humo caliente 1
The question "would you rather be deaf or blind?" felt appropriate as the blood dried on his face. Dried tight to the skin. And that smell of it baking in the heat isn't something he'd be forgetting soon. That, and the whole eye gouging thing. Twisting silver inches and inches away, until red, to a final black.
Like he'd never wondered what an eye popping sounded like.
Not much hearing goes on if you scream loud enough. Nor if blood rushes through your ears fast enough. It ended up meaning, asking them to do something about your ears next was an idea. Right up there with: "Is that sanitized?" and "Fucking, CHRISTLORDJESUS".
Sands didn't hear his eye popping. Oh no, he felt it. Clear as day. Wet and all over the place. It had to have been perfect, the operation, because he's still breathing.
He'd just as soon forget that, as he would he's sitting in a bar with some Mexican legend, who doesn't much talk and plays guitar.
"Oh, I'm never eating pork again."
What playing there was, stops, thank you sweet Jesus, and wood creaks. Wood for a stool.
"¿Por qué?"
"Well," A dramatic pause, so he can turn his head and be facing the fucker, "when someone's gouged your eyes out, and that smell you're smelling is so much of your own blood, red meat - pork, for instance - just doesn't have that same appeal. Now, to put it simple, here... that's probably what my fucking eyes looked like when they yanked them out. Red meat."
He affords himself a smile when El Mariachi doesn't talk back right away. Maybe there's something like sickness on his face. Maybe shock. Maybe nothing at all but that scowl he only ever pictures him wearing.
"Aren't eyes white?"
"Yes... What's your point?"
"It would be white meat, then."
"Need I remind you, Mister Guitar Jockey, that we bleed? I'm never eating pork again. Not fucking ever."
The question "are two heads better than one?" seems appropriate. One. One, one one, Sands decides. When head number two is angst on legs in leather.
"What happened to your little friend?"
He wasn't expecting conversation. He wasn't expecting much these days. Let's call it lost humanity, and ignore the fact that that's how he's always been.
"Oh, him? Actually. He disappeared one day, and wouldn't you know it? I couldn't seem to find him again."
"Me aflijo para oír eso."
"And I'm sure you are... You wouldn't happen to have a, uhh... cig, would you?" Another smile, slower, easier, and all for the sake of getting what he wanted. Manipulation. What he indulges in most, when he's not feeling the edges of empty sockets, or biting lime.
There's a potted plant on the table behind them. Greenhouse aroma, wet dirt, leather, and candles, because those smell too. Burning wick has a way of reminding him of nicotine. Thank God, because he might have forgotten over the skull-splitting headaches.
He's in a constant state of clenching teeth.
When El hands him a lit cigarette, and actually has to take his hand and fold the fingers around the filter, he wants to thank him in every way he knows. But he doesn't.
He just wraps his lips around the thing, not giving it a second thought. Smooth and in control, Sheldon. Set them up. Watch them fall. No one'll touch you. No one can.
But someone did.
When you can't physically sob, you start to believe you're getting stronger. I have no fucking eyes just hasn't caught up yet. The thing is, if you still have legs, you keep running. And where that got him was right next to El Mariachi. This just means there isn't much hope left, and getting stronger means getting his claws in someone.
He stubs out the cigarette on the bar and tries a "thanks" now, but wheezes instead. Oh yeah, feel the burn. If he still had eyes they'd be stinging from the haze of smoke in here. That alone tells him the place is small. Less room for air to travel with close walls and low ceilings.
He can't hear many people. In fact, no others.
"Are we alone?"
"Si."
"Goodie."