It's summer in the global north (which is winter in the global south), and for the month of August Literatur.Review is bringing them all together, publishing previously untranslated or unpublished stories from the north and south of our world. 

Chuckberry J. Pascual is a novelist, short story writer, and translator. He is the author of the young adult novel ‚Mars, May Zombie!‘ (Look Mars, Zombies!) and four short story collections, including ‚Bayan ng mga Bangkay‘ (Country of Corpses) and ‚Ang Nawawala‘, which has been translated into English as ‚The Vanished by Ned Parfan‘ (Avenida Books, 2023). He has also authored books on ethnography, literary criticism, and literary history, including ‚Pagpasok sa Eksena: Ang Sinehan sa Panitikan at Pag-aaral ng Piling Sinehan sa Recto‘ (Entering the Scene: The Movie Theater in Philippine Literature and a Study of Selected Theaters in Recto). 

“You want a piece of this?!”
Mano aimed the gun at the screaming man’s face. The gunshot echoed, and the man’s face exploded like a flower. A flower made of tocino—a sweet, cured pork dish with a red-brown hue popular in these parts—if there ever was one. Blood soaked his white shirt, his body tossed backward, and he landed on the cement like a discarded ragdoll. The crowd’s screams intensified. Some pushed and shoved, eager to see what had happened to the man; some recoiled—those who had acted tough earlier, pretending to be indifferent but trembled at the splatter of blood—and some froze where they stood.
I pulled my motorcycle next to Mano, lifted my helmet visor, and said, “Enough. We’re done here.”
Mano seemed to hear nothing. He still faced the crowd. He was really fired up now. He ripped off his helmet. “What, you bastards? Where’s your CCTV, now? You fuckers!” He pointed the gun at a man in front of the group, standing by a post. “You? Feeling brave? Are you?”
The man’s eyes went wide. He tried to duck behind the post but couldn’t push through the crowd. A few others were trying to hide behind the post too, just like the folks already there, scared out of their wits.
I scolded him again. “Fuck, Mano. This is the second time. Cut it out.”
“Fuck you too, Santi.”
“You’ve gone too far!” an old woman chimed in.
For a moment, memories of our elementary school principal, Miss Pacana, flashed my mind. She was a stern old spinster who always used to say, “You’ve gone too far!” when she was angry, as if people’s behavior had some measurable limit. Despite my earlier urge to scold Mano—or maybe give him a scare, like a close shave to make him stop—I held back. The sight of the old woman amused me: she really resembled Miss Pacana, small and round with short curly hair, dressed in a housedress and seemingly interrupted from cooking, brandishing a knife as she stormed out of her house. As the crowd parted, some backing away in fear of the knife, I almost chuckled. No one dared to confront her; they were all too afraid. The cowards. She had more guts than any of them.
“Go away!” Mano shouted, turning his back on the old woman.
“No, you leave! You’ve gone too far!” the old woman yelled. She stopped a few steps away from us, her eyes shifting between Mano and I.
“Take her home!” Mano told the crowd.
Damn, you’ve grown a conscience, I wanted to tell him.
No one in the crowd budged. They just kept muttering to each other. Cowardly bastards.
I nodded at the old woman. “You think you’re brave, ma’am?”
The old woman’s cheeks quivered, and then she moved toward Mano’s back. I let her. She swung her knife at him but only managed to scratch his denim jacket, but because her strike was weak, the knife fell on the pavement. Mano turned to her. The old woman jumped back, nearly stumbling, fear finally catching up with her. Mano grabbed the knife and moved towards her. He grabbed her by the neck and stabbed her in the gut. It went through easily. Maybe the old woman had sharpened it before cooking. Mano’s hands and arms were now dripping with blood, but he didn’t stop. My nose twitched at the stench. The bastard seemed to want to cook ground meat right there in the middle of the street.
Some people were repulsed, others grew angry, and some screamed, but no one stepped forward to help her. I aimed my gun at the people around me. If anyone really wanted to intervene, they would have done so by now. What did they think Mano would do? Fuck, he shouldn’t have pulled the trigger.
I revved up the motorcycle. “Damn it, Mano! If you don’t stop, you’re next!”

