I know you're there.

Now don't sound so surprised, kid.  Heard your scuffed little sneakers shuffling up the street.  Lemme guess.  Red?  Nike?  Saw some cool Americanos wearing them on a late night show you weren't supposed to be watching, and begged your mommy – please, oh please – to buy them for you so the older kids would let you trail behind them and maybe whisper just what girls hide under their skirts?

Am I getting close, at least?

Oh 'no senor' my ass.

Why'd you come here boy, really?  Know it wasn't for my musical ability, in this little mariachi-ville.  Was it a dare?  Nike didn't get you all the way?  Think that if you get the story of the 'hombre sin ojos' your troubles'll be over, and everything will be peachy keen again?  Think this's your ticket to the big leages?

Hate to break it to ya kid, but no one's reaching Nirvana on this fucking road.

What's that?  Christ, what're they teaching kids these days?  A disgrace, really, how clueless you all are.  Take a bit of gravel son, grab a cookie.  I'll tell you a fucking story.

It's a good story, this one.  Educational, too.  No one'll be able to say I don't do my duty towards the next generation.  And the ending?  It's – well.  I'll just let you decide for yourself.

This story starts in a place far away.  Another world, almost.  One with hot tubs, and bad beer, and milano cookies.  That's where I'm from – America.  Land of the free.  But only if you're unemployed.

Cause see, Chiclet (you don't mind if I call you chiclet, do you?) once you get your own desk, with a shiny nametag and an even shiner gun, you do what they tell you, when they tell you.  So you can get promoted to the next level, where you develop the ability to do what they'd tell you before they even open their mouth.

This is a story about a man who, to put it politely, had heard more intelligent things come out of five year olds, and didn't hesitate to let the boss men know their ideas were absolute, utter shit.

Or maybe that wasn't polite at all.  You'll forgive me, won't you?  Thanks.

You're a nice civilized boy, aren't you Chiclet?  Something tells me you are.  If someone annoyed you – bugged the living hell out of you – what would you do?  Of course you know.  You'd take a gun, and shoot them in the fucking cabeza.  Like any other civilized human would.  Clean and simple.  But see, they aren't like that.   Oh no.  With them, you don't get a bullet through your head.  You get sent to fucking Mexico.

Now is that barbaric or what.

Here's some advice, me to you, in case you ever run across some suits in later life.  They're fucking good.  Don't look it, but they are.  And if you ever catch yourself thinking you're smarter than them, run like hell in the opposite direction and hope they don't bother following.

Where was I?  Oh, yes.  Mexico.  The ideal little place for things you want to quietly dispose of.  Things or people.  Makes no difference.  When you get sent to Mexico, you're a dead man, and there's an unmarked grave waiting for you with cartels to point you in the right direction.

Course, if you're slightly on the dead side before coming, things change.  Even better if you get so lucky as to find a member of the living dead to be your guide of the city. 

What's that kid?  Christ, be patient!  If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were just waiting for the blood to pour.  Or eyeballs to pop out.  But you gotta go about this in a delicate way.  That's just the way it's done. 

You've barely touched your cookie – chocolate chip not to your taste?  Perhaps you'd like another.  No?  Suit yourself.

As I was saying, it's all very delicate.  Whole Dead of the Dead operation was balanced on a point, and God help us all if something tipped the scale.  Or a few someones, led by a very irritating and broody mariachi with a horrible name.  Turns out, they didn't just tip it, they sent the whole thing crashing to the fucking ground. 

And the man?  You might say his luck ran out.

While a certain someone screwed everything up and send his two buddies off with a shitload of his money to buy more guitars, the man was busy having his eyes dug out.  And I do mean, dug out.  Barillo had some wacked hobbies – invented this little gadget, like a fucking ice scream scooper with drills in the middle. 

And after that, they let him go.  Fuckers.  Decided it would be on so funny to let him live, since after all, he was no danger to them.  A blind ex-CIA agent with several bullet holes wouldn't be much of a danger to anybody.

But see, they forgot one little thing.  Forgot they were dealing with Sheldon Jeffrey Sands; the insane, the annoying, the seriously fucked up pain in the CIA's ass who did NOT like being deprived of his body parts.

He reminded them.

The End.

What?  I told you your story, didn't I?  Gave you cookies, even.  Now, scat.  What do you mean, no.  Si.  Yes.  Story time is over, everyone under 30 has to leave.  That means you.  Bye bye! 

Stupid boy.  Move, or I'll take this fucking gun and send you to fucking Broadway.  I won't?  Oh, kid, don't try me.  I'm no good man – just a blind bastard getting his kicks the only way he can.  Oh.  So if I tell you about what happened to the stupid man with the bad name, you'll go away and save me the bullet?  That's fair. 

So as I said, the stupid man gave the money that was supposed to be the man's to his two mariachi buddies.  He'd gotten rid of the cartels for the moment, the world was quiet – it was brooding time again.  So the fucker grabbed his guitar, undid his hair, and walked through the streets of Mexico.  And if he ran into a certain man on the way – well, that would just be entirely too coincidental, wouldn't it?  So we won't say he did.  Bastard's probably still sulking around somewhere.  You might even see him someday.

And that's it.  You've got your story, go tell it to your friends, get a spot in the gang, write a book on it, whatever.  Just do me a favor and change your sneakers.  You want to be a writer?  Isn't that just neat.  Tell you what, kid.  I bet if you type this baby up, add a little improv of your own, and send it to some American producer, they'll even put in on the telly.  Better do it soon, though.  I wanna hear my life story before something happens and my ears go down the drain too.

You promise, huh?  That'd good kid, that's real good.  Now scram.  Cause see – and you're not gonna put this part in your book, ya hear?  Might offend some delicate sensibilities – if we imagine the mariachi did run into a certain man, and did hoist him up and carry him to some pay by the hour hotel room, and did, a few months later, gladly screw his brains out…now would be a good time to leave.  Cause my mariachi's standing right behind you, and I really want some snogging time before we have to go kill stuff, m'kay? 

Hmph.  I don't hear you leaving.  Hey!  Bad touch, Sand does not do hugs.  Trying to suffocate me, are you?  Nice boy, nice boy.  Now get off.  Much better.  Your name is Juan?  Well Juan, it's been real.  Adios.

"Would I be the stupid mariachi in question?"

"Bout time you showed up, fuckmook.  How long've you been standing there?"

"Long enough.  A book, now?"

"And why not?  After that piece of shit you read me the other day, I figured the world needed some good literature."

"That piece of shit was a classic—"

"We'll make our own classics."

"Mmmnn.  That sounds like a good idea to me.  And Sands?"

"Yeah?"

"The ending was not correct."

"Of course not.  Can't have word get out that our story ended with great sex and mushy stuff.  We've got a reputation to uphold."

"So you sent me off wandering till the end of time with my guitar?"

"Like you wouldn't love that?"

"I would not, if I did not have you with me."

"You romantic son of a bitch."

"That is why you love me."

"That and your dashing good looks."

"Si.  Come, my hombre.  We must – how you say it?  Kill stuff now."

"Goody.  Remind me to keep a look out for our movie.  I've got this feeling it's gonna be great."

      (3 years later)

"El?"

"Yes, it's me.  I have it."

A thump indicated something being dropped on the table next to him.

"Fuck me sideways, he actually did it.  What's it called?"

"Once Upon a Time in Mexico."

"I like it.  It's got style.  Am I hot?"

"Si.  I am hotter."

"Fucker."

The bed shifted, and he was pulled into a warm, solid body.  Sands smiled.

"Did you bring the popcorn?"