The Cowboy Bible and Other Stories by Carlos Velázquez Read Free Book Online Page A

was strewn on the floor. The key, chingada madre , or do you want another? Weak, she got up and said, You want your key? I’ll get your damn key, and she disappeared. I saw the bottle of whiskey and shoved it under my jacket. I would get drunk to forget this terrible moment. The Western Bible came back and, to make me turn towards her, she said, Here’s your key, culero . She was pointing a gun at me. I felt the blood drain out of me. It’s possible it wasn’t loaded, and she was pointing it just to get my attention, but I wasn’t interested in finding out. I didn’t dare wrestle this drunken mastodon for a gun at three in the morning. The little calf was still not awake. But with so much noise, he should have already been out of bed. If the boy could see us, The Western Bible would calm down and I could probably climb up the roof.
    Nobody hits me, hijo de chingada . Nobody drives me crazy. I couldn’t do or say anything. I was shitting my pants. She could easily misfire. I thought about screaming, crying for help, but that was ridiculous. Besides, nobody was going to get out of bed to save an imbecile like me. Fortunately, the little calf began to cry and The Western Bible took off to console him. I immediately started looking for the keys. They were hanging from a wooden cross in the kitchen. I took another moment to reach into her purse on top of the refrigerator and grab as much as I had spent on the two of them at the fights, plus what I needed for my taxi home.
    At the bar now, they consider me an expert on fat girls. A luminary. I have told my story to many a tourist, how a succulent fat girl rescued me from a sexual jam. They respect me. In here. But out there as well. People point at me. The devil sucked off your wife, güey. But I don’t care. My little wife and I are intimate again. And whenever we finish making love, I caress her burn scars and she purrs like a kitten under a birch tree.

‌ Notes for a New Theory for Mastering Hair
    The Cowgirl Bible had huge tits, a greasy face, and a mess of hair. From preadolescence, she had suffered flare-ups of rebellious hair. She learned early that letting loose those tresses was only possible for gals who could afford certain products. From the time she was just twelve or thirteen years old, as she entered the bloom of puberty, she focused blindly on the wild vertical porcupine that had begun to grow between her legs.
    The punkospine, which had transmuted from the armadillo, developed in an onrush, like a flood, and could only be compared to the beards flaunted during certain musical phases by two members of ZZ Top. It could also be equated with the historic materialism of a certain identifiable and renowned pubis. The Cowgirl Bible suffered. She suffered from the folklorish dimensions of that wild bush. Her pubisexy mop could not hide under a bikini. It didn’t matter how many atonal rakes she employed to shave, or how many blades she ordered from the hair-removal industry’s complete catalog of new products, the punkospine always overwhelmed the emergent hairs like shrapnel, as is so often the case with certain honky-tonk gals.
    During countless encounters with her mane, she avoided trying to control its erratic growth, until the day she was discovered by a buoyant hair talent scout. Once she found a skilled manipulator for her estimable hair of the loins, The Cowgirl Bible became the most committed participant in the national contest Shave Your Triangle . She won various awards in the ingrown hair category. At fifteen, she won the contest’s most important honors: The Golden Porcupine, the equivalent of the Hotsprings Award for the Radioactive Bud.
    When a competitor is awarded the top prize, she should retire. Traditionally, Goodbye My Love plays at these affairs. And because pubic hair was her life, The Cowgirl Bible said that telenovelas and hosting would not be her path. A change of scene meant only one thing: to go under the knife, to invest in plastic