Murder in Mexico

Allow myself to introduce yourself to Yofi, Rafi, and their 3-year-old son whom we shall call Tofu because he is soft and stubborn like tofu. And though we do not yet know Tofu’s sexuality, if being gay were a choice, Tofu would most certainly choose to be gay, like his dads are and like tofu is.

Yofi is my brother-in-law and Rafi is his husband. In some ways, they are the gayest of gays: Yofi is an actor in New York and Rafi works in the fashion industry. Yofi dresses Tofu in striped clothing and Rafi sunbathes. Yofi grooms his chest hair and Rafi is French.

They’re not über-gay though: Yofi yells at his dad and Rafi drives aggressively. Yofi doesn’t shave every day and Rafi ogles women. Yofi sometimes speaks sternly to Tofu and when Rafi misses a high forehand volley, he screams putain de merde! (whore of shit!).

I share this information with you so you know a bit more about some of the murder victims discussed below.

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Over the recent Hanukkah Holiday, my brood and I spent eight delicious days in a small town on the Peninsula de Yucatán in Mexico: beach and pool, sun and sand, swimming and snorkeling, showers and sex, Netflix and naps, chips and guac, tequila and lime.

There were twelve of us total. In addition to my clan of six and Yofi, Rafi, and Tofu, the Boss’ parents came, as they researched, arranged, and bankrolled the trip. The Boss’ other brother also came, as he is underemployed and technically a blood relative.

Twelve of us went but only two of us came back, as I murdered everyone who crossed the border.

Well, almost everyone.

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Murder can be a gift.

Murdering King Joffrey in Game of Thrones was a gift to the people of Westeros. Murdering a rat in my alley with my shovel was a gift to my neighbors. Murdering the Orange Man will be a gift to our great nation.

It was with this philosophy in mind that I decided to put the Boss’ borderline elderly parents (Baruch and Dvora) out of their misery. After spending the first three days on the phone dealing with a dead rental car, Baruch spent the remainder of his trip going in the pool a grand total of once and in the ocean a grand total of zero times. We played the party game "Mafia" a bunch and Baruch constantly tried to get himself killed even though the goal of the game is to stay alive as long as possible, something in which he has no interest: Baruch’s life insurance policy states that for the family to get paid, he needs to die before he’s 90.

Dvora also could not figure out how to enjoy herself. Rather than eating the delicious quesadillas de camarones prepared for us by our esclavo, sorry, our chef Edwin, reading in the sun, and taking longs walk on the beach, she took thousands of pictures of her grandchildren eating quesadillas de camarones, reading in the sun, and taking long walks on the beach. She then spent hours each evening three inches from her phone, obsessively editing those pictures. One night she tried to drink away her sorrows but refused to acknowledge she was drunk, instead brilliantly coining the term "alcohol-tired." It was clear Baruch and Dvora wanted and needed to die, so I poisoned their margaritas. Then, for good measure, as they googled "what to do when you’re poisoned," I blew up their phones cuz Hezbollah.

The Boss’ older brother (Schmulik) does not like the sun. Or the beach. Or the ocean. Or me. Or my mature, well-mannered, hygienic children, lol. I get it. I really do. I only wanted to help. So I told him we were going on a short walk down the road to a local cantina to grab one of those fruity drinks he likes but there was no cantina and there were no fruity drinks and Schmulik didn’t bring a hat or sunblock or water, and his flat feet started to hurt so he sat down on the side of the road and I told him I would go for help but really I just left him there and he died from sun exposure and dehydration, and the next day when I found him his body was swarming with hormigas de fuego (Mexican fire ants) having the best meal of their life. You’re welcome, Schmulik.

