Robert Rodriguez is a genius, I worship at his feet. Hey, I went and bought the movie, he's already got my money, can I just go hang out with Sands and play with Stupid now?
There was roaring in the distance, as if from some great crowd, and the man in fancy clothes stood, awaiting his adversary. He had a familiar sense that the game had been rigged; but this was all wrong, this was not the lively crowd of a bullfight, there were sounds of distant gunfire and the acrid reek of cordite. And wasn't it supposed to be he who rigged the game, who set up shapes, the better to watch them fall? He wore the suit with sparkling highlights, he was the matador, the preordained victor. But Barillo and Ajedrez, damn the pair of them, had stabbed him, gored out his eyes and turned him loose to amuse the crowd.
What had he told Judas, just a few days ago? "The bull is wounded, he's tired before he even gets into the ring." He was the bull now, swaying with drugs and blinded, and like that determined, doomed creature, he would fight them to his last breath. He weighed the pistol in his hand; listening for the opportunities he could no longer see. Across the street--five yards? ten?-- the door to the main edificio opened and closed. The blinded man could hear footsteps--two sets--walking toward him. Taking a deep breath, he fired off a series of random shots, deliberately wild. As he ejected the spent clip and rammed home a fresh one, their laughter guided his aim.
Their shots didn't miss him, but he was still breathing, with an effort. They were not. He slumped in the dirty street, rocking with pain. There would be more of them soon, he knew. Although he could no longer stand, he could still exercise creative sportsmanship. There was still his last, best dirty trick. Panting from the pain, he arranged the trojan arm, and smiled grimly to himself as he awaited what would come next. Like the bull, he was still dangerous.
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