As Indigo drifted further and further from the cruise ship, and after a few more generous swigs of the Tito’s vodka, he began to question his decision to steal only booze and not something of more sustenance. He really had no idea how long he’d be adrift in the life boat before hitting land, or before being rescued again. He was starving at this point too since he was now heavily intoxicated, and he began salivating at the mere thought of a pollo quesedilla from his favorite taco cart. He licked his salty thumb to satiate his hunger and blacked out in a drunken stupor, lulled to sleep by the gentle rhythm of the waves, still sucking his thumb like a raver from 1996. He may or may not have peed his Bermuda shorts in his state of blackout drunkness.
Indigo awoke to a thirst he had never known before. He’d never even been this thirsty after drinking a bottle of Jack Daniels to his face, doing 4 shots of Tequila, and eating 2 taco cart quesedillas before passing out for the night. When he awoke, he didn’t know where he was, his lips were stuck shut because they were so dry, and his entire face was covered in sea salt. He cracked open his crusty eyes to the mid-day sun beating down on him through the windows of the life boat (remember kids, this isn’t a blow up life raft he stole – it’s a legit life boat from a cruise ship… ). It must have been 2pm, but since he had neither a watch nor a cell phone, he didn’t know what time it was. Indigo would have killed for a bottle of Evian or Gatorade at this point. He was so thirsty, that against his better judgment, he decided to drink some seawater which he collected using a rope and empty Tito’s bottle. Fuck it – whats one cup of salt water going to do? Well my friends, saltwater is a natural laxative that many people use as part of the Master Cleanse. Since Indigo relies on coke and adderall for his cleanses, he was clueless as to the power of simple saltwater. He knew saltwater would lead to further dehydration, but he had no clue that the effects would be more explosive in nature than eating a fistful of Dulcolax.
About two hours after drinking the seawater, Indigo felt the most God-awful stomach cramps he’d ever felt before. The intestinal cramping he was experiencing now was even worse than the time he had drank a 12 pack of PBR, devoured cold McDonald’s the following morning, and than snorted a couple of lines of blow and had an explosion at his friend’s toilet. It felt like someone had both fists inside of his lower stomach, twisting and squeezing his intestinal tract. He was doubled over in pain… sweating profusely under the hot sun, already dehydrated and weak, and praying the end was near. He imagined that this is what labor must feel like for women, and he swore up and down he would never procreate if it meant that another human had to suffer this way. He started crying because his stomach hurt so fucking badly…. and then – he knew it was time…
He threw himself to the side of the boat, ripped down his Bermuda shorts and hung his bony ass over the side of the raft and had what can only be described as a volcanic eruption. The relief was almost immediate as he felt the 3-gallons-worth of vodka and seawater exiting him like the world’s most intense colonoscopy enema anyone had ever experienced. Sadly, he wasn’t finished yet, and had to repeat this process at least 4 more times. By the time he was finally done, he was absolutely emaciated from dehydration. His eyes were sunken into the hollows of his skull, his veins were popping out of his tiny arms and legs, he could see his heart beating in his stomach, and he felt like he was about to die. Basically, he felt like a principal dancer from the American Ballet Theatre feels on any given day. He felt fabulous darling – he looked like death warmed over, and that is tres chic.
Indigo was laying down, feeling up his rib cage and running his hands over his hip bones, imagining how well his size 00 Rag and Bone, women’s leather pants would fit right now, when he saw a strange reflection on the metal ceiling of the boat. Using all of his remaining strength, he lifted himself up and peeped out one of the windows. Another boat! It wasn’t a cruise ship, rather, a small fishing boat, but it was fairly close to him. He started screaming out the window, hoping that they’d hear his cries for help.
The ship blew its horn and began to move closer to Indigo’s craft. He was saved again! Thank Jesus. He probably wouldn’t have survived another 12 hours without water at this rate. The beat up fishing boat idled up to the side of Indigo’s life boat, and a couple of Spanish speaking men threw a rope ladder to Indigo. He climbed aboard with a huge smile on his face and said “Howd’y do Fellas’! You’ve rescued me for the second time this week!” The rough looking men gave each other sideways glances. They spoke no English, and unfortunately, the only Spanish Indigo knew was taco cart.
They gave him a jug of water and some Arepas. He guzzled down the gallon jug like it was his job, and picked at the Arepa… he didn’t want to ruin his girlish figure after all the hard work he’d just put into losing 15 lbs. in water weight. After all, beauty is pain, and his butthole wasn’t currently on fire in vain, darling. He overheard the men mention “Colombia” and assumed that’s where they were from. He also overheard “Ibiza” and assumed that’s where they were headed. Funny for a fishing boat, he thought. Why the fuck would a group of Colombian men be traveling all the way to Ibiza to sell fish?!
