BOOK 1: Tense Turrets and Taut Triggers. A box.
I WAS AGAIN BUT A SHIFTING WEND making its way forward under the swaying palms, under the pre-dawn streaking of a grand magenta sky light; the stealthy and purpose-driven Peter Pan of the Xicano underworld who lives only to—wait...that's not right...Was it "Peter Pan"? ...or "Robin Hood"? What did she say again? Damn! He olvidado! I have forgotten. Something about a mystical golden pastry....and the Pied Piper? Peter Piper? Patrick Pecker? Eh. It's all lost in a haze of Blue Agave.
Anyway, it is true that I wasn't sure about the green tights, but the brilliant Doña Luisa (who I'd met at la cantina) had overwhelmingly approved them, saying they made my agendas prominent in the minds of any foes I might engage. And so, deferring to her sense of banditiqette, I replaced my leathery, dusty, and frayed trousers for these fine leggings. I'm...not sure they mesh with the bullet belts—but wait, ENOUGH of this Franco-tainted meandering introspection! Pah! I need give you no explanation for my shimmery contours! A true bandito frowns upon such long-winded self-analysis. Like El Jefe, Señor Peligro, like El Presidente Boosh. Let your codpiece do tha hablando, vato. As the Decider has said himself, in one of his more machismotastic momentos: Emission Accomplished. ¡Ojo!
Anyway, I continued along my patrolling of El general's bunker. It wasn't as if he needed the extra help. But I found it vastly satisying to begin my mornings this way. So I leisurely loped along the treeline surrounding the structure, and then rapidly leapt to a great height, all in the most Mexican and manly fashion one could hope to express...while using a thickly-braided vine to make his way about, that is.
I landed—kneeling and dramatically well-lit—on the turret level of El General's Bunker. Looking about quickly, I could pinpoint la guardia, the sharpshooters—a fine, elite group of young, well-toned and ultra patriotic men gripping their guns, aiming their sights, and warily resting a finger alongside their triggers. All manning their posts around me in a muscular effort of unidad and great, manly power. I felt a sudden swelling of (strictly-heterosexual) pride to be amongst such hardcore vatos. For a moment it was all I could do to contain an outburst of feeling. But then, I had to move on!
I gymnastically (and most heroically) edged myself out over the drop and along a very thin rail that would lead me past the gun stations to the front of the Bunker. I crept from darkness into light, for the sun had now risen fully above the horizon. In the day's first luminance, I moved carefully. I made only the tiniest incremental gains as I left the towering and silent machine gun turrets behind me.
Then, I was by the entrance. I peered down and through the foliage and was very curious all at once.
A rotundish man was leaving the compound, and everything about him played strangely to me. I had planned on dropping in on El General for coffee, but I knew right away that I might be called upon to heed my latent indio instincts—which were buzzing like ten, furry-legged, mescolating, habanero spiders—to follow this strange presence and see what fate awaited—or what gift lay shaded—in the crooked crook of a strange man's arm.
He was an elderly man, with strange eyes that sharpened his smile into a frown. He had a stiff neck, and walked as if his underwares were filled with a glomulous gathering of mucky-warm oatmeal. Still, all the while, he was holding a box tightly under his left arm. It made for quite a strange style of motion.
I did not like this man, and so I followed after him closely. For a moment, I was even pretending to be a statue, for the hombre turned back and shuffled oatily toward me when I wasn't expecting it! But then, he stopped and dug something out of his pantseat and turned around again. His facial expression of relief mirrored my own emotions as he backed away from my statuesque positioning. I knew then that I was bound by fate to this pinche oatmeal-squeezer, and I went about giving gracias a Dios with profuse and magnanimous gestures all about myself. But I did so cleverly, as I deftly trailed the waddling man's footsteps, and so these gesticulations were enacted in the purest of silhouettes and with the muted style that will henceforth characterize this brave adventure.
The man with the sharpened and sickly smile, the BOX under one arm, and the shuffling walk soon made my mustache droop. All the joy was draining out of my early-day surveillance, for this character seemed to emit a radiance of foul vapor, a mist of vapid danger, an aura of the Crook'd, Crack'd, Stranger. Of course, despite his quickening pace, I followed along with the most surreptitious of glidings and tiptoed shufflings, muffled jumpings and flex-tabulous shoulder-rolls.
At the front gate to the street, the pain-faced man stopped when he came to a gardener. He began to question the young man, whom I know as Ciudadano. I know it was Ciudadano because I stationed him there. He could handle himself. But as I drew closer I realized that I did know, indeed, who the oatmeal-maker was!
Ay Dios Mio! I whispered, in the most velvety and masculine tone I could summon. It is the American Punditician, Pat Buchanan! I watched the flushed face flare as Pat breathed all over the young Ciudadano.
What was this pinche cabrón doing at El General's? Perhaps some secret dealings, eh?
And what was in the box?
to be CONTINUED...later today
nezua limón xolagrafik-jonez blogs as the unapologetic mexican, and does not endorse the behaviors of Peter Pan or any of his affiliates. He is the author of many words, songs and even a couple books. Most recently, it is rumored that he has penned the details of the Great Aztlán Plot under an assumed Mexican-sounding name.
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We'll try dumping haloscan and see how it works.