El awoke next to Carolina, the love of his life. He smiled, and reached
across to touch her hair. To his surprise and horror, a chain dangled from
his wrist, clinking softly. He pulled on it, and found, to his dismay,
that both he and Carolina were chained to the mattress by their necks,
wrists, and ankles.
"What's wrong?" asked Carolina. El stared blankly at her, trying to comprehend what he had just heard her say.
"Everything!" he gasped, leaping up and dragging both her and half the mattress behind the bed, just as bullets began to smash through the window of the hotel room they were in. He jumped up and ran, pulling Carolina along behind him. The mattress bumped along the floor, briefly became jammed in the doorway, and generally did its best to slow them down.
El came to a window at the end of the hallway and looked out. He jerked his head back quickly, and narrowly missed being shot in the face.
"Oh, yes," he snarled at Carolina, as the camera dramatically zoomed out from the window to show how high up they were, "let's get a room on the twentieth floor! It has a nice view!"
Carolina started to roll her eyes, but was rudely interrupted when El chucked her out the window. The mattress and then the Mariachi were dragged out after her.
"Voon," said the mattress.
El managed to wrestle the mattress around so it was between the two of them and the ground. With their eyes clenched shut, they plummeted toward the asphalt, expecting the worst.
Until, of course, they landed on a passing bus.
The mattress slid off the side, threatening to take them with it.
"Stop the bus!" screamed Carolina, banging on the windshield.
The bus driver promptly pushed the vehicle's self destruct button and jumped out the door. Carolina and El groaned in disappointment as the bus exploded in a Technicolor fireball, launching them into the air. They flew for a ways, hit the ground, and skidded along for somewhere around twenty meters.
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A week or so later, they were married. The happy bride and groom kissed as the manacles connecting them to the mattress were finally shorn off. The skin underneath said manacles was quite wrinkly and gross looking, since leaving them on for so long had caused a rash. The joyous couple grinned at each other.
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El awoke from being mugged in Memory Lane. He ran his hand over his guitar, whose label now simply read "epp." He sighed, glanced at his watch, and moved out of the filthy little alcove next to the church. He paused for a moment at the entrance to the place of worship, and stepped inside.
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Sands plopped into the seat in the priest's side of the confessional he had told El to meet him in, silently congratulating himself on his ingenious disguise.
El stared through the metal grid separating Sands from himself. He couldn't see well enough to be sure, but it seemed to him that Sands was wearing a tie-dye robe, and had a three-foot-long beard. He blinked.
"What was the time of your last confession?" inquired Sands.
"One hour ago."
"And the name of the priest?"
"Sands."
"Okay, well, I don't remember why I met you here, except maybe to threaten you," said Sands. "So consider yourself threatened."
And with that, he left. El scratched his head in confusion.
A gun was heard being cocked outside the box.
El dove to the floor, narrowly missing being hit by the bullets now ripping the top of the confessional into splinters. He rolled out of the wreckage and grabbed the ankles of the shooter. The man fell, and impaled himself on his own gun. Blood gushed upwards from his chest like a glorious communist fountain, and El was quite disgusted.
El frowned and got up, clutching his guitar, though he had forgotten it. Around him, three more men approached.
El placed the guitar's strap around his chest, and swung the instrument over his shoulder to rest on his back. He ran over to a wall, and climbed up it like a squirrel on meth. Below him, the men split up. Two ran to climb the stairs and confront him, and the other began to clamber up the wall. Halfway up, El's most recent attacker slipped, fell, and landed on his throat on the corner of a pew. The force accumulated by his body during the fall cause him to be nearly decapitated despite the bluntness of the pew, and he made quite a mess.
El wondered at this show of incompetence, but readied himself for the coming confrontation with the remaining assailants. He murmured a sad farewell to the guitar, and raised it above his head, ready to bash the first man through the doorway in the noggin with it.
