El sat atop one of the racks in the dry cleaner's shop, strumming his
guitar, which he had bought it just before he had moved to Mexico and
Chambers with his wife and daughter. Life had been hard at first, but they
had been fortunate enough to find both a home and paying work in the
cleaners.
He smiled down at Carolina, who was sitting on the counter, holding their daughter. She grinned and waved up at him.
The door flew open, and General Marquez stormed in, followed by a large quantity of soldiers shouting random military phrases a la Command and Conquer.
"Eek!" stated Carolina, for which she was promptly shot.
"Ummm...not eek!" said El's daughter, but she was shot anyways.
El jumped down and smashed his guitar over the general's head in one fluid motion. Splinters flew everywhere, one of the soldiers shot El, and the mysterious little invasion left as quickly as it had come.
El dragged himself over to where his beloved family now lay dead, and wept.
The owner of the cleaners returned from the crapper, and gasped as he took in the grisly scene. Blood was spattered all over the shop, clogging machinery and staining clothing quite horrendously. The man looked down at El, and uttered the only thing he could think of.
"I hope you know that you're paying for this."
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El shook his head, dissolving the memory. He had been avoiding this part of the intersection for quite a while now, knowing that the memories would return when he did. He gripped his guitar, and started along his way again. The flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye, and he looked around.
Cucuy ducked belatedly behind a pillar. El frowned at him, and pulled out his phone. After spending a minute or so giggling with happiness at its pastel coloring, he dialed Sands's number.
"What?!" snapped Sands. Unbeknownst to El, the agent was currently going through severe emotional trauma, since only one restaurant in the entire intersection currently had enough living staff members to be open.
"Is there a reason you're having Cucuy follow me?" asked El, gazing sideways at his pursuer, who was currently engaged in kissing the pillar in a very passionate manner.
"Come to think of it, no," admitted Sands. "I just thought it would be funny, especially since Cucuy is so pissed about you killing his men back at the church."
"I never killed them," El protested. "They just kind of died."
"Huh," wondered Sands. "I guess he's just randomly pissed, then. Heheh. Ta!"
El muttered to himself as he heard the telltale sounds of being hung up on, gave Cucuy one last look of loathing, and headed on his way again.
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Sands smiled to himself. It turned out that there were, after all his trouble, advantages to killing so many cooks that only one restaurant could remain open. Barillo himself was sitting only two tables away, along with his lackey, Dr. Guevera. Their presence would, no doubt, make his job much easier.
Jorge Ramirez plopped down in the seat opposite Sands.
Sands studiously poked the pork chop he had ordered for appearance's sake, watching it carefully for any signs of extraterrestrial life. He brushed some stray hair out of his face, and looked up at the ex-FBI agent.
He smiled.
"Hey, guess what," grinned Sands, bobbing his head manically.
"What?" drawled a much less chipper Ramirez.
"Barillo's right behind you."
Ramirez ground his teeth.
"I know."
"His doctor friend's there too," giggled Sands sadistically. "You know, the one who tortured your partner for two weeks and then killed him?"
Barillo glanced over at them, shook his head, and went back to his meal.
"What's your point?" growled Ramirez. "He can't be arrested for stupid technical reasons anyway."
"Ah, but that's not the issue at hand," Sands reprimanded. "You could always just kill him. Here, have a phone."
"I'll think about it," grumbled Ramirez, accepting the communication device. It was, unlike El's phone, baby blue with pictures of Blue from Blue's Clues pasted all over it. Ramirez, unlike El, remained sober and pouty despite the ostentatious gift. Sands watched him leave, and chewed on his pork chop. He frowned, dissatisfied.
Just a few minutes later, Sands could be heard shooting the waiters, the waitresses, an innocent robotic parrot, and, as an afterthought, the cook.
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The white door to the anime store creaked open, unleashing the smell of books and cheap refrigerators out onto the street. El stepped through, past the plastic milk crates that served as a video return box, past the table bearing fliers for various conventions, and into the store proper. He entered the storeroom on his right, ignoring the shelves of movies and merchandise, as well as the man at the counter.
Lorenzo and Fideo looked up from their viewing of Ranma ½. A smile spread itself across Lorenzo's face, navigating carefully around his mole. Fideo gurgled and swayed a bit, and then compensated by chugging some more sake.
"What's up?" asked Lorenzo.
"There's a big violent thing coming up. Lots of cash is involved, and I need my weapons and some backup," said El. "I see Fideo is still drinking."
"Like a fish," sighed Lorenzo.
"...You do know that that doesn't make any sense, right?" complained El.
"Yes," grinned Lorenzo. "Well, here's your stuff."
El took the proffered plastic bag and checked it. Like he had expected, it contained one gun, a decent amount of ammo, a highly decorative Holy Hand Grenade, and a rubber chicken.
"We kill General Marquez tomorrow. Get Fideo sober by then," growled the Mariachi, and he left.
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Ramirez sat on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, staring sadly at his old ID card from when he had been in the FBI, which had been soaked in red ink and hole punched several times in order to render it unusable. Giving it up as a lost cause, he just went next door to the novelty clothing shop and bought a fake one.
