x
The kitchen was a furnace. Heat wafted from every surface-the oven, the burners, the ancient family molcajete that had outlived five grandmothers and at least one very unlucky rooster. And in the middle of it all stood eight-year-old Diego Ramos, perched on a wooden stool with a wooden spoon gripped in both hands, sweating like a pig in a sauna.
His father stood behind him, arms crossed like a general surveying a very disappointing soldier.
"Faster, Diego!" his father shouted, pointing at the bubbling pot of mole like it was a ticking bomb. "You stir that sauce like your abuelita-before the arthritis!"
Diego squinted through a cloud of steam, blinking like a traumatized frog. "Papa, it's on fire."
"That's not fire," his father said, eyes gleaming with madness. "That's flavor."
"It smells like regret."
"You think this is just food?" His father grabbed a fistful of dried chilies and flung them into the air like he was blessing the kitchen. Most of them hit the cat. "No, mijo. This is legacy."
Diego stirred once, mechanically. "Pretty sure it's also a health code violation."
"One day," his father continued, completely unfazed, "you will bring the mighty Ramos recipes to the land of the cheeseburgers. You will open a restaurant so glorious, so majestic, that people will weep just looking at the menu. Yelp will crash. Gordon Ramsay will retire. Taco Bell will... shut down in shame!"
Diego gave the pot a skeptical glance. "Pretty sure this mole just blinked."
His father leaned in close, dramatically whispering, "You don't make mole, Diego. Mole makes you."
Diego sighed. "I'm eight, Papa."
His father didn't blink. "Then it's time you became a man."
Diego stirred once, listlessly. "What if I don't want to make tacos?"
A silence fell over the kitchen like a dropped tortilla. His father slowly turned to him, eyes wide with betrayal.
"What did you say?"
Diego shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I want to be... an architect. Or like, a guy who flips signs at construction sites."
His father clutched his chest, staggered back like he'd been shot. "Madre de Dios. I have failed."
From the other room, his mother's voice drifted in. "Carlos, leave him alone. He's a child. Let him go play with the goat."
"I don't want to play with the goat," Diego muttered. "The goat smells like cheese and judgment."
But his father wasn't listening. He was too busy rummaging through the cupboard, pulling out a plate of tamales wrapped in foil like holy offerings. He held them out to Diego with reverence.
"Eat. Remember who you are."
Diego trudged outside, dragging a pair of plastic safety scissors and a broken mirror he'd salvaged from behind the cantina. The goat-named Ramón-stood tied to a crooked post, chewing on something that looked suspiciously rubbery.
Diego squinted. "Ramón... please tell me that's a balloon."
It wasn't.
It was a used, dirt-caked condom. Floppy, half-deflated, and hanging from the goat's mouth like a grotesque party streamer. Ramón chomped down with all the confidence of a creature who had made worse decisions before breakfast.
Diego gagged but kept walking, setting up his mirror like a true professional. "You are disgusting," he muttered, brushing dirt off the goat's snout. "But we work with what we have."
Ramón blinked, condom swinging gently as he chewed.
"You've got potential," Diego said, lifting the goat's chin with flair. "Strong bone structure. Bold features. Your beard says 'barnyard,' but your eyes say 'runway.' You could be the Latino Billy Goat Gruff of Milan."
He held up the mirror and clicked the safety scissors with dramatic flair. "Let's give you layers. Something soft but edgy. Maybe a side part?"
As he leaned in, scissors trembling with passion, Ramón let out a guttural hrrrkk from deep within his digestive hellscape and-
SPLAT.
A thick, gelatinous glob of goat spit shot directly into Diego's open mouth. It hit the tongue like a war crime. Warm. Slippery. And tinged with the haunting aftertaste of expired latex and bad decisions.
Diego made a noise no child should make and stumbled back, coughing like he'd inhaled a demon. "Oh my God," he croaked. "It tasted like... regret and motel carpet!"
