I own not El, Mexico, or any fairy-tales that may or may not have happened there. Robert Rodriguez is my hero. That is all.

Peace for the Hero

For the past twenty years, the mysterious musician had lived in peace. His home, a tiny Mexican border town that was devoted to the making of the finest guitars, had not known fear or danger. Not since that one day long ago when strange men came looking for someone they called "El Mariachi."

They came looking for a gunman. What they found was a one-man assassination squad.

But those days had long since been behind him. Nowadays they called him "Padre de Musico." Rare was a time when he was without his precious guitar, which he called "Domino" for reasons unknown. All that was truly known about him was his ability to play.

Even in a town that boasted guitar craftsmen and mariachi by the truckload, his ability was unmatched. Even in his declining years and health, his fingers could dance across the stings like no other. Oftentimes he would simply walk the streets of the sleepy little village, playing songs that held meaning only to him. Once or twice curious tourists would take pictures and gawk, but the man was so absorbed within his music that he never once looked up from the strings. Only once, when a little American boy watched him play, eyes wide and bright with wonder, did he deviate from his musical musings.

"What is your name, little boy?" asked the living legend, looking down from his remaining love.

"Char-wee," spoke the youth, speech slurred by inexperience. "You pway good."

"Why thank you." He leaned in close to the young man, apparently running free of his parents. "Would you like me to play you something?"

The chubby little American boy smiled, and nodded, making his cheeks bounce comically.

Regaining his former posture, the aging legend took up a long-forgotten fingering on his guitar and strummed a single chord, memories flooding his mind. Quickly he picked up the melody, retracing the tune as he had so many times in the past. The ever-favorite, La Malagueña.

His mind wandered back to his days as a wandering musician, sometimes going for weeks without work. Both his belly and wallet were both empty, but he was doing what his heart told him. He was making music for a living. Everyone told him it was crazy, that he would starve within two days of leaving home. Especially his older brother.

Everything changed when he came to that town. Strangely, he remembered the free coconuts he was given upon entering the town, but not the name of the dusty little village. The events that took place, however, were forever burned into his memory. Love, loss, and pain. So much pain.

Pain that he returned a hundredfold to those who took his love away from him. They fell, one by one, by his hand. The hand that was destroyed by one of their own in a moment of wrath, causing him to lay down his guitar in favor of a pistol. Yes, that was another name they had for him, Pistolero. Soon, they were all dead, and he had found a new love. He was happy. Finally, truly, happy.

Snapping back to reality with shattering force, he jammed his fingers into the strings of his guitar, frightening the child for whom he had been playing.

"Is dat awl?" asked the little boy, obviously dissapointed.

Slowly, the aging man shook his head. "No, that was only the beginning."

A new tune emerged from his one true love, slower and sadder than the first, but just as full of memory.

In his mind's eye he could see his wife, Carolina, coming home from the market with their daughter in tow. The mental image brought a single tear to his eye, old and faded as the memory was. Sadly, he also remembered the day that they died with the same clarity.

Men in trucks came, bullets were fired, his family died. He should have died. But someone, somewhere, would not let him die. Not without revenge.

After surviving betrayal by a slippery American and a brief run-in with his old enemy, he won out. Victory was his. But it left him empty. His love, his fury, his passion, it had all simply drained out of him.

Until he found his music.

In his guitar, he found solace and salvation. What had once been his only love returned to the forefront of his life. If at some point in the past he had been good with his guitar, he was now transcendent. There was no tune he could not reproduce, no song he did not know. People had come from all over Mexico to hear him play, sometimes from atop the old mission's balcony, shilouetted against the setting sun. Once or twice someone had called him "Santo de Musico" in their fervor. That only made him laugh.

So, once again, he was content with his life. Music was his love, his passion, and everything to him once again. It filled the gaps that friends and tequilla couldn't.

With a gentle touch to the strings, he finished the song with a hauntingly soft chord. The little boy erupted into applause, his hands slapping together comically.

"Again! Again!" was all that spouted from his sloppy, chubby cheeks.

Smiling lightly, he once again began to play.