God Carlos

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by Akashic Books
©2012 Anthony C. Winkler

 

 

eISBN: 978-1-61775-141-7
ISBN-13: 978-1-61775-139-4
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012939262

 

All rights reserved
First printing

 

Akashic Books
PO Box 1456
New York, NY 10009
[email protected]
www.akashicbooks.com

 

 

To Cathy, the treasure of my heart

Table of Contents

Cover page

Title page

Copyright page

Begin Reading
God Carlos

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Bonus Materials

Excerpt from
The Family Mannsion

Reading Group Guide

Also by Anthony C. Winkler

About Anthony C. Winkler

About Akashic Books

Chapter 1

He was a short brown man who lived in a world some believed was flat while he himself was adamant that it was round. Standing half naked in the gloomy candlelit room, his pantaloons crumpled on the floor, he was explaining his reasoning as to why the world could not be flat to the plump naked whore awaiting him on the sagging wooden bed.

The whore was not interested in the shape of the world or his opinions about it, but by encouraging him to talk she bought time to massage his short, thick cock with the palm oil coated on her thumb and forefinger, making him easier to take. Wise to the ways of men like him, she knew that they took pleasure in hurting her.

As he ranted on passionately about why the world could not be flat, she pretended to listen while she slowly worked the palm oil into the knobby engorged head. He shuddered once as she did this, and she quickly stopped her massaging, knowing that if he discharged now, he would not want to pay her.

“It can't be flat!” he exclaimed, as she pulled him firmly by the cock toward the pink vulva gaping obscenely between her legs.

“No?” she mumbled uncaring, her focus on slipping the thick cock inside her without too much discomfort. She spread her legs wide open, placed both hands on his naked butttocks, and with a powerful thrust, stabbed him inside her with a groan.

He stopped talking about the flat earth and began a vigorous thrusting. He had not had a woman in months, and the fluids that were dammed up inside him had begun to vaporize and affect his head with poisonous humors. He believed that if he left any of them inside him he could develop a fever and possibly get sick, even die. What he was doing to the whore, and what the whore was doing to him was, in his mind, a beneficial draining.

He plunged into her as deep as he could go, feeling her wince under him and hearing her groan, which was good, for it meant she would tap deep into the old fluids and draw them completely out of him. He wanted to last long, believing that the more he could delay his discharge, the better for his health, but the palm oil and the massaging had done their work. Moreover, she was squeezing him like an anaconda snake swallowing prey, making a flexing movement over the head of his entrapped cock that was driving him mad. He exploded with a loud grunt like the bark of a wild animal and pumped the whore with a frenzied energy.

In a moment, it was over. He collapsed atop her with a wheeze of exhaustion.

She pushed him off her bosom abruptly, and with a gyrating movement of her hips, expelled him, glistening and drooling, from between her legs. She glanced over at the table, where he had placed the money, and sat up in bed with a sigh of weariness. He was the fifth man she had taken tonight, and she'd had enough.

“I have climbed the crow's nest of a ship at sea,” he said, feeling suddenly vulnerable and weak, “and seen the curve of the earth.”

She sat down on a chamber pot, spread her legs, and began to openly wash her pussy, which dribbled disgustingly. He shuddered, for she suddenly seemed ugly and loathsome. It was inconceivable that just a minute ago his loins had been afire for her.

He dressed hurriedly while she sat on the chamber pot and wiped herself with a soiled rag and hummed a song she had learned as a child. From the doorway he threw a defiant, parting shot at her: “No matter what anybody tells you, our world is not flat. It is round.”

She did not even look up as he slipped out of the seedy room and closed the door behind him, so engrossed was she in scrubbing between her legs with the absentminded distraction of an artisan cleaning a prized tool.

She only glanced at the table where he'd left the twenty maravedis to be sure he didn't try to steal her money as many men had done before. Under the flickering lamp light, she could make out the pile of copper coins that cast a wavering shadow, small and cylindrically shaped like a turd.

She had the money. That was all that mattered.

She didn't even know his name.

Chapter 2

He had a long imposing name, for as a male child of sixteenth-century Spain, he was expected to memorialize dead uncles or cousins or nephews, preserve the identity of his mother's family name, and earn the goodwill of saints by acknowledging them in every recital of his full name.

In all its splendor, his full name was Carlos Antonio Maria Eduardo Garcia de la Cal Fernandez. Uncle Eduardo, his mother's beloved brother, was thereby remembered; Antonio would no doubt catch the eye of powerful St. Anthony; Maria memorialized his mother and pacified the blessed Virgin Mary, mother of God. As for the rest of it, Garcia was a sop to the previous generation on his father's side, and de la Cal simply an embellishment of Fernandez, which was a boring and common name that his mother detested even though it signified her marital bond to his father.

