Ch. 3
Brujeria

NOVEMBER 17TH, 1988
09:30
ROCHDALE, QUEENS, NY

"Trejo residence, Joaquín spea-"

"YOU'RE FUCKING DEAD, TREJO!"

And thus began Joaquín's morning. He had just finished eating cereal when out of the blue, the phone rang. At first, he thought it would have been the landlord, or perhaps his friend Della, who he had offered his number too. But the voice on the other line was neither of them. It was Juanito Alimaña, of all people. He recognized his ear-ringing scream immediately. Any other day, he would have asked why he was calling, but given what he had found out yesterday, he knew exactly what it was that invoked his fury.

Peter the Blade, his friend, was found dead the night before.

The full details of his death were still a mystery, but according to the newspaper he had read, Peter and a mysterious woman were found dead on a Manhattan street corner. The lady had several fatal stab wounds while he was shot right in the head. The media figured someone else killed them that night, as there were no signs of a gun or a knife on either person. Later that morning, a Smith & Wesson revolver, .38 special, was being sold back to a man who sold that very gun to the murdered woman the night before.

It didn't take a genius to realize that they killed one another. Joaquín knew that nobody could have killed him without facing dire repercussions. But what made him curious about this murder was that Peter didn't use his spirit Doble Filo. He had bragged how his kills were clean and could never be traced back to him. A perfect kill. So why bother using his knife, which he always carried around? Perhaps, in this one instance, he wanted to personally kill someone without his fish-like spirit

It didn't matter now. Peter the Blade was dead, and now Joaquín had an angry punk on the other end of the line. And he knew why he was upset at him. He thought he was the killer. The story about him beating Peter weeks ago had spread like wildfire. There was no doubt it reached him. Perhaps it was this news that twisted Juanito's mind into thinking that Joaquín would want to finish the job.

"I didn't kill him," he said calmly and without hesitation "Why on Earth would you even think that, anyway?"

"Because you kicked his ass," shouted Juanito. "He came to kill you and you beat him up! You let him live!"

"And what grounds is that for me to kill him?"

"Because he knows about your thing! Anyone who knows about that stuff becomes a target!"

Juanito was smarter than he let on. He indeed put himself at risk for letting someone with another power like his know about Preciosa and live. But that did not mean he would kill them for knowing about that. "That's not an excuse for me to hunt him down. I don't target people for knowing too much. Besides, why would I kill someone whose ass I just beat? That's adding insult to injury, and I don't play like that. You know this."

"BULLSHIT," shouted Juanito. "You humiliated me that one day! What's to stop you from killing my friend?! You wanna know what I had to do? You wanna know?! I had to buy his fucking casket and bury him myself because of you! It's all your fault! If I see you anywhere out here, I'm gonna fucking kill you, Trejo! You're dead!"

Jesus, he's so deep in denial that he can't even understand himself. I'd feel sorrier for him if he wasn't blaming me for this.

"Juanito, listen, I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry you gotta go through this. I know this Peter was your friend. But you gotta face the reality of his death and not take needless revenge against someone-" But he was interrupted by a string of loud, foul Spanish and the slamming of his phone, followed by a beeping. He hung up. And with a sigh, so did Joaquín, resigning himself to the impending madness that would be Thursday. He didn't want to go out knowing Juanito would be driving around with a gun trained on his head.

But with his grandmother bedridden and unable to cook, he had no choice.

Lupe Trejo was always a loud, passionate individual. Cancer never stopped her from playing dominoes with her friends or scolding Joaquín for getting into trouble. But the past few days brought a worrisome change. She was quiet, less active. And she was almost always tired. There was just no energy in her. He wanted to admit her to a hospital, but she was against it.

"What good can they do," she had told him last night. "I'm old and dying. They can't stop that. Besides, I want to spend what days I have left at home."