Was it emotionally challenging to murder the Boss? Definitely. I love (loved) her deeply and I never wanted my children to grow up without a mother. But the Boss just could. not. relax. Work back home was on her mind and Hanukkah gifts were on her mind and her lost luggage was on her mind. Have the kids eaten breakfast? Did we run out of hot water? Where is the snorkeling gear? I can handle the nagging. I can handle the anxiety. I just can’t handle when the Boss is unhappy so I suffocated her with my pillow while she slept (restlessly, I might add). As the carbon dioxide in her lungs reached a fatal level, she opened her eyes, looked at me, and silently said gracias.

Due to her vanity, Panini will one day die of skin cancer because she tans for hours every day. I wanted to save her from that slow, painful death but the truth is that I love her too much to kill her so I sold her to the local cartel de Sinaloa which can always make good use of a buxom teenager.

Someone who takes 5 minutes to get me a glass of water, 10 minutes to put on their shoes, and 20 minutes to go to the bathroom is doomed to lead a miserable life of failure so I ended OG’s life by simply not telling her to come downstairs for meals. She forgot to eat and she starved to death. It was bittersweet.

I didn’t mean to murder Broosevelt; I just wanted him to become a stronger swimmer. So we kayaked a few hundred meters out on the quiet Caribbean and I told him to swim behind the kayak as we returned to shore. He started off strong but I think he may have had a tummy ache from the seven churros he ate after lunch. I slowly watched his weak, white little arms stop moving, his floppy, misshapen legs stop kicking, and his beautiful blonde head sink below the water line. I felt sad but hey you gotta learn to swim and eat healthy, verdad?

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Yofi and Rafi’s deaths were more complicated.

For years I’ve been wondering if I married the wrong sibling. I mean, I’m not gay but if the dowry were substantial, I certainly could be. Yofi is handsome, he and I get along great, and at this point in my life I’m just looking for a companion, with or without nursed-upon breasts. So I made my move and Yofi responded positively. I ran my hands through his thick salt-and-pepper beard and he massaged my bald head. It was gay but not über-gay.

I thought we were alone but Rafi had witnessed our intimacy. To my surprise, he was excited, as it seems the fuzzy Frenchman had been eyeing me for some time. Fast forward 24 hours and the three of us were making margs, sharing flan with one spoon, and playing Australian doubles.

But then things got messy: Tofu used to have two dads but now he had three. He was told three different times to stop screaming; he was told by three different dads that he needed sunblock; he was told in three different languages to turn off Peppa Pig. It was like Three Men and a Baby except more like Three Mostly Gay Men and a Toddler Who Refuses to Eat His Vegetables or Share His Dessert.

I had no choice: I roofied Rafi’s drink. But before I was able to run the gas line into his bedroom, Yofi discovered Rafi's lifeless body and things turned Romeo and Juliet: Yofi thought Rafi was dead so he slit his own wrists with his $400 beard trimmer. Just as Yofi was about to bleed out, Rafi awoke, saw his not über-gay life partner drenched in blood, and started crying so viciously that his salty tears dissolved his buttery foie gras body. As he melted like Lumière, the singing, heavily French-accented candelabra in Beauty and the Beast, he whispered putain de merde!

Tofu looked at me with his big brown eyes and the face of a god damn angel, confused because his first two dads had just died and also because he didn’t know if he should speak to me in Hebrew, French, or English. I knew he had a Spanish-speaking nanny, so I saved the day and said, Está bien, mi amor. Yo hablo español.

Mis papás están muertos?

Si, mi amor.

Nothing else needed to be said. Tofu put his hand in mine and we walked slowly to the pool. He took off his floaties and gave me a long hug. I gently pushed him in the water and he drifted to the bottom. He died peacefully.

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The next day, I got on a plane back to Chicago, quickly went through customs, and took a cab home. As I unzipped my suitcase, a slender 10-year girl popped out and yelled, "Surprise!"

Turns out my little Boni had joined Panini for a few days with the cartel de Sinaloa, picked up a few tricks on "how to be a drug mule," escaped, and stashed herself away in my luggage as everyone around her started to disappear.

"Where is everyone?" she asked.

"I killed them."

"Muy bien. Can I watch Netflix?"