QUEEN OF THE COMMUNIST CANNIBALS

Editor’s Note

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In modern pop culture, the so-called Men’s Adventure Magazine is most famous for evocative yet absurd cover art and lurid headlines. Many, maybe all, of these magazines boasted the “true” nature of their contents. Yet, the stories more often stretch the definition of truth a great deal. I am most knowledable about the history of the adjacent “True West” Magazine, which once published so-called factual stories that were actually pulled wholesale from the imaginations of various authors. That is not to say there isn’t entertainment value, because there absolutely is.

What we now refer to as Men’s Adventure magazines grew in popularity with the publication simply titled “True” when it shifted focus to war stories during and post WWII. Other Pulp Magazines, like “Argosy” and “Adventure” would later follow suit by including more “true” stories within their contents. Many of the covers featured men locked in blrutal combat with wild animals or shapely women in distress. Accompanying these were eye-catching titles such as “Weasles Ripped my Flesh”, “Escape from the Red Congo Bloodbath”, and “Nude Girl Fortress on Samar Island.” The title of the following story is taken directly from the Table of Contents of one of these publications.

Author Cora Buhlert has crafted here an earnest homage to the Men’s Adventure magazine while simultaneously nodding to the outlandish nature of their tales via clever framing and humor. In this way, Buhlert channels the classic Pulp author Theodore Roscoe and his Legionaire tales of Thibaut Corday, an aged soldier of fortune spinning tall tales from his days in the service.

-L.D. Whitney

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QUEEN OF THE COMMUNIST CANNIBALS

by Cora Buhlert

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AT FIRST GLANCE, the Missionary’s Mistake in Montego Bay looked like any other bar in the Caribbean. A wooden shack by the harbour with a hand-painted sign above the door.

Inside, there was a scattering of random chairs and tables, painted in bright pastel colours. The bar had been hastily nailed together from wooden planks and the stools had seen better days. Fishing trophies on the walls, an out-of-tune piano in one corner, a squeaky fan idly spinning under the ceiling, coloured Christmas lights on the walls and candles on the tables illuminating it all.

But even though it looked like any other bar in town, the Missionary’s Mistake was special. For this was the place where you could find the best rum on the island, whether you preferred it straight or in one of the tasty cocktails that Carmen, the owner, mixed with an aplomb that would be the envy of every barkeeper from Las Vegas to Miami. 

But even a teetotaller would still have a good time at the Missionary’s Mistake. For in addition to Carmen’s excellent jerk chicken and goat curry, the bar also offered some of the best conversation on the island. Cause the Missionary’s Mistake was the favourite hang-out of all the adventurers and soldiers of fortune that had been flocked to the Caribbean in search of danger, treasure and destiny.

One of these adventurers, a man in khaki pants and a plain white shirt, was currently lounging at a table in the corner. He was in his thirties, short dark hair, steel-blue eyes, tanned skin, chiselled features and a three days stubble dusting his squared chin. This was “Two-Fisted” Todd Donovan, freelance troubleshooter. Tonight he’d come to the Missionary’s Mistake to relax with a glass of fine Jamaica rum, after concluding a difficult, but lucrative job. 

Perched on the chair next to him was an attractive woman of about thirty, clad in a strapless cotton print dress. Long blonde hair fell to her bronzed shoulders. On the table in front of her sat a fruity concoction in the highball glass. This was Doctor Patricia Turner, Pat to her friends, biologist by trade and Todd’s occasional lover, ever since he had saved her from a drug lord who had thrown them both into a pit of venomous scorpions.

But all that was in the past and tonight Todd and Pat were enjoying their drinks in the sort of friendly silence that is born of long companionship, when the door opened and a man stumbled into the Missionary’s Mistake. He had tanned skin, shaggy hair that was slowly going grey, a mangy beard and clothes that had seen better days. Pat did not know him, but Todd did. And though he did his best to ignore the newcomer, the man spotted him at once.

“Ah, Todd, fancy seeing you here tonight,” the man called. The slurring of his words and the fumes of alcohol on his breath indicated that the Missionary’s Mistake wasn’t the first bar he’d visited that night, though it might well be the last. 

Todd nodded. “Hank.”

