Col. Gunther Reza patrolled with his thousands of men through the Mexican countryside. He was a young, bony-faced man. He didn't talk much, but he only said what was necessary.
In a forest clearing, at the camp of the resistance, Juan had finished his meal and tossed his plate away, over at the side of his family tent, and walked over to John, who was reading a book by his own tent. There was a large flat piece of paper lying opposite John, behind his head.
"What's that?", asked Juan.
"It's a map," said John. "It's your country you're lyin' all over", he said as Juan leaned back against it.
Well, to Juan, it was a flat mattress now, with a water canteen as a makeshift pillow. Even if he didn't want to be a hero, he'd done as much work as the others, attacking the bank, so he needed his rest.
"Not my country", said Juan drowsily. "My country is me and my family."
Juan had been right earlier, however. Mexico was big.
"Well, you're country's also Huerta, and the Governor, and the Landlords, and Gunther Reza and his locusts, and this little revolution we're having here.", John said.
"Revolution?", exclaimed Juan indignantly, getting up from the map he'd been lying on. "What do you mean, revolution? Please don't tell me about revolution. I know all about the revolutions and how they start! The people that read the books, they go to the people that can't read the books, the book people say, 'Ho ho, The time has come to have a change,' ah?"
"Shhhh!" hissed John.
Juan was having none of that. "SHH! SHH! SHH! SHH! SHH! SHH! SHIT! SHUSH! I know what I'm talking about when I talk about the revolutions!" He looked around to make sure no one else was listening and continued in a loud whisper. "The people who read the books, go to the people who can't read the books, the poor people say, "We have to have a change" so the poor people can make the change, ah? An' then the people that read the books, they sit around the big polished tables, and they talk and talk and talk and eat and eat and eat, ah? But what has happened to the poor people? They're dead!", he screamed, his eyes burning with rage. "That's your revolution!" He looked around once more. "Sh. So please. Don't tell me about revolutions." He started to settle back down, but he had one more thing to say. "And what happens? The same fucking thing starts all over again!"
With a heavy sigh, Juan lay back down once more to rest.
Giving it some thought, John threw a book, titled "THE PATRIOTISM" by Mikhael A. Bakunin, into the mud.
That same book was trodden even further into the mud by an EM-11 van of a Huerta soldier (Symbolism!), and a passing soldier noticed it and picked it up, handing it to the captain. The captain handed it to Reza, who inspected it carefully.
The revolutionaries, Juan and John had already long evacuated the camp, and were hiding out into the mountains.
Juan shrugged to Dr. Villega. It seems that there was no other choice. He figured his children would be safe hiding in the grottos up in the mountains.
But John wasn't so sure. This whole idea of everybody hiding in the caves, while only he and Juan stayed and fought. Why don't they all just stay out and fight? They have enough men to take on Reza, don't they?
Besides, they were right where they could see those insects, on a mountainside overlooking the bridge of San Jorge.
"I don't like it either", confessed Villega. "Only, Gunther Reza is less than 20 miles from here. He's on the road that leads to the bridge down there. They will comb the area, bush by bush. That's why the order is to pull back and hide in the San Ysidro caves."
"Oh, that's a brilliant order", said John sarcastically. "Here we are facing it. You and the rest of you someplace dreaming, wanting to piss it up against the wall."
"Not everybody can fight", Villega reasoned. "There are those who must organize, co-ordinate".
"Yes, yes, of course..." said John distractedly. "Yeah, well, don't pay any attention to me. It's personal," he said, as he walked away.
Juan was sitting from Villega's horse-drawn chariot, watching this with interest. This gringo sure had cojones. He could use this to his advantage.
Indeed, John wrenched a machine gun stand from a man who was about to take it away, and announced, "Sorry about those orders. I'm stayin'. I don't give a fuck about your revolutions", he said as he took a gun barrel from a horse saddle and attached it to the stand. "I'm tired of running up and down these mountains... I'm gettin' nowhere so I've stopped... right here at the bridge of San Jorge". As he was saying this he aimed the barrel at the bridge, right where Reza and his men would be coming along. "Maybe it's outta... spite for you and your slow dream, or maybe... maybe my feet are sore."
Dr. Villega smiled. For someone who didn't give a fuck about the revolution, John sure invested quite a bit of time to it.
From Juan's point of view, John was one to defy authority, even though John hadn't wanted to stop working for Aschenbach and was left unemployed when Juan had killed him with John's own detonator.
With a laugh, he decided, "Well, if he's gonna stay, I'm gonna stay, too, maybe 'cause my feet are sore, too, ah?" He chuckled exuberantly, and called to the other men. "Hombres! Me and the Irlandes, here, we're gonna catch ourselves a couple of the fucking locusts!"
Somewhere, in another country, a couple of locusts who were mating might have taken offense to that.
The revolutionaries started to leave, but Juan had more to say. "Attention!", he yelled again. "You go back and hide in the grotto! And if things go bad here, every man for himself! You move your asses! Comprendes? Vamos ahora!" Again the men started to leave.
Bounding off the wagon, Juan warmly shook the hands of each of his sons.
With all of his heart, Juan greeted the boys farewell with these words:
"If something happens, and your father doesn't come back, then I pray that the great God in Heaven takes care of you."
Kissing his youngest sons on the head (and giving Napoleon his usual strike across the cheek; that foolish boy wanted to stay behind, but it was too dangerous for him), he sent them away, with the full assurance that God was on his side.
Then he went up to Dr. Villega and shook his hand.
"Now, good luck", said the doctor.
"Thank you", said Juan. He was sure that Villega was beginning to like him, despite their first meeting on the train. He also didn't think Villega would expect him to stay and fight.
