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Guantanamera as a Hallucination: The "It's All About the Music Redux" W/OApr 24 '01 Write an essay on this topic.
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The Bottom Line Perhaps, in the future, the Monkey ought to refrain from writing under the influence of three beers and a large plate of Puerco Grande.
Wow. My first write-off invitation. Please excuse me if I seem a bit nervous, or intimidated. I've found out that I am in this with such luminaries as Sloucho, Repulsemonkey, Kellydeal, and Phixed, who extended this invitation to me. I mean, look at that company! What the hell am I doing here? I need a drink. Oh well, the Monkey is always game for a go, no matter how much of an as* I make of myself, so I am in. Anyway, the topic of this W/O is music … either my favorite song, or the album that gives me nocturnal emissions, or something like that. Well, while the Monkey contemplated going into graphic detail about the spirituality inherenet in the lyrics of Screamin' Jay Hawkins (who is a madman), I decided against it. It was too trite. Besides, the others would be playing this straight, and I would have had the snot beaten out of me by them. Fortunately, as I was nervously sifting through excuses to get out of my commitment to this thing, I started thinking of a dinner I had with my two compadres a few days ago… Duende, Eggs, and I were sitting down to a huge-as* dinner at El Abajeño, a local Mexican face-stuffing joint down the road. This is a classic place. The food is incredibly greasy, the plates are dirty, the food servers are surly, the salsa can be used to strip paint, and the roaches are nice and fat. The waiter had just brought our third round of frosty cervezas and was coming back with our meals. I was indulging myself with the Puerco Grande, a giant plate piled high with carnitas, beans, jalapenos, cheese, and other mysterious sauces and spices. Eggs was going with the Comida Poquito, a light dinner mainly consisting of old shredded lettuce as he was watching his girlish figure, and Duende was going for the Menudo con Plata, or beef gut soup with hoof. Duende is a sick bastard with a capital "O." As our food arrived the local mariachi band sauntered over to our table. I whipped out a $5, handed it to the lead guitarist and asked that they belt out a very loud version of one of my all-time favorite tunes, Guantanamera. As the deep brown musicians strummed their guitars and sang the song, I couldn't help but be transported to a trip we had all taken to the glorious lands of the Baja a few years back. We were there for one reason: Fishing. Fishing, fishing, fishing, fishing, and more fishing. Na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na Fishing! [Batman theme] Then, where we were done, we'd probably entertain ourselves with a bit of fishing, followed by fishing, and one day (or two) of fishing. Then, we'd buy a case of fine tequila, hole up in a seedy hotel room with a handful of young hookers and root like rabid weasels, before hitting the sea and logging a bit more fishing. Now, Duende looked at fishing as being about as exciting as picking someone else's hemorrhoids, and if the truth were to be known, after our second day even I was beginning to tire of staring at the crack of Eggs' as*, while listening to his constant whimpering about the heat. I was beginning to wonder if my choice in travel companions was wise. After all, the heat was oppressive, the food was turning our guts into full-service sluices, and I was starting to get bug bites on my bug bites. Normally, none of this would irritate me too much, but Eggs was starting to get on my d*ck, with his sea-sickness and his "I'm hot. I'm bored. I've got dysentery." Screw him! Maybe I should just reach over and smack the side of his overly large head to break the monotony. But then that would require effort, and the sun was sapping every last bit of strength I had. We decided to call it a day, only having caught a couple of fish, but feeling the effect of the Baja in August. Sh*t, it was hot! We finally made it to shore, unloaded everything of importance from the boat (i.e. the cooler filled with beer), and made our way to our respective seats under the tarp. As I was settling in for a nice six-hour nap, I heard Duende clearing his throat, as if to gain our attention. "Ahem" he said, and as I was about to ask him what he wanted I saw what grabbed his attention. Three Federales were heading our way, one slapping an evil-looking machete against his right thigh as he walked. "What do you think they want?" burbled Eggs. None of us knew, but we were smart enough to know that the best play in this situation is to just relax and let them make the first move. There is less risk of imprisonment or gunshot wounds that way. The