'Once Upon A Time in Mexico', obviously, does not belong to me. Neither do the characters or the actors or the plot…I'm far too original to bother making up my own stories, so a fanfic it is!
Their Longest Call
The ringing caught El off guard; he had completely forgotten about the cell Sands had given him. It was ringing now, having been forgotten in his back pocket. So, now what? Answer it. He hadn't heard from Sands in a week. Answer it. So he answered it.
"Yes?"
The voice at the other end sounded almost as it always had; but this time there was a hint of weariness. He spoke a little slower, the words seemed heavy on his tongue, and holding them for a second longer was agony. "So you killed him, didn't you?" Deep breath. "And you're still alive." Ironic? "Goddam, isn't that a surprise, no?"
"What do you want, Sands?" El was irritated. Did this man call him just to tease? Or was their meaning beneath it all? Either way, El hadn't a clue.
The man on the other end of the connection sighed, ending it with a hint of a laugh. "No! Nothing at all, don't want anything. Well I do want some things, but those are things that you can't possibly give me."
What was he playing at? Whatever it was, El considered giving the phone to someone who needed it more than he did. Anyone was able to hang up on an un-wanted caller, like a telemarketer. Sands was a telemarketer, but his number couldn't be blocked.
Sands continued. "Just wanted to check up on you. Did your job good, and now I'll bet the F.B.I and the C.I.A. are already tracking your ass down. And perhaps even the cartel." He spoke like he loathed all the subjects; his employers, who were such sweet fucking angels to give him the job, and his devils, stole his fucking eyes.
"Not every C.I.A." He muttered, sarcastic. Sands laughed, but he wasn't amused.
"What difference does it make?" The C.I.A. agent was getting irritated. Why did he even bother to call up El Mariachi anyways? He knew he'd be greeted with sarcasm. "I'm wasting my breath trying to talk to you. I could be doing more important things with my time."
El made a fist with the hand that wasn't holding the phone. "Then why call me at all?"
"Why the hell not? We're amigos now, you agree? You saved the President's ass and in a way I saved your ass. But now that I'm thinking about it, I'd have to say it's more like I handed your ass over to those that want it the most."
El was in a serious situation. If he didn't leave Mexico, he'd undoubtedly be killed, slowly. Or maybe they'll just take his balls and wish him a nice life. "And for that I thank you very much." The sarcasm was eating away at Sands' patience.
Two can play at that game. "Your welcome, your welcome, no problem."
"Why are you even calling me? I did what you wanted me to. Or is there a particular cook that you're having some trouble with?"
"Jesus! Quite the impatient little fucker, aren't you?" El didn't answer, but it was a wonder he hadn't hung up by now. Best cut to the chase now. "Look, you ever hear of Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet? You know Mercutio? Well that whole 'blah blah blah, come to me tomorrow, you'll find me a grave man' shit, that's me. So just calling so say ta ta!"
El mistook this all for sarcasm, which is why he just smiled and said, "I'll be seeing you, Sands."
"Likewise…likewise…"
And then Sands laughed and laughed, like a maniac. And it made El think two things. Either that this laughter could mean something cryptic, or the agent was just crazy. The latter of the two made more sense to him. You can't see a person's eyes through a telephone - you can never know for sure if they're telling the truth. "You are insane."
"Borderline." Sands proclaimed with pride. It was all he had left to be proud of now, all he had to show for himself. Hello, I'm an ex-C.I.A. agent. Both of my eyes were ripped out and I'm borderline psychotic. Wonderful, no?
"Are you ok?" Finally, El had begun to show a bit of sympathy, finally he was beginning to soften. It made Sands chuckle - why the fuck would El Mariachi, the man who he manipulated and played just to get him to kill some drug lord, give a crap about what happened to him?
"Yeah, yeah, I'm doing great. Peachy fucking keen." A long silence. "I'll be seeing you."
Click. Sands chucked the phone over his shoulder. It landed in the dust, a tiny cloud bursting in its wake. He reached into his belt and pulled out a gun. He didn't bother checking for bullets; he couldn't risk any falling out, if any were still left. The street sounded empty, no voices or cars were heard.
Casually, Agent Shelton Jeffrey Sands held the gun to his ear and spoke into it, as if it were a phone. "My fucking god, El Mariachi, did you not notice that was our longest phone conversation?" He changed the position of the gun ever so slightly, the warm metal firmly pressed against his temple.
Click. He pulled the trigger, hanging up the phone.