The man’s name was Hank Gannon, though ‘round here, he was only known as Havana Hank, since he’d spent most of his life in Cuba, before the revolution had driven him out seven years before. No one quite knew what exactly Hank had been doing in Cuba. Though Todd was pretty sure that whatever it was, it hadn’t been legal.

Unbidden, Hank plopped down on the remaining free chair at the table. 

“Who’s your lady friend?” he slurred, as if only noticing Pat now. And who knew, maybe he had?

“I’m Pat,” she answered haughtily, before Todd could, “Pat Turner. Doctor Pat Turner.”

“A lady doctor, huh?” Hank winked at Todd, “You’ve really come up in the world.”

And Hank had gone down in the world, Todd thought, cause he still remembered how Hank used to swagger through the casinos and nightspots of Havana in a crisp, snow-white suit, expertly tailored to hide the bulk of his gun.

Hank, meanwhile, waved at Carmen. “Rum, the good stuff, straight.”

Carmen didn’t budge from her spot behind the bar. “Have you got money?” 

In response, Hank slammed a wad of dollar bills on the table. “That enough for you, Carmen, honey? And now bring me some rum as well as another of whatever Todd and his lady friend are having.”

“I’m not your honey,” Carmen muttered under her breath, though she did pour the drinks. 

Apparently, she’d decided not to throw out Hank just yet, at least not until some of the dollar bills on the table rested in her ancient cash register. For Carmen was nothing, if not a shrewd businesswoman. She was in her forties, stout and dark-skinned, a devout Christian who never missed church on Sundays, and the heart, soul and – if  need be – muscle of the Missionary’s Mistake during the week. 

Todd counted himself lucky that Carmen had a soft spot for him. Cause if Carmen didn’t like you, you had to find yourself another place to drink and had to head to one of the bars on the Hip Strip, where witless tourists sipped watered down drinks decorated with little paper parasols.

Carmen brought over the drinks. She slammed down a glass of rum in front of Hank and set down two more glasses in front of Todd and Pat with considerably more care. Then she picked up Hank’s wad of bills, counted them and pocketed some, before putting the rest back down again. 

Before she left, she winked at Todd. “I like her,” she said with a nod at Pat, “Well done, boy.”

“I like her, too,” Pat said, once Carmen was out of earshot, “A real original.”  

Hank raised his glass. “To friends, old and new.”

They all drank, Todd and Hank taking hearty gulps, while Pat took a dainty sip of her fruity cocktail.

“Did I ever tell you how I got out of Cuba back in ‘59?” Hank asked. 

Todd yawned and only belatedly remembered to cover his mouth. After all, there were ladies present. 

“Only about a dozen times.” 

“Ah, but you haven’t heard this one, yet. The one about how I escaped a Commie firing squad.” 

Hank always had new stories to tell about his escape from Cuba. Some of them might even be true.

“They stuck you in a prison camp in the jungle and were going to shoot you, but you managed to escape,” Todd said and took a sip of rum, “Yes, I know.”

“Ah, but you don’t know this part yet. The part about her. The queen.”

“Queen Elizabeth II was on Cuba?” Pat asked.

Hank shook his head. “No, not that queen. The other one. The nude queen of the Communist cannibals.”

Pat leant forward, her interest piqued. “With a hook like that, who could resist?”

Not Pat, obviously. “You heard the lady,” Todd said with a sigh, “So fire away!”

Hank leant back in his chair. He lit a cigar and took a sip of rum to lubricate his vocal cords for the tale to come.

“Well, it was January ‘59. Castro had just taken Havana and I needed to get out fast, cause I… well, I’d been friendly with Meyer Lansky, if you know what I mean, and Meyer Lansky and the Commies didn’t get along.”

“I thought Meyer Lansky fled to the Bahamas,” Pat said, “So why didn’t you go with him?”

“I was going to,” Hank said, “But there was chaos in the streets, you know? The revolutionaries were ransacking the hotels and casinos, while everybody who could tried to get out. And so we were separated. Meyer Lansky got on the last plane out of Havana. Me, I was left to fend for myself.”

Todd took a gulp of rum. “Well, that’s what you get for trusting the mob.”

“So there I was, all alone in Cuba surrounded by Commies who wanted me dead. Luckily, I had a boat moored in a nice little secluded bay. I only had to get there first. And that meant going through the jungle, cause the roads were full of patrols. So I hacked my way through the jungle. After a few hours, my nice suit was in tatters, I’d lost my hat and mosquito bites covered every inch of my body. And that’s when I met her.”

