The Madeira Man (Part 1)

In a lonely shack on Porto Santo, he was bred from an unfaithful mother and an impatient man seeking an orgasm after a successful robbery. No officer bothered to look for them. No person bothered to care where they hid and procreated.

Father killed three children “Selfish little shits,” as he called them. “I had to, son. Don’t hate me. But I won’t mind if you hated others. Madeirans are such stingy bastards.”

Mother was famous for her lucrative thighs, but she would lose her earnings in a single gamble. “The prize is too good my cherub. Don’t hate me. But I won’t mind if you could find a job so we can have some decent food to eat. Madeirans are the worst cooks and the worst lovers.”

The fish wreaked, and so did the men. I laughed when the boats leaked and when some men drowned. Soon, nobody, not the fishermen, not the builders, not the artists.

I only succeeded in harvesting sugar canes. Chopping the towering plants with scythes and machetes. I swung as if they were great extensions of my arms. Like fingers cutting clean through savory marrow.

I did too well. I cut someone by accident. I cut off her arm by accident. “I had to. Don’t hate me.”

Against the town’s bellowing hatred. Three nights of debate and trial passed. I was promoted to work in Hawaii the very next morning.

I got to stay in my very own quarters: my own bed and my own body guard to keep those peasants away from me. I screamed of joy when Maui poked its little head through the Pacific.



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