From the Bunker of El General

AY DIOS MIO, I'M IN! Inside the walls of El General's fortress. It took some work, but with great grace and determination, I have prevailed. And never before has such a world-weary and unapologetic wanderer as your narrator seen as well-guarded a bunker as this. The good Christian General's fortifications are, for sure, a gleaming and splendiferous example of the manliest of American architecture! It is little to wonder that he speaks with such booming and heteropowered tones that he does. ¡Claro! I tip my sombrero in his direction, and of all well-decorated hombres, he knows as well as anyone that I mean that in the manliest of ways.

Of course not even El General de Jesús's machinations could resist the salsamatic touch of yours truly, the occasionally humble (but always grateful), Unapologetic Mexican. I have brought his key, unused, and I now place it upon this strange and massive altar of Señor George W. Bush, one that seems to (mystically) ooze a libertinous glow all about the keyboard. Perhaps this is how Señor Christian manages to exude such memorable manifestos.... Nonetheless, the painting disturbs my concentration, and so I must have nothing to do with it.

If I turn my head and look out of this reinforced window, I can see all the land around, and even the sun beginning to rise. The day will soon be getting on. So let me begin my important declaration. I may send you yet another cyber-grito on this most especial of days, but despite the frothy diatribes of Señores Buchanan y Dobbs, Mexicanos are good guests and it would only be right if I divulged exactly how El General and I met up. As you intuit, ours is a strange and bedeviled plot, and I could never reveal all of it to you! I am almost certain there are insurgente forces amongst this crowd.

But I do understand how you may wonder what fate brought two such unlikely traveling companions. Let me savor my pipe a moment and continue. Mmmm. Es muy bueno.

IT ALL BEGAN ON A HOT AND FATEFUL DAY. I was out rounding up recruits for the glorious Reconquista plot wherein all Mexicans on the continent will communicate using subtle rustlings of Holy dried jalapeño peppers that have been clasped to the chest of liberal American virgins. Unfortunately, Michelle Malkin, Lou Dobbs, and Pat Buchanan seem to have stumbled onto our plan to organize as a massive group of starving, hunted, underpaid people, and are trying to warn the rest of the country. This will make the Great Pepper Plano de la Patria that much harder to bring to fruition, and our alliance with Mexiran may suffer. I must preempt these soggy pundits and thus, the great Aztlán (heretofore secret and well-guarded) plot will be revealed—in it's entirety and for the first time—in issue Three of the celebrated mag de la gente, which I expect all good soldader@s to purchase in solidarity! Using American media, we can communicate at fifteen times the speed of dried jalapeño, and thus stymie the efforts of these antagonists.

So there I was, scouting for hombres to join up and I spotted El General at the bar. He was standing with a few muscled and well-armed compañeros, and I can only assume they were part of his vaunted militia, a force not unknown to me and my amigos. We glared at each other, as all utterly-heterosexual soldiers do in such a situation. We understood immediately that there was something fated. Was it combat? Was it a death? Was it glory?

The General stood, then, taking his weight off the bar. The hazy light from the dirty lanterns twinkled patriotically from the surface of his helmet, and he slowly chomped on what I assume was a cigar. I never did get close enough. It may have been a large raisin, or vanilla bean.

"Well. You're no Frenchman, that's for sure," he said. His eyes ran appreciatively over the bullet-belts slung over my shoulders, the rounds that wrapped across my chest.

I nodded.

"And you, Señor, are no chavalita." It was a statement of respect, for of course I respect even my enemies. Before I shoot them and laugh in a very high-pitched and delirious fashion simultaneously unfurling a giant Mexican flag over their squirming remains, and singing the Star Spangled Banner backward to the tune of ¡Viva La Revolución!, of course.

We both stood for a moment, the clinking, murmuring, coughing sounds in the cantina fading as the rest of the room realized what was about to unfold in their midst. And as much as I wanted to draw my pistola on this gringo, I had to admire the angle of his chest and the way his eyes seemed to sear the horizon with their haunted machismo.

"Yes, machismo, that is it, eh?" I said softly, reaching for my gun.

"Are you flirting with me, Mexican?" the General snarled, his hand moving to what I assume was his own weapon.

And I laughed then. In the face of his threat, I tilted my head back and laughed, flaring my magnificent mustachio in the glow of the light streaming through the door behind me. Suddenly, I became quite wild-eyed and serious, quivering my wide nostrils rather frighteningly.

"I will cut off your hands and feet and use them to beat your dog until you bring me breakfast on a tray held between your teeth, carnál! I am the manliest Mexicano you've known! Never imply that I am acting womanish! I have strung up entire cities for insinuating as much! Take it back!" I already had my hands on my machete, but strangely, El General was smiling and holding an arm up to restrain one of his men.

"That's a Holy Cross on your neck, isn't it, Mexican?" the General said.

"Yes, it is, vato! And this cross gives me license to strike in the na—"

"Hold it there one moment, soldier. I think we may be on the same side. Because you are a God-fearing man, aren't you?"

I took a breath and relaxed a bit. The room was dead silent.

""Dios no le diá, alas a los alacranes. I am strong in my faith, señor. And you can call me Nezua."

There was a moment of near-quiet as the dust settled a bit.

"Nezua, did you know that the Islamunistofascists have launched a War on Christmas?"

I said nothing, only curled my (freakishly macho and sexy) lips, letting the full horror of such a statement sink into me. I then looked (suavely) toward the door and out at the mountains. I could feel the tender gaze of many señoritas upon my cheek as I did so, and so I let the moment draw out a good, long time, until finally El General coughed rather loudly and I swiveled my head back to meet his eyes.

"Take me to Lou Dobbs, General," I said softly but with great urgency. "I must see this pendejo at once."

"Lou Dobbs is not the trouble," said he.

"Yo sé. I know, I know," I said. "But he's a good start, qué no? And once I scalp this powder-jowled puto, I will bring my soldados to aid your War for Christmas."

The General stared at me another moment, and then when he next spoke, it seemed to draw everything together. The room settled back into a comfortable, sawdust-lined shape; the people all around were once again immersed in their harmless and ridiculous chatter, and Señor JC Christian—patriot—put his arm around me as we walked toward the door.

"Nez, I think we can work together," he said.

"Si, señor," I agreed, looking over at the señorita by the bar. She winked at me, and I saw her hand on her hip, where the outline of a knife showed through. Was it fate? Was it combat? Was it glory? "I think this may be the beginning of a beautiful movimiento. But forgive me un momento. I have left something by the bar."

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Nezua Limón Xolagrafik-Jonez blogs as The Unapologetic Mexican. Behind the scenes of NLXJ, Señor Herrera is an author and an artist, and while he does not always write satire, it is his secret religion. It is such a worldview that allows him to cohabitate a planet with such people as Pat Buchanan, Bill O'Reilly, John Gibson, Alberto Gonzales, Lou Dobbs, Jim Gilchrist, and George W. Bush without going utterly mad.

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