“The queen?” Pat leant forward, clearly entranced.

Hank nodded. “Aye, the queen. La Reina, that’s what they called her. The deadliest of Cuba’s woman revolutionaries. Commander of one of Castro’s all-women brigades. Not that I knew any of this, of course. I was just hacking my way through the jungle, when I came upon a secluded pond with crystal clear water. And there she was, naked as God has made her. The queen…”

Hank took a gulp of rum. “Dusky skin, long black hair, curves in all the right places…”

“Well, curves in all the wrong place would be a problem,” Pat remarked dryly.

Hank shot her an irritated look. “She had her back to me, so she didn’t notice me at first. And cause I couldn’t get past her without her spotting me, I decided to stay and enjoy the view…”

Pat rolled her eyes. “Of course, you did.”

“So I watched her splashing crystal clear water all over herself. Watched her well formed bottom bob up and down just above the water surface. Watched her turn sideways to reveal even more tantalising curves. Watched her turn around all the way, emerging from the waters like the Venus by that Italian guy…”

“Borticelli, you mean,” Pat said.

Hank nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, that’s the one. Like that little Italian restaurant in Brooklyn.”

Hank was flushed with excitement now, almost as if he were in the jungle of Cuba again, spying on a beautiful but deadly woman revolutionary.

“Anyway, she turned around, rising from the water like a marble-chiselled goddess. And then she spotted me. I thought she’d scream, but not her, not La Reina. She was made of tougher stuff. And so she covered her… well, you know…” 

Hank made an eloquent gesture.

“…with one hand. With the other, she grabbed her gun – her holster was all she was wearing – and pointed it straight at me. ‘Hands up, Yankee!’ she said.”

“So what did you do?” Pat wanted to know.

“I did as she said. I put my hands up. I had a gun, of course, but who wants to shoot perfection?” 

“You should’ve made a run for it,” Todd said, “Her gun probably wouldn’t have fired anyway, cause that bath in the pond got the powder wet.”

“Well, pardon me, but I was kind of distracted. After all, I had a gun pointed at me, by a beautiful and naked woman. And besides, I didn’t know who she was, how dangerous she was.”

Hank sucked on his cigar and puffed out a perfectly shaped ring of smoke.

“She looked me up and down and said, ‘Put down your gun and the machete.’ So I did and she promptly kicked them away, into the pond. ‘Turn around,’ she ordered and tied my hands behind my back. And then she treated me to a view of her stunning body, as she got dressed. It was only when I saw her uniform that I knew she was one of them, one of the revolutionaries.”

Hank took a sip of rum.

“There were rumours about them, of course. Castro’s all-women brigades. The she-devils of Santiago, the vixens of Varadero. But so far, I’d never seen one of them in the flesh. But if they all looked like her, then… well, let’s just say that Fidel is a very lucky man.”

“So you got captured by a female revolutionary after spying on her in the bath?” Pat remarked.

“You make it sound so sordid. But yeah, I was taken prisoner. She frogmarched me through the jungle, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, the barrel of her gun thrust  into my back. We must have marched for half an hour or so, until we finally made it back to the camp of her brigade.”

Hank knocked back another gulp of rum.

“They were all women, the entire brigade. Women guarding the gates of the camp, women cleaning weapons, women exercising, women everywhere. And each of them a real looker, the sort you’d expect to find dancing in a Havana cabaret with feathers in her hair and not crawling through the undergrowth in khakis. And my captor, La Reina, she was the commander.”

“And there were no men at all?” Todd asked. By now, he was intrigued himself.

“Oh, sure there were men. Prisoners in cages. Pitiful figures they were, half-starved, their clothes in rags. Flies were buzzing around the cages, waiting for one of the prisoners to drop dead, so they might have a feast…”

Hank shuddered theatrically.

“As soon as we made it back to the camp, La Reina pushed me towards one of the guards and said, ‘Caught another Yankee. Lock him up with the others, Valeria, will you?’ The guard, Valeria, was a real looker, too, a fiery redhead. I turned on my charm, but she wouldn’t have any of it…”

“Gee, I wonder why,” Pat said with barely veiled sarcasm.