As Villega and the Miranda boys rode off, Juan and John were left all alone.
"Listen", said Juan to John, "When they are out of sight, we make a run for it, si?" What was John thinking, anyway? He had no chance against Gunther Reza, not even with a machine gun. This whole mission was crazy. It was suicidal!
Saying nothing, John took down more parts to load the machine gun, walking past Juan.
Juan ran back up to him, and tried some more to talk him out of it. "No? You can't mean to stay here. All those explosions must have gone to your head." He then put his arm over John's shoulder while resting his head comfortably on his left. "Remember, John and Juan, ah? America? The millions? No?"
John turned his head sharply to face Juan, glaring at him.
"No,", said John curtly, taking a swig from a canteen.
"I don't understand you!", cried Juan, "I thought you make some kind of trick so we can get out of here! What can we do against those locusts?"
Juan had a valid point, but it wasn't an ideal one.
"Oh, you'd be doing me a favour if you'd leave!", yelled John. "If it's a choice I'd have to make between a chicken thief and riddin' the world of a few uniforms... I'll not be choosing the chicken thief."
At first, Juan decided to take it in stride. "Okay. Okay." Then as he walked away, he realised what John's game was, and suddenly screamed, "NO!" Laughing, he said, "Oh, no, no, no, no, no. You would like that, ah?". He walked angrily back towards John. "You listen to me, you Irish piece of shit! You think you're the only man who has the balls to stay. Well, you are WRONG! Cause I have the balls and I... stay!"
Well, if he said so. John wasn't going to be missing him much when he was gone.
Juan walked to a place further up the hill. John stayed put, watching the bridge gleefully through a pair of binoculars.
Meanwhile, from his position, behind his own machine gun, Juan also watched the bridge through his own pair binoculars. Amusingly, he was watching it through the wrong end.
"He says there's no danger," he muttered to himself, "All you have to do is just watch the bridge from a long way. No matter how I look with them I'm still too close to the bridge." As he adjusted his binoculars so he was watching through the right end, and looked around the site of the bridge, he continued to complain. "Why am I mixed up in this revolution in the first place? Go ahead, you tell me, God. What am I doing here? Why didn't you strike me dead instead of letting me say, 'I stay, too?'"
He looked over at John, who was casually sauntering up the side of the mountain.
"Ho ho, Look at him," Juan said to the lord his God, "Look at him. All because of him. He acts like a tourist who's going somewhere, only he's staying. Look at him."
John had laid his stuff around a little spot on the mountain and was now attaching the gun barrel.
"What the hell does he care?", Juan continued to mutter. "He's having fun. I'm glad he's having fun, God, because I am not having fun. Oh-ho. No."
He watched John as the Irishman took off his hat, ruffled his ash blonde hair, and sat down with his hat as though he was going to set it over his face.
Hey... what's this?
John had now made himself comfortable, his feet stretched out, and set his hat way low, practically over his face.
"Now he goes to sleep, huh?", said Juan to himself. "Go ahead, you sleep. Sleep." Then he confided in God his dark plan. "I tell you something. When he's asleep, I go. Shh." He'd hoped the Lord wouldn't rat him out on this.
"May the good Lord watch over you", he quietly towards John, like he meant it. Then, with an evil chuckle, he prepared to leave, when suddenly he heard a motor approaching.
A huge, metal tank, winding its way down the road towards the bridge
Oh, fuck, it's Reza. Right at the front. Shit.
They were close to the bridge, but still way too far away for Juan to fire at them, let alone John, who as far as Juan knew was dozing at his post.
Panicked, and cornered, Juan tried to rouse John. He whispered, "Hey, psst!" and threw a rock at him, but the Irishman didn't stir.
"God, only an idiot could sleep at a time like this!", raged Juan quietly.
But John hadn't been asleep at all. He'd been watching, still and quiet, like a coiled viper, ignoring Juan's pestering.
Juan was ready to fire, thumbs nervously on the handles of his machine gun, but John was more than ready. He'd waited carefully until they were all on the bridge, and raised his thumb for the signal. Juan crossed himself. John lowered his thumb as an indication to fire. Juan tried firing his gun, but the controls seemed to be stuck or something.
John looked at Juan frantically fiddling with the gun, and then all of a sudden, as though fate wanted to mess with Juan, his machine gun went off without warning.
At first, Juan couldn't control his gun. But then he got more used to it and both were firing away happily at the soldiers, enjoying the destruction and carnage as men and horses below them dropped like flies.
Juan felt amazing. Nothing like it before in his life. Both men smiled at each other. This was fun.
Once they had finished firing, John put some cotton buds into his ears, and got out a detonator. Juan knew that this attack was going to go out with a bang, and, with a little knowing smile, stuck his fingers in his ears to prepare for the deafening sound.
This time around, John didn't have to say "Duck, you sucker" to prepare Juan for it. For one, Juan knew when to duck. The unfortunate ones were the suckers down below them.
The ground shook. Even John was blown back by it.
The bridge collapsed in dust and smoke. It was quite a magnificent sight.
Juan peered over the rocks, behind which he had ducked for cover. The bridge was completely gone. Twisted heaps of tanks and trucks dangled on the remains.
Once more, the men smiled at each other, and Juan gave an 'A-okay' sign to John.
The two really did seem to be becoming firm friends. Juan was kind of glad he'd decided to stay.
Somehow, Col. Reza had survived the wreckage. He scrambled out from the dust and the smoke, and looked around, dead soldiers and tanks about him. For some mysterious reason, Reza was a survivor. Hardly anything could touch him, or at least he'd leave a battlefield with little more than a scratch on his face. One could argue that he was strong, tenacious, quick to avoid danger. Others would say that he was simply lucky.