Once Upon a Time in Porvuello, Mexico (Part the First)
Well, here it is. As promised. Part I of a ridiculous story featuring all of you who signed the last blog, plus Mumbach per his request. Enjoy. Or choke.
"Once Upon a Time In Porvuello, Mexico"
Part - The First
Written and directed by Me
Produced by the staff of Dominion of Cool
Starring (in order of appearance):
Me, as the heroic adventurer and crusader for justice
Gary Bettman, as a corpse
Many bottles of whiskey as themselves
Nick Caughl, as a fearsome, corrupt drug lord
Schwegs, as a highstrung Mexican motel owner
Jeff Buss, as the insane gunfighter
An angry little Mexican midget as himself
Mumbach, as the law enforcement queen
A bottle of Tequilla, as itself
Barren deserts and black lakes as barren deserts and black lakes
Nameless entities lurking in foggy depths
John Fraser, as some sort of evil thing
It was chilling the way he looked across that desk at me and spoke those evil words. It takes no particular emphasis of quiet and repose to call that to memory. The way he spoke them slowly … distinctly … individually so I would be certain to grasp his meaning.
“There will be no hockey.”
That was it. Simple.
“No hockey.”
And suddenly it seemed there was nothing else to be done. No way of avoiding that song of inevitability that was playing in my head, and before I could think it through I was laying into Mr. Bettman with both fists in remarkable rapidity. Left, Mr. Bettman. Right, Mr. Bettman. Left, right, Mr. Bettman. And, of course, with this sort of particularly savage beating, it was not at all surprising that he soon expired underneath the rain of my hateful blows. That is to say – he died.
So there came suddenly this necessity to flee, and that is how I wound up here, puto. In this Mexican shithole. I came storming out of Bettman’s office, half in a rage, half in a panic, and lit up for the border with a few bottles of whiskey and a pair of shades and some smokes. As much of a degenerate little weasel as Bettman was, the authorities would not have looked so fondly upon the gruesome nature of his murder and they would have almost certainly sought to punish the perpetrator, that is to say myself. Thus my 90 mph drunken dash to freedom, even if it was something less than freedom in the American sense. More of a dusty, brown, beef burrito kind of freedom where law was lax in its responsibilities and men were quick to use guns to get drugs, or drugs to get guns.
The town’s name was Porvuello. It stunk. Stunk like shit and sloppy, greasy tortilla shells. It was run by a crooked man … an evil mastermind by the name of Senor Nick Caughl. He was some sort of Mexican gangster, though exactly which pies he had his fingers in I could never tell for sure. A little bit of everything I supposed, but either way he was the wealthiest man in those parts, and everyone with a business sold him a piece. You wanted to avoid this fellow at all costs, but that was more difficult than it might seem.
Nobody talked much in the town. It was the kind of horrible fucking place where the women danced or prayed, and the men sat around on benches smoking evil things and drinking strange and wonderful concoctions in local saloons. There were the occasional marriaci’s who spiced things up from darkened barstools or street corners, and sometimes the movie house might actually show an American flick. But mostly you just sat around. Drinking. I traded in the whiskey for tequila, and chose to sit around in a place called El Motel, which was run by a sweating little Mexican who called himself Senor Schwegs. To what extent exactly this Schwegs character was involved with Senor Caughl was difficult to tell, but one thing was for certain … he didn’t like me. Not from the moment I first stepped into that crumbling old lobby and asked for a room. “El room, porfavor?”
“El fuck yourself, Americano!” he spat. Nevertheless, he tossed me the keys to room sinco and charged me a few pasos. I asked him if there was any place I could grab a good burger and maybe a cold beer. “Si,” he laughed. “In joo-own fuckeeng country, puto.” I could tell by his tone I was going to have to settle on a steady diet of tacos and burritos.
I was only in Porvuello for a few days before I met a fellow American – a dusty, angry looking character named Mr. Buss who referred to himself as a “rugged desperado.” Mr. Buss would sit back with his feet up on the railing of El Motel’s front porch sipping tequila from the bottle and chain-smoking cigarello’s.
“I’m Wyatt Earp,” he said one day after an hour of silence.
“Very nice,” I said.