If Hank noticed, he didn’t give any sign of it. Instead, he continued with his tale.

“So I was shoved into a cage with several other prisoners, both Batista loyalists and Americans like me. I spent five days in there. Five days of hell, five days of mosquitoes, sweat and thirst. Five days in the power of La Reina and her all-women brigade. And trust me, those vixens were vicious. Once, a prisoner, a plump little tobacco merchant, tried to make a run for it. The guards just shot him in the back.”

Pat took a sip of her fruity cocktail. “All right, so I get the ‘nude’, the ‘queen’ and the ‘Communist’ bit. But what about the cannibalism? Where did that come from?”

“Patience, my dear.” Hank puffed out a cloud of smoke. “I was just getting to that part.”

Todd turned to Pat. “You’ve got to forgive Hank. He tends to go on and on, when he’s in storytelling mode.”

Hank shot him a dirty look and continued.

“As I was saying, I was locked up in that cage in that misbegotten jungle camp for five days, five whole days. And in those five days, I saw a lot.”

Hank took a gulp of rum, as if to fortify himself for this part of his tale.

“Every night, La Reina herself would walk past the cages holding the prisoners. And every night, she’d pick one of her captives – always a young, strong, strapping man – and had him brought to her tent to satisfy her voracious appetites.”

“And I guess the appetites were talking about here were not purely sexual in nature?” Pat asked.

In response, Hank gave her such a scandalised look that Pat laughed out loud. “Oh, please! I wasn’t born yesterday and I’m a doctor of biology besides. So yes, I know what sex is, shocking as it might be.”

“Well, we didn’t know about the exact nature of La Reina’s appetites. All I, all any of the prisoners knew, was that she’d have a man brought to her tent every night and that that man never came back. We also noticed that the revolutionaries were eating really well and that they were roasting meat on a spit over a campfire every day. I asked one of the guards about that and she said it was pork, feral pigs they’d hunted in the jungle. But trust me, that pork looked mighty suspicious…” 

“And you think what was roasting over that fire wasn’t pork at all but the missing prisoners?” Todd probed.

Hank nodded. “It made sense. After all, we never heard any shots from the jungle, never saw a woman come back lugging the carcass of a dead pig. And besides, we sometimes heard screams coming from La Reina’s tent late at night. Might have been screams of lust, might have been something else.”

Hank sucked on his cigar and blew out a puff of smoke.

“Anyway, on my fifth night there, La Reina walked past the cages holding the prisoners, like she did every night. Most of us were filthy and smelly and many shrank back from her merciless gaze, for we all knew what our fate would be, should she choose us. And La Reina just stood there, a cigar between her blood red lips as she contemplated which one of us would serve her that night. Then she turned to her lieutenant. ‘I’ve had a message from the Commandante. All of the prisoners are to be shot tomorrow, so see to it that everything is prepared. And have this one brought to my tent.’ She took the cigar from her mouth and used it to point. And she pointed right at me…”

Hank made a dramatic pause.

“Two of the guards grabbed me and pulled me out of the cage. Then I was marched away at gunpoint, while my fellow prisoners cried ‘God be with you, brother’ after me. La Reina walked ahead, not even turning around to look at me who was to be her plaything for the night. She strutted into her tent without a second glance. The guards shoved me in after her. ‘Dolores, see that we’re not disturbed,’ La Reina ordered. In response, the guards closed the flap, leaving me alone with La Reina, the deadliest woman in all of Cuba…” 

Another dramatic pause, followed by a gulp of rum.

“Her tent was well furnished, especially compared to the cage where I’d spent the past five days. She had a desk, chairs, a folding table, a mangy looking Turkish carpet and of course, a bed. It was just a cot, really, but it had blankets and pillows and a nice thick mattress. If a man has to die in the morning anyway, there certainly are worse ways to spend your last night on Earth than in that bed, bringing a beautiful, if deadly woman to the heights of pleasure. Yup, there were certainly worse ways to go.”

“But you obviously did not die that night,” Pat remarked, “So what happened? Were you so good that La Reina decided to just let you go rather than have you shot and/or roast you on a spit?”

“Well…” Hank’s weathered cheeks reddened slightly, as he shifted in his seat. “…as soon as we were alone in the tent, La Reina turned to me and ordered, ‘You there, Yankee, clean up that mess’ and pointed at her desk, which was covered all over in papers, cigar butts and miscellaneous odds and ends.”