She was too sweet for her own good. And that broke his heart. Joaquín sighed again and went to wash some dishes, taking his time to think about how he should go about the day. He figured he could skip cooking this once and buy something from the bodega to eat. Arroz con gandules was something she would appreciate. As for the rest of the day, he figured he could arrange a few fights and perhaps find Della after work for some dinner.

Having finished, Joaquín made his way to his grandmother's room, where she laid awake in her bed. She looked rather comfortable in her nest of pillows, and when her grandson walked in, Lupe's face lit up.

"Sounds to me like you have a problem, mijo," she said. Her voice was low today. "I heard that screaming. Who's upset at you this time?"

"Juanito," answered Joaquín as he sat by her side at the edge of the bed. "He's upset that his friend got killed. That pimp that was on the news. And now he wants to take it out on me."

"And you're not worried?"

"No. He should be, though."

"You're right, because he knows he'll get a chancletta to the face." And they both laughed at the joke. Her laugh always filled him with happiness. And this was the first time in a while he had heard it, so it had quite the effect on him. It actually brought some tears to his eyes. When they both calmed down, she looked up at her grandson, smiling all the while, and said, "Joaquín, you know I'm going to die soon. I can already feel it."

His smile faltered and he nodded. "I know. Doesn't make things any easier on me. I mean, I can survive on my own, but... I'm gonna be all alone. I have no family to celebrate birthdays or holidays with once you go. What am I gonna do?"

"You will never be alone, mijo. I promise you. As for what you do, well, you live. And you follow your heart and your destiny."

This wasn't the first time Lupe spoke about destiny. She spoke about it when he was younger, how one day he would have to make a decision to follow it or not. It was his choice. He didn't understand what she meant as a little boy, but now that he was older and wiser, he knew. His destiny was how he would make his life. The decisions Joaquín would make from the moment she left this world would shape his path. Hopefully for the better.

"Now listen, Joaquín. There are a few things I need you to do after I pass. First…"

~+JO*JO+~

"And then she told me that I needed to go to Japan as my first step towards my destiny," said Joaquín to Della as he ate his Cuban.

It was dinner time, and the two were eating in a small local diner. He had tracked her down after work and invited her to eat. Before this, he had stopped at the bodega for food and dropped it off for his grandmother. The two were discussing what Lupe's final wishes were, which weren't difficult to follow: a burial, her assets sold, her bank account's money transferred to his, and her "prized" ceramic chickens to be smashed (gifts from her mother, which she loathed).

But her weirdest wish was what Joaquín just told Della: going to Japan. His grandmother was very specific about it, too. She told him to go to Narita, which was in the Chiba prefecture. What exactly was waiting for him there? And how was it tied to his "destiny"? He wouldn't ask her. He figured that he would have to find this one out on his own when the time unfortunately came.

"That all sounds weird," said Della after swallowing a good bite of her Reuben. "So are you gonna go?"

"Probably not permanently. But to be fair, I've always wanted to go." Joaquín smiled halfheartedly. "I even took some classes on the Japanese language, just so I could prepare myself one day. Knowing Spanish helped, too, given that the two languages share the same vowel sounds. One of my friends, Hannah, told me all about her summer there once. She went to the countryside and got to see so many beautiful sights. Plus she went to a few cities. I heard they put New York to shame."

"Where would you go visit first, Jojo?"

"I think I'll visit To-" he paused, now registering the nickname. "Huh? Jojo?"

"Yeah, Jojo," Della repeated. "Cause of your name. Joaquín Trejo. You got two 'jo's' in your name. That makes you a Jojo."

He took a second to think before he said, "Wouldn't it be Hoho? Since it's not a hard j?"

"Wha- No, that's dumb. Who would call you Hoho?" She was chuckling in between a bite. "That's the name of a snack, not something you'd call yourself." She then pointed her sandwich at him and smiled. "I'm gonna call you Jojo from now on. Got it?"

