Disclaimer: I do not own any recognizable characters found in this fanfic.

Feedback? YES PLEASE.

AN: FFdotNet messed up my formating. Why the hell don't they have any right alignment? Also, forgive me for any mistakes I may make in the little teeny bits of Spanish I put it in here. Supposedly I am in Spanish III...unfortunately, I'm still not all that great with the language :D;

Part 1

Stories travel. They travel from one place to the next, through time and space itself.

In Mexico, it is no different.

Since El Dia de los Muertos, stories (fantastical, wild, new) stories have appeared. Tales of a blind pistolero, of revenge and insanity. Tales passed from mouth to mouth, growing wilder and wilder in their telling until no one's quite sure if the Hombre sin Ojos is fact or fairy tale.

The tale of the Hombre sin Ojos spreads throughout Mexico, there are, of course, as many fairytales are, many different versions. Some tell of a brave man who went insane from love, some tell their children of the blind man who lurks just around the corner, death in the concave hollows that now serve in place of eyes.

The whisperings reach to every corner.
And in the bar, a drunk man sits and laugh.
A blind man listens, smirking.
The Mariachi in the corner?
He thinks of nothing but his playing.
They don't believe in fairytales

The most common one children first hear, is of the blind gringo. The eyeless man who exists like the boogey man does. He lurks around corners, in shadows, just watching.

Watching, waiting, wanting.

They say the parents tell their children, They say he was once from the Estados Unidos, they whisper, And some others say he was sent by the devil.

And the children would listen, avidly, to the wild tale spun of how a devil-sent man fell in love, and lost his eyes to love. Forever bitter at his loss, he lurks in the corridor between life and death. Waiting for the souls of innocents to stray from the right path.

They say, that he fell in love with a beautiful woman. Who could match him and his slyness. They say, he manipulated the strings one to many times until the string frayed and broke.

Leaving him betrayed, bereft. Eyes lost to love. Like La Santa Lukia.

So ware, mi hijo. Behave lest El Hombre Sin Ojos comes and snatches you away.

So at night, in their beds, the children dream. In their slumber they see a man approach them. He is not so very tall. For in the minds of children, not all things scary are large and big. In their minds' eyes, he stands against a background of clashing reds and streaked, vicious, streams of black. His hair is black and lank (and they can easily imagine how pretty it must have once been) the bangs shadowing the upper half of his face. The only thing visible is a lovely mouth, twisted in a mocking smile that promised a balance of discord and peace, of chaos and mayhem, and hints of something walking along the thin brink of sanity.

As always, the man draws closer his face coming fuller into view. The children shake and quaver, and avoid his face, choosing to, instead, gaze upon what he holds in his hands. The voices of their parents echoing throughout their mind. Trails of the ghostly fairytale, told to keep them in line.

Remember mi hijos, should you see El Hombre Sin Ojos, do not look upon his face.

He will say "Look me in the eyes"

But remember, mi hijos, he has no eyes to gaze into!

Instead, look upon his hands. For there he holds his promise.

And so, the children look into his hands, see the shine of metal, and hear the resounding click of a pistol trigger being cocked.

And always, always, the man finally lifts his face. Revealing the gaping caverns that once held sight. As always he smiles the sharp fanged grin that made his enemies want to kill him, and his allies want to strangle him.

The bang of a pistol.

And the children wake up. Breathing hard and sweating.

The drunk man drinks more.
He laughs. He finds it funny.
The blind man smirks again.
He's really quite flattered.
The lady's man rolls his eyes.
He mutters something uncomplimentary.
The Mariachi in the corner?
Why, he's still playing his guitar.
This is nothing new to him.

Part 2

There's another version of this same story that travels; Perhaps less popular among the children, but adored by the romantic girls and told by boys anxious to please. This one is often told by firelight, it is not uncommon, to find a guitar playing soft music to accompany the tale.

The boys strum their instruments, or, should they lack the talent, the crackle of the fire is sufficient to set the mood as they slowly tell the tale in a soft voice.

They tell me, El Hombre Sin Ojos was a lonely man.

"Lonely?" The girls would ask, "why?"

Shh, listen. The boys would answer, a smile in their voice. Indulgent towards the whims of their loved one.

He was a lonely man. They say he was crazy.

His family did not want him.

So he left his home and parents and never returned.

He found work as a pistolero for a company.

"Like El Cartel?"

No, I hear it was El FBI. But here too, they could not contain his wildness.

So they sent him off to a far away place. Somewhere where he could act freely without restraint.

" Mexico?"

