Stories from the Diabolical

TRESE: On the First of January

2011-01-02T01:50:00.003+08:00

They started to arrive an hour after midnight. These party-goers who spent New Year’s Eve with their families and after their parents and grandparents had gone to sleep, they drove into the darkness of the new year looking for the company of friends and more alcohol.

Hank and the staff of The Diabolical was ready for these party-hardy-people. The bar was well stocked and he knew they’ll be staying open `til the sun rose.

As expected, there were some people there who came into the bar, hoping to find courage to face the new year with a bottle of their favorite drink.

Sandy arrived first and had already downed several shots of tequila before her best friend Jackie arrived.

Sandy smiled at Hank and ordered two more shots. As Hank poured their drink, Sandy said out loud, “Oh, how I wish some handsome bartender will give us a bottle of tequila! As a New Year’s gift!”

Hank smiled back and said, “Be careful what you wish for.” He handed the bottle over.

Sandy squealed. She grabbed the bottle, leaned over the bar and kissed Hank on the nose.

She took a swig from the bottle and dragged Jackie to a table by the window.

Sandy raised her shot glass and said, “To … the…. Ummm…. the future!”

Jackie clinked her glass against Sandy’s. “To the New Year!”

They knocked back their drinks and slammed their shot glasses on the table.

Sandy filled their glasses again.

“To the future with out these things called MEN!”

Jackie held her glass back. “We can’t get rid of all men. Just the bad ones”

“Ok! Ok! To a future without these CHEATERS called MEN!”

Shot.

“Those BASTARDS!”

Shot

“Those LIARS!”

Shot

“Those lying, cheating, bastard MALE creatures!”

Shot.

“I already miss them!”

Shot.

And they burst out laughing.

“A toast to all the good men! WHEREVER THEY MAYBE!”

Shot.

“To all the good, clean, honest men”

Shot.

“Who will listen to all our problems without feeling the need to solve them.”

Shot.

“Who will gladly go with us when we shop and give us their honest opinion if we look good or not in this dress”

Shot.

“And hopefully, they’re not gay.”

More laughter.

More tequila spilled on the table.

Sandy poured the last drops of the tequila. She held the glass up and stared into the golden liquid, stared past it, into the distance.

Jackie waited for Sandy’s toast.

“To…” Sandy’s brow knit, trying to think of the right words. “To… the future… where I never have see his fucking face every time I close my fucking eyes!”

And she felt this lump in her throat, which made her drop the shot glass, which slammed on the table, rolled and fell on the floor. She ran to the comfort room. Jackie right behind her.

Third stall from the door. Sandy knelt down on the cold floor. Gripped the sides of the toilet bowl. Heaved. And watched at the water turned orange-yellow from her vomit. Jackie held her hair and gently rubbed her backed.

When Sandy finally stopped vomiting, that’s when she started crying.

They sat there for a while. Jackie just hugged her friend and tried to swipe away that tears that just didn’t stop from flowing.

Much later, Sandy stood in front of the wash basin and was splashing water on her face. Jackie held her by the waist, worried that Sandy might fall down.

A woman, dressed all in black, came in with a tall glass of water. She held it in front of Sandy and calmly said, “Hank said you might need this.”

At first, Sandy and Jackie didn’t know what to do. The woman didn’t look like she was part of the staff. She looked like she was about to attend someone’s funeral instead of going out to celebrate the New Year.

“Thanks, “ said Sandy and she took a sip. The water seemed to make the sour taste in her mouth go away.

“When you’re ready, Hank will serve you coffee.” The lady turned around and walked away. Just as she was about to go out the door, she turned and said, “You’ll be fine.”

It was already 2:57am. There were just a couple of people left inside The Diabolical. As Sandy and Jackie walked back to their table, they saw Hank stand on a stool and reach for an old coffee maker perched on one of the high shelves of the bar. They’ve always seen that coffee maker and thought it was just there for display.

While waiting for the coffee to brew, Sandy held her head in her hands, hoping it would somehow stop her head from aching.

“I hate this,” Sandy sobbed. “I hate feeling like this. I just wish it would all go away.”

Jackie started to rummage through her bag. “Where is that pen when I need it?” She pulled out a sign pen, grabbed some tissue and layed it out on the only dry corner of the table. She put the pen in Sandy’s hand and said, “Write! Write down what you’ve always wanted to write!”

Sandy smoothed out the white tissue and wrote down: I WILL NEVER THINK ABOUT MARK SOTTO. I WILL FORGET ABOUT HIM. I WILL BE HAPPY WITHOUT HIM. I AM HAPPY WITHOUT HIM.

Hank arrived as Sandy wrote the last couple of words. He placed two cups of coffee on the table and pretended to peek at what Sandy was scribbling. “New Year’s Resolution?” he asked.

Sandy smiled, weakly. “Yeah. A promise I wish to keep.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Jackie as she raised her cup.

They toasted their cups and drank the freshly brewed coffee.

“Ow!” yelled Sandy. The coffee was still too hot. She burned her tongue. Spilled some of the coffee. Quickly grabbed the tissue on the table and wiped her mouth, leaving a coffee-stained lip mark on the white napkin.

At that precise moment, at 3:00am, a man stumbled into The Diabolical. Hank could quickly see that the man was drunk.

“There you are!” the man pointed at Sandy. “I’ve been looking all over for you! I knew I should’ve come here in the first place!”

He staggered towards the table and tried to hold Sandy’s hand. “We need to talk! You need to listen to me!”

Sandy pushed him away. “I don’t know you! Go away!”

“Stop playing games with me, Sandy! Come with me now!”

The man tried to reach for Sandy again but was suddenly pulled back by some force. He suddenly found himself sandwiched between two tall men, dressed in black business suits. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was drunk, but the two men looked like. Maybe they were twins.

The short-haired one held him by the collar and said, “The lady said, she doesn’t know you.”

The drunk pleaded, “Sandy! It’s me! Mark! Tell these guys you know me! And let’s talk! Please!” He turned to Jackie, “Jackie! Tell them you know me!”