Joaquín could only look on meekly at the end of her dinner and nod. And I thought I was weird. Guess I was wrong. But as he continued eating, he mulled the name over in his head and rolled it off his tongue. Jojo… Jojo… That actually sounds pretty nice. I guess I could get used to it. "Okay, you win. I'll go by-"

He stopped again when he began to notice that the diner's patrons were moving away from their table in a panic. Their wide eyes were locked on their window. Joaquín looked and his eyes immediately widened. Standing outside of a beaten white corvette was a scrawny and pale man with half of his curly hair shaved off. It was Juanito. And he was taking aim at him with a gun.

He was about to keep his word.

"MOVE!" Joaquín pushed Della down and summoned Preciosa just as Juanito fired. The bullet broke through the window and flew at his head, but was stopped by his spirit catching it between his fingers. That was when the patrons all began to scream and run for cover. This idiot could have done this without a crowd of innocents, he angrily thought, as he had Preciosa crush the bullet between his fingertips. And that was when things got worse.

Black smoke burst from the shell and immediately enveloped Preciosa's arm. All of a sudden, Joaquín felt a massive itching on his right arm, which broke out in horrible blisters. He couldn't help but scratch, which was making it worse. To his and everyone else's horror, Juanito shot several times into the crowd. The bullets burst when they got near them, covering them all in clouds of itchiness. Their skin began to break out as well, and the panic grew.

This isn't some normal cloud. Just what's it made of? It was now that he used Preciosa's eyes to get a better look at what was attacking them. His eyes were special in that they can register things like a microscope, able to zoom in and see things in fuller detail. Even from a distance. It was through those eyes that he saw a colony of mite-like creatures making up the dense cloud. They looked like black tufts of hair with mechanical mosquito-like heads and twig-like appendages sticking out from it.

Joaquín looked over at Juanito, who laughed as he stepped in through the broken window and crushed glass beneath his feet. "T-That's your spirit, isn't it," he said through gritted teeth. "Those little b-bugs?"

"Ah, you can see what they look like," said Juanito, almost impressed. "Those are some sharp eyes your spirit has. Peter told me about how strong he is. Just looking at him, I can tell. He's like an Olympian or something. How strong do you think he is, Joaquín?"

"S-Strong enough to keep you in the hospital for l-life if I wanted to," growled Joaquín, holding onto his aching arms. The itch had now spread. He couldn't scratch anymore. If the patrons' faces were any indication, he would start bleeding like crazy if he continued. And he wanted to so badly. But if he did, he would be too focused on scratching than kicking his ass. "What about y-you? How l-long have you had t-these things, J-Juanito?"

"Since I was born, I've always had Brujeria by my side. Anyone I wanted to suffer, I made them suffer. Like you. I'm gonna make you suffer." His smile dropped. Juanito's gaze hardened into a murderous glare. The itchy feeling grew too powerful to ignore, and Joaquín couldn't take it anymore. He dropped to his knees and scratched his arms. The awful sensation soon spread to his chest. Nothing he did was making it go away. The pain of the itch was too much. He was going to bleed.

Horribly.

"This is the effect of Brujeria. My little friends cover whatever they want, and their bite leaves everyone with the worst itch in the world. Worse than chicken pox! You know how many people have scratched themselves to death just because of me? A lot! You'll scratch yourself to the bone! And even when all your nerves are gone and you can't feel a thing, you'll feel compelled to scratch even more until your nails dig right through! The best part about it all? No law can stop me! Because-"

"Because you have a c-cousin in the police force." Juanito was a scumbag, and he knew this for quite some time. Every chance he got, he would harp about how he has a cousin as a police officer. It wasn't hot air, either. Every last crime he committed would be acquitted thanks to that one connection. It bugged Joaquín to no end. Of course, that didn't stop him from beating him up. And he would do it now were he not occupied with the itch.

