The next morning, El woke up in a dumpster with no memory of why. He
rubbed his sore head in confusion, and crawled out. Upon looking around,
he found that he was behind the church, at the bottom of some dingy
concrete steps. He shook his head and climbed those stairs, managing to
fall down only once.
He emerged next to the furniture store. It was not yet time to do his job, though, and he realized that his hair must be a mess. He ran his fingers through it, and was repulsed by the various bits he found there. The bits, in turn, were repulsed by his hand, but no one really cares about the feelings of nasty bits of stuff, so it doesn't really matter. He spotted a hair salon further up the sidewalk, and went to it.
A few seconds later, he dashed back, grabbed his guitar, and left again.
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Cucuy peeked out from under the hairdryer his head was in. He silently watched through narrowed eyes as El arrived and got a his hair washed, then cut, then washed again, and then highlighted.
El sat down in the seat next to Cucuy.
"Is everything going according to plan?" asked The over the roar of the machines.
"No," growled Cucuy. "I do not work for Sands any longer."
"I guess that means I don't work for him anymore either."
"I'm not quite sure how you figure that, but what the hell ever," said Cucuy.
"You do know that I'm going to kill you and all your cartel buddies now, right?"
"Yeah," sighed Cucuy. "Just...wait until our hair is dry, okay?"
"Okay."
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Twenty minutes later, El and Cucuy stepped out into the sunlight. They stood and blinked for a moment, and then both whipped out their guns simultaneously and whirled on each other.
El took aim at his adversary, but Cucuy went and hid behind a pillar. El furrowed his brow and moved to go around the pillar and shoot him.
A nameless thug popped out and shot El in the forehead with a two-foot-long tranquilizer dart, since he had run out of regular darts earlier thanks to the impromptu game of "shoot the driver of that passing car in the neck" that he had played out of boredom as he waited. El crossed his eyes and looked up at it, and collapsed.
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El came to in a small room that smelled of medicine. He was, for some reason, not even tied up. He pulled the dart out of his head and went toward the door.
Two guards came in to stop him, but their resistance was short-lived. One tripped over his own feet and smashed his skull on the floor, and the other twisted his ankle. The stricken man lay twitching and moaning on the floor. El kicked him in disgust.
El left through the door they had come in by, and discovered that he was in the back of the corner pharmacy. He staggered a bit and left, just as General Marquez arrived. El went entirely unnoticed, despite the fact that he was wearing a shirt with "Hi, My Name Is El Mariachi" written in big, bold letters on the front. El blundered off in a random direction, and it took them ten minutes to even notice he was gone.
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Ramirez pressed the button on the small black device he held in his hand, and spoke into it, keeping an eye on the dental office in front of him.
"Earlier this morning, Barillo and his...uh...henchmen went into this dental office. They have not yet come out, but I am beginning to suspect that there may be a back door."
He stared blearily at the neon sign in the window that said "Now With Back Door!", and went on.
"I'm going in now."
He released the button on the garage door opener, which had somehow failed to record his words.
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The bodies of dental assistants littered the floor of the lobby like so many packing peanuts, and an eerie silence filled the air. Ramirez grimaced and picked his way through the mess and into the next room. A man lay dead in one of the reclining chairs, his face covered by a bloody cloth. Ramirez crept up next to the corpse, and pulled away the covering.
"If Barillo wanted to be unrecognizable, he succeeded," he groaned. "The suspect is dead in mid-dental reconstruction."
Indeed, the man grinned grotesquely up at the ceiling, his mouth held open and teeth exposed with various dental apparatuses, including, for some reason, a half-eaten pretzel. The teeth themselves were an unholy halfway between those of Barillo and those of a different man.
Ramirez reached over and grabbed the wrist. Rings flopped from fingers they did not fit and jingled on the hard floor. Ramirez had a flash of inspiration.
"This isn't Barillo!" he breathed into the little black remote. "He's still alive somewhere!"
The door behind him burst open, and a man came in, leaning on two thugs for support. Ramirez thought he recognized the stranger, but such thoughts were dispelled immediately when the man grinned and showed his teeth. Ramirez had thought he was Barillo, but those were not Barillo's teeth.
"Get him," said the mystery man, who, in case you could not guess, was really Barillo with spiffy new teeth. One of the thugs hit Ramirez over the head with a toothbrush, and the last thing poor Jorge saw before he slipped into unconsciousness was Ajedrez entering the room.
She knelt down beside the former agent, and took his wallet.
"Who ish he?" slurred Barillo through he painkillers.
"FBI," frowned Ajedrez. "No...This is just a novelty card."