Jackie crossed her arms and said, “If my friend says she doesn’t know you, then she doesn’t know you.”

“You heard the ladies,” said the long-haired one. The twins dragged him out the bar and threw him out into the street.

Sandy and Jackie sat back down and started to drink their coffee. Hank was wiping the table dry with a rag. He picked up the tissue on the corner of the table and showed it to Sandy. “Do you want to keep this?”

The tissue had gotten wet and most of the words were now smudged. The only words that could be reader were: I AM HAPPY and the brown lipmarks on the corner of the tissue.

“Did I write that?” Sandy asked.

Jackie laughed. “Well, it’s your handwriting! Maybe you wrote it when we were drunk.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep it.” Sandy folded it and slipped it inside her bag. “To remember this night. To remember this brande new day with my best, best friend.”

Jackie raised her cup. “To the future! To a new year filled with…”

“Happiness.” Sandy smiled, did a toast with their cups and finished the coffee.

Outside, Mark picked himself up from the rain-soaked street. He found his cellphone in a puddle. He picked it up, dried it with his the corner of his polo and accidentally switched on the Photo Album of the phone.

Strangely enough, it was empty. He could’ve sworn it had pictures of him and … a girl… what was her name again… started with the letter “S”… maybe…

Maybe the fall made the phone revert back to its factory settings.

He looked around and wondered how he ended up all the way in Malate, outside this bar. He saw two girls seated by the window, laughing as they did a toast with coffee cups. He stared at one of the girls who seemed familiar to him.

Mark entered the place, walked towards the bar, and was about to order a beer when the bartended told him, “Looks like you need a cup of coffee, eh, buddy?”

Mark agreed. Looked down into the cup as the bartender poured the hot, black liquid, watched it swirl and settle, until the black liquid reflected his face. He stared at himself and said, “I wish this headache would go away.”

Hank smiled. “You sure that’s all you’re going to wish for?”

END

TRESE: I Carry Your Heart

2010-02-13T01:09:00.008+08:00

Trese woke up as the car rolled to a stop in front of The Diabolical. She stretched in the backseat as the Kambal told her, “We’re home, bossing.”

She was not happy to see the 7am sun blaze above her. She just wanted to get inside, take a long shower, and wash off the aswang blood that had dried on her hair.

She squinted and saw a PNP police car parked in front of the club. Captain Guerrero was waiting at the entrance where he sign that said CLOSED.

“Good morning, Captain,” Trese said. “Anything I can help you with? You usually call or text first.”

“Nothing so urgent. I was in the area and saw Hank through the window. I was wondering if I could trouble you for some breakfast and that really great barako coffee?” Guerrero smiled.

“Is that all? Come in, Captain. Have a seat while I freshen up.” Trese lead them down into The Diabolical.

By the time Trese joined them, Hank had served his famous tapsilog— with really crispy tapa, crispy like bacon. The Kambal were already on their second serving. Capt. Guerrero was already enjoying his barako coffee.

As soon as Trese sat down, Hank served her a glass of her favorite red wine; something she drank to wind down before going to sleep. Trese took a sip and nodded to herself. As usual, the wine was chilled just right, all thanks to the ghost that kept the cellar at the proper temperature.

“So, what brings you around here?” Trese asked.

“I came from one of the dorms, near the university. College boy was found dead in his room. It was locked from the inside. No sign of forced entry. No signs of struggle and no wounds on the body. And since there were no visible means of suicide and no note, my guess is he died of natural causes. We’ll just have to wait for Spunky from the morgue to tell us otherwise.” Guerrero finished the rest of his tale as well as his coffee.

Trese closed her eyes and asked, “Was the body drenched in sweat? Or at the very least, did his forehead and lips have beads of sweat?”

Guerrero thought about it for a second and said, “Why, yes! Yes, it was!”

“And did the air smell sweet? As if you were standing near a lot of fruit?” Trese continued.

“Yes. I thought it was the boy’s cologne or something. Why? You know what killed him?”

“It was a bangungot!” the Kambal raced to answer the question. Trese raised her glass to the Kambal for giving the right answer.

“A bangungot? Really? So, how does a bangungot pick its victims?” Guerrero asked.

“Its victim? You mean, its lover.” Trese corrected him.

“Doesn’t a bangungot sit on the chest of its victim til he can’t breath anymore?”

“You’re confusing it with a batibat. No, a bangungot is a very rare breed of enkanto who seem to get attracted to people who are in despair, lonely, in pain.

“The bangungot wanders until it finds someone and it clings onto that person and decides to take care of that person’s wounded heart. So, whenever that man feels jealous or spurned or unwanted, he feels this dull pain clutch his chest. He thinks it’s heartache, but it’s actually the bangungot holding on to his heart, trying to prevent it from breaking.

“In a matter of days or weeks, the bangungot becomes more protective over the man and it just keeps on embracing him; ever so tighter, squeezing the heart until, unwittingly, it causes his heart to stop; forcing the last breath out of his dry lips.

“The bangungot will later realize what it has done and will cry these tears that cover its lover’s face and sometimes his body. If you make the mistake of tasting those dewdrops left on the man’s cheeks, it will taste like the sweetest honey and cause you to go on a deep depression for weeks.

“After the bangungot has cried all its tears, it becomes this mist like substance, leaving this sickly sweet scent hanging in the air, as if there was nearby tree with too much fruit to bear.”

Guerrero didn’t realize that he had not touched his new cup of coffee and it had already grown cold. Guerrero asked, “What can you do to stop it?”

“Not much. It all depends on the person. If he manages to get out of his despair, he may have a chance of making the bangungot lose interest in him and let go of his heart.”

Guerrero leaned forward and said, “But some of these people --who’ve supposedly died because of bangungot-- came from happy families or marriages. They’re not all loners like the boy in the dorm.”

Trese shook her head. “I don’t really know. Lolo tried to study the bangungot long ago and he could never figure out what made it pick this person, instead of that person; but more often than not, these people secretly longed for a lost love, a passion they’ve put aside for more practical things, fell into despair and didn’t tell anyone. But the bangungot knew and would try its best to love them.”

