Far away, all the way across Mexico Avenue, El Mariachi sat on top of a
pump at an anonymous gas station, strumming a guitar he had found in the
gutter. He stopped and watched silently as another Mexican drove up in a
pickup truck. The bed of the truck was weighed down with a bunch of men,
all quite heavily armed. El wondered to himself if this was legal.
Cucuy stepped from the cab and surveyed the situation. Failing to take notice of his target despite the fact that he was in plain sight and holding a guitar, he stepped inside the convenience store.
At the counter, the two clerks on shift were in the midst of a debate on whether cheesecake was really made of cheese. They fell silent as Cucuy entered, fake smiles plastered to their faces.
"Where is El Mariachi?" asked Cucuy gruffly.
"I'm sorry, but we don't sell movies here," grinned one clerk apologetically.
Cucuy whipped out a gun and shot him.
"Now," he hissed at the other clerk, "tell me where he is!"
The clerk gulped nervously, knowing that no answer he could give would satisfy this man, mainly because he honestly did not know about El Mariachi. His mind raced to come up with a plausible response, but he was saved from having to answer by the sound of the door opening once more.
Cucuy turned to look as El wandered in, his patience for sitting on top of a pump having fled him, along with any thoughts as to why it might be a bad idea to enter a gas station full of weapon-laden crazy people. He idly began to pick through a rack of magazines.
Cucuy turned back to the clerk.
"Is that El Mariachi?" he demanded.
"Ummm...sure!" blurted the clerk.
Cucuy's men surrounded El, who glared at them distrustfully and hugged his guitar. They herded him out to the truck, and piled in with him in the middle. Various weapons were pointed at him, and they drove off.
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Sands reentered the same Mexican restaurant as before, feeling slightly disappointed that there was only one in the entire intersection. He came to stand next to Cucuy, and followed his henchman's gaze.
El sat contentedly at a table in the nearly empty eatery, his back to the door. He picked at a label he had found on his new guitar that announced its true owner to go by the name of Johnny Depp, and generally appeared to be entirely unconcerned about having been violently escorted across the street.
"They call him The, as in El," stated Cucuy. "Wait...no. It's El, as in The. It's Spanish." He looked proud of himself.
"Really?" asked an impressed Sands. "Huh. Well, go tell the Barillo cartel that he's out to get them."
"Why?"
Sands ground his teeth.
"Are you an illegal immigran, or an illegal immigran't?!" he growled.
"That doesn't even make sense," objected Cucuy.
"Well, let's see you do better, you, you...umm...non-order-obeying person!" argued Sands. "Just go do it, okay?!"
Cucuy shook his head and left.
El looked up when Sands sat down across from him, and somewhat guiltily moved his instrument so the label was hidden under the table.
A waitress came around, and nervously gave Sands a plate of pork, which he began to eat.
"You know," he smiled between bite, "I order this same thing in every Mexican restaurant I come across in this godforsaken intersection."
"But...this is the only Mexican restaurant there is in this intersection," frowned a perplexed El. "Wouldn't that mean you just come here a lot and order...the...pork.... ahem."
El stopped speaking as all traces of friendliness fled from Sands's face.
"Shut the hell up, fuckmook!" screamed Sands, suddenly enraged. He stood up quickly, and pork sprayed all over El. "You think you can tell me how to live my life?! Huh?! HUH?!"
"Ummmm...no?" ventured the unfortunate Mariachi.
"Good," smiled Sands, as he sat down again, perfectly calm, and used his fork to push his prodigal pork off the table and back onto his plate. "As I was saying, this is the absolute best this pork has ever tasted. And so, I'm going to go shoot the cook when I am done eating."
"But-" began El.
"I know, if it's so good, why kill him? Well, that's easy. If it's really good, no one but me is worthy of eating it."
"...Okay...."
"Well," continued Sands, "now that we're clear on that, it's time for business. I want you to kill a man for me."
"The cook?"
"Oh, no," laughed Sands, "I'm going to kill him, remember?"
"Oh," said El. "The waitress, then?"
"...No."
"The bartender?"
"No...."
"The-"
"Whatever you're about to say, the answer is no," growled Sands through clenched teeth. "This is much, much bigger than a restaurant."