* * *

Miss Galvan, our class adviser, stood at the front of the class, her voice trembling as she spoke.
“Thank you, class. I’m grateful that in our brief time together, I had the chance to teach you. And truth be told, you’ve also taught me.”
I glanced to the right and saw Mary Grace sniffing. I was about to ask if she caught a cold, but I fell silent when I noticed Cynthia, the girl sitting in front of Mary Grace, also sniffing and crying. Cynthia could have been attractive if she didn’t cry so easily. Just the other day, she bawled like a cow because someone accidentally spilled the soft drink she just bought.
“Be good, everyone, okay? Be kind to my replacement,” our class adviser continued.
I looked at my other classmates. Almost everyone was sniffing. Some were breathing heavily, others were sighing with flushed faces. I scratched my head. What was this? Just because Miss Galvan was leaving, suddenly crying was a thing? Or were they all coming down with a cold?
Don’t forget your teacher, okay?
Miss Galvan’s voice was getting smaller. Tears were now streaming down her cheeks, and snot was creeping above her lips. She bit her lip repeatedly, as if trying to clench her ass in an attempt to not shit herself.
I imagined our class adviser sitting on the toilet, her face contorted. I tried not to laugh. No one noticed. There was already a full-blown symphony of sniffing in the whole class. Someone was even wailing as if they’d been whacked with a broomstick on their shins. When I searched for the source, I saw Jonathan, the big guy, huddled against the wall. It was Jonathan who spilled Cynthia’s drink last week and then ran like a madman in the corridor, accidentally bumping into the crybaby. Now, he seemed to be giving her a run for her money in the crying department. What on earth was going on?
I raised my hand.
Yes, Santi?
Miss Galvan smiled, looking like she was holding all her shit in. Are you going to die, ma’am?

* * *

Half of his face was bathed in the light seeping through the glass wall of the 7-Eleven, while the other half remained cloaked in darkness. Tall, with mahogany skin, a sharp nose, and a beard. Where did Bruno find this guy? The guy actually knows people who look like real humans.
I revved up the motorcycle and raised and lowered the visor of my helmet. He subtly glanced back and walked towards me, putting on his own helmet. I moved forward to let him take the back seat.
He held onto me tightly as we rode down the road.
I just let it be. He smelled good, like an Arab.
“Next to Andok’s, Andok’s, Andok’s,” I whispered into the air.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just repeating the landmark so I won’t forget,” I said.
“Mano,” he said.
“Santi. Where did you meet Bruno?” No response.
We turned into a narrow street. I tried again. “First time?” It took a moment before he answered. “No.” Liar. But it’s okay. I let it go.

* * *

“Damn, you two sure are close!” Bruno remarked after blowing smoke.
“Fool, that’s how he introduced himself,” I replied. “I don’t care if he’s Manuel or Mano or whatever the hell his name is.”
Bruno put the cigarette in the ashtray and picked up his phone. “How was he?”
“A nervous wreck, but he’s learning. I’ll teach him.” Not just a wreck; the guy even cried earlier. I took him to Lovelies, and the waterworks stopped. “Here, Ge. I texted him. We’ll meet at 7-Eleven again next week.” I just nodded and took a sip of my beer.
“Take it easy, man. He loves you too.”
“Dumbass.”
Bruno picked up the cigarette again, took a drag. “You’re only asking for something now.”
The smoke made my eyes tear up, but I didn’t let it show. I took another sip of my beer. It was still more than half full, but I downed the rest in one go.
“You seem to have enjoyed it,” Bruno grinned.
I slammed the beer bottle on the table. “Screw you.” Then I stood up and left the beerhouse. This jerk can smell a trick a mile away.

* * *

“When did you find out?” Mano sat on the bed, undressed. With the tray of food we ordered in front of him.
“Can’t remember,” I answered while putting on briefs. “Put something on before you eat. If your pubes gets into the fried bihon noodles—”
“I’ll put something on if you answer my question,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.
“What’s your problem?”
“I just want to hear it again. We’ve been partners for a long time.”
“Don’t get it twisted, Mano. We’re work partners. You’re the one Bruno calls to accompany me. What are you talking about?”
“That’s exactly it! We’re partners.”
“Whatever.” If I were facing someone else, I would have punched him by now. But it’s also my fault. I just wanted to console him at first. I got turned on, and then he cried again. So, I got turned on again. Fuck.
“Are you gonna tell me or what?”
I took a deep breath. “Since our first job.”
“At 7-Eleven?”
“You already know it.”
“What did you think of me?”
“Handsome.”
“That’s it?”
“What else do you want? I brought you here afterward. What do you want to hear, work partner?”
Mano smiled, then he stood up to put on briefs, and sat back on the bed.
I sat beside him and put some noodles on his plate.
“I just want to say something, Santi.”
I took a bite and nodded. “What?”
“I love you.”
“Isn’t the food good?” I said with a mouthful of fried noodles. “You eat.”