“You and me, we’re gonna take down this Senor Caughl and his whole crooked organization.”
“We are?” I said, half-amused.
“You got a problem with that, friend?” he said, raising his hat to look angrily at me.
“No, no,” I said quickly, nervously. “Just surprised by it, I guess.”
“Well, that’s exactly what we’re gonna do,” he said, lowering the hat back down over his eyes. “We’re gonna fuck him right up his gangster ass.”
“Listen,” I said. “Don’t say that too loudly. I think this Schwegs character works for him.”
“He’s small beans in a moldy taco,” Mr. Buss said. Then: “That means he’s nothing. Leave him to me.”
Turns out, unfortunately, that Schwegs was not small beans in a moldy taco. In fact, this sweating little Mexican proved to be a master of the Black-Ninja/Samurai arts. And worse, an angry little Mexican midget that was sitting next to us was good friends with him, so naturally he went straight away to report our discussion to the owner of El Motel. Schwegs came tearing out the front door of his rotten establishment, swinging karate-chops and screaming evil things at us.
“Joo fuckeeng Americans!” he yelled. “I fuckeeng kill joo, mang! I fuckeeng cut joo to pieces, ese!”
“Whoa, whoa!” I said, getting to my feet and holding my hands out non-offensively. “Look, buddy, calm down, alright. I don’t want no trouble.” He looked at me angrily. “El no trouble-o,” I said slowly.
He put his left foot across the right side of my face and sent me crashing through the window into the lobby. A rat scuttled across my face and disappeared into a hole in the wall. “JESUS!” I shouted. “JESUS TITTY-FUCKING CHRIST!”
Schwegs executed a nimble front-flip through the window and landed a right-boot to my face, and then followed that up with a judo-chop to the chest.
“Joo like dat sheet, puto?” he said, smiling, green things crawling between his yellow teeth. “Joo like to get shit keecked out of joo, mang?”
“Come on,” I said, pulling myself up on my knees. “Leave off, man.”
He spun around in midair and landed two kicks to my face. I fell back, bleeding at the mouth, and certain my nose was broke. I looked up into the grinning mug of Schwegs, who stood over me, smiling wickedly. “Now joo die, mang.” He pulled a knife from his belt and held it over his head. Just then two loud gunshots rang out, and Schwegs dropped to the floor holding both shoulders. “Joo fucking shot me, mang!” he shouted. Behind him Mr. Buss stood holding a smoking pistol.
“Got him,” he said, softly.
“Joo shot me in the fuckeeng shoulders, mang!” Schwegs shouted.
“Next one kills you, puto.”
“Okay, Americans,” Scwhegs said. “Okay joo fuckeeng guys, joo fuckeeng ween dis round.” He rose slowly to his feet and shuffled off out the door.
“Taught him a lesson, didn’t we?” said Mr. Buss. “I’m John Wayne, ya know.” It occurred to me Mr. Buss was fucking insane. I was certain Schwegs was going straight to Senor Caughl. Things were getting rather complicated. I was going to need a bottle of Tequilla to mull this over and figure a plan.
The angry little Mexican midget came back out on the porch and eyed us wickedly. “Joo never get away weet dees. No me gusta!!”
“I’m Clint Eastwood,” Mr. Buss said in low tones, squinting into the sun. Then he shot the angry little Mexican midget in the balls, and he ran away from us holding his mangled nuts and weeping “boo hoo, mang! Boo hoo!”
We decided to go see the Seargant. The law had turned a blind eye to Senor Caughl’s operations for many years, but maybe if we brought some good old American pressure to bear they’d cave and make a push for his capture. The Seargant, as it turned out, was the law in Porvuelo, and his name was Sgt. Mumbach. A big Mexican – maybe six foot six, three hundred. He peered at us from behind a bottle of Tequilla as we took a seat in his office.
“You boys want some crem brulet?” he asked with a heavy lisp.
“No thankyou, we’re here to recruit you in our fight against Senor Caughl,” I told him.
Sgt. Mumbach licked his lips seductively. “I liketed Crem Brulet, that shit is good too,” he said, smiling. “I lick that shit … I slapted that shit.”