He had to figure out a way to get rid of Brujeria. His choices were rather limited given his situation. Punch them? What's to punch? Bug spray? Like that would work. Punch Juanito? Not until I get rid of these bugs. So what about… temperature? There was a thought. The cold, autumn air didn't seem to be doing much, considering they were covered in fur. So perhaps heat might have the desired effect of incapacitating them.

And with that thought alone, the solution came to Joaquín. His sparks. They had the same power as the sun, enough to heal and harm. And Preciosa could utilize it the same way he could, but even better. Because of his frog-like nature, he was able to secrete an oily substance on his skin. Joaquín learned that the oil, which he could throw for several purposes, is an excellent conductor for his power. It was a silly solution, but at this point, what other choices did he have?

Without a second thought, he relaxed his breathing, ignoring the dreaded itch. Preciosa mimicked him, and both their bodies began to glow with the sparks. Shining brighter were their arms and chests. The cloud of mites that enveloped them began to scream in shrill voices as they dissipated. The itchiness was gone.

"W-What are you doing," shouted Juanito, his hands bubbling up. He was ignored as Preciosa spun on the spot and flung his arm to the crowd. A wave of his blazing oil flew off of it and struck several people in the face. These clouds began to scream as well, just as those hit let out a shriek over feeling slime on them before passing out. He knew it was better than to just continue itching like that.

All the while, Juanito was breaking out in terrible blisters all over his exposed skin. Joaquín figured it was because he was hurting Brujeria with his sparks. Whatever happened to these spirits happened to whoever controlled them. But because they were small and numerous, the injuries were only minor, even if it was mostly blisters.

"Maltida sea," growled Juanito as he trembled in fury. "How could you do this to me, you maricón?!"

"How," asked Joaquín as he got back on his feet. "Because I was thinking rationally, unlike you. Now look, enano, you wanna keep fighting me? Then let's take it to the streets. Don't come hunting for me in a public place. That looks bad on you, and I doubt your officer cousin would bail you out for hurting normal civilians who have nothing to do with your misguided revenge."

"SHUT UP!" Juanito aimed his gun right at Joaquín's head, getting closer until the barrel was touching his forehead. "I do what I want! I run these streets! If I wanna kill you in a diner, I'll do it! You can't tell me what I can and can't do, Joaquín Trejo! Not you, not my cousin, nobody! Got it?!"

And before anyone could say anything, a salt shaker flew at Juanito's forehead, causing him to yelp and clutch his blistered face. It wasn't Preciosa who threw it, but Della, who had been ignored this entire time. The look on her face when he turned to see her was a priceless expression of someone who wasn't expecting to hit their target.

"G-Got you, sucker," she said with a nervous chuckle.

I'll have to thank her for that later. But right then, Joaquín took his opportunity and ripped the gun away from his distracted attacker with his spirit, crushing it in his hands. No clouds burst out, meaning he was probably out of ammunition or was too pained to manifest Brujeria. Good thing, really. I don't wanna have to repeat all that again.

Now Juanito was livid. Rather than take his frustrations out on Joaquín, he turned to Della, shouted "¡PUTA MADRE! ¡TU MALDITA PUTA! ¡TE RASGARÉ MIEMBRO DEL MIEMBRO!," and lunged.

That was a mistake, one Joaquín was going to make him regret deeply. Without hesitating, Preciosa stopped him blind in his tracks with a hook to the face. "You disgust me, Juanito," said Joaquín in a dangerous tone. "Your rage has blinded you. The death of Peter the Blade has driven you so mad that not only do you want to kill someone who wasn't involved in his death, but innocent civilians. They had nothing to do with it, so why make them suffer? Can't take closure on someone who's already dead?

"No, of course not. You had to take your frustration out on the next best thing: me. The one who 'humiliated' him. And look where that led you: a fist in your face and one very, very angry New Yorker to deal with." He leaned up to his ear and whispered, "You fucked up. You were about to attack my friend. And if you know me well, you ought to know that going after my friends is a big no in my book. So you know what's gonna happen? I'm not gonna kick your ass.