* * *

I was supposed to be next on the swing, but Jonathan insisted. He said his nanny was about to get mad.
Fine.
But Jonathan was heavy. I struggled to push. And he kept screaming. 
Go on, push harder! Push harder! I like it when I feel like I’m flying!
I pushed him three more times.
Waaah! Push, Santi! Push!
His screaming hurt my ears. The next time the swing came back, I tried kicking him. But he was heavy, and the swing had picked up speed. It flipped me, and I hit my head on the cement.
I lay on the cement for a moment. Slowly, I sat up. My elbows were scratched and sore, and my head throbbed. I touched the back of my head, near my nape. There was a bump. It hurt.
A teacher approached. I didn’t know her.
There, look what happened to you! That’s bad! Okay, say sorry to him! Say sorry! I looked up. Beside the teacher was Jonathan, bleeding from the mouth. Serves you right, I thought. I didn’t say anything. I just looked at Jonathan, wondering what his nanny would say. 
The teacher didn’t stop yapping. I turned my attention to her. She kept pinching me with her long nails. I wondered how she picks her nose with those.
Say sorry! Say sorry! Come on! Say sorry!
She held me by the elbow and pulled me up. The abrasions on my elbows hurt more, and the bump on my head throbbed. I felt something warm in my eyes.
I brushed myself off and apologized. “Sorry, Jonathan. Sorry, teacher.”
Okay, I accept that. Come on, you’re very good now. Let’s go to the clinic.
The teacher took Jonathan’s hand and helped him up. She also tried to hold me, but I resisted and moved away.
If that’s what you want, it’s your choice. Boor.
When they turned away, I lunged forward like a bull. I kinda choked when I hit the teacher’s back. I grinned when I saw her fall on the cement.

* * *

Mano was dressed, but he still refused to budge from the edge of the bed. His eyes were red from crying.
“Mano. Come on,” I urged him. I wanted to kick myself. This time, I’m going to tell Bruno. It’s real now, I’m switching partners. I don’t want dead weight. 
“Answer me first.”
“Damn it, what do you want from me?” I raised my voice.
“Damn you too! Answer me! Why do you keep taking me here?” Mano shouted back. “I can’t take it anymore!”
It was going nowhere. “We’ll talk about it later. We have to go.” I grabbed the keys and walked out of the room. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, fucker. To get my mind off him, I repeated the landmark in my mind: blue gate, blue gate, blue gate.

* * *

Mano was dressed, but he still refused to budge from the edge of the bed. His eyes were red from crying.
“Mano. Enough of that,” I said. I wanted to kick myself. Why am I getting turned on by his face that’s full of snot? Where did Bruno find this guy? Damn, I knew handsome guys shouldn’t be allowed in this kind of job. Good thing we can change partners. I don’t want trouble.
“Answer me first.”
“Fuck, why did you take this job if you don’t have any balls? What the hell are you? Why don’t you just work in an office, damn it!” I raised my voice.
“Damn you too! Answer me! How do you sleep with this kind of job?” Mano shouted back. “I can’t take it anymore!”
Nothing’s gonna come out of this. “We’ll talk about it later. Come here.” I grabbed his chin, turned him towards me, and kissed him. You want a piece of this?

* * *

I was on my way home then. I couldn’t figure out why I was so annoyed. 
I kept thinking about what Mr. Ferrer, our Social Science teacher, had said. He accused me of having a bad attitude. I raised my hand after his dramatic lecture in class, and I told him how pitiful the Philippines is because we always think of ourselves as victims. According to him, we’ve been doomed from the start—conquered by the Spaniards, sold out to the Americans, abused by the Japanese, robbed by the Marcoses, and fed false hopes by Cory.
I had merely mentioned something I saw on TV, a documentary about the sea. I observed those small fish, countless in number yet seemingly brainless. During their migrations, they’re hunted by other animals. Dolphins harass them, disrupting their movements to make them easier prey. Herons snatch those that stray above the water, and those that survive must evade encounters with whales or sharks, which would devour them. They seemed pitiful, with nowhere to escape. So, I speculated aloud, perhaps we’re destined to be like those small fish. Maybe America is the whale, the Spaniards are the dolphins, and the Japanese are the sharks, their eyes look alike anyway. That’s a sad way of looking at it, Mr. Ferrer said.
I didn’t know what else to say, so I just looked at him. Isn’t he the teacher? I needed to recite.
Mr. Ferrer cleared his throat before speaking again.
The good thing—if I follow your analogy, Santi— is that there is a lot of us. Even though the big predators seem daunting, the strength and unity of the smaller fish can overcome them when they come together. It’s a reminder that collective action and resilience can lead to significant victories, despite facing formidable challenges.
My classmates cheered. Mr. Ferrer’s voice got all poetic again, you know, like he was spouting some deep stuff. Whenever he got like that, we all knew it was serious. 
But I couldn’t help myself—I raised my habd to speak up. 
Sir, ever seen a whale taken down by anchovies? 
That cracked up the whole class. And then Mr. Ferrer called me out for having a bad attitude. That son of a bitch.