“I don’t think he’s going to be able to help us,” I said to Mr. Buss. “What do you think?”
“We need Rooster Cogburn.”
“He’s a fucking movie character played by John Wayne. How is he going to fucking help us?”
“John Wayne!” said Sgt. Mumbach. “Ooh, I grease him up like a drumstick and lick my fingers clean.”
“There’s only one man who can help us now,” Mr. Buss said. “The one they call El Fraser.”
A dramatic chord sounded seemingly from nowhere.
“I’ve heard of El Fraser,” I said. “Isn’t he the one with … shall I say questionable allegiances? I heard he eats souls.”
“I’ve heard he howls in the maelstrom,” Mr. Buss said.
“I’ve heard he smells like a giant taint,” Sgt. Mumbach said. This seemed to bring an air of conclusion to the proceedings, and we were off to find the one they called El Fraser. We crossed barren deserts and black lakes where nameless entities lurked in the foggy depths and the sky was always dark. Finally, after many months, we arrived at the isolated cave of El Fraser which existed in the uninhabitable desert of Nachos Supreme.
The wind shrieked and the sky grew black as we approached the opening to the cave. Suddenly a voice sounded from its unseen depths. A voice latent with the funk of ages old rot and decay.
“Eight skies of the forlorn have fallen,” it said. We looked at each other. “The ninth soon shall descend.” We had found the one they called El Fraser.
Silence. We stepped into the cave and found a wrinkled, gnarled mass of flesh huddled in the corner.
“You will come to know your master,” it said. “He will engulf you in a bath of red madness and suck the vile jelly from your eyes with fiery rapacity … and you will BOW before him.”
I looked around nervously.
Mr. Buss fingered his pistol and tried to squint like Clint Eastwood.
Sgt. Mumbach smiled to himself and thought about his favorite marching band uniforms.
“Who is our master?” I finally said. Silence. “Is it you?” More silence. “Fiend! Answer me!”
The gnarled flesh jiggled. “Me?” it grinned wickedly. “Me? No.” It cackled loudly. “No. It is another … “
To Be Continued …
If you'd like to become fictionalized in Part II, simply leave a comment. Or die trying.
A Presto
Il Pazzo
"Once Upon a Time In Porvuello, Mexico"
Part - The First
Written and directed by Me
Produced by the staff of Dominion of Cool
Starring (in order of appearance):
Me, as the heroic adventurer and crusader for justice
Gary Bettman, as a corpse
Many bottles of whiskey as themselves
Nick Caughl, as a fearsome, corrupt drug lord
Schwegs, as a highstrung Mexican motel owner
Jeff Buss, as the insane gunfighter
An angry little Mexican midget as himself
Mumbach, as the law enforcement queen
A bottle of Tequilla, as itself
Barren deserts and black lakes as barren deserts and black lakes
Nameless entities lurking in foggy depths
John Fraser, as some sort of evil thing
It was chilling the way he looked across that desk at me and spoke those evil words. It takes no particular emphasis of quiet and repose to call that to memory. The way he spoke them slowly … distinctly … individually so I would be certain to grasp his meaning.
“There will be no hockey.”
That was it. Simple.
“No hockey.”
And suddenly it seemed there was nothing else to be done. No way of avoiding that song of inevitability that was playing in my head, and before I could think it through I was laying into Mr. Bettman with both fists in remarkable rapidity. Left, Mr. Bettman. Right, Mr. Bettman. Left, right, Mr. Bettman. And, of course, with this sort of particularly savage beating, it was not at all surprising that he soon expired underneath the rain of my hateful blows. That is to say – he died.
So there came suddenly this necessity to flee, and that is how I wound up here, puto. In this Mexican shithole. I came storming out of Bettman’s office, half in a rage, half in a panic, and lit up for the border with a few bottles of whiskey and a pair of shades and some smokes. As much of a degenerate little weasel as Bettman was, the authorities would not have looked so fondly upon the gruesome nature of his murder and they would have almost certainly sought to punish the perpetrator, that is to say myself. Thus my 90 mph drunken dash to freedom, even if it was something less than freedom in the American sense. More of a dusty, brown, beef burrito kind of freedom where law was lax in its responsibilities and men were quick to use guns to get drugs, or drugs to get guns.
