Key West author Reef Perkins shares more of his hilarious book,
A phone rang in Miami.
Pepto Ramirez, known as “El Gran Frijole” in the Mexican drug cartel, was an illegal gangster res-hiding in Miami.
Pepto and his Mexican bodyguard, Truman Chipotle, were holed up in a cheap one-room apartment at the Sweaty Palms Boatel, downtown near the Dick Dock Bar. They looked at each other over warm Pabst Blue Ribbon beers. “I’m loving deez Miami Beetch!” Pepto said. His body language indicated he was harboring a piñata in his stomach.
“Cheep” as Truman Chipotle’s enemies called him, (he had no friends), had been body guarding the Big Bean for five years. Truman did the dirty work, Pepto made the monies.
The phone rang. Pepto grabbed the banana shaped receiver, punched the green button and pushed his greasy double chins apart to accommodate the faux-fruit. “Pepto-Bismol heah! … He called himself Bismol but no one else would. Still, that’s how he saw himself, cool and soothing.
“Hay problema con el dinero?” a voice on the phone hissed.
Pepto didn’t see it coming; he’d somehow forgotten he owed Bro ten grand. He began to lose his grip as a cold, deep blue bubble of fear escaped his lips and a smaller, more urgent one worked its way down his left pant leg. There would be hell to pay. Still, Pepto pushed on. With nothing to lose, it’s easy to gamble, but hard to find a game.
“Leeve with it!” Pepto screamed into the banana. The way Pepto said “IT,” then, “You stinky person and smeller of taco wrappers!” left no doubt that he, El Gran Frijole, knew more about scaring the shit out of people, including himself, than most.
Truman Chipotle had been around the criminal element long enough to know what was going to happen. He pulled his gun and aimed it at Pepto’s head. I’ll be damned if I’m ‘going down’ with this fat fuck, he swore.
Pepto looked up, got scared, dropped the phone and, due to an untreated digestive problem, passed a most frightful trouser twister. Pepto called them “air theeners.”
Truman could not bear another “air theener.” He pinched his nose, turned the gun on himself and pulled the trigger. The gun jammed, but Truman Chipotle collapsed anyway and landed face first on the dirty, un-waxed terrazzo floor.
Two days later the Miami Beach police arrived at the Sweaty Palms after an anonymous caller reported something stinky in room 208. After briefly studying the bloated body, the chief medical examiner dashed to the window and hurled. Unfortunately, the window wouldn’t open. It was an unpleasant few minutes. When he finally finished, the examiner stood up and noticed the unfired gun in Chipolte’s hand. “Perhaps his demise was induced by the mere thought of shooting himself. It’s not good for the heart and a particularly bad habit to get into,” he opined and hurled again. The cops dragged Chipotle’s body, ass first, from Room 2. It was easy; the floor was wet.
Police looked for witnesses but Pepto was long gone, packed and pushing his recently stolen, candy-apple-red Chevy Camaro toward Key West, a well-known secret hiding spot.
Pepto made it to Key West in three hours and pulled up to the stop light on Flagler Avenue. The Camaro was immediately impaled by an old man on a Pogo stick. “Conjo!” Pepto screamed at the bouncing offender. His stolen golf clubs sprang forward and smacked him in the back of the head. “I keel you!” Pepto foamed at the fading geezer.
Pepto rented a room at the Organic Fruits Motel on Ben Dover lane and, having nothing else to do and wanting to stay in the game, made plans to get even with “El Gringo del Pogo.”
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About the Author
Captain Mark T. “Reef” Perkins is a marine surveyor with a colorful past. From commanding a 150-foot 300 DWT US Army diving ship off Vietnam to smuggling in the Caribbean, Reef Perkins has become a living legend. A graduate of both the US Army Engineer Officer Candidate School and the US Navy Salvage Officers School, he’s a man comfortable in or out of the water. Raised in rural Michigan, Reef now lives in Key West where he can get his feet wet. He is the author of the bestselling memoir, Sex, Salvage & Secrets.
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Screwed, Blu’d and Tattooed copyright © 2013 by Reef Perkins. Electronic compilation/ print edition copyright © 2013 by Whiz Bang LLC.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. While the author has made every effort to provide accurate information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their contents.
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