From inside the house, his mother's voice rang out: "Diego! Come eat!"
He staggered toward the door like a broken man. "If there's not a gallon of salsa on that plate, I'm drinking bleach."
Ramón kept chewing, condom still flopping from his jaw like a badge of honor.
Dinner was nearly ready, the smell of spiced meats and bubbling beans filling the air like a warm, fragrant punch to the face. Carlos stood by the table with a ladle in one hand and judgment in the other.
"Diego," he barked. "Go get your grandmother. It's dinner time."
Diego froze. "Do I have to?"
Carlos narrowed his eyes. "She carried your father through a revolution. You can carry her down a flight of stairs."
"She also bit me last week."
"That was love. Now go. And dont foeget her dentures. "
"Diego," he barked. "Go get your grandmother. It's dinner time."
Diego froze. "Do I have to?"
Carlos narrowed his eyes. "She carried your father through a revolution. You can carry her down a flight of stairs."
"She also bit me last week."
"That was love. Now go. And dont forget her dentures."
Diego groaned and trudged upstairs. He found Abuelita sitting in a rocking chair that didn't rock, staring blankly at a wall where a picture frame used to be. She smelled like expired Vicks, fermented onions, and something faintly demonic.
"Abuelita," he said carefully, "it's time for dinner."
She didn't blink. "The walls are listening."
"Cool. Let's get you fed."
As he bent down to lift her, she patted his cheek with a hand that felt like dried tortillas and secrets. "Are you the one who tried to marry the goat last spring? Don't be ashamed, mijo... Ramón has seductive eyes. Your grandfather fell for him too."
"Nope. Wrong kid."
He braced himself, slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, and hoisted her up. She immediately went limp like a haunted ragdoll.
She whispered in his ear, "Your aura smells like regret... and whatever Ramón and I did behind the barn that one summer. Don't ask. He was gentle."
"Thanks," Diego grunted, taking a shaky step. "I think that's the goat spit."
Absolutely-here's that added paragraph with all the gross, nasty detail you're looking for:
Before lifting her, Diego spotted the denture cup on the nightstand. It looked like it hadn't been cleaned since the Cold War. The water inside was murky-grayish-brown with mysterious floaters drifting like sea monkeys from hell. He gagged as he reached in, fishing out the dentures like they were cursed treasure.
They slurped as they came free, slick with some kind of ancient denture goo that smelled like old pennies and soup left in a car.
"Open up, Abuelita," he said, trying not to breathe.
She grinned, gummy and unbothered. "I once used those to bite a man who looked like Jesus."
He shoved them in with a wet click, and she smacked her lips like she was tasting ghosts.
"Perfect fit," she said. "Now let's go pretend I know who you are."
He staggered down the stairs with her clutched to his chest like a rotting toddler, trying not to breathe through his nose. Every third step, she muttered something horrifying.
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"Your father feeds the goat his balloon condoms."
By the time he reached the bottom, Diego was sweating and spiritually traumatized.
He deposited her gently at the table. "She's alive. She's here. She may be leaking."
"¡Perfecto!" Carlos said, ladling beans like it was an Olympic sport. "Now we can eat!"
The table was piled high with food-enchiladas, tamales, rice, beans, and a suspiciously wobbly flan that looked like it might be sentient. Diego sat across from his dad, still haunted by the ghost of goat spit, silently chugging water and praying salsa would kill whatever bacteria now colonized his soul.
His dad, meanwhile, was mid-rant.
"So then I tell Señor Martinez," Carlos said, slamming a spoon into his rice for emphasis, "I don't care how many parrots he trained to say 'Eat tacos, you coward,' I'm not selling out to his stupid franchise!"
His wife nodded politely. "Of course not, cariño."
"He's a fraud. He microwaves the tortillas. Microwaves them. Like a criminal."
Abuelita suddenly whispered, "Microwaves are where the devil keeps his fingernails."
