Tapa Boca, Tonta Puta

Muttering incantations to some intimidating deity dressed in all white. It’s almost epileptic, words foaming at the mouth as eyes roll back in agony, or maybe ecstasy, and in some elevated level of delirium spew out the half muttered, “Maybe, Jesus, please grant me this,” garnished on this side and that with a few mumbled Hail Mary’s. 

Stewing in the darkness by the light of the candles, flickering ominously against the yellow walls while the waxen of eyes of deadened figurines bearing the likeness of some saint or some demon lay glazed across the furious scene. She’s prostrate, almost prone, begging mercy and also riches while the offerings splay out in front of a million images of the Virgin Mary. It’s another night in a sinner’s town, and she is crying for forgiveness. Doling money, shots of liquor, even chocolates as she looks to her god and asks for everything she’s too afraid to go get for herself. 

Drive the demon bitches away, and for triumph over evil. 

Santa Muerte, pray for me! In my darkest hour, and in my fastest moment, pray for me!