Diary of a Masquerade 4

Chapter 4
[The storytelling continues, but something strange begins to manifest in Roberto Policarpio before Antonio’s eyes...]

“I had patrons. Stricken types—no art, no trade, no education. But they adored me. My stardom stretched all the way to Balibago City. Believe me, I met GIs who’d part with green bucks at the slightest nod from my brown dick. I picked up certain habits. Clean habits.”

I stopped.
What clean habits? Who the hell was I fooling?

The truth? I took it all to the extreme. My gang and I always found some forgotten corner of the village where we could drink ourselves into unconsciousness. Booze was rare in our part of the country. But we’d smuggle in crates of San Miguel, then piss ourselves blind. I was the boss. And being the boss meant you made your gang happy—booze, shabu, and the cheapest thrills money could buy. That was my job. My goddamn responsibility.

My listener followed every word like scripture. His attention unnerving. He leaned in.

“Excuse me,” he interrupted during one of my pauses, “what are you thinking now? Please don’t stop. Your story—it’s very out of the ordinary.”

Out of the ordinary, my ass. Some people are just too gullible.

I continued.

“Sure, some fools tried to challenge my authority. One day, this kid—he couldn’t have been more than thirteen—waited for me on the bamboo path I took daily. ‘Psssst!’ he called. I thought he was just another sissy trying to flirt. But the punk leapt at me, wiggled his skinny hips, and grabbed his groin. ‘Romance me,’ he said with a snarl.

“I lost it. Punched him square in the face. He spun like a toy windmill and dropped, wailing like a slaughtered goat.

“These hands? These are my weapons. Big, strong, dangerous. ‘They belong to your father,’ my grandfather used to say. ‘They’ll grow into instruments of power. But be warned—never use them to smash skulls.’”

But I did. And not just skulls. These hands lured women. And fags. And clients.

I wasn’t just built strong. I looked good, too. Exotic face, golden brown skin, hoarse voice with the right edge of seduction. I was proud of how I looked naked at the river. I wasn’t shy about it either.

I sighed. Bored. I’d told this damn story too many times over the last three years. It was practically my resume. My listener, though, had those wide eyes—the kind that wouldn’t let you stop.

God. I needed money.

“I warned people not to mess with me,” I said, revving up again. “Told them flat out—if you provoke me, I’ll destroy you. Doesn’t matter if you live a thousand miles away. I’ve got contacts. Power. Influence. And memory.”

When I walked down the streets outside the village, people gave me that respectful glance. I got free haircuts, new clothes, a full pocket. Because I had talent.

Pause.

Talent? What talent?

I should’ve shut up. But the words came spilling out.

Petty crimes? I’d done them all. But blackmail? That was my domain. I knew every dirty secret in the barrio. Priests with their little lovers. Wives with affairs. I didn’t even need to ask. They offered me their shame voluntarily—just to keep me quiet.

Pampanga was my kingdom. My brothel. But I dreamed of something bigger. Manila.

My listener stared at me as if I was about to transform into Charles Dickens. Let it be so. Amen.

“So,” I said, “you can imagine how pissed I was when my folks forced me into Pampanga College for a teaching degree. Me? An educator? Fuck that. One night I just disappeared. Returned only for my grandfather’s funeral... then, a few days later, my grandmother’s.”

“You got any other family?” he asked.

“My brother,” I replied. “He was sent to live with an aunt in the South after our parents died. Haven’t seen him since. Not even for the funerals. Sent a telegram: ‘No fare money.’ That’s when I knew. Weakling.”

His face changed. From rapt attention to quiet sorrow. I was almost ready for my final move.

“After cutting ties, I enrolled in an exclusive college in Manila to study journalism. I paid for it all—tuition, rent, allowance—by pulling tricks. Every depravity imaginable. But only with the big shots. No one at school had a clue about my nightly performances. I managed just fine. For three years. And I charged no less than one hundred pesos.”

He grimaced and sighed.

“I’m not interested.”

And just like that, he slumped over, folding into himself.

Shit. All that for nothing? My glorious autobiography—dumped like trash. Where did I go wrong?

Still, I wasn’t giving up. In this business, if they don’t buy you, then you sell them. For fifty percent commission.

“God, I’m so tired,” he mumbled. “Walk with me. Just a while.”

I trailed behind him, still hoping. His legs—muscular, poised, hypnotic—led the way. The walk, the original masculine strut, the kind Filipino boys tried to imitate but never quite mastered. His body moved like it was sculpted from sweat and pride.

We walked through bougainvillea, santan, and blooming gardenias along the stretch of Manila Bay, the scent of dama de noche stirring up memories of a family long lost.

“I know people,” I said, half-whispering. “People who might pay you for your services...”

We stood outside the Army-Navy Club, the playground of Manila generals. He gripped the metal gate tightly. I saw the veins on his arms pulse with tension. He stared blankly, like remembering something painful.

“I once had dinner in this club,” he said softly. “With Mikael Sarmiento. The best dinner of my life. But that’s all over now.”

“Who’s Mikael Sarmiento?”

He jerked his head as if waking from a dream. That’s when I noticed something was off.

He wasn’t sweating. His chest wasn’t rising. His grip on the metal bars—tight, tense—produced no tremble in the bars themselves.

Even stranger: when his wristwatch tapped against the gate, it made no sound.

As we walked... I noticed he cast no shadow.

“You’ll learn about him,” he said cryptically. “In time.”

What did he mean? Only God knows.

Maybe it was my mind again. Years of alcohol and substances had left me with occasional hallucinations. I didn’t talk about them. Didn’t want anyone labeling me crazy.

Still hoping for some coin, I asked, “So why the trip to Manila Bay?”

He slowed his pace.

“Eight years ago,” he said, “I lost my virginity here. To a wild young prostitute. She knew what she was doing. She didn’t stop until the very last drop left me.”

“You mean oral?”

“Of course. That’s the best,” he giggled.

Then he pointed to the dark horizon.
2025-05-13 18:44:28
masquerade