Capt. Guerrero placed his spoon and fork together, cleared his throat and said thanks for the breakfast. He stood up and was about to leave when Trese said one last thing.

“Captain, expect to find more bodies today.”

He was about to ask why, but stopped when he realized the date.

Today was Valentine’s Day.

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)

e.e. cummings

TRESE : I CARRY YOUR HEART
Story by Budjette Tan
Art by Kajo Baldisimo

Coffee Black

2009-04-13T22:20:00.005+08:00

In the many years that Hank has been tending bar at the Diabolical, he has seen his fair share of drunks.

You have your usual “I’m so happy it’s Friday I need to get drunk” Drunk.

There’s the typical “I’m angry at world” Drunk.

The “I need to get drunk so I can find the courage to ask that girl out” Drunk.

Of course, there’s always the “I’m just trying to drown my sorrows” Drunk.

Without them, many bars and pubs would’ve closed down years ago.

Hank also knows how fast or slow someone wants to get drunk and he’d serve them them appropriate drink to get them appropriately buzzed or unconscious. He also knows the best ways to get them to sober up.

If you catch Hank in a talking mood, he’ll probably tell you that tikbalang easily get buzzed with just two bottles of Red Horse and sober up with an ice blended concoction of freshly cut grass and ampalaya; that the most ancient of kapre and enkanto love the taste of Cervesa Negra and require a barrel of barako to become sober again.

On this particular night, at one corner of the bar, Hank sees a regular.

There is nothing magical or mystical about Herbert Flores, except for the fact he once had the most drop-dead gorgeous girlfriend that ever walked into the Diabolical that got men and enkanto alike asking, “What did SHE see in HIM?!”

Hank has seen Herbert drink a case of beer and not get drunk. For some strange reason, two glasses of white wine gives him a buzz.

White wine. Ginny’s favorite drink. That’s why Herbert ordered it.

After he finished the whole bottle, the floor heaved and buckled and tossed him towards one corner of the bar, towards that table for two by the window, that table where he always had dinner with Ginny on Friday nights after they watched a movie. He’s trying to drink the last drop of wine straight from the bottle, while looking at his cellphone; looking at the videos and pictures labeled G&ME.

Hank shakes his head and knows exactly what Herbert needs to drink.
Hank reaches up to the coffee maker at the center of the bar. Before the Diabolical became the “must be seen in club” of the moment, it was a popular café run by Alexandra Trese’ grandfather. They still keep the first coffee maker that Mr. Trese used when he opened shop. Most of the patrons think it’s a neat memorabilia, that it’s just there for display, but Hank switches it on and it begins to brew a pot.

“Here you go. It’s on the house,” Hank says as he places the steaming coffee in front of the Herbert, who’s desperately trying to make stop the room from spinning.

Herbert tries to tell him that he doesn’t drink coffee, but when he opens his mouth it comes out as, “IdooonnotAHHHcoffcoffEEE”.

He also tries to say that the only thing that will make him sober is a litro of ice, cold Coke.

Plain brewed coffee with three teaspoons of sugar was how Ginny usually sobered up. And so, as if following some unspoken ritual, Herbert scoops three teaspoons of sugar from the bowl and plunks them in the coffee one by one.

He stirs it three times, counter clockwise.

Then taps the teaspoon on the lip of the mug.

The sound of the metal hitting ceramic echoes in Herbert’s ears.

Tap

Tap

Tap

“Since when did you drink coffee that way? Since when did YOU drink coffee AT ALL?” asks the voice across the spinning room.

He looks up and sees her.

“I believe that’s MY coffee,” says Ginny.

Herbert pushes the mug toward her and she cups it in her hands. She closes her eyes and breathes in the aroma. She then takes a sip and puts the mug back down.

Ginny waves at Hank. “Hank! Get this drunken man a Coke and give him a tall glass filled with ice.”

“You’re here!” Herbert suddenly sobers up.

“Of course, I’m here. It’s our anniversary.” Ginny smiles

He just gives her a blank stare.

“You forgot!” Ginny rolled her eyes.

“I didn’t!”

“I know that look!”

“I DID NOT forget!” Herbert says. “You’re here!”

“You already said that.” Ginny takes a sip from her coffee.

Hank brings Herbert the Coke and a glass filled with ice cubes.

“She’s here!” Herbert grabs Hank by the sleeves and points at Ginny.

Hank just smiles.

“So, are you seeing anyone?” Ginny asks.

“Ginny! I can’t believe you…”

“It’s a perfectly normal question to ask someone who’s single again.”

“Yeah, it’s the sort of thing that Bart would ask me. But not … you… I mean… YOU’RE DEAD, GINNY!”

“Stop that. You’ll freak out the other customers.”

“Freak out? I’m the one… who’s… FREAKED OUT!”

“Okay… so you want me to leave?” Ginny pretends to stand up.

“NO! no! no! no! Stay! Please stay.” He takes a deep breath and says, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you on time.”

“There’s a reason why such things are called `freak accidents`.”

“I’m sorry I placed my phone on silent mode. You know how I am when I’m at work and … ”

“Even if you did get my call, how fast could you have gotten to me? How fast could you get me to the nearest hospital?”

“I could’ve…” Herbert tries to search for an answer. For the past year, he’s been thinking about what he could’ve done. He’s ran scenarios in his head on what might’ve been the best way to save her.

“If you did answer my call, I would’ve told you that I love you,” says Ginny. “And if, by chance, I got that cliché Hollywood moment to recite a whole speech with my dying breath, I would’ve thanked you for showing me with so much love. That even though everyone at the office labeled me a bitch, you found me amusing and worth falling in love with. And I would’ve told that it annoyed me every time you gave me an action figure or a graphic novel for my birthday, that I wish you didn’t always have to give advice in that Yoda voice, how I wished you’d wear at least one of the polo shirts I bought for you and just once, stop wearing those Star Wars t-shirts. How all of those, and so many other more annoying habits, were the very same reasons I loved so much.”