"Who, then?"
"In a matter of days, the president of Mexico will arrive here in Colorado for a diplomatic visit. During this visit, he will be going to the furniture store across the street in order to obtain a nice chair," explained Sands. "Now, what most people don't know is that a man named Barillo will also be here, along with several members of his cartel and," he raised an eyebrow at El, "he has hired General Marquez, the man who killed your family."
Sands looked at El expectantly.
El looked up from chewing on his nails, and realized that something was expected of him.
"Hmm?" he inquired. "Oh...uh, Oh Gasp!"
Sands nodded sagely.
"You see," he went on, "I want you to kill the General after he has knocked off El Presidente."
"Why not before?"
"Because I said so," muttered Sands darkly. He handed El a bright pink cell phone with pictures of Barbie on it. "I'll call you to arrange a further meeting."
El squealed with delight and pocketed the phone as he hopped up from his chair. He skipped gleefully out of the restaurant, much to Sands's chagrin.
Sands shook his head, and gave an abused sigh. He stood up, pulled out his gun, and headed for the kitchen.
A few minutes later, Sands left the blood-spattered kitchen and ran off. The manager of the restaurant chucked various cooking implements at Sands's retreating back.
"You bastard!" the manager cried, "It took us months to find a replacement after you shot the last one!"
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Only two doors away, Billy waited at the front counter of the pharmacy to meet the man Barillo had sent for. He absentmindedly stroked the head of his beloved German shepherd Snuffles, and glanced at his watch.
A creepy little Mexican guy peered cautiously through the open door.
"Finally," grumbled Billy. "You're an idiot, you know that?"
"Uh...sí?? guessed the non-English-speaker.
Billy rolled his eyes.
"Just follow me," he sighed.
Once they had reached the back room, where Barillo was playing a mouth harp in as dignified a manner as possible, Billy picked up his dog and hid it behind his back.
"I announce...some Mexican Guy," announced Billy.
"Yeah, yeah, go away now," said Barillo impatiently. As Billy left, carefully trying to keep his pet out of view, Barillo added under his breath, "And what the hell's with the dog, anyway?"
He shook his head to clear it.
"Anyways," he told the Mexican guy, "I'm going to switch identities with you! Doesn't that sound fun?"
"Uh...sí?"
Cucuy stepped from the cab and surveyed the situation. Failing to take notice of his target despite the fact that he was in plain sight and holding a guitar, he stepped inside the convenience store.
At the counter, the two clerks on shift were in the midst of a debate on whether cheesecake was really made of cheese. They fell silent as Cucuy entered, fake smiles plastered to their faces.
"Where is El Mariachi?" asked Cucuy gruffly.
"I'm sorry, but we don't sell movies here," grinned one clerk apologetically.
Cucuy whipped out a gun and shot him.
"Now," he hissed at the other clerk, "tell me where he is!"
The clerk gulped nervously, knowing that no answer he could give would satisfy this man, mainly because he honestly did not know about El Mariachi. His mind raced to come up with a plausible response, but he was saved from having to answer by the sound of the door opening once more.
Cucuy turned to look as El wandered in, his patience for sitting on top of a pump having fled him, along with any thoughts as to why it might be a bad idea to enter a gas station full of weapon-laden crazy people. He idly began to pick through a rack of magazines.
Cucuy turned back to the clerk.
"Is that El Mariachi?" he demanded.
"Ummm...sure!" blurted the clerk.
Cucuy's men surrounded El, who glared at them distrustfully and hugged his guitar. They herded him out to the truck, and piled in with him in the middle. Various weapons were pointed at him, and they drove off.
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
Sands reentered the same Mexican restaurant as before, feeling slightly disappointed that there was only one in the entire intersection. He came to stand next to Cucuy, and followed his henchman's gaze.
El sat contentedly at a table in the nearly empty eatery, his back to the door. He picked at a label he had found on his new guitar that announced its true owner to go by the name of Johnny Depp, and generally appeared to be entirely unconcerned about having been violently escorted across the street.
"They call him The, as in El," stated Cucuy. "Wait...no. It's El, as in The. It's Spanish." He looked proud of himself.
"Really?" asked an impressed Sands. "Huh. Well, go tell the Barillo cartel that he's out to get them."