Federales finally reached us and the leader (you could tell he was the leader as he had a very well-tended moustache, a garishly decorated police captain's hat, and dark, mirrored sunglasses) asked to see our fishing licenses. The one with the machete smiled a wide, menacing grin showing a gold tooth, while the third just stood to the side, silent as a mute. I sized up the situation and knew that even though the one with the machete seemed to be the most dangerous, our trouble would be with the quiet one. Duende seemed to pick up on this as well, while Eggs was beginning to sweat profusely and tremble with fear. Now I knew they didn't want to see our fishing licenses. They didn't give a damn whether we had any papers -- except those with dead Presidents on them. This was a shakedown, pure and simple. We'd be lucky to escape with enough cash to buy a road-kill taco. I smiled back at the leader and said "Well, we lost our licenses when we were up in Bahia de Los Angeles, can we maybe buy new licenses from you?" This was the response he was hoping for, as it meant that we were willing to pay the bribe with no trouble. The three Federales visibly relaxed, which was what I was hoping for. Now it was going to be up to Duende. It was show time. "My friend has to get the money from the bag" I cooly said to the leader, who nodded smilingly. "Quieres cervezas?" I asked the three of them. The leader and machete-boy eagerly agreed, while the mute just stood there. Oh yeah, that guy would be trouble. As Duende started rummaging through his pack I handed the two cops their beers and carefully moved out of the way, maneuvering so that I placed Eggs between me and the leader while giving me an angle on machete-boy. I knew what Duende had in mind, and we needed to be on our toes for it to work. Duende kept rummaging through the bag, as if he was looking for the money, when he finally seemed to find it. Then, in one swift motion he brought out his hand, twisted around, took aim at the mute with his .45 semi-automatic, fully loaded with twelve hollow-point bullets, eleven in the clip and one in the chamber. He busted off three shots, hitting the mute twice in the chest, causing a huge explosion of blood, tissue and bone to erupt from his back. This move caught the other two Federales completely by surprise, as we had hoped. I leapt toward machete-boy and hit him square in the solar plexus, causing him to drop his machete. The leader had quick reflexes and was able to draw his gun and even managed to squeeze off a couple of shots in my direction before Duende plugged him square in the head, sending brain and skull flying from the other side. In the mean time I grabbed the machete with my right hand and twisted hard to my left, swinging the blade out. I caught the third Federale just below the armpit in his side. He had raised his arms to protect his head, and the blade was now about a third of the way through his body, lodged just to the right of his sternum. He fell to his knees, blood pouring out of his side, and streaming out of his mouth. He tried to say something, but could only manage a sickening gurgling rasp. I had not only severed a few key arteries, but had bisected his lung. He died shortly after, the rattle of his last breaths causing Eggs to cup his hands over his ears and rock back and forth in place. The poor twit was in shock, but then again this was his first trip to the Baja, and he didn't know what to expect. Duende dragged the first man he killed over to where the other two lay. We rummaged through their pockets, finding a surprising amount of money and a stash of weed. The next step was to get rid of the bodies. Duende wanted to just weight them down with rocks and dump them in the sea, but suddenly Eggs snapped out of his catatonia and smiled an evil smile. "No," he said "we can used them as bait. Well, parts, anyway." For the next few hours Eggs went about dissecting the three dead cops with the accuracy and skill of a surgeons. He removed livers, kidneys, and spleens, tossing them into a pile. Last, he removed the hearts of the three men. "Now," he said "you can dump the rest." Duende looked at the pile of organs and asked if that was the bait. Eggs replied "Yeah, all except the hearts. We eat those." *-*-*-*-*-*-* Many thanks to both Phixed and Sleestak for arranging this event and for having the guts to invite me. Stop by and check out the other contributors to this W/O: repulsemonkey, MiDoyle, Sloucho, Pyanfar, spicymeatball, zenhues, Psychovant, fm_hunter, slave_boy, drlolipop, Mr.Eyore, jkkelley, factotum, monssfisch, Saxguy, jordan_tar, Arazim, adamldemarco, redsox75, kellydeal, sxejustin, movielover123, DVON, SpookyMonkey, churst, phineaskc, MattA75, xiphoid, Mr_D, PezKing, Officer, phixed, sleestakk.  |
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