“And I…” Herbert didn’t really know what to say.

“At which point,” Ginny interrupts him, “I would’ve probably breathed my last breath and not given you a chance to answer back; so don’t even try.”

Ginny places her hand Herbert and they both smile.

She taps the lip of the mug and points out, “My coffee’s almost done. I have to go soon.”

“No! Don’t! Hank, bring that pot of coffee over here!”

“It doesn’t work that way.” Ginny looks down at the bottom of the mug.

“Will you be here again next year?”

“Maybe.” Ginny shrugs.

“Really?” Herbert almost jumps out of his seat.

“Herbert! Ramon! Flores! If you plan to just mope around all year, waiting for this specific date, which you would most probably not remember anyway, then you can forget about me showing up again! If you ever want me to meet you again, I expect to see results! I expect to see an improvement with your social life! Even if it means for you to start hanging out with Bart again, I would consider that an improvement! Beside, I can’t stand seeing up mope around all day.”

“You can see me? From up there?”

“Oh, yes! And I know all about your porn collection which you file under the folder labeled `Hobbies`”

Herbert buries his face in his hands.

“I’m just kidding. Bart told me about that your secret folder a couple of weeks before the accident. Besides, do you really expect me to spend the rest of my afterlife watching and worrying about you? Well, I don’t do it all day.”

“Ginny, I wanted to tell you…”

“I know. I was at the wake. I heard your eulogy. I saw the website you put up. Watched the video. Loved the song. It was wonderful! Really, it was. But you didn’t really need to say all of that. I knew how you felt. You told me everyday."

He feels the warmth of Ginny’s hand as she touches his cheek. She leans in and kisses him on the lips.

"Thank you.”

Herbert closes his eyes and doesn’t hold back his tears. He finds himself half-standing from his chair, leaning across the table, across from an empty chair, leaning above a coffee mug, which was now cold and empty, except for a few drops of his tears.

He sits back down and touches the moisture of his ice, cold glass of Coke. He lifts up his glass, smiles, and toasts the empty coffee mug. He drinks the whole thing straight and then slams the glass down on the table.

Herbert turns and yells, “Hank! One more….” Before he could even finish his order, Hank’s already standing beside him with pitcher of Coke, because Hank knows this is exactly the drink that he needs.

TRESE: The Usual Spot

2009-02-13T00:24:00.004+08:00

February 15. Malate is as busy as the night before. The restaurants and bars are filled with couples on last minute dates, with the drunk and the lonely who hope that they might still get lucky and have a Happy Valentine’s.

Around the corner from Nakpil Street, in the back alleys where the waiters, bartenders, and delivery boys gather during their break time, stories of the strange and unusual cast of Malate are reviewed and discussed.

They often talk about the little sampaguita girl and how if you ever bother to look at her eyes, you’ll notice her reptilian, vertical pupils. If you shoo her away and don’t buy flowers from her, she’ll stick out her forked tongue and spit at you.

Someone would usually mention that man with the bouquet of roses, seen at the corner where the street lamp never works. They say, if you happen to be standing there while waiting for a jeepney or taxi, you’ll suddenly notice this man standing right beside you. You’ll notice his polo shirt is damp with blood; that he’s not holding roses, but he’s desperately trying to push his intestines back into his stomach. He’ll look at you and plead, “Take my wallet. Please don’t kill me.” You run away and if you’re brave enough to look back, the man would be gone. “Take my wallet. Please don’t kill me,” his voice would echo down the road.

Of course, they’ll also tell you about the blind beggar at the park; how if you give him exactly three pesos he will tell you the exact date and manner of your death. Supposedly, for the right price, he will tell you how to avoid your predestined demise.

On this particular night, at the back alley of the Black Rose Bar, the waiters, bartenders, and delivery boys are talking about one particular lady. They have already placed their bets on whether or not she’ll appear tonight. Tonight, the customers will be annoyed that the waiters won’t be as attentive, that some of their orders will be wrong, all because the waiters will be keeping their eyes on the door, waiting for her to finally arrive.

They never do catch her walking through the doors of the Black Rose.

Bernie the bartender is always the first one to see her. Actually, she’d be the one who’d call his attention. While wiping the bar or serving another customer, he’d suddenly feel this fingernail tap him on the shoulder. He’d smell her perfume first before he’d look and know it was her.

She’d just be there, seated on one of the bar stools in her jacket. Her jacket that had the color of dried rose petals. Or was it more like the color of dried blood?

For the past four years, Bernie has been winning the bet.

He would already have a clean wine glass ready, so he wouldn’t have to trouble himself from getting one from the back of the cabinet. As always, she would order the house wine. And there she would stay for the rest of the evening, perched on that bar stool like a lioness; which would inevitably attract the other denizens of the watering hole; the drunks, the lustful, the ones who feel lucky. They’d all approach her. Try to buy her a drink. Try to make conversation. But they would all fail. She would kindly refuse them. Ignore them, mostly. Bernie took note of how many times the lady in the red jacket would look at her watch, then the door, then take a sip of wine.

Then at midnight, she would excuse herself and tell Bernie that she’s just going to the ladies room; that if anyone should look for her, Bernie should tell them to wait by the bar. Bernie’s tried to ask for her name or the name of whoever it was she was waiting for, but she would never tell.

12:13am. The air conditioning unit would shut down. Nobody knows why. It just conks out at that specific time of the year and the whole place would immediately get as hot as an oven. Dundee, the manager, has already asked a dozen electricians to check why the aircon does that and no one’s been able to provide a proper answer. Which is why Dundee’s given up because he knows at 1:03am the aircon will kick in and start working again. The same sense of certainty is what Bernie holds that the lady in the red jacket will not return to finish her wine. She will not be seen until the following the year.

This running bet and strange occurrence has become part of the usual small talk in the back alleys of Malate. During one of those smoking breaks Bernie told Joedee, the bartender of the Venom Room, who told Tonypet, the bartender of Gotham, who told Hank, the bartender of the Diabolical; who, of course, told his bossing Alexandra Trese.

