Page 143 of Mexico Can Choke On It
“Careful what you wish for, B. Now, how’s your stomach handle being flipped like a pancake?”
Ten minutes later, we’re at the base of a towering beast of twisted steel and flashing lights. Petra hands the bored teenager two tickets and tugs me toward the ramp.
“I feel I should be paying,” I say, stepping onto the platform behind her. “If this is a proper date—”
“Bryce Sterling!” She whirls to face me, arms crossed. “Let go of your grip on your wallet. This is my treat. Your job is to survive without puking on me.”
“That is not particularly motivating.”
When was the last time someone refused to let me pay?The answer is never.
Petra hoists herself up with ease whileI climb in beside her awkwardly like a penguin on stilts. The seat creaks ominously.
“Pull this down till it clicks,” she instructs, locking her harness in place. “Don’t worry—only three people have died so far this year.”
“Real funny.”She’s joking. Right?
I glance at the semicircle of riders. We’re facing each other. Excellent. Not only am I about to die—I get to make eye contact with strangers while I do it.
I fumble with my restraint, the clicking mechanism rejecting my increasingly sweaty palms. Finally, it locks securely. “Why exactly is this machine calledRueda del Miedo?”
“No clue. Sounds sexy, though.”
“¡Rueda del Miedo!“ chirps a tiny voice beside me. “Es… how you say… Wheel. Of. Fear!”
My seatmate can’t be older than seven. She’s sporting lopsided pigtails, light-up sneakers, and a grin so wide you’d think we were boarding a unicorn, not a death trap.
My throat closes. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sí, sí!Very scarypero muyfun! Mytío, he cry likebebéwhen he ride!”
Her uncle cried. A grown man cried.
“Kid, you made this experience ten times cooler.” Petra leans over me and high-fives her new best friend.
A man in a sweat-stained polo with a name tag that readsEmiliodoes a half-ass tug on Petra’s harness, then mine, then the little girl’s. That’s it. That’s the extent of the safety protocol.
“Perhaps I should just watch—”
The opening guitar riff from “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC explodes from the speakers, and my escape plan dies. The ride lurches to life, and Petra lets out a full-body whoop.
“¡Aquí vamos!”the kid yells.
The platform shudders. The curved row of passengers begins to rise. The first swing is mild—a lazy pendulum stretch. Deceptive, because then it builds.
Each new arc of movement picks up more momentum. Higher. Faster.
Forward—pressure pins me to the seat, my body’s organs protesting gravity itself.
Backward—my chest lifts, and I feel myself straining against the harness.
Then the semicircle spins.
DA-NA-NA-NA-NA. Syllables of song jibberish fill my skull as the chaos ratchets up. A teenage couple across from me starts screaming. We rotate again. We swing higher. The arc tips farther.
“Thunder!” Petra and the pigtailed girl chant in unison.
The speed intensifies, and wind rushes against my face. I can taste the sweat of my own panic.