"That'sh weird," said Barillo. "Oh well. Bring him with ush. We can alwaysh torture him for the hell of it."
The thugs obeyed.
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Sands trudged nervously past the liquor store. Things were not going well for him this day. El wasn't answering his calls, Ramirez's phone was either broken or turned off, and Cucuy had called and told him he was breaking up with him. Sands was still confused about that last one. In short, Sands was lonely. He paused, thinking, and pulled out his bright yellow Bob the Builder cell phone. He thought for a moment, and punched in a number. To his joy, he actually got an answer.
"Listen," he hissed into the phone, "This is supposed to be the big dance number, so it's no time to screw the pooch!"
"Dude, this is the Blackjack order line," whined the voice on the other end. "Stop calling us!"
Sands blinked in confusion as he was hung up on, and started moving again. He punched a new number into his phone, as he peered hopefully into to window of the Mexican restaurant. He was surprised and delighted to see that there was a sign declaring that they had obtained a new cook and were now open for business once more. He grinned, and stepped inside, just as his call went through.
"Uh..hey," he started.
"Sands, is that you?" inquired the voice of his employer. "What the hell do you want now?"
"Ummm...I need a new phone line," Sands muttered, opening up a menu and pointing out his dish of choice to the waiter. He nodded at Sands, and left to get it.
"I told you, man, we can't just go around giving you a new phone line whenever you feel like it," growled the boss. "We have better things to be doing."
"But I want one!" whined Sands petulantly. "Can't you just do it anyway, just this once?"
"Just this once," sighed the man on the other end.
"Yay!" celebrated Sands.
"Whatever," groaned his superior. "Goodbye."
Sands was a bit put off by being hung up on again, but consoled himself with the fact that he would soon be eating Mexican pork, and soon found himself happy once more.
That is, until Ajedrez slid into the seat across from him with an evil grin on her face.
"Hi!" she grinned perkily. "I'm an evil psychobitch!"
Her point was proven within seconds, as one of her goons plunged a needle into Sands's neck. As he began to fade into unconsciousness, Sands gazed up mournfully at the large group of people suddenly surrounding the table. The surviving staff from all the restaurants he had shot up leered unpleasantly down at him. Cooks stared at him with wild eyes from under their puffy hats, wait staff gripped the backs of chairs so hard that their fingers left imprints, and the Pillsbury Doughboy growled softly at him from the tabletop. Sands's eyes rolled up into his head, and he flopped forward, unconscious.
He emerged next to the furniture store. It was not yet time to do his job, though, and he realized that his hair must be a mess. He ran his fingers through it, and was repulsed by the various bits he found there. The bits, in turn, were repulsed by his hand, but no one really cares about the feelings of nasty bits of stuff, so it doesn't really matter. He spotted a hair salon further up the sidewalk, and went to it.
A few seconds later, he dashed back, grabbed his guitar, and left again.
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Cucuy peeked out from under the hairdryer his head was in. He silently watched through narrowed eyes as El arrived and got a his hair washed, then cut, then washed again, and then highlighted.
El sat down in the seat next to Cucuy.
"Is everything going according to plan?" asked The over the roar of the machines.
"No," growled Cucuy. "I do not work for Sands any longer."
"I guess that means I don't work for him anymore either."
"I'm not quite sure how you figure that, but what the hell ever," said Cucuy.
"You do know that I'm going to kill you and all your cartel buddies now, right?"
"Yeah," sighed Cucuy. "Just...wait until our hair is dry, okay?"
"Okay."
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
Twenty minutes later, El and Cucuy stepped out into the sunlight. They stood and blinked for a moment, and then both whipped out their guns simultaneously and whirled on each other.
El took aim at his adversary, but Cucuy went and hid behind a pillar. El furrowed his brow and moved to go around the pillar and shoot him.
A nameless thug popped out and shot El in the forehead with a two-foot-long tranquilizer dart, since he had run out of regular darts earlier thanks to the impromptu game of "shoot the driver of that passing car in the neck" that he had played out of boredom as he waited. El crossed his eyes and looked up at it, and collapsed.
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
El came to in a small room that smelled of medicine. He was, for some reason, not even tied up. He pulled the dart out of his head and went toward the door.
Two guards came in to stop him, but their resistance was short-lived. One tripped over his own feet and smashed his skull on the floor, and the other twisted his ankle. The stricken man lay twitching and moaning on the floor. El kicked him in disgust.
El left through the door they had come in by, and discovered that he was in the back of the corner pharmacy. He staggered a bit and left, just as General Marquez arrived. El went entirely unnoticed, despite the fact that he was wearing a shirt with "Hi, My Name Is El Mariachi" written in big, bold letters on the front. El blundered off in a random direction, and it took them ten minutes to even notice he was gone.