Everyone paused.
Carlos sighed and kept eating. "Anyway, while I'm defending our honor, you"-he pointed a tamale at Diego-"are outside giving beard trims to a goat."
Diego didn't look up. "Ramón is misunderstood."
"He was chewing on a condom!"
"I said misunderstood, not classy."
Carlos groaned. "Do you know what I was doing at your age? I was cooking full meals for the entire village with one pan and a dream. And I still had time to milk the chickens."
"Mamá said chickens don't have milk," Diego muttered.
"They do if you believe hard enough."
His mother smiled gently at him. "Diego, mijo, don't listen to your father. You have a beautiful imagination."
Carlos ignored her. "Meanwhile, our neighbor's son-three years old-just opened his first taco stand. THREE. And it's thriving! He barely knows how to poop in a toilet, but he's making a killing in salsa verde."
"Maybe he peaked early," Diego offered.
Abuelita blinked at him. "I once kissed a scarecrow and got pregnant. The baby was hay."
Diego dropped his fork.
Carlos muttered, "Madre de Dios."
His mother patted his hand. "Ignore her, baby. She thinks it's 1942 and we live on a pirate ship."
"I was a pirate once," Abuelita whispered. "I married a man with no toes. He used to speak to eels."
Carlos rubbed his temples. "I'm surrounded by chaos."
"I'm proud of you, Diego," his mom said sweetly. "Even if you become a hairdresser or a goat therapist."
"Thanks, Mamá."
"I once saw the Virgin Mary in a microwave burrito," Abuelita added, staring at her flan.
Diego looked around the table and took a deep breath. Maybe one day he'd escape. Maybe he'd build something great.
But for now... at least the flan hadn't moved again.
That night, Diego lay in bed beneath a crooked poster of a Ferrari he didn't care about, pretending to sleep as the house settled into its usual night sounds-creaking wood, distant goat bleats, and Abuelita whispering Latin curses to the ceiling.
Once the coast was clear, he sat up, glanced at the door, and reached under his mattress.
Out came the stash.
A dozen glossy magazines, bound with a rubber band and the thrill of forbidden desire. He carefully peeled one open, eyes gleaming as he took in the pages.
Layered cuts. Fades. Blunt bobs. Feathered fringe.
"Ohhh yeah..." he whispered, flipping slowly. "That's what I'm talkin' about. Look at that volume... you can't teach that volume..."
He held up a page and ran his fingers across it reverently. "That's at least four types of mousse. Maybe gel. Maybe... destiny."
He flipped to a two-page spread of spiky Euro mullets and exhaled like he was seeing God. "One day... that'll be me. Scissors in hand. Wind in my hair. Maybe even... a shampoo sponsorship."
Just then-BAM!
The door slammed open. The lights flipped on.
Carlos stood in the doorway, face twisted in horror, clutching a belt like he'd just walked in on a crime.
"WHAT-WHAT IS THIS?!"
Diego froze, magazine mid-air. "It's not what it looks like!"
Carlos snatched a magazine and flipped through it with disgust. "Feathered layers? Textured bangs? Are you out of your mind?!"
Diego scrambled to explain. "They're just hairstyles! I swear! No nudity! Just bangs! Beautiful, bouncy bangs!"
Carlos trembled with rage. "You hide these from your family? You sit in here fantasizing about... pomades?!"
"I just wanna make people feel pretty, Papa."
"No son of mine is going to lust after a tapered bob under my roof."
Before Diego could respond, his father stormed out and returned a moment later with an apron, a pot, and a full five-pound bag of masa.
"You want to play with scissors? Fine. You'll spend the night doing something useful."
Diego blinked. "What?"
"You're making tamales until sunrise, pervert."
Diego stood alone in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, masa caked on his hands like edible cement. The counter was cluttered with corn husks, pots, and a radio softly playing a mariachi version of "My Heart Will Go On."