Pat laughed out loud, a sound like a silver bell. “So La Reina, the deadly queen of the Communist cannibals of Cuba, wasn’t looking for a boy toy after all. Instead, she just needed a housekeeper.”

“Well…” Hank looked even more uncomfortable. “…I guess we would have gotten to the other part eventually. Only that La Reina never got the chance to enjoy my manly talents. Because while I was cleaning up the mess on her desk, I saw my chance and grabbed it.”

One last dramatic pause.

“On the desk, half buried under papers, was an ashtray. One of those really heavy ashtrays from cut glass. I picked it up and when her back was turned, I knocked her out with the ashtray. There was a single cry, then she slumped to the floor. I braced myself for the guards to burst into the tent, but none of them did. I guess they were used to screams from La Reina’s tent. And besides, she did explicitly tell them that she didn’t want to be disturbed.”

Hank drained the last of his rum.

“I had to be quick. I tied up La Reina, gagged her with her own bandana, laid her down on the cot and even covered her with a blanket. I was still a gentleman, after all. Then I grabbed a gun and a knife from the desk, cut a hole into the side of the tent and ran off into the jungle as far as my feet could carry me. I wandered around for days and evaded countless patrols, but finally I made it to the secluded bay where my boat was still waiting for me. And that, my friends, is the story of how I got out of Cuba.”

Hank stubbed out the butt of his cigar in a cut glass ashtray not unlike the one he’d used to knock out La Reina.

“Later, I heard that all the prisoners at the camp had been shot the next morning. Not one of them got out. No one except for me.”

Hank rose to his feet. “And that’s it for me. Time to call it a night. See you around, Todd.” He bowed to Pat. “It’s been a pleasure, Doctor Turner.”

With that he staggered out of the bar into the night.

When he was gone, Pat turned to Todd. “Do you think that even one word of his story was true?” she wanted to know.

Todd shrugged. “Difficult to say. Was Hank in a prison camp in Cuba and escaped? Probably. Was there a female commander named La Reina? Quite likely. Did she use prisoners for housework and other services? It’s possible. Did La Reina and her soldiers roast prisoners on a spit? No way. What Hank saw cooking there was pork. And if you ask me…”

Todd drained the last of his rum.

“…the whole thing is a tall tale, made up to hide the fact that Hank’s escape from Cuba was not nearly as exciting as he likes to pretend.”

“Of course, he made it all up,” Carmen said, as she waddled over to pick up Hank’s glass. “It’s what he does.”

“How do you know?” Pat asked, genuinely interested.

“Because I happen to know that Hank bribed a fisherman to smuggle him out of Cuba.”

“That would actually fit in with his story about a boat waiting in a secluded bay.”

Carmen shook her head, curls bobbing. 

“The fishing boat wasn’t moored in some secluded bay, but in the harbour of Havana. And Hank showed up at the quay dressed in a nice crisp white suit. No man who’d spent a night in a jungle prison, let alone five, would still look so sharp.”

Todd raised an eyebrow, for he had never heard that particular story before.

“So how do you know?” he asked.Carmen smiled. “That’s easy. You see, the fisherman Hank bribed to smuggle him out of Havana was none other than my cousin Clive. And the name of his boat was La Reina.”

THE END.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cora Buhlert was born and bred in Bremen, North Germany, where she still lives today – after time spent in London, Singapore, Rotterdam and Mississippi. Cora holds an MA degree in English from the University of Bremen.

Cora has been writing since she was a teenager, and has published stories, articles and poetry in various international magazines. She is the author of the Silencer series of pulp style thrillers, the Shattered Empire space opera series, the In Love and War science fiction romance series, the Thurvok and Kurval sword and sorcery series, the Helen Shepherd Mysteries and plenty of standalone stories in multiple genres.

Cora is the winner of the 2022 Hugo Award for Best Fan Writer and the 2021 Space Cowboy Award. When Cora is not writing, she works as a translator and teacher.

Visit her on the web at http://www.corabuhlert.com or follow her on Twitter under @CoraBuhlert.

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Return September, 26th for the riveting FIRST installment of “The Devil’s Herd” by Bruce Arthurs!