Sí Mexico. And here, he met a Beautiful Woman. El Hombre, for he still had his eyes then, fell in love at first sight.

El Hombre, told her of his plans. He told her of how he would keep Mexico and its people safe. He would keep them safe, if in return, she would grant him her love.

"Sí" she would tell him. "I would do this."

El Hombre was dazzled by Beautiful Woman's words, and together with the hero El Mariachi sought to save Mexico from destruction.

But Beautiful Woman betrayed El Hombre, she told El Cartel the plans in exchange for power among the cartel. Beautiful Woman did not love El Hombre. She wanted to use him.

"Ai! Such a tragedy! Beautiful Woman then took out El Hombre's eyes, sí?"

Sí. As El Mariachi rescued el presidente, El Hombre shot Beautiful Woman in revenge. As she died, Beautiful Woman gave him one last kiss, and cursed him with his new name,

El Hombre Sin Ojos I name you. She whispered as life faded from her eyes.

I have heard it said that he wore dark glasses, and beneath them, cried tears of blood for her betrayal as he too collapsed.

A pregnant pause.

"And then what?"

"No se. Some say El Mariachi came and rescued him. Others say he died and returns as a ghost on El Dia de los Muertos, and haunts the streets where his beloved died."

Once again the drunk man howls with laughter.
Everything is funny to him as long as he has his tequila.
The blind man finds this ironic.
No one catches the sardonic smirk he sends the Mariachi.
The lady's man is no longer there.
He has left with some young woman on one arm.
The Mariachi?
He's lost in memories, and muses on the naiveté of the young.

Part 3

Over time, many variations have been made of the last two tales. Yet, this last one is, perhaps, the truest of them all. It is not the most popular, nor is it the least heard.

However, it is the one whispered in the homes at night, in the streets of a town home to three Mariachis and a blind man.

No one knows where this tale emerged from. It is filled with manipulations and ghastly plots. Of death, dying, and the dead. It is filled with the Dead for it is a story about Dead Men.

There is no knowing who first began the tale. But it is said, that a boy in yellow told it first to a friend, who told it to friend. And so the story spread.

The tale of El Hombre Sin Ojos? The story tellers would say. Sí, I know the one.

The one where they say, a man with no eyes and the hero of Mexico together gallivanted into town and saved Mexico on El Dia de los Muertos?

This is no small tale, mi hijo. It is a story of blood and tears. Of sweat and grease.

Pain and suffering full of stagnant waters and chilling ghosts.

El Hombre. Ah, him, he was a clever man. Very clever. A handsome man with a smooth tongue…and not a small talent is that.

It is not uncommon to hear him described as a bad man.

The storyteller then leans back, listening, pleased, as the silence stretches.

It is a known fact, that El Hombre was not good.

But nor was he bad.

They say, he heard of a sinister plan created by the Cartel.

A plan full of treason and treachery. A Coup d'etat that would override the country into a military despair.

He woke El Mariachi from the grave, and returned the hero to Mexico

But, it is said that a daughter of the Cartel betrayed El Hombre.

Betrayed? Listeners would ask.

Sí, betrayed. For I am told that El Hombre loved La Hija de Cartel. And he told her of his plans to save the country, and take her away.

And so, El Hombre was betrayed. La Hija de Cartel stood and watched as El Cartel removed his eyes for laying his sight upon the Cartel's daughter.

But El Hombre could not be beaten down. As El Mariachi sought his blood payment from the one who had left him bereft of life, El Hombre, now El Hombre Sin Ojos, walked like a dead man after the one who had betrayed him, guided by a little Gum Seller.

El Hombre Sin Ojos killed La Hija de Cartel.

And together with El Mariachi, El Hombre Sin Ojos disappeared into the sunset.

Fading into tales and legends like many other heroes.

There is the sound of clapping before the crowd disperses. Their minds full of the vivid tragic imagery wrought by the story teller.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I rather liked that one."

A guitar plays on.

Drunken Laughter.
"You would, loco Gringo."

"If you're going to drink, mi amigo,
you'd better give me some."

Rustle of glass.
A bottle is thrown.

"So, El, looks like we're both dead."

A pause.
"Sí."

"Hey, here. Catch."
Another bottle is thrown.

Thunk.

Pause.
The bottle is retrieved.

Amused laughter.
"He's out cold."

Another pause.
"Sí."

"Still standing?"

"Still"

"Oh, good. Bottoms up.
Here's to living La Vida loca."

Pause.
"Even though we're dead?"

Groggy Laughter.

"Now you're getting it."

-El Fin-