"I'm going to really kick your ass."

Juanito didn't get any chance to respond to that before he was immediately pelted with a hailstorm of punches. "TOMATOMATOMA," cried Preciosa as his fists left dents all over the scrawny thug's body. With one resounding "¡TOMA!", he was punched straight through the broken window. Joaquín hoped that he would at least end up on the other side of the road like Peter did that one day, but a car had zoomed by and WHAM! Juanito's body was struck mid-flight and was sent rocketing several feet away.

Well, if those punches weren't gonna put him in the hospital, then that car certainly is, he thought sheepishly as he looked back into the diner.

Those who weren't unconscious were giving him a frightened and confused look. They had every right to since their dinner was interrupted by a madman and invisible bugs. All he could really say to them was, "Sorry for the mess. Those guys will be okay. Just make sure they don't scratch themselves again for a bit," before leaving some money on his table for both food and damages. Joaquín then turned to Della and asked, "How're you holding up, Della? You hurt?"

She was completely unharmed. In fact, she didn't look too fazed over the whole ordeal. But he was certain that she was still not yet used to her friend having such a bizarre power. He could tell by the odd look she was giving him. It was half admiration and half… trepidation? Was that the right word?

"I'm okay," Della said after a moment with a smile. "How about you? You just… blew up."

"Yeah, I'm okay." Joaquín looked down at his arms. They were red, but not at all bad looking. If anything, it looked as if he got a sunburn. "I just don't like the fact that that idiot tried to hurt you."

"I'm okay," she repeated reassuringly.

"I know. I just don't like seeing my friends be put in danger, you know?" He looked back outside to see the man who hit Juanito bawling his eyes out over what he did. "We should probably go. Wanna do this again sometime?"

"Maybe on my day off," said Della with a smile. "Just make sure nobody's out for your blood again."

They were both about to leave through the window when one of the patrons called out, "Excuse me, young man?" Joaquín turned back around to see an aged black man in a suit looking curiously at him. "That thing you just did. Those sparks… Where did you learn to do that?"

"Um, I've always known," answered Joaquín. "Ever since I was born. Why do you ask? Have you met anyone else-

"Hey, I know you," exclaimed Della. "You're Smokey Brown! You're the mayor of New York City!" The man smiled, and it was one Joaquín remembered. How could he not have recognized the man whose smile dominated the newspapers every month until now? Smokey's campaign was a similar one to the one he ran back in his home state of Georgia, winning the hearts of his people with plans to shape the city for the better. He had won by an incredible margin. And here he was, in a diner with him and Della!

Smokey scrunched his face in mock anger. "Aw, darn. And here I thought I wouldn't be recognized!"

"I probably wouldn't have if Della hadn't mentioned your name." He then continued. "I was gonna ask if you've ever met anyone else who could use those sparks."

"I do, as a matter of fact!" He stood up and beamed up at him, a bizarre spark of nostalgia in the mayor's eyes. "Fifty years ago, I bumped into a young man who could do exactly what you did. He's been my friend since then."

It was as if the flames of excitement ignited in his heart. He had heard about this youth from many people who had seen it. They didn't know him personally, so all he had heard were stories. And yet here was a man who did know him personally. Joaquín couldn't help but stutter as he asked, "C-Can you tell me about him? I-I wanna know who this guy is! I-If you don't mind."

"Not at all, but let's get out of here. I don't think this is the appropriate place to discuss this given what happened." The three then exited the diner, the youths using the broken window as their exit. They moved past the accident and past Juanito, who was twitching and moaning in pain on the street. "I know about those sparks. But what was that other thing you did? That made that kid jerk around like he got punched?"

"It's kind of hard to explain. Normal people can't see him, but I have a spirit with me. But he's not important right now. How do you know this guy?"

