filled with about a dozen people having dinner.
***
The finca covered twenty–five acres on the western slope of the Maderas volcano, allowing for a southwest view of Cocibolca. The mountains of Costa Rica framed the horizon, and the wind generators Jo had pointed out earlier could be seen turning in the distance when the visibility was good. The four small cabanas and the larger communal dorm were of cob construction, a mixture of rice, straw, aggregate, clay subsoil, horse manure, and water that could be molded by hand into almost any shape desired. Recycled wine bottles had been placed into the walls to make artistic designs and give additional light to the interiors of the rooms. Luke noticed there was only one tap in the sink, so they were without hot water for the next couple of days. Their cabana had two almost twin–size beds that worked well for the Nicas but were too short for Luke’s legs. Mosquito netting hanging from the ceiling was draped over the far bed and rolled and tied up above the other.
“What’s this?” Luke asked, looking at the top of the bed that had the netting rolled up above it. Across the tight white sheet on the mattress were a dozen small specks about half the size of a grain of rice. Upon closer inspection, Luke saw they were a dark brownish color with a small whitish tip at one end. Picking one up left a smear on the sheet, and it squished between his thumb and finger. Luke looked up at the ceiling and saw the source.
“Ah fuck!” Luke said. “Gecko shit’s everywhere.” He wiped his fingers with a piece of tissue. Using another piece, he tried to pick up more droppings, leaving a small mark on the sheet where each one had been. “If we’re going to lay our stuff out on this bed, maybe we want to use the netting to cover it up. Otherwise, we’ll have little bits of shit everywhere.”
“I’m more worried about my hair,” Jo said, looking above her. “Damn it! It never ends in Nicaragua. Why in the fuck can’t life just be easy for once?” She looked at Luke. “Fuck it. Let’s go up and eat. I’m hungry. And I need some wine. And then I want you to ravish my body.” She kissed him as her hands found his cock hardening below.
***
The mosquito netting was attached to a central point above the mattress and draped down to each of the four corners, making the bed seem even smaller than it was. The ends overlapped at the foot of the bed so a person could crawl in and out of the thin tent. With both of them on the bed, there was little room to move around. The moon was bright, and rays of light danced through the window as it broke in and out of the clouds.
“Get on your knees and bend over like I was going to fuck you from behind,” Luke said from the edge of the bed just inside the netting and behind Jo, who was spread out in front of him. “Put your head down on the mattress and relax. Let’s see if we can loosen you up a bit.”
Jo positioned herself in the middle of the bed. Kneeling behind her ass sticking up in the air, Luke started rubbing coconut oil on her butt as the moonlight flickered across her cheeks. Jo had gotten wet as soon as Luke started directing.
“Spread your legs a little more,” Luke said, sliding his hand down and coating her pussy with the oil.
Using his left hand to knead the small of her back, Luke slid the tips of his fingers up and down between her lips and over her hard clit sticking out below, mesmerized by her asshole glistening with oil.
“Oh God,” Jo said into the mattress as she reached out in front of her and clutched the sheets. “Oh God, that is so fucking good. Oh my God, Luke, don’t stop.”
Using his index finger, Luke started probing her pussy, sliding it in and out as he rotated his hand and massaged the flesh inside, Jo groaning into the sheet as he did. As she loosened up, Luke went deeper, soon using his full finger.
“Try another, baby. Give me more,” Jo said, pressing her forehead into the bed.
Using two fingers, Luke continued to massage the walls of her pussy, feeling her muscles loosening up until she was taking all he could give.
Jo gasped. “Fuck me, Luke. I want your cock. Now!”
Holding her by the hips on each side, Luke let the head of his cock slide down her ass to rest in between the swollen lips of her pussy.
“Easy, baby,” Jo said as he started to fuck her with slow, short strokes, picking up speed and going deeper as her body got used to him. She gasped. “Harder. Right there, baby. No deeper yet,” she said as Luke felt the head of his cock hitting up against the tightness in her pussy.
Wetting his thumb with saliva, he placed the pad on her asshole, getting the immediate groan he expected.
“Oh fuck, baby, right there. Oh God, yeah!” she said, pushing back harder against him, her ass cheeks now touching his thighs with each stroke.
Keeping her face pressed into the mattress, Jo began a long, low howl, broken by gasps each time she took the length of Luke’s cock. Reaching back between her legs, she started jerking her clit as Luke worked his thumb farther into her sphincter.
“Oh God, I’m coming!” Jo groaned as Luke fucked her harder, his balls slapping up against her pussy with each thrust.
“Oh fuck, me too,” he said, his moans mixing with hers until they both came in a crescendo of “oh Gods” and “oh fucks.” Luke’s head fell back on his shoulders, and he lost himself in the sensations flooding his body. As they subsided, he opened his eyes and found himself looking straight up at the center of the mosquito netting, and in his daze it took him a moment to remember where he was. Looking down at Jo’s ass, his cock still in her pussy, the moon broke through the clouds outside and filled the room with a luminescent glow. And then he saw the tarantula hanging on the outside of the mosquito netting, not more than three inches from his face.
“Fuck!” he yelled, pushing Jo’s butt off his cock and falling to the side of the bed, hitting his back hard against the wall.
“What the hell…” Jo started to say, rolling over and glaring at him.
“Big fucking spider! I thought something was watching me. I hate fucking spiders!”
“Oh shit. That is a big one,” Jo said, seeing the tarantula on the netting above her. “They’re not poisonous. You know that, right?” she asked, looking at Luke. “It’s just a spider, baby.”
“Look at the size of that fucker! It doesn’t have to be poisonous.” Luke wondered how he was going to kill it.
“Well, not to scare the hell out of you.” Jo slid down to the end of the bed and eased her body through the opening in the mosquito net. “I’m going to put it outside,” she said. She went into the bathroom to look for something to put the spider in.
“You’re fucking crazy!” Luke yelled. “Kill that bastard!”
“Listen to you, mister nonviolent conflict,” Jo said, standing back and trying to figure out how to capture the spider that must have been six inches across the legs.
“Fuck that! I leave spiders alone as long as they stay outside. Once inside, they’re dead.”
“Come on. Quit being a baby. Help me,” Jo said as she rolled down the edges of a small brown paper bag. “I’ll put this over him, and then you smack him into the bag.”
“No fucking way,” Luke said, forcing himself to sit up straighter as he stared at the underside of the spider.
When Jo started to put the bag over the tarantula, it came alive and jumped to the side, trying to get past her.
“Easy, baby!” Luke said. “That fucker’s quick. He wants out. Move the bag just a bit.” Luke motioned with his head. As Jo moved the bag into position, Luke swatted the spider from inside the netting with the back of his hand harder than necessary, causing it to hit the edge of the sack and fall down into the darkness.
“Oh shit! It’s on the floor,” Luke said.
“Fuck this!” Jo said, and she climbed back through the netting, tucking it in behind her. “Too fucking dark to be chasing tarantulas. I’d rather be playing with you.” She tried to snuggle up against Luke.
“Great,” Luke said. “Now we have a big fucking pissed–off spider outside the net and you want to fuck around. How the hell am I supposed to sleep? Much less get hard again? And that fucking slit in the netting just isn’t good enough. My fucking feet are going to be poking out all night.” And for the first time, he began wondering what in the hell he was doing in Nicaragua.
End Chapter 8.
Bob
Buy, The Boétie Legacy, and a World in Peril, HERE.