Trese remembered that the Black Rose was once called The Waiting Place, which burned down six years ago. The owner considered the place unlucky and sold the spot.

So, on this particular night, as soon as the lady in the red jacket appeared, and right after Bernie poured her a glass of red wine, Trese sat down on the bar stool beside her. Trese motioned and also ordered for wine.

“Waiting for someone?” Trese asked.

The lady made a small nod and answered, “No. Not really.” She looked towards the door and then back to the bottom of her wine glass. “I’m just killing time.”

“Don’t you just hate it?” Trese said after she took a sip from her wine glass.

“Hate what?”

“When they arrive late.”

“Who’s they?”

“Men.”

The lady smiled. “How true.”

She looked towards the door again. A heavy-set fellow entered and was soon followed by his wife. The lady sighed. “He’s always late. To think we’d usually meet here because it’s closer to his office.”

“And what’s his usual excuse?”

“That he’s trying to find a new excuse to tell his wife why he can’t come home.”

They both smile.

“But who I am to complain?” said the lady as she slid off the bar stool. “I just have to go to the ladies room. If a harassed looking fellow comes along, tell him I’ll be back in bit.”

Trese watched her merge with the crowd in the bar and followed her inside the comfort room. There were three girls re-touching their make-up. She waited for the ones in the stalls to come out.

The lady in red was nowhere to be found.

Back at the bar, Trese got the lady’s half-empty wine glass. She returned to the bathroom and locked the door behind her.

She placed the wine glass on sink and pulled out her kriss. The dagger gleamed under the florescent lights. She tapped the wine glass with the edge of the blade and the tiny clinking sound echoed in the tiled room. She tapped the glass again as she spoken an incantation, an invitation for the spirit to appear before her.

A gust of wind forced Trese to step away from the sink. The wind seemed to be have been coming from the bathroom mirror.

The wine glass continued to ring, as if an invisible hand was still tapping it.

And the wine glass cracked and burst, exploding glass shards all over the room.
The wine sprayed all over the bathroom mirror. As the red liquid slowly slid down, Trese noticed that her reflection was not her own.

The lady in the mirror was crying.

Behind her, an older woman staggered in, cigarette dangling from the lip, carrying a bottle of vodka. She was singing happy birthday to herself.

The lady brushed away her tears and smiled weakly at the woman.

“It’s my birthday today,” slurred the woman. “My name’s Beth.”

“I’m Pamela,” said the lady.

“I know,” said the woman. “I just wanted to make sure.”

Beth raised the bottle of vodka and slammed it against the back of Pamela’s head.

“I know who you are,” Beth said calmly.

And she hit Pamela once more.

“I know you’re the reason why Stephen’s leaving me.”

And she hit her again.

“I know you’re the one that Stephen truly loves.”

She poured the vodka all over Pamela, dropped the cigarette on the floor and Pamela burst into flames.

Trese looked at her watched.

12:13AM.

And the air conditioning system of the Black Rose Bar promptly shut down.

When Trese got back to the bar, Bernie was smiling, collecting his winnings from the waiters.

“Did you find her?” Bernie asked.

“She never left,” Trese said. “She’s still waiting for her Stephen to come. “

“Who’s Stephen?”

Trese just paid for her drink and Pamela’s drink and stepped out of the Black Rose Bar.

The night wind felt cool against Trese’s face. Walking back to the Diabolical, she saw two duwende walking hand in hand; a diwata was handing out flowers to lovers near the park; the kapre on the mango tree was puffing out heart-shaped smoke rings; all which were unnoticed by the usual Malate crowd.

She was about to turn the corner when she noticed a man clutching a dozen roses. He was standing under that street lamp that never really works. As he stepped around the lamppost, the roses were replaced by his bundled bloody organs. He just kept walking around and around the lamppost, his image fading from being neatly dressed up, with flowers at hand to having his clothes all ripped and torn, with a gaping wound on his stomach.

Trese approached him and asked, “Is your name Stephen?”

The man stopped and looked somewhat relieved that someone asked him a question.

“Yes, I’m Stephen.” He looked at his watch and then looked at Trese. “Do I know you?”

“What are you doing here?” Trese asked.

“I’m… waiting for someone,” he hesitated to tell the truth. He looked around to check if anyone was listening or looking at them. “This is where we usually meet.”

Trese shook her head. Even in the afterlife, men can be so forgetful.

“Come with me,” Trese said.

Stephen looked unsure, at the same time looked helpless when he confessed, “But I can’t leave this spot. I have to wait for her here. I just can’t … ”

She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a spool of white thread. She tied the thread around the lamppost and started to walk down the street. Trese turned around and told Stephen, “Follow the string.”

Bernie was surprised to see Trese return to the Black Rose Bar. He was even more surprised when he noticed she was leaving a trail of white string behind her.

“Two glasses of red wine, please,” Trese ordered. She tied the end of the thread to the stem of one of the glasses. She pulled out her kriss and tapped them.

The scent of roses filled the air, which made everyone close their eyes and take a deep breath.

“Belated Happy Valentine’s,” Trese greeted the couple at the bar.

TRESE : THE USUAL SPOT
Story by Budjette Tan
Art by Kajo Baldisimo

TRESE: One Last Drink at the Diabolical

2009-01-13T17:53:00.005+08:00

Alexandra Trese held the hot mug of coffee in her hands as she looked out the one-way mirror.

From the her private room on the second level of the club, she could see everything that was happening in The Diabolical.

It was a Saturday night and the party people kept streaming in and out of the club's ten-foot double doors.

After she inherited the restaurant from her father, she decided to convert it into a club. The place now looked like a crumbling chapel that was constructed during the 1800s.

She renovated it to keep up with the times, to make more money, and more importantly to create a neutral place; for not only did she inherit her father's friends, she also acquired her father's enemies.

She took a sip from the dark brew and looked at the right side of the club where she saw Hank Sparrow, the bartender, who kept the drinks flowing.

