Page 20 of El Malo

“N-No, please! I have money in my safe at my office. The code is 87654. Take it all. Just take it all.”

I let up on smashing his cock and balls and step away from him. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my phone. I hold up a picture of his wife. “I talked to Val.”

“Don’t hurt her. She’s innocent,” he chokes out.

I laugh so hard tears spring to my eyes. “You fool. You fucking fool. Your sweet wife is not innocent. You should have heard the swear words coming out of her mouth when I told her about your little addiction. At first she didn’t believe me, but I showed her the pictures. The latest kid. He’s what, same age as your son?” I shake my head at him. “Your wife gave me the money.”

“W-What? She paid you to protect me from my shame?”

Another dark laugh. “No, Velez. She paid me to make you fucking suffer.”

His eyes grow wide with horror. “She wouldn’t.”

I flip to the video recording of Val. She’s destroying his home office and screaming. Tears stream down her face. When I told her how many boys and the extent of her husband’s perversions, she cracked. Went fucking mad. In the recording, she turns her tearstained, hate-filled face to the camera. “I hope you suffer,” she hisses. “I hope you suffer slowly.”

I end the recording and pocket my phone. Velez sobs. Val is packing her shit as we speak and moving out of the city. Nobody, not even in a crime-ridden city, wants to be associated with that sort of horror. Even fucking criminals have to draw the line somewhere. That makes Velez the lowest of the low.

With my back to Velez, I whistle to a new Luis Fonsi song I heard at the club last week as I choose a long, thin wire from my toolbox. Once I’m satisfied with one that’ll do the job, I turn and face the piece of shit. He’s purple and practically hyperventilating. I keep whistling and dance my way back over to him, careful not to splash in his piss. Squatting in front of him, I push his laughable, urine dripping cock out of the way and grab hold of his big-ass balls. He squeals like a goddamned stuck pig when I pull his nuts toward me.

“You might feel a little pinch,” I taunt, baring my teeth at him. When will the men in this city learn you don’t fucking blow off an Estrada? They should have learned from my father. They sure as hell should have learned from me. Word gets around. These motherfuckers know who runs this show.

I wrap the thin wire around his balls and twist it. Then, I latch the pliers onto the twisted wires and begin turning. His screams get louder and louder as I twist the metal. Each turn makes his balls bulge more and turn purple. Once I’m close to breaking the skin but still tight enough to hurt like a motherfucker, I stop. I rise to my feet and ruffle his drenched-from-sweat hair.

“Someone will be by each day to give it a few turns.” I grin at him as I step away and walk over to the wall. “Eventually those fuckers are going to fall right off.” I toss the pliers into the box and yank off the hot-ass apron. “I told you I wasn’t the type of man to cut your dick off.” I shrug as I hang my apron. “Now Marco Antonio? I can’t promise he won’t be feeding you your own cock later for dinner.”

He screams and cries as I wash up at the sink. Once I’ve got that sick fuck’s ball sweat off my hands, I grab my jacket and toss it over my shoulder. Another song flips into my mind and I start whistling that one as I leave Velez to sit and stew about what happens when you fuck with Javier Motherfucking Estrada.

You lose.

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