The man looked up the street, his smile filled with fondness. "It was… let's see... The autumn of '38, If I'm remembering right. I wasn't a good kid back then. I was a petty thief, and on that fateful day, I stole this man's wallet. The police caught me and then, he saved me from them. He shot the cap off a Coke bottle and broke one of their fingers, and he used those sparks to make it happen. He called it hamon."

"¿Jamón?" Did I just hear that right? "What does ham got to do with it?"

"He told me it was Japanese."

Joaquín racked his brain for a second, trying to recall that word. When he remembered what it meant, he replied, "Ripple... That makes sense." And it certainly did Every time he made those sparks, it felt as if energy was just rippling through his body like the heatwaves of the sun. "I'm sorry, can you continue?"

Smokey did so. "Certainly. Well, you can imagine my surprise as an African American thief in the 30s being saved by an unprejudiced white man. He and I became quick friends. He even paid for my dinner with him and his grandmother. But unfortunately, being a friend of his was a bit of a hazard. Before I knew it, I had become involved with Nazis, vampires and immortal warriors."

The youths stopped in their tracks. "Did you just say vampires," asked Della with raised eyebrows.

"I did," answered Smokey.

"But... they don't exist... Do they?"

"They're as real as the hamon. And it was the only way to get rid of them. But they're all gone now. You shouldn't have to worry about them anymore." It was hard to tell if he was serious or not, but Joaquín took his word for it. Smokey took a second to glance at his watch. "It's pretty late. I have to get back to the office. If I bump into him, I'll let him know about you. Well, it's been a pleasure to meet you, mister…"

"Joaquín Trejo," he replied, the two shaking hands. "And it's been a real pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Mayor." The mayor nodded and went along his way. And before he was out of sight, Joaquín suddenly remembered that he didn't ask about this so-called hamon user's name. "Hey, Mr. Mayor! What was his name? You didn't say!"

Smokey turned back to him and said loud enough to hear, "It's Joseph Joestar!"

"I've heard of that name before," said Della as the Mayor left. "The Joestar Real-Estate Company. It's one of the most successful in New York. I think that might be the founder he's talking about." She turned to Joaquín, smiling that sweet smile she usually wore around him. "Wouldn't that be something? To meet with that man and learn more about that hamon?"

He nodded, continuing to walk home with his friend. After having heard this story, his excitement grew even more. The man who had the same power as him, the so-called hamon, was real. Joseph Joestar. When he closed his eyes, he imagined someone who looked just like him, shaking a bottle of Coca-Cola and shooting the cap right off with his sparks of his own. He wanted to meet this man, just so he could learn more about him and the wondrous power they both shared.

But where would he start looking for him? Through the mayor, who was busy running a city? He would probably have no time to look for him, and Joseph would be busy to meet up with him out of the blue. Plus, he would have to be an old man by now. He had to be with fifty years added to his age since the 1930s. For all he knew, he probably couldn't use those sparks as well as he did in his youth, if at all. It was at least worth a try to seek the man out, if he wasn't busy, that is.

As he thought more of this mysterious man, he suddenly realized something about his name.

He's a Jojo, he thought with a smile. Just like me...

~JUANITO ALIMAÑA: RETIRED~

STAND TIME

STAND USER: JUANITO ALIMAÑA (フアニート・アリマニャ)

STAND NAME: BRUJERIA (魔術 (ブルへリア))

POWER: E, SPEED: C, RANGE: D, DURABILITY: E, PRECISION: C, POTENTIAL: B

ABILITY: A mass-colony Stand visible as a cloud of mites to even non-Stand users. They can only be seen properly under a microscope. Once the mites find their target, they use their long proboscises to "bite" and inject a chemical that causes extreme itching into their prey's skin. The purpose of this Stand is to spread an uncontrollable disease throughout their victim's bodies, forcing them to scratch until they die. They cannot be removed by anything except heat, which can disintegrate them if the temperature is high enough.