Once upon a time at Mexico and Chambers, Agent Sands of the CIA sat in a
small Mexican restaurant and ate a plate of pork. He slumped boredly in
his seat, his left arm resting motionless on the table in front of him.
And then it twitched.
"Damnit," sighed Sands, as the rogue limb began to thrash around violently, knocking over various glasses and saltshakers, "I knew I shouldn't have gotten it motorized."
He glanced around as if to make sure no one was watching, and picked up his knife. He raised it high above his head, and plunged it into his own left hand. The arm continued to writhe uncontrollably, and he stabbed it again and again.
"How do you like them apples?!" he demanded of his now-mangled prosthetic arm, glaring at it even though it now lay at peace on his plate, leaking oil from multiple punctures. Several people stared.
Sands glared around at them, and turned back to his pork.
Belini slid into the seat across from Sands. He glanced curiously at the battered arm, but deigned not to mention it. Sands in turn glanced at Belini's neon pink eye patch, but was too put off by it to say anything.
"Well?" he inquired impatiently, "Do you have the information?"
"Oh, yeah," replied Belini. "I know just the guy you want."
Sands listened intently as Belini told him of the man called El Mariachi.
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El Mariachi was a legend. Some said he had been raised in the mountains by vicious wild goats. Others said he was the son of Superman. Still others said that this was all nonsense, and it was obvious that he was just a normal guy from Sweden.
He had his share of enemies. One such man, General Marquez, pursued him relentlessly across Mexico for weeks. No one knew why, but he did anyway. One night, he finally caught up, and he attacked.
Now, El Mariachi could defend himself. When General Marquez started to shoot at him, he went into action immediately, picking up his table, which somehow doubled as a machine gun. He shot all of the General's men, but ran out of bullets.
Things were looking bad then, but his girlfriend came out, and she shot General Marquez herself, right in the heart. Now, she had been Marquez's girlfriend first, so he was pretty pissed, especially since she went and shot him. So, he refused to die.
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"And this," Belini whispered, "Is the same General Marquez you are dealing with now. It's a good coincidence, no?"
"Perfect," grinned Sands, rubbing his chin.
"So where's my payment?" growled Belini.
"Ah, yes, that," said Sands, reaching into his trusty book bag, and pulling out a Spice Girls CD case. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't find anything else small enough to put ten dollars in."
Belini snatched the case suspiciously from Sands, and checked to make sure there was really money in it.
"I am curious about one thing, Belini," mused Sands. "You were offered a million dollars. Why only ten?"
"Well," smiled Belini, "A million dollars is a lot of money. Maybe too much. A man could be killed over such a sum. But, ten dollars...ten dollars is a sum we can both live with."
"What if it's still too much?" grinned Sands. "Besides, that Posh Spice is hot. Do you really think I want to give up that CD case?"
"You wouldn't kill me over ten dollars!" cried Belini, gathering his belongings rather hastily. "You wouldn't dare!"
Sands ignored the man as he left, took a pull on his cigarette, and grinned to himself.
"Oh, yes I would," he mouthed silently.
He pulled the remains of his fake left arm off, and stashed it in his bag. He moved his real left hand out from under the table, where it had been keeping a sawed off shotgun trained on Belini. This, too he put away, and he stepped out of the restaurant, into the dusty parking lot at the intersection of Mexico and Chambers.
And then it twitched.
"Damnit," sighed Sands, as the rogue limb began to thrash around violently, knocking over various glasses and saltshakers, "I knew I shouldn't have gotten it motorized."
He glanced around as if to make sure no one was watching, and picked up his knife. He raised it high above his head, and plunged it into his own left hand. The arm continued to writhe uncontrollably, and he stabbed it again and again.
"How do you like them apples?!" he demanded of his now-mangled prosthetic arm, glaring at it even though it now lay at peace on his plate, leaking oil from multiple punctures. Several people stared.
Sands glared around at them, and turned back to his pork.
Belini slid into the seat across from Sands. He glanced curiously at the battered arm, but deigned not to mention it. Sands in turn glanced at Belini's neon pink eye patch, but was too put off by it to say anything.
"Well?" he inquired impatiently, "Do you have the information?"
"Oh, yeah," replied Belini. "I know just the guy you want."
Sands listened intently as Belini told him of the man called El Mariachi.
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
El Mariachi was a legend. Some said he had been raised in the mountains by vicious wild goats. Others said he was the son of Superman. Still others said that this was all nonsense, and it was obvious that he was just a normal guy from Sweden.
He had his share of enemies. One such man, General Marquez, pursued him relentlessly across Mexico for weeks. No one knew why, but he did anyway. One night, he finally caught up, and he attacked.
Now, El Mariachi could defend himself. When General Marquez started to shoot at him, he went into action immediately, picking up his table, which somehow doubled as a machine gun. He shot all of the General's men, but ran out of bullets.
Things were looking bad then, but his girlfriend came out, and she shot General Marquez herself, right in the heart. Now, she had been Marquez's girlfriend first, so he was pretty pissed, especially since she went and shot him. So, he refused to die.
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
"And this," Belini whispered, "Is the same General Marquez you are dealing with now. It's a good coincidence, no?"
"Perfect," grinned Sands, rubbing his chin.
"So where's my payment?" growled Belini.
"Ah, yes, that," said Sands, reaching into his trusty book bag, and pulling out a Spice Girls CD case. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't find anything else small enough to put ten dollars in."
Belini snatched the case suspiciously from Sands, and checked to make sure there was really money in it.
"I am curious about one thing, Belini," mused Sands. "You were offered a million dollars. Why only ten?"
"Well," smiled Belini, "A million dollars is a lot of money. Maybe too much. A man could be killed over such a sum. But, ten dollars...ten dollars is a sum we can both live with."
"What if it's still too much?" grinned Sands. "Besides, that Posh Spice is hot. Do you really think I want to give up that CD case?"
"You wouldn't kill me over ten dollars!" cried Belini, gathering his belongings rather hastily. "You wouldn't dare!"
Sands ignored the man as he left, took a pull on his cigarette, and grinned to himself.
"Oh, yes I would," he mouthed silently.
He pulled the remains of his fake left arm off, and stashed it in his bag. He moved his real left hand out from under the table, where it had been keeping a sawed off shotgun trained on Belini. This, too he put away, and he stepped out of the restaurant, into the dusty parking lot at the intersection of Mexico and Chambers.