"Why?"
Sands ground his teeth.
"Are you an illegal immigran, or an illegal immigran't?!" he growled.
"That doesn't even make sense," objected Cucuy.
"Well, let's see you do better, you, you...umm...non-order-obeying person!" argued Sands. "Just go do it, okay?!"
Cucuy shook his head and left.
El looked up when Sands sat down across from him, and somewhat guiltily moved his instrument so the label was hidden under the table.
A waitress came around, and nervously gave Sands a plate of pork, which he began to eat.
"You know," he smiled between bite, "I order this same thing in every Mexican restaurant I come across in this godforsaken intersection."
"But...this is the only Mexican restaurant there is in this intersection," frowned a perplexed El. "Wouldn't that mean you just come here a lot and order...the...pork.... ahem."
El stopped speaking as all traces of friendliness fled from Sands's face.
"Shut the hell up, fuckmook!" screamed Sands, suddenly enraged. He stood up quickly, and pork sprayed all over El. "You think you can tell me how to live my life?! Huh?! HUH?!"
"Ummmm...no?" ventured the unfortunate Mariachi.
"Good," smiled Sands, as he sat down again, perfectly calm, and used his fork to push his prodigal pork off the table and back onto his plate. "As I was saying, this is the absolute best this pork has ever tasted. And so, I'm going to go shoot the cook when I am done eating."
"But-" began El.
"I know, if it's so good, why kill him? Well, that's easy. If it's really good, no one but me is worthy of eating it."
"...Okay...."
"Well," continued Sands, "now that we're clear on that, it's time for business. I want you to kill a man for me."
"The cook?"
"Oh, no," laughed Sands, "I'm going to kill him, remember?"
"Oh," said El. "The waitress, then?"
"...No."
"The bartender?"
"No...."
"The-"
"Whatever you're about to say, the answer is no," growled Sands through clenched teeth. "This is much, much bigger than a restaurant."
"Who, then?"
"In a matter of days, the president of Mexico will arrive here in Colorado for a diplomatic visit. During this visit, he will be going to the furniture store across the street in order to obtain a nice chair," explained Sands. "Now, what most people don't know is that a man named Barillo will also be here, along with several members of his cartel and," he raised an eyebrow at El, "he has hired General Marquez, the man who killed your family."
Sands looked at El expectantly.
El looked up from chewing on his nails, and realized that something was expected of him.
"Hmm?" he inquired. "Oh...uh, Oh Gasp!"
Sands nodded sagely.
"You see," he went on, "I want you to kill the General after he has knocked off El Presidente."
"Why not before?"
"Because I said so," muttered Sands darkly. He handed El a bright pink cell phone with pictures of Barbie on it. "I'll call you to arrange a further meeting."
El squealed with delight and pocketed the phone as he hopped up from his chair. He skipped gleefully out of the restaurant, much to Sands's chagrin.
Sands shook his head, and gave an abused sigh. He stood up, pulled out his gun, and headed for the kitchen.
A few minutes later, Sands left the blood-spattered kitchen and ran off. The manager of the restaurant chucked various cooking implements at Sands's retreating back.
"You bastard!" the manager cried, "It took us months to find a replacement after you shot the last one!"
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
Only two doors away, Billy waited at the front counter of the pharmacy to meet the man Barillo had sent for. He absentmindedly stroked the head of his beloved German shepherd Snuffles, and glanced at his watch.
A creepy little Mexican guy peered cautiously through the open door.
"Finally," grumbled Billy. "You're an idiot, you know that?"
"Uh...sí?? guessed the non-English-speaker.
Billy rolled his eyes.
"Just follow me," he sighed.
Once they had reached the back room, where Barillo was playing a mouth harp in as dignified a manner as possible, Billy picked up his dog and hid it behind his back.
"I announce...some Mexican Guy," announced Billy.
"Yeah, yeah, go away now," said Barillo impatiently. As Billy left, carefully trying to keep his pet out of view, Barillo added under his breath, "And what the hell's with the dog, anyway?"
He shook his head to clear it.
"Anyways," he told the Mexican guy, "I'm going to switch identities with you! Doesn't that sound fun?"
"Uh...sí?"