Chapter 1
EMILIO, MASSIMO AND SOFIA’S STORY
There’s a worm inside me. A vengeful, tequila-soaked demon worm. It’s moving around my guts. Rearranging shit in there. What if it inches toward my balls? They won’t work anymore. I won’t be able to fuck.
“Holy shit, no fucking? MAS, NO FUCKING! NO FUCKING, MAS!!!”
I slap my stomach to kill it through blunt force. My shrieking voice zaps my brain with pain.
“CAN YOU HEAR ME?”
Another zap.
I cringe and stop screaming.
The tile’s cold and sticky. With piss or vomit. I don’t know which. Plastered to the bathroom floor in my boxers and one sock. There’s pink glitter on my knee and dried queso in my hair. A fucking broken plastic tiara next to red lace panties.
Whose are those?
Last night is a fucking blank spot. I smell like shit. Reek of tequila, cheap perfume, and barbecue.
“MAS, DID I EAT BARBECUE?”
Another zap of pain in my brain when I scream. But only silence. No Mas. I squint at my chest, covered in lipstick kisses. A neon pink slap bracelet, “Bitch squad” on it. I don’t remember what bitch or which squad or whose kisses.
My head is fucking hammering. Split open. Down the middle with one eyeball and part of my nose and lips hanging to one side. My hands are smashed against my ears, holding each piece together. If I let go, it will fall off.
The worm wiggles.
Rumbles as it moves. My skin ripples from it. Twitches left, then right. I slap it over and over again. The sound echoes in the empty bathroom.
“I see you, cabrón,” I mutter, digging my index finger into my belly button. “You picked the wrong gut to haunt.”
“Emilio!” Massimo’s voice comes from above or below. Sideways even. “I’m cooking eggs, try to soak up all that alcohol.”
I hate eggs.
I hate alcohol.
I hate tequila worms.
Ignoring him, I push the door shut with my foot. Start rummaging. Drawer one. Q-tips and rubbers. Drawer two. Hair gel, more rubbers, and a nail file. Drawer three. Rubbers and a damn cocktail fork. Jackpot. I hold it up to the light like Excalibur.
“Massi! I’m doing it! I’m gonna dig it out! I SEE IT SWIMMING.”
I line it up with my belly button. The hole keeps moving every time I stare at it. The worm wiggles to the right, and I stab it. Suddenly, his eyes appear. Two little red dots pop up from my belly.
Staring at me.
Scaring me.
“MAS, I SEE HIM! HE’S LOOKING AT ME.”
The red eyes grow bigger. Wider and spreading. I move up, trying to get to my feet. His eyes shrink. Turning from circles to red lines. Chasing each other toward my underwear.
“MY BALLS MASSI! HE’S GOING FOR MY BALLS!”
A zap of pain in my head. I ignore it. Wanting to save my balls before my brain. Pounding footsteps and then the door flies open, hitting my shoulder.
“Owie. You hit me, brother.”
“Put the damn fork down!”
I ignore him. Closing one eye to watch the worm move. Then focus, hand steady, and target acquired.
“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND. I ATE THE WORM, brO. IT’S IN ME. IT’S EATING MY TUMMY. IT’S HEADED TOWARD MY BALLS. FEEDING ON ME. LOOK.”
I stab the fork into my pelvis. Try to stop the worm. His long, red eyes went into my waistband. Two new eyes form. Big, bright, and even more red.
“What the fuck?”
Mas steps into the bathroom with me.
Watches the worm.
“Give me the fucking fork. Where did you find this?”
He wrestles it out of my hand. Shoves me back to sit on the toilet. Crushes my worm-killing sword in his hand, dropping the pieces into my trash can overflowing with Dude Wipes.
He says something else, but I don’t hear it. The worm is whispering now. I need to listen until the phone rings.
Help is on the way.
I run out of the bathroom. Follow the sound to the phone on the kitchen counter. Holli’s name on the screen. I answer it, put him on speaker. Why not bring the whole squad into this intervention?
“Where the fuck were you last night? WHERE? HOLLI BALLS!”
Massi groans as he barrels toward me. His face blurs into two, like that fucking movie Face Off.
“MASSIMO! IT’S HOLLI BALLS!”
He has two index fingers, both pointing at me. I rub my eyes, but it’s true. Two pointer fingers, ten fingers on one hand. Lucky. He has a super tunnel on his dick when he’s choking his chicken.
He’s on me, trying to wrestle the phone away. I throw an elbow into his gut. He grunts and doubles over, wheezing. I run to the other side of the kitchen. Keeping the island between us.
“Hey, I’ve got to tell you something. But shhhhhh, don’t tell Massi.”
I slap a hand over the receiver, going left every time Mas goes right. It’s making the worm slosh around my stomach.
“You remember when we drank the mezcal from that weird bottle that smelled like old salsa? The night I almost died?”
My brain hiccups.
“Wait . . . wait . . . did I die?? Holli, did I die and you’re calling me in Heaven?”