The town’s name was Porvuello. It stunk. Stunk like shit and sloppy, greasy tortilla shells. It was run by a crooked man … an evil mastermind by the name of Senor Nick Caughl. He was some sort of Mexican gangster, though exactly which pies he had his fingers in I could never tell for sure. A little bit of everything I supposed, but either way he was the wealthiest man in those parts, and everyone with a business sold him a piece. You wanted to avoid this fellow at all costs, but that was more difficult than it might seem.
Nobody talked much in the town. It was the kind of horrible fucking place where the women danced or prayed, and the men sat around on benches smoking evil things and drinking strange and wonderful concoctions in local saloons. There were the occasional marriaci’s who spiced things up from darkened barstools or street corners, and sometimes the movie house might actually show an American flick. But mostly you just sat around. Drinking. I traded in the whiskey for tequila, and chose to sit around in a place called El Motel, which was run by a sweating little Mexican who called himself Senor Schwegs. To what extent exactly this Schwegs character was involved with Senor Caughl was difficult to tell, but one thing was for certain … he didn’t like me. Not from the moment I first stepped into that crumbling old lobby and asked for a room. “El room, porfavor?”
“El fuck yourself, Americano!” he spat. Nevertheless, he tossed me the keys to room sinco and charged me a few pasos. I asked him if there was any place I could grab a good burger and maybe a cold beer. “Si,” he laughed. “In joo-own fuckeeng country, puto.” I could tell by his tone I was going to have to settle on a steady diet of tacos and burritos.
I was only in Porvuello for a few days before I met a fellow American – a dusty, angry looking character named Mr. Buss who referred to himself as a “rugged desperado.” Mr. Buss would sit back with his feet up on the railing of El Motel’s front porch sipping tequila from the bottle and chain-smoking cigarello’s.
“I’m Wyatt Earp,” he said one day after an hour of silence.
“Very nice,” I said.
“You and me, we’re gonna take down this Senor Caughl and his whole crooked organization.”
“We are?” I said, half-amused.
“You got a problem with that, friend?” he said, raising his hat to look angrily at me.
“No, no,” I said quickly, nervously. “Just surprised by it, I guess.”
“Well, that’s exactly what we’re gonna do,” he said, lowering the hat back down over his eyes. “We’re gonna fuck him right up his gangster ass.”
“Listen,” I said. “Don’t say that too loudly. I think this Schwegs character works for him.”
“He’s small beans in a moldy taco,” Mr. Buss said. Then: “That means he’s nothing. Leave him to me.”
Turns out, unfortunately, that Schwegs was not small beans in a moldy taco. In fact, this sweating little Mexican proved to be a master of the Black-Ninja/Samurai arts. And worse, an angry little Mexican midget that was sitting next to us was good friends with him, so naturally he went straight away to report our discussion to the owner of El Motel. Schwegs came tearing out the front door of his rotten establishment, swinging karate-chops and screaming evil things at us.
“Joo fuckeeng Americans!” he yelled. “I fuckeeng kill joo, mang! I fuckeeng cut joo to pieces, ese!”
“Whoa, whoa!” I said, getting to my feet and holding my hands out non-offensively. “Look, buddy, calm down, alright. I don’t want no trouble.” He looked at me angrily. “El no trouble-o,” I said slowly.
He put his left foot across the right side of my face and sent me crashing through the window into the lobby. A rat scuttled across my face and disappeared into a hole in the wall. “JESUS!” I shouted. “JESUS TITTY-FUCKING CHRIST!”
Schwegs executed a nimble front-flip through the window and landed a right-boot to my face, and then followed that up with a judo-chop to the chest.
“Joo like dat sheet, puto?” he said, smiling, green things crawling between his yellow teeth. “Joo like to get shit keecked out of joo, mang?”
“Come on,” I said, pulling myself up on my knees. “Leave off, man.”
He spun around in midair and landed two kicks to my face. I fell back, bleeding at the mouth, and certain my nose was broke. I looked up into the grinning mug of Schwegs, who stood over me, smiling wickedly. “Now joo die, mang.” He pulled a knife from his belt and held it over his head. Just then two loud gunshots rang out, and Schwegs dropped to the floor holding both shoulders. “Joo fucking shot me, mang!” he shouted. Behind him Mr. Buss stood holding a smoking pistol.