Hanging out at the bar, getting free drinks from Hank while flirting with the girls, were The Kambal. The twins were in their usual business suits and their business was to always keep Alexandra safe from harm.

On the left side of the club are six alcoves, which had plush velvet couches and pillows; red velvet curtains which could be drawn for privacy. Of course, Alexandra kept security cameras in the alcoves, for not everything could be kept private from her.

Beneath Alexandra's viewing window was the stage, where The Last Breath was playing their latest dirge. The band was dressed like they were about to attend a funeral during the times of the Black Plague. Isabel, their lead vocalist wailed and the crowd swayed to her sorrow.

As band segued to their next song, Alexandra saw a new group stumble into the club. They were lead by a man who smiled at every girl that looked his way. His red jacket seemed to blaze in the crimson lights of the club.

He looked around and smiled even more. He liked what he saw.

He popped a cigarette in his mouth, placed his finger on the tip of the cigarette and a bright blue flame shot out to ignite his Malboro.

“Brim Yap Tan,” Trese cursed under her breath.

Brim's troupe, which looked like already had a drink from every bar down the road, did a conga line to one of the alcoves where they ended up sprawled all over the velvet couch and yelled for a waiter to attend to them.

Alexandra knew they were going to be trouble.

The moment she stepped out of the door marked “Private”, the Kambal were already at the foot of the steps, ready to keep by her side.

She went to the bar and asked Hank if everything was okay.

“Okay. Alright, bossing,” Hank replied. “Except we got those three ladies over there who've ordered nothing but water. Bad for business, bossing. They've just been eating the free salted nuts.”

Trese glanced at the three women dressed in what looked like black raincoats. They were huddled around the table and kept looking at all the people who entered the door.

“Give them a round of whatever they want. My treat. Maybe they'll order more,” Trese said.

“Sure thing, bossing.”

Alexandra was more concerned with Brim and his group. As he made her way across the club, the Kambal floated two steps behind her.

She stepped into their alcove and their party was already in full swing. Brim was entertaining two girls-- or it was more like, the two girls were entertaining Brim. The girl on the left had a purple mohawk and looked too young to be drinking anything in the club. The girl on the right looked like your typical shampoo model, complete with the long, shiny hair and the fake smile. Brim really liked variety.

“Alexandra!” Brim purred.

“Brim . Didn't you see the sign at the door? `No solicitation`.”

“Funny girl,” Brim laughed. “I'm here for some fun and some drinks and some of that dreadful music. I am here for pure pleasure. No business whatsoever.”

“Then why did one of your girls just walk out with one of my customers?”

“Can I help it if my friends are friendly?”

As if to emphasize Brim's point, mohawk girl kissed him on the neck and slowly unbuttoned shirt and caressed his chest. Shampoo Gal did the same and as she pulled out her hand, a small golden pendant-- a stylized letter “T”-- slipped out of Brim's shirt.

“Inang! He's the one!” someone yelled from behind.

Trese whirled around to see the three women in the black raincoats rush to the mouth of the alcove.

“The murderer with the trident!” yelled the tallest of the three. They held out their palms and all the water in the glasses on the table shot into the air and flowed towards them. They closed their hands and the water solidified into a long, sharp bolos.

“Where are my sisters?” their leader pointed her shimmering bolo at Brim.

Brim pushed the girls away and jumped on the table. He opened his palms which burst into flames. “Back off, fish bitch!”

Seeing what was happening in the alcove, Hank raised his hand in the air and signaled to Isabel on stage.

Isabel also raised her hand, thumb holding down her index finger, and the band knew exactly what to do.

The melody shifted and Isabel started to weave a in a new song. The crowd stopped drinking, stopped eating their barchow, stopped chatting with whoever was beside them. The people in the club suddenly found themselves staring at the band and listening intently. Nothing else mattered except the song. Not even the unusual fight that was occurring in the alcove.

“Enough!” Trese commanded. “This place is neutral ground!”

Brim suddenly realized one of the Kambal was right behind him, pointing one gun to his head and another gun to the lady with the bolo.

The other Kambal was right behind the two women and had them covered with his guns.

“Brim! What's this all about?” Trese glared.

“Hey! I came here to party. I didn't cast the first spell,” he said as he extinguished the fireball.

“Maybe he's one of your ex-girlfriends?” suggested the Kambal. “C'mon! Admit it!”

Trese turned to the woman who already lowered her blade.

“Explain yourself”

“I am Zabelle from the tribe of Dyessa.”

“Sirena!” the Kambal smiled.

“A month ago, my sister disappeared. She was seen boarding a ship with the trident symbol on it. Then a week after that, more sirena from my tribe started to disappear.”

Zabelle looked at Brim. “We were told that a fire elemental who bears the trident symbol was seen here. We want him to return our sisters!”

“Hey hey hey! I don't know anything about any missing sirena. None of my girls are fishy.”

“Actually, one of them has a funny smell,” one of the Kambal cocked his head to girl with the mohawk.

Trese stood in front of the girl. A silver kriss suddenly appeared Trese's hand. Did it come from under her sleeves or did it appear out of thin air? Brim wasn't sure.

She tapped the forehead of the girl with the tip of the kriss. In one fluid, downward motion, she sliced the air in front of the frightened girl and for a moment everyone could see the girl's long flowing hair, her sapphire blue skin, and her long rainbow-colored mermaid tail.

“Tereza?” Zabelle cried. “Is that you?”

“Yes, ate.”

As soon as Trese put her kriss away, the glamour resumed and Tereza was once again human legs.

Tereza hugged Brim. “Please don't hurt. Please don't make me leave. I love him!”

The Kambal couldn't help but giggle.

“I'm afraid she's telling the truth,” announced Alexandra. “She's maybe have been transformed, but she's not being held by any binding spell.”

“What about our other sisters? Where are they?” Zabelle looked more confused than angry.

“Told you I didn't have anything to do with that!” Brim smiled. “In fact, me and Tereza have been avoiding going to the docks or to the beach to avoid getting seen by some fish who might squeal on us.”

The Kambal snickered again.