I stagger backward, slipping on an empty pizza box tossed. Gripping the edge of the counter to stay upright.
“HOLY SHIT. IS JESUS HERE?”
I spin toward the living room mirror, half expecting him to appear behind me like a guest star on The Good Place.
Glorious in a white robe with nail-scarred hands.
Except there’s nothing there. Just me, covered in glitter, hair pointing in seventeen directions, and my big bro rounding the island like he’s about to attack me.
I barely hear Holli Balls telling me I’m not dead and not going to Heaven. That I’m wasted off my ass.
“I knew it. Massimo said that mezcal was just artisanal, but I saw the worm move, bro. It had, like, a vendetta against me. I showed it. I ate the worm. It’s in me.”
I spin in a circle, trying to show him where the worm is through the phone. I lift my shirt, pointing to my stomach. The glitter flies into the sunlight.
“Do you see it swimming around? It’s right here? Do you see it?”
I spin in a circle, trying to show him where the worm is through the phone. I point to my stomach. To the worm wiggling under my skin.
There’s nothing.
No answer, just silence. He’s useless, and I need backup.
“Is your brother there?” Hollister asks.
I whip around too fast. The floor tilts. I knock a chair over with my knee. Metal clatters across the floor.
“MASSSSSIMO!” I roar toward the room. “Holli’s on the phone! He can’t see the worm. But it’s moving inside my tummy, I can feel it. It’s ‘cuz I’m dead. I’m dead, Brother. Me and Jesus. Wait, why are you in Heaven with us? Are you dead too? Did we both die?”
He tackles me to the floor. We crash into the side table. Knocking over a lamp. He curses at me. Lying on top of me. Reaching and wrestling to get the phone out of my hand, above my head. His tan eyes, same as mine, merge into one. A fat cyclops, lying on my chest.
I start laughing.
Can’t stop.
His forearm shoves into my chest, pushing off me. My ribs hurt. He groans and stumbles back toward the kitchen, leaving me and the worm sprawled on the floor.
“I was doing it. I was so close.”
I pant, my ass getting soaked by some unknown liquid on the floor. Did I piss myself? I curl up, look at my dick.
“I saw the bastard. It waved at me. Had a tiny hat.”
“Emilio! Chill the fuck out!”
Massimo goes back to making eggs. The smell makes me gag—makes the worm wiggle faster across my stomach. I’m dying over here. My brother doesn’t care, putting Holli on speaker.
“Have you ever been with someone who totally disarms you?”
Massi snorts. I do too.
What a pussy ass question.
Holli’s such a doormat sometimes.
“Bro. I’ve been with people who disrobe me, disown me, and one girl tried to disinfect me. What kind of disarming are we talking about?”
I mutter, “Definitely not the kind with tacos and a strap-on,” but no one hears. More talking. I tune out, distracted by a smear of pink on the ceiling.
Is that lipstick?
The longer they talk, the faster the room spins. Holli’s blah, blah, blah about a chick. I roll onto my side and press my cheek to the tile. It’s cold. Wet. I taste cigarette ash and regret in the back of my throat.
Massi hums. “Well looky here. Holli found a girl that disarms him . . .”
I groan. Drag my fingernails across my chest where the worm is starting to move again. He’s doing laps now. Zipping between my ribs like Mario Kart. My whole stomach flexes like it’s possessed, and no one cares.
“I knew I shouldn’t have called you,” Holli mutters through the speaker.
“I fucking knew I shouldn’t have eaten the worm,” I mutter back.
More talking. More moaning from me. Massimo says something about pussy. I want pussy.
Who’s eating pussy?
I’m jealous. Visions of pussy lips dance in front of my watery eyes.
Massimo chuckles like my misery is a fucking romcom and not a worm emergency.
The slimy little rigged body is snagging on my guts.
Trying to get out through my belly button.
No one hears the scraping. But I do. Little claws. Tiny hat. The bastard’s mocking me.
Then it happens, the worm shifts direction. A fast left across my stomach. Burning a trail lower. Headed south to my pretty bald balls. I lift my waistband. See, they’re in danger.
“GET THE TWEEZERS!”
Because if no one else is gonna help me save my dick from worm doom, I’m doing it myself.
I shove off the floor, stumble around the island.
Dizzy and half-blind, I hunt for tweezers.
We’ve got to have them. A junk drawer. A party favor bag.
Maybe that weird glass bowl full of mystery shit on the counter.
I tear through drawer after drawer, knocking stuff onto the floor.
Napkins, bottle openers, and rubbers, but nothing else.
I drop to my knees. Throw open a cabinet under the sink.
Nothing but a tub of protein powder. A stash of empty liquor bottles.
A Solo cup, half-buried behind a stack of mismatched plastic plates and plastic forks.
A bendy straw, a wine stopper shaped like a penis, and another Excalibur. But 2.0 this time!
A crusty-ass cocktail fork.