As dusk fell, one of the guys led indigo downstairs to the cargo of the ship. He walked down the stairs and into a space that was filled with tuna and sea bass on ice. The man motioned for indigo to hold out his hands, speaking commands in Spanish, and so Indigo did what he was told. He expected the man was going to hand him a beer or more food, but instead, he presented some zip ties from his pocket and proceeded to tie up Indigo’s wrists and then his ankles. He wasn’t really Indigo’s type physically, but given the circumstances and considering how hard-up Indigo was for a lil’ hanky-panky at this point, he figured he was down for a some LIGHT BDSM with a stranger. I mean, what’s the difference between fucking a stranger on a fishing boat at sea or meeting some dude who lives 10 blocks away on Grindr for some bareback action?!
Indigo was getting into it and playing coy with the man, who’s name was Diego. Just as he thought Diego was about to start undressing him and servicing him, he said something else in Spanish and then went back upstairs, turning off the lights, and leaving Indigo alone in the cargo hold, fully clothed, tied up, and totally sexually frustrated.
Indigo was so confused. He really thought they’d hit it off…. he was wondering if he wasn’t skinny or hot enough for this man, when he heard a voice in the darkness. “Hey, amigo! You know what this boat is, right? Una operacion de cocaine! Take a look around Amigo… here, let me help you…” And with that, the lights came on, and a man of small build was standing before Indigo with a switch blade. He cut off indigo’s zip tie restraints and motioned him towards one of the freezer’s piled high with fish. “Take a look, Amigo,” and with that, he lifted up the fish and scraped over the ice to reveal kilos upon kilos, of plastic-wrapped cocaine. Indigo literally blew his load right then and there. He had never seen such vast amounts of happiness wrapped up and stored under one roof.
The men officially introduced themselves to each other. Santiago (that’s the man’s name) was employed by the men upstairs to carry the drugs into Ibiza once they landed. He told Indigo he had two choices, be killed by the men running the operation and thrown to the sharks, or become a mule like him and smuggle the drugs into Ibiza. Indigo agreed to help smuggle the drugs… it wasn’t his first time and it wouldn’t be his last time to sneak large quantities of grade A narcotics past officials. He was experienced in this game, so why not help out where he could? He figured he could probably write it off as charity work if and when he ever had to file New York State taxes again.
And so, Indigo was brought into a meeting with Diego, Santiago, and Mateo (that’s the other guy in charge of this operation) to discuss the logistics of smuggling the drugs once they landed in Ibiza. Indigo was excited to be a mule, but he was more excited for the free drugs they offered him as part of his compensation package. They shook hands on the deal after an agreement was reached, and celebrated for the rest of the night with lines of grade A blow and cold coronas. Indigo entertained the men with an impromptu burlesque act, which involved him stripping naked, using a twizzler as a G-string, and spanking himself with a dirty dish rag as he writhed around and gyrated on the deck.
Five long days, many more one-man-burlesque shows, and many lines of blow later, the fishing boat finally docked in Ibiza. Indigo knew what to do. He’d been visualizing this moment every night for the last four nights. He had stored several personal baggies of coke up his derriere for extra safe keeping and his own personal use, and had several bricks of the coke stored in a large, hard-shell suitcase. He put on some Dior aviator sunglasses and an over-sized sun hat, and strutted off that boat and into port like he owned the fuckin’ place… he strutted like he was Naomi Campbell strutting into a diamond mine in the Republic of Congo, baby. Security didn’t even search his bag or have sniffing dogs at the docks… they were too in awe of his tanned and emaciated legs and extra-short Bermuda shorts. This was one of the easiest jobs Indigo had ever taken, besides of course the time he was a male GoGo dancer in the East Village, but that’s another story.
Indigo made his way to the nearest cafe where he was set to pass-off the suitcase. As soon as he’d successfully passed off the suitcase and received his share of cash for the job, he headed to the men’s room to “powder his nose.” And powder his nose he did… he walked out of the men’s room glassy-eyed, and ready to PPPPAAAaaaRRRRTTTTAYYYYY!!!! Indigo was flying high and made his way to the nearest club to get his freak on. He had cash in his pocket, coke up his ass, he was in Ibiza having paid nothing at all to get there, and life was looking up.
TO BE CONTINUED….
One thought on “Indigo the Mule”