Trese gave them that look and they quickly kept quiet. She turned back to the party in the alcove and said, “Brim. All of you. Leave now.”

Trese approached the lead sirena, held her hands. “Zabelle, I'll do what I can to find out what happened to your other sisters. I promise.”

“Thank you. I am sorry for causing you so much trouble. The Treses were always kind to our tribe.”

“Tereza, this is not yet over. You'll still have to answer to inang.”

“Oh... Okay.” Tereza pouted. “Brim, you'll have to come and meet my parents.”

And the Kambal just couldn't hold it in anymore and burst out laughing.

The band's improvised song came to an end and everyone yelled for more.

Alexandra and the Kambal went back to the bar.

Hank placed an ice, cold bottle of beer in front of Trese.

“Looks like you need this, bossing.”

Trese's cellphone beeped.

She looked at the text message.

FROM: CAPT. G
COME 2 BALETE ASAP

Trese pushed back the beer। “Give me another mug of coffee, Hank. Looks like it's going to be a long night.”

One Last Drink at the Diabolical
Story by Budjette Tan
Art by Mark Torres

http://mytymark.deviantart.com/

TRESE: The Choir

2008-12-24T03:13:00.001+08:00

Hank had tended the bar of The Diabolical long enough to know that the one who just entered was another troubled soul. The typical patron of The Diabolical were the goth-girls and the vampire wanna-bes who dressed in leather and velvet despite the tropical weather of Manila. There were also the 24-hour party people, who danced to the ever-escalating electronic beats in the clubs next door, but who slipped into The Diabolical because their beer was cheaper. So, when the man in the denim jacket entered place and didn’t fit into the usual profile, Hank knew this was someone in a bad need of a drink.

The man unbuttoned his jacket as he took three steps down to the main floor of the club. Before he could even reach the bar, Hank had already prepared a shot glass, poured the tequila and set the salt and lemon on a little plate. He then reached into the cooler, past the sea of ice cubes for a bottle of San Mig Light.

The man sat on the bar stool and started to mutter, “A shot of tequila please and…” And he noticed what was in front of him. “And a bottle of… beer.”

Hank smiled. “Looked like this is what you needed.”

Denim Jacket Guy didn’t even bother with the salt and the lemon. He downed the shot of tequila and quickly gulped most of the ice-cold beer.

“Another shot?” Hank asked.

“Make it two.”

An hour and four bottles of beer later, the customers in The Diabolical had started to pay for their bills and move to the nearest Starbucks, head home, puke in the alley outside.

“So, where you spending Christmas?” Hank severed Denim Jacket Guy another beer.

“Out. Maybe.”

“With family?”

“Huh? Um, no. Not really. Family’s out of the country. I couldn’t get a visa in time.”

“You from around here?”

“Ummm, no. I’m from Quezon City. I’m house-sitting my aunt’s apartment here in Malate. She’s the paranoid type. Thinks someone will break into her house, so I’m now her security guard. But she was paranoid enough to take photos of all her stuff with her digicam, just so she can compare when she gets back and make sure I didn’t damage any of her stuff. Paranoid matrona, is what she is. At least, she gave me some `shopping money` to make it worth my awhile.” And he finished his fifth bottle.

Hank quickly took it away from him and wiped the bar clean. “Well, it’s mostly a quiet neighborhood, as long as you’re away from Nakpil and the other streets with the bars.”

“Yeah, quiet,” the man laughed nervously. “Can I have another beer?”

Hank placed the bottle in front of him. He gripped it, but didn’t drink it. He cleared his throat and looked at Hank. “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked.

Hank smiled and just shrugged.

“I was a skeptic myself, but ever since I started sleeping in my aunt’s house two weeks ago, well, weird stuff started to happen.

“On my first night, these kids –three of them, I think—came to the gate of the house and started singing Christmas carols. They didn’t sound so bad. Sounded okay, really. So I went out to give them some spare change. By the time I got the gate, they were gone. I thought it was some crazy prank.

“On the second night, I heard them again. I looked out the second-floor window and saw them—maybe there were four or five of them. They were all dressed in nice clothes. They were looking up at me and were singing `Silent Night`, which was weird cause street kids usually sing carols in Tagalog. So, I went downstairs, got some coins and by the time I opened the gate, they weren’t there anymore.

“The next night, I came home from a gimmick-- that was around three in the morning. I was about to lie down when I started to hear this humming. Don’t know if I was just too buzzed with beer, but it sounded like the humming filled up the room, like some sound-surround THX stereo! I soon realized that the voices were humming the first chords of `Silent Night`.

“I looked outside and saw them. More of them. And that was the first time I noticed her.”

“Her?” Hank raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, this little girl in a red dress, like she was going to some Christmas party. I don’t know if she was there during the first two times, but I saw her that night `cause she was standing in front of all the other kids. She was singing… and crying. I mean, she looked like she was sobbing, but she had the sweetest voice. Under the yellow streetlights, they looked… I don’t know… kind of pale? Kind of sick? Like they shouldn’t have been out that night but they just had to be there.”

He stopped and finally took a sip from his beer.

“I opened the window and told them not to go away; told them I was going to give them money and food. I rushed downstairs and, well, yeah, they were gone. I walked up and down that street and looked down the other side-streets. I yelled for them to come out, but couldn’t find them. My neighbor across the street woke up and told me to shut up.

“They just kept coming back, night after night. And every night, it seemed like there would be more kids, enough to fill up the front gate of the house; all of them singing `Silent Night` like it was the saddest song in the world. And every night, I’d see her –the girl in the red dress. She’d look at me, as if she wanted to tell me something, but had this great need to sing this song, to finish the song and maybe if she did finish the song she tell me that thing that she wanted to tell me, but she just never gets the chance to do so.

“The other night, I slept in the car in the garage, so if they do come back, I’d get to quickly run out the gate and catch them. It must’ve past four AM when it suddenly got colder than usual. I was about to go up to get my jacket when I heard the humming.

“I didn’t here any footsteps come to the gate, but there they were. I saw their feet and I saw the red shoes of the girl in front. I quietly walked to the gate and opened it! They…

“They weren’t there.”