* * *

In the neighborhood, there’s a small grocery store right at the entrance. You’ll spot the place with the blue gate, number 35. It’s a couple of blocks down from the barangay hall, around four in the afternoon. Not quite rush hour yet, but the school kids are already heading home. Plenty of tricycles buzzing around, a few cars here and there. If Bruno had asked me to do this last year, I probably would’ve said no. But these days, our line of work is in demand, so I took it on. Competition’s tough, especially with no shortage of potential customers. Bruno calls what we do “population control,” something he picked up from the cops. They’re our rivals now too, apparently. But Bruno gets leads from the police, too, usually the high-ranking police officers who can afford to ignore the job. They’d rather keep their hands clean and leave the dirty work to us.
I’ve lost count of how many gigs I’ve done with Mano. Maybe Bruno’s testing me, setting me up for something down the line. But for now, I just go with it and see where it leads.
Mano kept holding onto me tight as we rode on the bikee. I wanted to tell him what a pain he was for all that drama, only to show up anyway. “Don’t worry, I’ll mess with you later, you jerk. That’s what you want, right? You’ll regret it, then love it?” I know how your mind works, buddy. But to keep things from escalating more than they already have, I kept quiet. What happened at Lovelies earlier was enough. Honestly, I’m just getting excited now. So, I let it slide. Blue gate, blue gate, blue gate.
The job should’ve been quick: the target’s right there in plain sight, no waiting necessary.
One or two shots, then run. Almost no one on the street, except for the students we passed by. Perfect. But Mano’s head was not in the right place.
I downshifted when I spotted the house with the blue gate. A guy stood out front, watering the plants. Mano yanked my jacket.
“Stop.”
“Let’s just roll past,” I said. “It’ll be fast.”
“Stop,” Mano pressed.
“I’ll handle it solo if you’re not in,” I started, then froze as I felt the barrel of a gun at my right side. “Shit—”
“I’ll screw this up if you don’t stop.”
As we reached the front of the blue gate, I stopped the bike. Mano got off and aimed the gun immediately at the man. The man turned, his eyes wide with shock, pointing to his chest, then collapsed right there on the street. Looks like he might’ve had a heart attack. Mano approached the fallen man and shot him in the chest.
The job should have been done by now. But Mano pulled the trigger again, one, two, three times. The man’s chest was riddled with holes, and his head was shattered.
Son of a bitch.
A woman came out from the blue gate, likely the man’s wife. “Oh my God! Rudy! What happened?” She glanced at Mano, took a step back, then hurried back inside the house.
People started coming out. I kick-started the motorcycle. We needed to get out of there. “Mano!”
Mano just glanced at me, then at the growing crowd, but he stayed standing next to the body.
What the hell’s happening with this fucker? I raised my voice. “Let’s go!”
The crowd got rowdy. “Fuck you!” “Killers! You beasts!” But amid all the chaos, one voice cut through: “We have CCTV here! You’ll be caught, you sons of bitches!”
I searched for the owner of the voice: a man in a white shirt, standing at the gate of the house next to number 35. He looked furious, veins bulging on his neck even from a few meters away.
I was about to call out to Mano again—maybe there really was CCTV—but it was too late. He was already striding toward the man in white, gun in his right hand.