“Got him,” he said, softly.
“Joo shot me in the fuckeeng shoulders, mang!” Schwegs shouted.
“Next one kills you, puto.”
“Okay, Americans,” Scwhegs said. “Okay joo fuckeeng guys, joo fuckeeng ween dis round.” He rose slowly to his feet and shuffled off out the door.
“Taught him a lesson, didn’t we?” said Mr. Buss. “I’m John Wayne, ya know.” It occurred to me Mr. Buss was fucking insane. I was certain Schwegs was going straight to Senor Caughl. Things were getting rather complicated. I was going to need a bottle of Tequilla to mull this over and figure a plan.
The angry little Mexican midget came back out on the porch and eyed us wickedly. “Joo never get away weet dees. No me gusta!!”
“I’m Clint Eastwood,” Mr. Buss said in low tones, squinting into the sun. Then he shot the angry little Mexican midget in the balls, and he ran away from us holding his mangled nuts and weeping “boo hoo, mang! Boo hoo!”
We decided to go see the Seargant. The law had turned a blind eye to Senor Caughl’s operations for many years, but maybe if we brought some good old American pressure to bear they’d cave and make a push for his capture. The Seargant, as it turned out, was the law in Porvuelo, and his name was Sgt. Mumbach. A big Mexican – maybe six foot six, three hundred. He peered at us from behind a bottle of Tequilla as we took a seat in his office.
“You boys want some crem brulet?” he asked with a heavy lisp.
“No thankyou, we’re here to recruit you in our fight against Senor Caughl,” I told him.
Sgt. Mumbach licked his lips seductively. “I liketed Crem Brulet, that shit is good too,” he said, smiling. “I lick that shit … I slapted that shit.”
“I don’t think he’s going to be able to help us,” I said to Mr. Buss. “What do you think?”
“We need Rooster Cogburn.”
“He’s a fucking movie character played by John Wayne. How is he going to fucking help us?”
“John Wayne!” said Sgt. Mumbach. “Ooh, I grease him up like a drumstick and lick my fingers clean.”
“There’s only one man who can help us now,” Mr. Buss said. “The one they call El Fraser.”
A dramatic chord sounded seemingly from nowhere.
“I’ve heard of El Fraser,” I said. “Isn’t he the one with … shall I say questionable allegiances? I heard he eats souls.”
“I’ve heard he howls in the maelstrom,” Mr. Buss said.
“I’ve heard he smells like a giant taint,” Sgt. Mumbach said. This seemed to bring an air of conclusion to the proceedings, and we were off to find the one they called El Fraser. We crossed barren deserts and black lakes where nameless entities lurked in the foggy depths and the sky was always dark. Finally, after many months, we arrived at the isolated cave of El Fraser which existed in the uninhabitable desert of Nachos Supreme.
The wind shrieked and the sky grew black as we approached the opening to the cave. Suddenly a voice sounded from its unseen depths. A voice latent with the funk of ages old rot and decay.
“Eight skies of the forlorn have fallen,” it said. We looked at each other. “The ninth soon shall descend.” We had found the one they called El Fraser.
Silence. We stepped into the cave and found a wrinkled, gnarled mass of flesh huddled in the corner.
“You will come to know your master,” it said. “He will engulf you in a bath of red madness and suck the vile jelly from your eyes with fiery rapacity … and you will BOW before him.”
I looked around nervously.
Mr. Buss fingered his pistol and tried to squint like Clint Eastwood.
Sgt. Mumbach smiled to himself and thought about his favorite marching band uniforms.
“Who is our master?” I finally said. Silence. “Is it you?” More silence. “Fiend! Answer me!”
The gnarled flesh jiggled. “Me?” it grinned wickedly. “Me? No.” It cackled loudly. “No. It is another … “
To Be Continued …
If you'd like to become fictionalized in Part II, simply leave a comment. Or die trying.
A Presto
Il Pazzo
posted by Il Pazzo @ 6:46 PM
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