His mother had played with the family name many times now, at the birth of almost every child, and since she'd had sixteen of them, she was able to give full rein to her imagination. Record keeping was sloppy in those days, and a woman who kept birthing children was entitled to indulge her fantasies over their potential greatness, even as she lost most of them to commonplace diseases such as diphtheria and measles almost as fast as she could bring them into the world. Yet with all this vainglory embedded in his name, he was still known to his friends and most others as Carlos.

He was not a big man. European men of his time were not tall, although they had inherited from their fathers a voracious appetite for slaughter that would make up in ferocity what they lacked in size.

Nor was he particularly handsome. His face was misshapen and his features gnomic. His nose and eyes and mouth looked as if they were compressed together in too small a space, like the face of a badly sewn cloth doll. And already, although he was only twenty-five, so fissured and worn from too much sun was his face that it looked older and yellowish like the wrinkled skin on an old chicken's leg.

If he was lucky, he would live another ten years. If he was unlucky, he would be carried off earlier by any of the bacilli passed around by bad hygiene, improperly prepared food, and the general nastiness common to sixteenth-century Europe.

He was, moreover, an unthinking man. Catholicism had been so thoroughly beaten into him as a child by a succession of harsh nuns and priests that he believed nothing that had not been filtered through the prism of his teachings. Whatever his church said he accepted unquestioningly. This rigorous Catholicism had made him a curious mixture of animal carnality and spiritual wistfulness. He was always wishing he were better, but constantly berating himself for being worse. Right now, as he stood on the edge of the street, he was tormented by a relentless guilt over his most recent sin—fornication. Even in the open air, the smell of the whore still lingered in his nostrils. He desperately longed to find a priest or pardoner who would absolve him, for he was conscious that should he die at this moment, his soul would plunge straight to hell.

With this terrible thought on his mind, he stood for a brief moment outside the building in which the whore lived, feeling both sinful and aggrieved by the quickness with which she had dispatched him, and although he tingled with that inexpressible relief men feel after having ejaculated deep inside a woman, he also felt that he had been robbed. For a moment or two, he thought about barging into her room and demanding at least a partial refund.

Twenty maravedis for a blink of her time! For an entire day's work as an able seaman, he made only thirty-three maravedis. He had been inside her for no more than a minute or two—surely she should've charged him only ten maravedis. It was worth no more than that, and he would tell her so. He abruptly turned and headed for the doorway out of which he had just come.

But he stopped before his foot had crossed the threshold.

Many such women had men around them as protectors. Perhaps she had a boyfriend or guardian armed with a sword or a pike. He had been stabbed once, a long time ago, in a barroom brawl in Málaga after just returning from a voyage to Gambia. He had gotten into a fight with another seaman—his first serious fight—and while he flailed his dagger around and screamed curses at his opponent, the other man calmly lunged and stabbed him in the chest. The wound had festered. He had come down with a bad fever and couldn't go to sea for three months. Quibbling with a whore over money was not worth the risk of being stabbed. And with fresh sin on his soul, this was the wrong time to risk being killed.

He sighed heavily, like a horse blowing after hauling a particularly heavy load, and wished that he were a divinity, if only long enough to teach that dirty woman a lesson. It was a fantasy he'd had all his life. Other boys would dream of becoming a bishop or a scholar or a mapmaker. He would dream of being godlike.

It was a dream he shared with no one. In his heart, he knew that it was a sinful dream. Nevertheless, he often fantasized about what he would do to his enemies or to people he hated if only he had godlike powers.

In truth, he had no overt enemies, being a little man who would prefer to retaliate sneakily against anyone who crossed him rather than confront his provoker openly.

But he hated many people, many on sight. Whenever he saw someone in the street who wore a splendid hat or a brocaded coat, he felt hatred. He himself was a poor seafarer who dressed in linen pants and a loosely fitting doublet. He wore a simple pair of goatskin shoes that were thinning in the soles.

It did not seem fair that others should have so much more than he. Had he not been his mother's favorite? Did he not have an immortal soul as worthy of redemption as anyone's? Why should he be dressed in threadbare clothes and leaky shoes while others sashayed past him gleaming with tooled leather and silken splendor? Such contrasts were the work of the devil.

So he took his revenge by wishing upon the splendid one some horrible disease such as the worm that ate you from the inside, crawling out of your limbs, your belly, laying its eggs under your skin or behind your eyeballs. He did not know the name of the disease. He only knew that a friend of his friend Rodrigo knew someone who had had it and who had personally witnessed the suffering it caused. This unfortunate man had signed on with a noa exploring the west coast of Africa and had picked up the worm, perhaps from breathing bad air. If he were a divinity, he would cause such things to happen to the rich. But he was just a man, so he could only dream.