He pressed tamale after tamale, muttering to himself between folds.
"This is so stupid. I don't even like tamales. They're like... meat Twinkies."
He slapped one down with emphasis. "You ever seen a stylist make tamales? No. They make art. They use mousse. Not lard."
Another tamale joined the pile. "I could do fades. I could do perms. But nooo. Gotta make pork paste burritos at 3 a.m. because my dad thinks a bob cut is a cry for help."
Suddenly-creak.
He jumped.
In the corner of the dining room, barely visible in the moonlight, his grandma was still sitting at the table. Alone. Motionless.
"Abuelita?" he asked cautiously.
Her head turned slowly, joints crackling like popcorn. "They forgot about me."
Diego winced. "Sorry, I thought someone brought you upstairs."
She stood with effort, eyes gleaming strangely. "Your father's dream... it's not your dream."
Diego blinked. "Whoa. Wait. What?"
"He wants tamales," she said, stepping into the kitchen. "You want tight fades and shampoo commercials. So... make tamales with a fade."
"What does that mean?"
She leaned in close, whispering in her old, raspy voice: "Give the meat a side part."
Diego stared at her. "I'm... not even mad. That was kind of profound."
She patted his cheek, then slapped a tamale tray out of his hand. "Go to bed, mijo. I'll take it from here."
Terrified and weirdly touched, Diego backed away. "Okay... thanks?"
Outside
Diego curled up beside Ramón the goat under a blanket that smelled vaguely like corn chips and anxiety. He pulled out one of his haircut magazines and flipped through it in the moonlight, smiling sleepily.
"Good night, spiky boy," he whispered to a model with frosted tips. "You get me."
The goat burped.
Diego closed his eyes, finally at peace.
Back in the house
Inside, Grandma stood at the stove, eyes glazed, humming a song that didn't exist. She poured a gallon of oil into a pot, turned on all four burners, and lit a candle... for ambiance. Then she threw her dentures into the microwave to "sterilize them," set it for ten minutes, and wandered off muttering about ghosts in the plumbing.
Fifteen minutes later, the house went up like a piñata full of fireworks.
Diego blinked awake to the smell of smoke and the faint sound of something crackling-and not the cozy kind. He sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes.
Then he saw it.
The house was on fire. Not just smoking-engulfed. Flames licked the sky like the ghost of every overcooked tamale they'd ever made.
"Holy shit-Abuelita!" Diego scrambled to his feet, tripping over Ramón, who looked mildly concerned but didn't move.
He sprinted across the yard, bare feet slapping the dirt, and burst through the front door into a swirling inferno of chaos. Furniture crackled. Family portraits curled into ash. The smell of burnt beans and melted dentures choked the air.
"Mamá! Papá!" he coughed, searching frantically through the haze.
In the living room, he found them. His mother, collapsed near the couch. Abuelita was still at the table, arms stretched dramatically toward a tamale as if death had caught her mid-snack.
Everyone was gone.
Except-
"Papá!" Diego stumbled forward. Carlos was on the floor, coughing, burned and barely conscious, clutching a soot-covered, half-melted family cookbook to his chest.
He looked up at Diego with one good eye. "Take it..."
Diego dropped to his knees. "No! I can get you out!"
Carlos wheezed, pushing the book into his arms. "Go to America... live out my dream..."
"But-"
"Open the restaurant... and for the love of God-never use canned beans." His head fell back, dramatic as ever, and he was gone.
Diego stared, tears welling in his eyes, smoke stinging his throat.
He ran out of the house just before the roof collapsed, gripping the cookbook like it was holy scripture.
Outside, he dropped to his knees beside Ramón.
"They're gone," he whispered.
Ramón stared at him, then let out a long, echoing fart.
Diego wiped his eyes. "Yeah... me too, buddy. Me too."
Diego picked it up, stared at it.
He turned to Ramón. "Guess we're moving to America."
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Ramón farted in agreement.
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