To his mild surprise, the opportunity never came. He waited a full five minutes to be attacked before curiosity finally got the best of him. He cautiously peeked down the stairs and discovered, to both his delight and disgust, that both men had tripped and, in the process, one of them had smashed his nose on the wall, driving shards of bone into his brain and killing him. The other had survived the fall, but landed with his face towards the floor and somehow managed to asphyxiate using the concrete. El snorted and left.
The participants in the church service that had been going on the entire time never even noticed the fight.
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"Are you still standing?" came Sands's voice, tinny over El's Barbie cell phone.
"Actually, I'm sitting," said El. "What was all that about?"
"I just thought it might be fun to try to kill you," Sands chirped cheerfully, and hung up.
El sighed and put the phone away.
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Sands met with Belini again, this time in a Chinese restaurant a few doors down from their previous meeting place. Sands was miffed about not having Mexican pork, but the Mexican restaurant was closed down so the kitchen could be clean and the cook replaced, so there was no chance of it at the moment.
"I need that information you have on Barillo," Sands hissed, his left trigger finger twitching on the firing mechanism of the shotgun he held under the table.
"You gotta pay me more," sneered Belini. "I need another five bucks for booze. I'm sure you can afford five bucks."
"We agreed on ten," glowered Sands. "It's the principle of the thing!"
Belini glared at him with his one eye.
At the next table, a waitress tripped over an inconveniently placed sofa that had blinked into existence without warning, and spilled a soft drink all over a diner and his meal.
Sands snapped.
"That spill just cost you your life!" he shouted. Before Belini could protest or inquire as to why this was so, Sands leapt up, his fake arm flailing. He proceeded to shoot Belini, the waitress, the Sprite-coated customer at the next table, and, as an afterthought, the cook.
"Crap monkeys!" he yelled, looking at the mess he had made. "Now where will I get the information?!"
He stomped around and yelled a bit, then ripped off Belini's eye patch for emphasis. Lo and behold, a wad of paper labeled "Information on Barillo" fell out of Belini's empty eye socket. Sands seized it and ran off.
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After giving the wad of paper to his girlfriend, Ajedrez, Sands stepped out of the video store between the ill-fated Mexican restaurant and the pharmacy. He wasn't entirely sure as to why he had given it to her, but it was, no doubt, highly important to the plot, so he put it out of his mind.
A little kid named Jacob came up to him as he reached the street.
"Wanna buy some chocolate?" asked the kid. "It's for my school."
"Tell your school to go screw itself," replied Sand.
"Okay!" said Jacob, and he ran off.
Sands shook his head and crossed the street to the opposite parking lot. He walked up the sidewalk and into the sports bar/restaurant.
Cucuy was already seated at the bar, holding a generic television remote and staring up at the football game being shown on the screen. Out at Invesco Field, the Denver Broncos were playing against the Green Bay Packers. Sands sat down a few seats away from his henchman, and nodded to him.
The Mexican president's advisor entered the bar, looking somewhat lost. Sands smiled amicably and motioned him over.
"Are you sure that this will all work out?" whispered the nervous Mexican. Sands smiled benignly at him.
"Of course," he grinned. "I never lose."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Let's just call it...creative sportsmanship," laughed Sands. "When the going gets tough, rig the game! Cucuy?"
"My finger is magic!" exclaimed Cucuy cheerfully, mashing down a button on the remote. Up on the screen, Brett Favre could be seen mysteriously exploding, spraying half the spectators with blood and bit of his green and yellow uniform. The crowd went wild, scrambling for pieces to take home as souvenirs, and a riot broke out.
Sands grinned.
"And now," he proclaimed, "We collect on the bets."
"...What bets?" wondered Cucuy.
"You didn't place bets on the game?" asked Sands coldly. "If we didn't place bets on the Broncos, why do you think we just blew up Mr. Favre?"
"I thought you just wanted to blow someone up for the hell of it!" Cucuy exclaimed.