He took another sip of beer. “They simply were not there.” He closed his eyes and gulped down the San Mig Light `til there was nothing left. He slammed the bottle on the bar. “Maybe when I get home tonight, I’ll be so plastered, I won’t hear their signing, won’t hear them even if they sang some blasted rock `n roll song.”

He suddenly noticed that he was just talking to an empty beer bottle. Hank had gone to the other end of the bar to serve a cup of coffee to a lady dressed in black. Hank came back and announced, “That’s my boss over there, Alexandra Trese. Owns the place and all the skeletons that came with it. She’d like to buy you a drink.”

“Um, sure. One more drink should get me drunk enough.”

Trese was in a black dress typically worn by Chinese wives when mourning; its fabric seemed to have been woven from the night sky. He looked at her eyes and her eyes were black pools where many secrets have been drowned and kept. She spoke in a hushed tone, as if offering one condolences after such a tragic affair.

“Good evening, I do hope you’re not driving home.” She extended her hand and they shook. He quickly noticed her strong grip and it made him worry if he was too drunk to even hold the next bottle of beer. “I heard you telling your story to Hank and would like to know where you live.”

He laughed. “Why? What do you have in mind?”

“Because the carolers you’re talking about might be connected to a case that I’m working on.”

“Oh, really? What kind of case?” he smiled and started to wonder what kinky stuff the lady in black had in mind.

“The police sometimes consult me on certain matters.” Trese said as she pulled out her cellphone.

He smoothed back his hair. “You want my number? Okay, it’s 0917…”

She shoved the phone in front of his face and on the phone screen he saw the picture of a little girl in a red dress. “Is this the girl you’ve been seeing at your front gate?”

He looked at the image on the phone and started to hear the humming of a choir. He gripped Trese’s wrist and demanded, “Where you get this picture? Who is she?”

Trese twisted her wrist and slipped out of his grip. “Her name is Mary-Anne Alvarez. She was last seen at the Magna Mall during the midnight sale. Ever since December 1, children have been disappearing in the malls of Manila. No ransom is demanded. No body is found.”

“Hey! I didn’t do anything! They just come to the gate and sing that damned carol over and over again.” He started to walk away, but his path was suddenly blocked by two men in dark business suits. He blinked and thought he was seeing double and soon realized the two men were twins. He also notice a glint of metal inside their jacket. Was that a gun? One of the twins said, “Answer the bossing’s question, please.”

He turned around and ended up facing Trese again. She asked in the calmest of tones, “Where do you live, sir? We are running out of time.”

He blurted out his address and sat back down at the bar.

Alexandra Trese started to walk towards the kitchen door, the twins flanking her, when she turned to Hank and commanded, “Everything he ordered is on the house. Make sure he sobers up before he leaves.”

Before he could even say thanks, Hank already placed a hot cup of coffee in front of him and Trese had disappeared through the swinging doors.

Hank smiled at him. “Seems like you’re going have a merry Christmas.”

***** *** *****

When he got home, it was far from being a silent night. Police cars were parked across the street and a crowd had formed in front. Radio and TV reporters were running around, trying to get comments from the neighbors.

He went inside his aunt’s house and quickly switched on the television. The door of his neighbor’s house was busted open. He saw bodies of children covered with black, trash bags being carried out by the police. He squinted when he saw a flash of red cloth from one of the bags. Was that her underneath that black bag? He wasn’t sure.

A very excited, very out-of-breath reporter on the scene was doing a recap of what just happened. “That’s right Korina, the PNP just RAIDED THE HOUSE of a certain MR. HANNIBAL CAPARAS and found the remains of OVER A DOZEN CHILDREN in his bodega. They also found video tapes of the children being forced to sing Christmas carols before they were brutally –BRUTALLY!-- murdered. The INTERNAL ORGANS of the children were FOUND in the refrigerator.

“We got a chance to take some footage of Mr. Caparas’s bedroom and THAT’S WHERE WE SAW SEVERAL SANTA CLAUS COSTUMES. Since all the children were last seen in the malls, the police can only surmise that Mr.Caparas lured the children using the Santa outfit.

“Mr. Caparas’s BODY WAS FOUND on the rooftop on a house six blocks away; HIS BODY RIDDLED WITH BULLET HOLES. No one has come forward to the shooting, but the police say some neighbor must have thought Mr. Caparas was A ROBBER, a member of the Akyat Bahay Gang.

“A neighbor, WHO REFUSED TO BE IDENTIFIED did say he woke up because of a commotion outside his house. When he looked out the window, saw a man in a Santa suit floating –YES! FLOATING!—or probably running very fast on the rooftops of the houses. He was followed by two men and a lady –YES! A LADY DRESSED ALL IN BLACK! They all kept running and was soon out of the sight of the said neighbor. If you ask me Korina, I think that neighbor had just TOO MUCH FRUITCAKE this Christmas! Back to you, Korina!”

He switched the channel to JACK TV and tried to not think about his neighbor. He was worried that he was too nervous and anxious to fall asleep, but before he knew it he was snoring and was dreaming of eating hamon and keso de bola with his family in San Francisco. The food and the dining table faded to a snow-covered park where a choir sang “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”.

He noticed one little girl who wasn’t singing. She just starred at him, smiled at him. The girl in the red dress slowly mouthed the words, “Thank you.” The choir started to hum a new tune that sounded almost like a series of beeps and chirps.

He woke up to the sound of his cellphone ringing। It was his family, calling from the abroad, to greet him a Merry Christmas.

TRESE: The Choir
Story by Budjette Tan
Art by Elbert Or

Welcome to THE DIABOLICAL

2008-12-23T17:24:00.000+08:00

Welcome!

Come in!

Come in!

Welcome to the Diabolical!

This is where we'll be telling all the other stories and mysteries of Alexandra Trese.

Grab a seat, order a drink from Hank the Bartender, don't mind the twins at the end of the bar --they're harmless, unless you're a bloodthirsty aswang.