Coming out of the store, he glanced down the sidewalk, and observed Billy entering the liquor store with his dog, whose legs paddled uselessly against the air as he attempted to chase a nearby bird, which merely gave him a disdainful look. Ramirez adjusted his clothing, and followed.
Billy held Snuffles under one arm, and patted him on the head with his free hand. He grabbed some beer from one of the store's shelves, and went to the counter.
"Oh, um," he said as the clerk rang it up, "could I get some wine in a plastic cup, too? You know, for the dog?"
The clerk stared at him, and then at the dog. Snuffles panted and shot some of his fur up the clerk's nose as encouragement.
"Whatever..." sighed the unfortunate worker, as he moved to fill out the request, filling the cup from a bottle marked KT GAPI.
Ramirez stepped forward from his position near the door.
"Here, buddy," he said, pulling out his wallet. "Let me get that for you."
He flipped his wallet open to reveal his newly bought card. It was a poor likeness of a real badge, especially since the photo was of a middle-aged Japanese woman sitting on a couch and grinning in a very creepy way. Luckily for Ramirez, Billy only managed to see that it said "FBI" on it before it flew out of the wallet and landed facedown on the floor.
"Aww, crap," commented Billy. "Oh well. I'll come."
Ramirez picked up his card, and they left. The clerk rolled his eyes, downed the wine meant for Snuffles, and set about putting the beer away.
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Ramirez and Billy sat in the back of a car in the middle of the parking lot. Snuffles lay across Billy's lap, panting loudly.
"I'm ready to come quietly," murmured Billy. "They've had me stuck in that stinking pharmacy for way too long."
"Cool," said Ramirez. "Now...can you get close to Barillo? You know, close enough for a microphone?"
No," sighed Billy. "But Snuffles can."
Ramirez grinned, and put a microphone in the dog's collar.
Up in the front seat, the girl in the driver's seat poked her friend in the arm. The friend looked up from the map she was drawing of the area.
"Spoofmaster," sighed the driver, "do those guys really need to be in my car?"
"Uh...I guess not," muttered the author.
"Then can you get rid of them? I mean, I don't mind driving you out here, but this is a bit much."
"Yeah, yeah," sighed the master of spoofs. "Hey, guys? Could you get out?"
The characters complied, and watched the car drive off.
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Ramirez called Sands.
"I've got an inside man," he told the CIA agent. "He says Barillo's scheduled for an appointment at the dentist tomorrow."
"Stay with that," commanded Sands. "That appointment is when it's all going down."
"When all what's going down?"
"I...don't know," admitted Sands, and he hung up.
He smiled down at Carolina, who was sitting on the counter, holding their daughter. She grinned and waved up at him.
The door flew open, and General Marquez stormed in, followed by a large quantity of soldiers shouting random military phrases a la Command and Conquer.
"Eek!" stated Carolina, for which she was promptly shot.
"Ummm...not eek!" said El's daughter, but she was shot anyways.
El jumped down and smashed his guitar over the general's head in one fluid motion. Splinters flew everywhere, one of the soldiers shot El, and the mysterious little invasion left as quickly as it had come.
El dragged himself over to where his beloved family now lay dead, and wept.
The owner of the cleaners returned from the crapper, and gasped as he took in the grisly scene. Blood was spattered all over the shop, clogging machinery and staining clothing quite horrendously. The man looked down at El, and uttered the only thing he could think of.
"I hope you know that you're paying for this."
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
El shook his head, dissolving the memory. He had been avoiding this part of the intersection for quite a while now, knowing that the memories would return when he did. He gripped his guitar, and started along his way again. The flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye, and he looked around.
Cucuy ducked belatedly behind a pillar. El frowned at him, and pulled out his phone. After spending a minute or so giggling with happiness at its pastel coloring, he dialed Sands's number.
"What?!" snapped Sands. Unbeknownst to El, the agent was currently going through severe emotional trauma, since only one restaurant in the entire intersection currently had enough living staff members to be open.
"Is there a reason you're having Cucuy follow me?" asked El, gazing sideways at his pursuer, who was currently engaged in kissing the pillar in a very passionate manner.
"Come to think of it, no," admitted Sands. "I just thought it would be funny, especially since Cucuy is so pissed about you killing his men back at the church."
"I never killed them," El protested. "They just kind of died."
"Huh," wondered Sands. "I guess he's just randomly pissed, then. Heheh. Ta!"
El muttered to himself as he heard the telltale sounds of being hung up on, gave Cucuy one last look of loathing, and headed on his way again.
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Sands smiled to himself. It turned out that there were, after all his trouble, advantages to killing so many cooks that only one restaurant could remain open. Barillo himself was sitting only two tables away, along with his lackey, Dr. Guevera. Their presence would, no doubt, make his job much easier.
Jorge Ramirez plopped down in the seat opposite Sands.
Sands studiously poked the pork chop he had ordered for appearance's sake, watching it carefully for any signs of extraterrestrial life. He brushed some stray hair out of his face, and looked up at the ex-FBI agent.
