TWO
Without finishing the second drink, he decided the best solution- the only solution, at least for the moment- was to run the demons to death, or at least out-pace them. He returned to his hotel room (barely remembering the room number; twice taking the elevator to the wrong floor and then backtracking) to change into running gear. He ran along the Paseo Maritimo, heading toward the beaches and beach clubs, not especially to find more social activity but just to give himself distance from the over-wrought luxury of the hotel.
Reaching the yacht basin, he was trying to decide if he wanted to dive into the sea, and swim forever- perhaps to Rome? His brain said, yes let's swim to Rome' and his hangover said, no let's drown right here'. The surface temperature of the Mediterranean in February is 15° Celsius- or 59° Fahrenheit- approximately what he was accustomed to in the Pacific in his backyard. He had to try it- he could brag about it to his partners at the law firm in Los Angeles when he returned.
He noticed a pair of Mormon missionaries- they wore the uniform recognizable world-wide of white shirt, dark slacks, name tags in shirt pockets, and wrinkled neckties- and he asked them to watch his running shoes and socks and wallet for a moment while he jumped in the water. They mumbled something of agreement, and he quickly stripped off his shoes and plunged into the water before he could talk himself out of this extreme stupidity.
He was certain that he was dead from the next moment; the bracing cold was like a knife that pierced his lungs and stopped his breathing. He could not see anything: the water was dark -sunlight had not yet penetrated to the depth of his dive. He flipped over and headed in the direction he assumed was upward to the surface, and finally breaching the waves was able to gasp in a deep life-saving breath.
The missionaries just sat staring at him; they were not even able to ask him their usual door-approach standard set of questions (`have you heard of the Book of Mormon; would you like to know more?') and handed him back his socks and shoes and wallet. He thanked them and sat on the park bench next to them and switched from Spanish to English and asked them where they were from.
After recovering from yet another shock, the naïve young Americans stuttered that one was from Idaho (naturally) and one was from southern Utah (naturally) and they had been in Spain less than a year, collectively. He offered to buy them breakfast, which they politely refused, and he shook their hands and wished them luck and started jogging back along the seafront toward his hotel. He had seen Mormon missionaries world-wide: from Barcelona to Berlin to Bangkok to Berkeley. They all had a typically American naivete that could not be hidden from their faces.
He smiled as he ran, remembering the one Mormon with whom he had become romantically entangled. Mario had just dropped out of the Jesuit seminary in San Miguel, Argentina, the same one where Pope Francis had been a student and then a faculty member. He dropped out to save his father the embarrassment of being drummed out. It seemed the Jesuits had learned little tolerance over the centuries since the Inquisition for seminarians who conduct openly sexual affairs, especially homosexual ones at that.
The object of his affections at the time was a young Argentine Mormon convert who was adamantly immersed into the American religion- all except for its rules of sexual purity- and they enjoyed long bouts of theological argument after equally long bouts of fucking. Neither at the time was a well-established top or bottom, in gay terms, and so the sex was wild and exploratory and fun and frequent. The affair ended when Mario's father ordered him home from the seminary.
The incident was also the opening salvo in a short war of words between father and son about sexual orientation. Mario's father had perhaps been aware of Mario's orientation but like most good Catholic fathers, and not at all unlike good Latin American politicians, had chosen to ignore it or at least to not acknowledge it openly. But this moment forced the topic into the open; Mario was relieved for the opportunity to bring it to the forefront so that he was no longer burdened by his `secret'.
After a short three-month `house arrest', Mario was allowed to enroll in the local university; he quickly finished a degree, allowing him to escape northward to the hated and revered Gringolandia. With a diploma from the alma mater of Che Guevara, the University of Buenos Aires, he had majored in English in order to eventually relocate to Europe or America-Norte. Except for professional travel, he had not left Los Angeles since then.
Thinking of the two Mormon missionaries he had just encountered and wondering if they had substantial cocks like his former lover, the Mormon convert with whom he had had a torrid affair back home in Buenos Aires, Mario sat on his hotel bed and unlaced his running shoes and prepared to get into a steaming hot shower. He smelled of sea water and was still chilled from the plunge into the Mediterranean.
His shower was a little longer than usual- his thoughts of the Mormons both past and present had warmed his libido slightly, and he began stroking his cock while the steaming shower warmed his back. He was interrupted by the water turning cold and the ringing of his cell phone.
Trudging to the desk in the hotel room and pulling back the drapes covering the wall of windows, he grabbed the cell phone and saw the number for his law firm. It was Mario's partner Tommy, the gay twin; twin brothers Ted and Tommy Baylor had started the law firm and Mario had become a partner along with a woman partner nineteen years ago.
"Hello?"
"Are you awake?" Tommy was yelling into the cell phone; the pain of the lingering hangover returned full-force.
"Just barely; I just got out of the shower after a run down along the sea wall and the harbor. What's up?"
"Not much, just that I might have an assignment for you while you are vacationing in Europe." Tommy considered himself a comedian, but his jokes usually missed the mark by a wide margin. Mario often told him "Don't quit your day job."
"No vacation; as you are aware, I am here overloaded with homework assignments from this international conference on financial laws, as you might guess" was Mario's exaggerated response. He was glancing at the conference brochure on the desk to be sure he had the conference topic correct; joking with Tommy was always fun but he never tried to buffalo him; it simply did not work.
"I bet. Actually, I bet you are overloaded with Spanish dick and booze."
"Well you are half right. I am pretty hungover."
"Okay, well sorry for that, but here goes- ready for your new assignment?"
"Sure, who do I have to kill?"
"Just the Prime Minister of Spain. Simple."