*** An excerpt from SOUP Wars ***
She ran from her family and rode for two hundred and fifty miles. Her souped-up vintage and yellow Harley with a hybrid-electric adaptor and a full tank of high-octane liquid biomass could’ve made it past the United States border with the greatest of ease. Candi didn’t check her fuel gauge before her escape from the hell that was her home. The motorcycle ran out of fuel somewhere in Sonora. Candi hiked to the nearest fueling station three miles away. Unfortunately, for her, someone got to it first.
There wasn’t even a drop of liquefied biomass left. The runaway checked out the convenience store. Even the glass windows were gone. There was nothing. Candida hoped that she wasn’t stuck in some ghost town. More than likely she was. She only brought one bottle of water and a few protein bars. She scratched her head and she told herself, “How could this be? Everyone in Mexico is dead.” She wondered if someone from the north immigrated down to her desolate country. She wandered aimlessly, not knowing where to go. Church bells rang in the distance. She wasn’t sure if her mind was playing tricks on her, but she followed the sound to its source.
After the tolling ended, Candi could see the steeple. The desert sun pounded the girl without mercy. She discarded her leather jacket and ran faster. She hoped that the bells were not automated like those of the Central Cathedral. She tried to fight off heatstroke by pouring some water on her aching head. The church was made of adobe and it looked old. The wooden sign in the front read, “Our Lady of Sorrows.” Singing voices filled the air. Candi screamed as she sprinted towards her goal.
She pulled one of the doors open. The church was full of people. The crowd sat in the pews. Individuals were very thin, coughing violently and/or covered in telltale purple lesions. It wasn’t much different for the people standing in the front. The incense could not cover smells of phlegm, blood, gangrene and infection. Candi was certain that these people were all dying from the MIAIDS plague.
Candi took a drink from the font, not caring whether her manners offended the parishioners at the Catholic church. An emaciated usher tapped her shoulder and inquired with a smile, “You’re not Catholic are you?”
“I was baptized as a Catholic, but my mom decided it was a bullshit religion. Thanks to her, I became a rational individual.” Candi continued to drink the water. The usher allowed her to do so, figuring that she was probably was dying of thirst.
“I take it you have problems with Christianity?”
Candi smiled at the guy in the black suit. “After what I've been through... Fuck yeah!”
The usher shook his head. “Although I respect your opinion, we all would appreciate it if you didn’t use foul language in Our Lord’s house.”
“Whatever...”
The man looked like an ancient ghoul, but his young voice betrayed his age. “Pablo Robles and you are?” He extended his bony hand in salutation. The leather and denim clad Candi shook it with confidence.
“My name is Candida, but that sounds too much like a vaginal infection, so I’d rather you call me Candi.” She smirked maliciously.
The usher had met many characters, and that young lady already ranked among the more colorful. “I’d like you to meet someone who might change your mind about Christianity.” Candi groaned in protest. The usher patted her back, “Don’t prejudge dear girl, I think you might enjoy talking to Sister Sara.”
Within thirty-seven minutes after Mass and breakfast, Candi became the most popular person in church, at least among the kids. The only three children who lived in the church could not get enough of the stranger. She was weird, with her long black braid, a tight muscle shirt held together on the sides by safety pins, leather chaps over lace-up jeans and mirrored sunglasses. Her stories about shoplifting, looting and being a general menace were enthralling. Her mouth definitely needed some washing out. Candi was the epitome of kid-coolness. However, kid-coolness did not sit well with Mother Carlota.
With a pinch on the ear, Mother Carlotta dragged Candi away as if she were a little child. Nelli and Tlatzohtzin Zacal protested her departure in a Spanish-Mayan dialect. Mappi O’Brien, the strawberry blonde Irish kid taunted her by squealing, “You’re in trouble,” in English.
Candi called the kid something very foul in English. Mother Superior struck the newcomer in the back of the head because she understood that foreign language. “You are a horrible example to those children.”
“Fuck off! They were having fun.” Carlotta dragged her away from the basement dining area and dragged her to the garden in back of the church.
“Sister Sara,” barked Mother Carlota, “I think this barbarian needs your unique guidance and infinite patience.” The head nun released the Candi's ear, “I have more pressing matters to attend at the moment.”
Candi massaged her chafed ear lobe. She shouted in the general direction of the Mother Superior. “You tight penguin bitch, that hurt!”
A nun in her late thirties looked over her shoulder as she weeded a stand of tomato and pepper plants. “You must be Candi.” She stood up and shook the newcomer's hand with a smile on her face. The nun wasn’t tall, but she gave the impression that she was. Her knuckles had the words, “Love” and “Hate” tattooed upon them. One of her thumbs was missing. Scars decorated her face and her nose had obviously been broken at one point. She didn’t look manly, but she certainly didn’t look like a fashion model either. The title, Amazon queen, described her accurately. “My official name is Sister Sara Lee Clotilde, Order of Saint Eusebio Kino. If that’s too long or stuffy, feel free to call me Sister Sara or Walrus if you prefer.” Unlike everyone else in the building, this woman did not have any visible signs of MIAIDS.
This monument to femininity astounded Candi. Manly men would shriek like little girls if Walrus ever decided to put her war bonnet on. She wasn’t fat, just tough-looking. Candi could almost hear her gaydar making a ruckus that would've awakened the dead. The rebel decided to challenge the nun to a verbal joust. “You certainly don’t look like a sister, although you do look like a fucking walrus.” Candi’s friends told her all about nuns. She wanted to know if the rumors were true. “Are you a dyke?”
Sister Sara blinked her eyes. “That’s between me and the Lord.” The clergywoman looked at her nails and returned to her labors.
“Are all nun dykes?” Reiteration usually worked like a storm.