Sands groaned, and pulled out his gun. He shot the television, three patrons, a waitress, the bartender, and, as an afterthought, the cook.
"What's wrong?" asked Carolina. El stared blankly at her, trying to comprehend what he had just heard her say.
"Everything!" he gasped, leaping up and dragging both her and half the mattress behind the bed, just as bullets began to smash through the window of the hotel room they were in. He jumped up and ran, pulling Carolina along behind him. The mattress bumped along the floor, briefly became jammed in the doorway, and generally did its best to slow them down.
El came to a window at the end of the hallway and looked out. He jerked his head back quickly, and narrowly missed being shot in the face.
"Oh, yes," he snarled at Carolina, as the camera dramatically zoomed out from the window to show how high up they were, "let's get a room on the twentieth floor! It has a nice view!"
Carolina started to roll her eyes, but was rudely interrupted when El chucked her out the window. The mattress and then the Mariachi were dragged out after her.
"Voon," said the mattress.
El managed to wrestle the mattress around so it was between the two of them and the ground. With their eyes clenched shut, they plummeted toward the asphalt, expecting the worst.
Until, of course, they landed on a passing bus.
The mattress slid off the side, threatening to take them with it.
"Stop the bus!" screamed Carolina, banging on the windshield.
The bus driver promptly pushed the vehicle's self destruct button and jumped out the door. Carolina and El groaned in disappointment as the bus exploded in a Technicolor fireball, launching them into the air. They flew for a ways, hit the ground, and skidded along for somewhere around twenty meters.
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A week or so later, they were married. The happy bride and groom kissed as the manacles connecting them to the mattress were finally shorn off. The skin underneath said manacles was quite wrinkly and gross looking, since leaving them on for so long had caused a rash. The joyous couple grinned at each other.
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El awoke from being mugged in Memory Lane. He ran his hand over his guitar, whose label now simply read "epp." He sighed, glanced at his watch, and moved out of the filthy little alcove next to the church. He paused for a moment at the entrance to the place of worship, and stepped inside.
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Sands plopped into the seat in the priest's side of the confessional he had told El to meet him in, silently congratulating himself on his ingenious disguise.
El stared through the metal grid separating Sands from himself. He couldn't see well enough to be sure, but it seemed to him that Sands was wearing a tie-dye robe, and had a three-foot-long beard. He blinked.
"What was the time of your last confession?" inquired Sands.
"One hour ago."
"And the name of the priest?"
"Sands."
"Okay, well, I don't remember why I met you here, except maybe to threaten you," said Sands. "So consider yourself threatened."
And with that, he left. El scratched his head in confusion.
A gun was heard being cocked outside the box.
El dove to the floor, narrowly missing being hit by the bullets now ripping the top of the confessional into splinters. He rolled out of the wreckage and grabbed the ankles of the shooter. The man fell, and impaled himself on his own gun. Blood gushed upwards from his chest like a glorious communist fountain, and El was quite disgusted.
El frowned and got up, clutching his guitar, though he had forgotten it. Around him, three more men approached.
El placed the guitar's strap around his chest, and swung the instrument over his shoulder to rest on his back. He ran over to a wall, and climbed up it like a squirrel on meth. Below him, the men split up. Two ran to climb the stairs and confront him, and the other began to clamber up the wall. Halfway up, El's most recent attacker slipped, fell, and landed on his throat on the corner of a pew. The force accumulated by his body during the fall cause him to be nearly decapitated despite the bluntness of the pew, and he made quite a mess.
El wondered at this show of incompetence, but readied himself for the coming confrontation with the remaining assailants. He murmured a sad farewell to the guitar, and raised it above his head, ready to bash the first man through the doorway in the noggin with it.
