The Sapo rapes her on their wedding night. Amada is a virgin of course, and she feels like a whole jalapeño has slammed into her mouth, bursting inside without her biting it, except it happens down there, in that mouth, so the jalapeño burns and cuts, squeezing itself into every corner and closet she has. She cries and he doesn’t care, boasts that she’s his, that he owns her. Then he makes her champagne-filled boca ache too with his jalapeño, big and fat and greasy with his toad juice. Swallow it! She’s choking. And he laughs. It spills from her mouth, though he pushes her lips together, and it tastes like runny, poisoned milk. Urine. ¡Puta! he wheezes. What a whore you are! He pushes her here and there, sucking her nipples so hard they drip blood from his sapo-feeding, forces her head facedown on the bed, grabbing, pressing, thumbing her body like masa for tortillas. She squeals with his thrusting, and he just laughs more. Her flesh is his masa, his gordita, and he’s grunting like a pig when he turns her over again, ordering her to open her legs wide, wider, flattening her with his frogself. And she opens her legs until she breaks into pieces. Wider. Más. ¡Más! Hija de puta. He calls her a whore, and that’s worse than all the rest he’s doing to her. You like it, I know you want it. You’re like all the others, daughter of a good-for-nothing whore. Then he does it again. ¡Puta-madre! He yells, his jalapeño exploding for the last time that night. Whore-mother-daughter-of-a-whore are his last words before he snores himself to sleep. She can’t walk for days. That was the first night.