He smiled.
"Hey, guess what," grinned Sands, bobbing his head manically.
"What?" drawled a much less chipper Ramirez.
"Barillo's right behind you."
Ramirez ground his teeth.
"I know."
"His doctor friend's there too," giggled Sands sadistically. "You know, the one who tortured your partner for two weeks and then killed him?"
Barillo glanced over at them, shook his head, and went back to his meal.
"What's your point?" growled Ramirez. "He can't be arrested for stupid technical reasons anyway."
"Ah, but that's not the issue at hand," Sands reprimanded. "You could always just kill him. Here, have a phone."
"I'll think about it," grumbled Ramirez, accepting the communication device. It was, unlike El's phone, baby blue with pictures of Blue from Blue's Clues pasted all over it. Ramirez, unlike El, remained sober and pouty despite the ostentatious gift. Sands watched him leave, and chewed on his pork chop. He frowned, dissatisfied.
Just a few minutes later, Sands could be heard shooting the waiters, the waitresses, an innocent robotic parrot, and, as an afterthought, the cook.
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The white door to the anime store creaked open, unleashing the smell of books and cheap refrigerators out onto the street. El stepped through, past the plastic milk crates that served as a video return box, past the table bearing fliers for various conventions, and into the store proper. He entered the storeroom on his right, ignoring the shelves of movies and merchandise, as well as the man at the counter.
Lorenzo and Fideo looked up from their viewing of Ranma ½. A smile spread itself across Lorenzo's face, navigating carefully around his mole. Fideo gurgled and swayed a bit, and then compensated by chugging some more sake.
"What's up?" asked Lorenzo.
"There's a big violent thing coming up. Lots of cash is involved, and I need my weapons and some backup," said El. "I see Fideo is still drinking."
"Like a fish," sighed Lorenzo.
"...You do know that that doesn't make any sense, right?" complained El.
"Yes," grinned Lorenzo. "Well, here's your stuff."
El took the proffered plastic bag and checked it. Like he had expected, it contained one gun, a decent amount of ammo, a highly decorative Holy Hand Grenade, and a rubber chicken.
"We kill General Marquez tomorrow. Get Fideo sober by then," growled the Mariachi, and he left.
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Ramirez sat on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, staring sadly at his old ID card from when he had been in the FBI, which had been soaked in red ink and hole punched several times in order to render it unusable. Giving it up as a lost cause, he just went next door to the novelty clothing shop and bought a fake one.
Coming out of the store, he glanced down the sidewalk, and observed Billy entering the liquor store with his dog, whose legs paddled uselessly against the air as he attempted to chase a nearby bird, which merely gave him a disdainful look. Ramirez adjusted his clothing, and followed.
Billy held Snuffles under one arm, and patted him on the head with his free hand. He grabbed some beer from one of the store's shelves, and went to the counter.
"Oh, um," he said as the clerk rang it up, "could I get some wine in a plastic cup, too? You know, for the dog?"
The clerk stared at him, and then at the dog. Snuffles panted and shot some of his fur up the clerk's nose as encouragement.
"Whatever..." sighed the unfortunate worker, as he moved to fill out the request, filling the cup from a bottle marked KT GAPI.
Ramirez stepped forward from his position near the door.
"Here, buddy," he said, pulling out his wallet. "Let me get that for you."
He flipped his wallet open to reveal his newly bought card. It was a poor likeness of a real badge, especially since the photo was of a middle-aged Japanese woman sitting on a couch and grinning in a very creepy way. Luckily for Ramirez, Billy only managed to see that it said "FBI" on it before it flew out of the wallet and landed facedown on the floor.
"Aww, crap," commented Billy. "Oh well. I'll come."
Ramirez picked up his card, and they left. The clerk rolled his eyes, downed the wine meant for Snuffles, and set about putting the beer away.
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Ramirez and Billy sat in the back of a car in the middle of the parking lot. Snuffles lay across Billy's lap, panting loudly.
"I'm ready to come quietly," murmured Billy. "They've had me stuck in that stinking pharmacy for way too long."
"Cool," said Ramirez. "Now...can you get close to Barillo? You know, close enough for a microphone?"
No," sighed Billy. "But Snuffles can."
Ramirez grinned, and put a microphone in the dog's collar.
Up in the front seat, the girl in the driver's seat poked her friend in the arm. The friend looked up from the map she was drawing of the area.
"Spoofmaster," sighed the driver, "do those guys really need to be in my car?"
"Uh...I guess not," muttered the author.
"Then can you get rid of them? I mean, I don't mind driving you out here, but this is a bit much."
"Yeah, yeah," sighed the master of spoofs. "Hey, guys? Could you get out?"
The characters complied, and watched the car drive off.
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Ramirez called Sands.
"I've got an inside man," he told the CIA agent. "He says Barillo's scheduled for an appointment at the dentist tomorrow."
"Stay with that," commanded Sands. "That appointment is when it's all going down."
"When all what's going down?"
"I...don't know," admitted Sands, and he hung up.