To his mild surprise, the opportunity never came. He waited a full five minutes to be attacked before curiosity finally got the best of him. He cautiously peeked down the stairs and discovered, to both his delight and disgust, that both men had tripped and, in the process, one of them had smashed his nose on the wall, driving shards of bone into his brain and killing him. The other had survived the fall, but landed with his face towards the floor and somehow managed to asphyxiate using the concrete. El snorted and left.
The participants in the church service that had been going on the entire time never even noticed the fight.
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"Are you still standing?" came Sands's voice, tinny over El's Barbie cell phone.
"Actually, I'm sitting," said El. "What was all that about?"
"I just thought it might be fun to try to kill you," Sands chirped cheerfully, and hung up.
El sighed and put the phone away.
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Sands met with Belini again, this time in a Chinese restaurant a few doors down from their previous meeting place. Sands was miffed about not having Mexican pork, but the Mexican restaurant was closed down so the kitchen could be clean and the cook replaced, so there was no chance of it at the moment.
"I need that information you have on Barillo," Sands hissed, his left trigger finger twitching on the firing mechanism of the shotgun he held under the table.
"You gotta pay me more," sneered Belini. "I need another five bucks for booze. I'm sure you can afford five bucks."
"We agreed on ten," glowered Sands. "It's the principle of the thing!"
Belini glared at him with his one eye.
At the next table, a waitress tripped over an inconveniently placed sofa that had blinked into existence without warning, and spilled a soft drink all over a diner and his meal.
Sands snapped.
"That spill just cost you your life!" he shouted. Before Belini could protest or inquire as to why this was so, Sands leapt up, his fake arm flailing. He proceeded to shoot Belini, the waitress, the Sprite-coated customer at the next table, and, as an afterthought, the cook.
"Crap monkeys!" he yelled, looking at the mess he had made. "Now where will I get the information?!"
He stomped around and yelled a bit, then ripped off Belini's eye patch for emphasis. Lo and behold, a wad of paper labeled "Information on Barillo" fell out of Belini's empty eye socket. Sands seized it and ran off.
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After giving the wad of paper to his girlfriend, Ajedrez, Sands stepped out of the video store between the ill-fated Mexican restaurant and the pharmacy. He wasn't entirely sure as to why he had given it to her, but it was, no doubt, highly important to the plot, so he put it out of his mind.
A little kid named Jacob came up to him as he reached the street.
"Wanna buy some chocolate?" asked the kid. "It's for my school."
"Tell your school to go screw itself," replied Sand.
"Okay!" said Jacob, and he ran off.
Sands shook his head and crossed the street to the opposite parking lot. He walked up the sidewalk and into the sports bar/restaurant.
Cucuy was already seated at the bar, holding a generic television remote and staring up at the football game being shown on the screen. Out at Invesco Field, the Denver Broncos were playing against the Green Bay Packers. Sands sat down a few seats away from his henchman, and nodded to him.
The Mexican president's advisor entered the bar, looking somewhat lost. Sands smiled amicably and motioned him over.
"Are you sure that this will all work out?" whispered the nervous Mexican. Sands smiled benignly at him.
"Of course," he grinned. "I never lose."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Let's just call it...creative sportsmanship," laughed Sands. "When the going gets tough, rig the game! Cucuy?"
"My finger is magic!" exclaimed Cucuy cheerfully, mashing down a button on the remote. Up on the screen, Brett Favre could be seen mysteriously exploding, spraying half the spectators with blood and bit of his green and yellow uniform. The crowd went wild, scrambling for pieces to take home as souvenirs, and a riot broke out.
Sands grinned.
"And now," he proclaimed, "We collect on the bets."
"...What bets?" wondered Cucuy.
"You didn't place bets on the game?" asked Sands coldly. "If we didn't place bets on the Broncos, why do you think we just blew up Mr. Favre?"
"I thought you just wanted to blow someone up for the hell of it!" Cucuy exclaimed.
Sands groaned, and pulled out his gun. He shot the television, three patrons, a waitress, the bartender, and, as an afterthought, the cook.