August 2008
Mexican State of San Luis Potisi
(Dean Winchester)
The Impala's crying and my heart's broken. Okay, not really but I am flat on my damn back underneath her and water's drip, drip, dripping out of the water pump. I think for a moment that I should drink some, a fast death from coolant preferable to a slow death from dehydration but I opt for the latter and crawl out from under my baby.
I was told that there's a demon I need to find, somewhere in Bumfuck, Mexico, and my baby and I were well on our way when she sprung a leak. I'm lookin' at her now and dad would be royally pissed. She's covered in so much dust and grime, that she looks like she's been painted primer gray in this glaring 'burn the meat right off of your bones' sun. It hotter than hell and I oughta know.
Down here they call me 'La Mano de Dios', the Hand of God. I used to laugh because I know what I do with 'my hand', a lot, but now the name only makes me uncomfortable. When the people of this godforsaken country find out it's me they treat me like I'm a saint instead of the unmitigated sinner I know I am. Besides, if I am La Mano de Dios, then why can't I just wave my hand over the Impala and bring her back to life, you know, lay hands on her and heal her?
In this perfect world I'd be richer that Bill Gates because every time I kill a demon, and these people do tend to believe in their demons, they wanna give me all their worldly possessions. But they ain't got shit and I even feel bad taking their food.
Besides sometimes killing demons with my secret weapon, that every demon knows about and wants, is like shooting fish in a barrel. I feel like making up a t-shirt that says 'I went to hell and all I got was this lousy nail'. That would make 'em think twice before trying to eviscerate me. The Colt could only kill some of the demons some of the time but a nail from Christ's cross...it does the trick every time.
And then there are the hellhounds. It still hurts like a sombitch whenever I whisper one up but you'd have to go some to find a meaner junkyard dog and I don't even have to feed 'em.
Anyway, I'd been hearing through the crapvine for months that there's some big bad ass demon down in a little town in Mexico called Armadillo Infante and I really didn't give a crap. Then Castiel comes to me cryin' about another of his bffs getting killed so here I am, up Shit Creek in the great state of San Luis Potisi, Mexico without a paddle...or a water pump...or a car.
If I leave her behind I know my baby will be well taken care of, towed to the nearest town and someone will go to Santa Rita, or maybe even to San Luis Potisi, where cars from the 60's are the rule rather than the exception, and pull a water pump and, just as if God had laid hands on her, she'll be as good as new when I get back.
But right now, Castiel, you son of a bitch, I need a ride.
Not a hour later my heavenly chariot comes to me in the guise of an ancient Ford flatbed loaded with movie cliché wooden crates of chickens. More rust than metal but at least it's going in my direction. The driver, Manuel Juan Lopez, a skinny runt of a man and his wife Pilar, who is easily three times his size, plus three wide eyed kids are crammed into the cab and, when the dude guesses who I am, not many gringos this far south, he's gonna make the family walk so I can ride inside with him. I convince him that I like it in the back with the chickens and the chicken crap and after much apologizing and kowtowing, we're finally on our way.
The road to Cerro de San Pedro and points south is pretty busy. We've passed exactly three other vehicles and a number of people on foot, a veritable traffic jam this far into the hills. All of them, I'm guessing, are on their way to Armadillo Infante, the tiny town where El Diablo is rumored to be hiding out.
Manny tells me that El Diablo isn't the first spiritual visitor to that tiny dot on the map at the end of a one lane dirt road. Up until 1951 it was know as "Valley of the Visitation of Holy Mary to St. Elizabeth of the Armadillos" but it must have been a bitch writing that on an envelope because now it's just called Armadillo Infante or Child of the Armadillo. It's a pretty unremarkable place, from what I've been told, for laying claim to such an auspicious occasion as the Virgin Mary popping in for coffee and gossip with Saint Elizabeth.
But instead of heading to Baby Armadillo, I jump off in Cerro de San Pedro because I'm starving and in serious need of some R & R. The first is do-able, even down to some pie, and the first R is taken care of when I check into a small hostel. The second R is a lot harder now. One of the many downfalls, and there are plenty believe me, of being an "Instrument of God" is that no women, good or bad wants to blow a guy who might just be an amigo cercano of the Almighty's.
Cerro de San Pedro, aka Pedro's Kiss, is a town of many stone buildings nestled at the breast of a huge open pit mine owned by Metallica Resources. Awesome name but the mine threatens to destroy the town and poison everything for miles around it, so who's worried about a little old demon one town over? Only a superstitious and spiritual few, so I may just get lucky.
The magic mirror in the communal bathroom that I share with my fellow pilgrims is like the portrait of Dorian Gray. Been rode hard and put up wet comes to mind and so does Bobby when I run my hand across my face and feel whiskers that would make a goat envious. I shit, shower and shave and all's well with the world for a little while at least, although the brand on my back has started to itch, usually a harbinger of nastiness to come. But the night is young and there's a blue agave plant out there that's given its life for me and I need to pay my respects so I'm off to the nearest bar.