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
Ramirez pressed the button on the small black device he held in his hand, and spoke into it, keeping an eye on the dental office in front of him.
"Earlier this morning, Barillo and his...uh...henchmen went into this dental office. They have not yet come out, but I am beginning to suspect that there may be a back door."
He stared blearily at the neon sign in the window that said "Now With Back Door!", and went on.
"I'm going in now."
He released the button on the garage door opener, which had somehow failed to record his words.
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
The bodies of dental assistants littered the floor of the lobby like so many packing peanuts, and an eerie silence filled the air. Ramirez grimaced and picked his way through the mess and into the next room. A man lay dead in one of the reclining chairs, his face covered by a bloody cloth. Ramirez crept up next to the corpse, and pulled away the covering.
"If Barillo wanted to be unrecognizable, he succeeded," he groaned. "The suspect is dead in mid-dental reconstruction."
Indeed, the man grinned grotesquely up at the ceiling, his mouth held open and teeth exposed with various dental apparatuses, including, for some reason, a half-eaten pretzel. The teeth themselves were an unholy halfway between those of Barillo and those of a different man.
Ramirez reached over and grabbed the wrist. Rings flopped from fingers they did not fit and jingled on the hard floor. Ramirez had a flash of inspiration.
"This isn't Barillo!" he breathed into the little black remote. "He's still alive somewhere!"
The door behind him burst open, and a man came in, leaning on two thugs for support. Ramirez thought he recognized the stranger, but such thoughts were dispelled immediately when the man grinned and showed his teeth. Ramirez had thought he was Barillo, but those were not Barillo's teeth.
"Get him," said the mystery man, who, in case you could not guess, was really Barillo with spiffy new teeth. One of the thugs hit Ramirez over the head with a toothbrush, and the last thing poor Jorge saw before he slipped into unconsciousness was Ajedrez entering the room.
She knelt down beside the former agent, and took his wallet.
"Who ish he?" slurred Barillo through he painkillers.
"FBI," frowned Ajedrez. "No...This is just a novelty card."
"That'sh weird," said Barillo. "Oh well. Bring him with ush. We can alwaysh torture him for the hell of it."
The thugs obeyed.
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Sands trudged nervously past the liquor store. Things were not going well for him this day. El wasn't answering his calls, Ramirez's phone was either broken or turned off, and Cucuy had called and told him he was breaking up with him. Sands was still confused about that last one. In short, Sands was lonely. He paused, thinking, and pulled out his bright yellow Bob the Builder cell phone. He thought for a moment, and punched in a number. To his joy, he actually got an answer.
"Listen," he hissed into the phone, "This is supposed to be the big dance number, so it's no time to screw the pooch!"
"Dude, this is the Blackjack order line," whined the voice on the other end. "Stop calling us!"
Sands blinked in confusion as he was hung up on, and started moving again. He punched a new number into his phone, as he peered hopefully into to window of the Mexican restaurant. He was surprised and delighted to see that there was a sign declaring that they had obtained a new cook and were now open for business once more. He grinned, and stepped inside, just as his call went through.
"Uh..hey," he started.
"Sands, is that you?" inquired the voice of his employer. "What the hell do you want now?"
"Ummm...I need a new phone line," Sands muttered, opening up a menu and pointing out his dish of choice to the waiter. He nodded at Sands, and left to get it.
"I told you, man, we can't just go around giving you a new phone line whenever you feel like it," growled the boss. "We have better things to be doing."
"But I want one!" whined Sands petulantly. "Can't you just do it anyway, just this once?"
"Just this once," sighed the man on the other end.
"Yay!" celebrated Sands.
"Whatever," groaned his superior. "Goodbye."
Sands was a bit put off by being hung up on again, but consoled himself with the fact that he would soon be eating Mexican pork, and soon found himself happy once more.
That is, until Ajedrez slid into the seat across from him with an evil grin on her face.
"Hi!" she grinned perkily. "I'm an evil psychobitch!"
Her point was proven within seconds, as one of her goons plunged a needle into Sands's neck. As he began to fade into unconsciousness, Sands gazed up mournfully at the large group of people suddenly surrounding the table. The surviving staff from all the restaurants he had shot up leered unpleasantly down at him. Cooks stared at him with wild eyes from under their puffy hats, wait staff gripped the backs of chairs so hard that their fingers left imprints, and the Pillsbury Doughboy growled softly at him from the tabletop. Sands's eyes rolled up into his head, and he flopped forward, unconscious.