* * *

Ma, are cow’s brains and human brains pretty much the same? The ones we mix in lugaw or porridge are just crushed, but they look almost the same.
I had just gotten home from school. We were in the kitchen. The sun was setting, and my mom was making coffee while I rummaged through the fridge for a snack. Dinner was on its way, but I was craving something sweet first.
My mom nearly dropped the thermos. 
Huh? What’s gotten into you now?
I saw someone get hit earlier, I said. A woman crossed the street even though the stoplight was no longer red, and a truck hit her.
“Oh my God. What did you do?”
“Nothing. What was I supposed to do? The police were already there.”
My mom shook her head and stirred her coffee with a spoon.
I grabbed leftover chocolate cake from yesterday and sat down next to my mom. We quietly drank coffee and ate chocolate cake. I almost mentioned how I remembered Dad when he was still alive. We used to go to Ogo’s porridge place in the neighboring town, which served the best lugaw. I often ordered lugaw with offal made from cow’s brains. Sometimes I’d even have Soup Number Five, the name’s a good cover for the fact that it’s made from cow’s testicles. Dad used to tease me, asking why I liked “balls,” saying he found cow’s testicles disgusting. I just laughed. It’s delicious.
But I kept these thoughts to myself. Since becoming a widow, even the smallest thing could make my mom cry. I continued eating the chocolate cake, planning to visit Ogo’s again the next day.

* * *

Mano was still in his clothes, but he still refused to move from the edge of the bed.
His eyes were red from crying.
We had just returned to Lovelies Motel. We escaped easily. After Mano stabbed the old woman, the crowd tried to mob us. But before they could get any closer, I fired a shot into the ground in front of them. They scattered like fish hit by dynamite—utterly useless cowards. Mano finally snapped out of it and jumped on. I revved the motorcycle and we sped away.
When we got to Lovelies, Mano broke down in tears. We were in the lobby, and he just kept crying. The guard glanced at us—couldn’t miss it, Mano’s jacket was bloodstained, and mine probably was too on the back. But he didn’t say a word. He wouldn’t dare.
The receptionist at the front desk gave us less attitude. She must’ve caught a whiff of the blood and heard Mano sniffling, but she just took the payment, handed me the key, and didn’t even glance our way. 
“That’s why we need a regular spot,” I wanted to explain to Mano as we walked down the hallway toward our room, wanting to show him the ropes of our trade. But I held back; he was too distraught. It seemed like he’d left his sanity back at the house with the blue gate. Even when we passed two guys with bloodshot eyes—who knows what they were on—Mano just kept crying. The addict with the full beard, sniffling like a hungry dog, stared at us. I flashed my gun at him, and he hurried off.
“Mano, cut it out,” I said. “I’ll handle Bruno. Remember, when things go sideways, we lay low. That’s the deal. Sometimes they prefer it messy, even if it means more bodies. It muddles the motive. You’ve got savings stashed away, right?”
“Don’t they have families?” Mano asked. He was sobbing like a kid ganged up on by playmates.
I wanted to shake some sense into him: “You’re not their family, so don’t cry about it. You kill someone, then you cry? Toughen up!” But I bit my tongue. Instead, I vented my frustration by ordering food. I grabbed the phone and ordered crispy pata—deep fried pork trotters, a whole chicken, two bowls of lomi noodle soup, and two 1.5-liter soft drinks from the front desk.

* * *

“We’re at Lovelies, watching snuff on my cellphone. Someone online sent it to me. Someone was supposed to get killed in the video. I thought it was probably just another action film. Or horror. But this one is different. It’s real. There’s a baby hanging from the ceiling, tied from its hands and feet. It’s wearing nothing. Its little pussy is displayed in front of the camera.
“What the fuck! The poor baby!” Carlo exclaimed.
I find Carlo more prissy, but I just don’t think about it. He’s tougher than Mano. The first time I saw him at 7-Eleven, I just shook my head. 
Bruno’s messing with me, he gave me another fuck that’s gonna lose it.
“Fuck, Santi. Turn it off,” Carlo said.
A man approached the baby. He had a sword, like a samurai. He aimed the sword at the baby’s pussy.
I looked at Carlo. He kept cussing me, but his eyes were nailed to the screen.
“You want a piece of this?”

About the translator

Joseph T. Salazar began his teaching career at a non-secular university, where he taught courses on Filipino literature. Over the years, he has lived in China, Indonesia and Thailand on research fellowships and teaching exchanges, immersing himself in the literary cultures of the region. A vegan for over a decade, he has explored the intersections of Third World commodities and religious traditions through food. His poems, stories and research articles explore the margins of identity formation. 'Room 202' is his first literary translation. He currently works in the Department of English and Comparative Literature at the University of the Philippines.