There is evil in paradise. At the top of his game, Ramirez was insidiously powerful, obscenely wealthy and largely untouchable. Owning a string of condos in Clearwater, Florida, and a piece of the Greyhound track in Tijuana, Mexico, he frequently bragged he had the world by the ass.

His girlfriend of seven months was the absolutely gorgeous Candy Winchester. A former stripper at the Eager Beaver titty bar, she used a boa constrictor in her act and had a penchant for the mystical including tarot cards and voodoo. Half Ramirez's age, the twenty-year-old, blue-eyed blonde was blessed with the body of an angel, but had the brains of an oyster. She needed a personality transplant, but that mattered very little to Ramirez. He used women like Kleenex.

Candice Ann Winchester inherited a gene for an overactive libido from both sides of her family, who, by most accounts, couldn't seem to keep their pants up or their skirts down. The woman could suck a golf ball through a garden hose.

Of course, Ramirez expected little more than sex and companionship and that's what he got. She could no more be a housekeeper than he could levitate. Candy thought cooking was a city in China.

Lately, Ramirez's hard-earned arrogance had lost some of its starch. He was feeling vulnerable, even shaky. Men are prone to make wrong decisions, as in a romantic encounter in a late-night joint, or perhaps a rivalry with a neighbor over the placement of a fence. Any seemingly insignificant moment can initiate a series of events that will rearrange an otherwise steadfast life.

Ramirez resented a waste of his time that was far greater than any loss of possessions or money. But what was his was his, and nobody should dare to take anything from him. His biggest problem was his pathological lack of restraint. The man owned a huge ego, a short temper and no patience.

A short, squat man with hairy hands, Ramirez wore a red beret that barely covered the crown of his lumpy bald dome. Resembling a snapping turtle--his vast knobby head was moist and hairless, his nose beaked sharply to meet the thin severe line of his lips forming a lethal-looking overbite. His grin revealed many crooked gaps.

It wasn't long after Candy moved in that life turned sour for Ramirez. The two lovebirds weren't getting along at all. They were speaking but not in complete or compound sentences. Ramirez was bored-- tired of the same woman in his bed. He needed a change and went about making that possible. He was very much aware of the rules:

"You have to think with your head not your cock. You got to think of the future before you stick it someplace it don't belong," he told his pal, Jose.

Yet, he thought nothing of doing the opposite. Ramirez found plenty of strange when he was off on his frequent business trips. As a matter of fact, he became quite fond of a certain Senorita in Tijuana.

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

When he got home that day from a "business trip" to Mexico he felt he needed a shower, but drifted to the kitchen to make a drink instead. Where the hell is she? He loosened his tie and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, then sat on a barstool and lit up a cigar, which he held poised, like a paintbrush.

Candy pranced into the room wearing her pool robe. She stood a few feet away, her arms folded over her ample breasts. "We don't even talk anymore, Juan."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." He stared at his feet. "What else you got to bitch about? I'm beat."

"I'll tell you what, asshole. I am so fucking tired of you screwing off on me," she said. "You think you can just trash me like some of those other broads?"

"Aww, come on. Stop that now. Jesus! We've been over this a million times, I'm sick of it. It's all bullshit; I'd never mess around on you."

"Bullshit? Is it, really? Well, I'll tell you what's bullshit. You and that whore in Tijuana--that's real bullshit, Ramirez." She giggled. "Well maybe I've got somebody, too--so, there."

A cold chill ran up Ramirez's back. Her words went through him like the clatter of a roller coaster.

"What did you say?" He cocked his head to the side.

"You heard me. I'm Looking For A New Love Baby." She leaned in and was only inches away from Ramirez's paling face when she purred the words like she was singing the Jodi Watley song.

Ramirez felt the blood rush to his head. His eyes glazed over like frosted marbles as he grabbed a long, sharp knife from the block. Candy backed up but she wasn't nearly fast enough.

"You, bitch! Nobody does that to Juan Ramirez. You hear me? Nobody!

Swinging the knife in an arc, he sliced her across the chest. Blood gushed as if it came from the end of a pinched garden hose; its hot wetness splattered his face and shirt.

Candy grabbed her chest, stumbled backwards, and landed on the couch, screaming while her arms flailed at the air in front of her. The blood covered her face and the pink robe.

"Cheating bitch!" Ramirez growled and lunged. He grabbed a fistful of her blonde hair and yanked upward. This time, he slashed the knife straight across her throat; laying her neck open like a gutted flounder. Blood shot out in red volleys, targeting his denim shirt and jeans, as she stumbled back into the front room.

"Nooooo . . . . ." was her last word. Her jaws moved up and down as her hands laced around her throat. She gurgled. Blood shot out of her mouth and neck. Her hands dropped as her body slowly tilted to the side, then slumped over onto the couch . . . the eyes staring. . . fixed on something nobody else could possibly see.

Ramirez's excited breathing pierced the silence. His breath was sharp and fast, his eyes dilated, one hand fisted hard and tight, the other clenched the knife that dripped Candy's blood. He froze there. . . staring at her . . .feeling nothing.

"Nobody takes what's mine . . . Nobody," he murmured.

The doorbell rang.