Moody Mistress's Journal

Saturday, June 26, 2004

More "fanfic" nonsense
I hate to bore you further, but depression calls for more Johnny Depp. More Agent Sands. More movie "fanfic". (It's therapeutic.) And I have a couple Elvis Costello songs references at the end!! (Oddly proud of myself for that.)

Sands' Theme, part 3
"Oh...I followed the recipe, sweetie, but I just don't think it came out very well."

"Don't worry about it, Mom...it tastes fine."

The Puerco Pibil didn't need to be a masterpiece, after all. He couldn't very well shoot his own mother. The mediocrity of her cooking helped keep the balance, in fact. A convoluted way of thinking? ...Why would it be?

"Shelly, you're smirking," she said reproachfully.

America wouldn't let him keep the balance there, though. It was such a bouncy country, but it truly had no balance. The government may employ him, but it didn't give him the kind of control that he would have in Mexico. Control was nice.

He winced at the nickname. "Gosh, Mom, I'm just enjoying your cooking."

Then, how did he end up letting everything get so completely out of control?

***

The taxi screeched to a halt, dissolving his memories. His scalp prickled.

"Get out."

"Why are we stopping?" The sound of alarm in his own voice startled him.

"I can't go any further."

Oh.... Not good. "What? Why? Why not?"

"Just look out there!" the driver exclaimed arrogantly.

Something inside him snapped. When he had first stepped out onto the street, his voice had sounded slurred, childish even. But no more. His shoulders tensed, his fists clenched, his teeth ground together.

"I can't see, you fuckmook! I have no EYES!"

A pause as his first out-loud declaration of that fact sunk in. A squeak as the driver turned around in his seat.

He. Had. No. Eyes. And they weren't coming back.

"Well, listen to it, fucker! It's a coup d'etat! The roads are blocked." The driver sounded largely unaffected by his passenger's unthinkable predicament.

Sands growled, reaching for his cell phone. Some stupid, utterly annoying little toy hanging from the roof of the cab bounced against the side of his face. I hope my blood ruins the fucking thing, he seethed silently, holding the phone up to his ear.

"Work.... Come on, work...."

Silence. Indifferent silence from the other end.

"You can keep your money," the idiot driver interrupted. "I'm not moving an inch."

An acidic comeback withered and died on his tongue. He sighed instead, turning his head towards the young boy in the seat beside him. Let's go.

Outside the cab, the boy played his...his...the only word was "squire", handing him his belt, his new gun. It felt like it had a silencer, Sands noted, not sure if it even mattered. Stripping off his jacket, strapping the belt over the one he already wore--over the one with the cannabis leaf belt buckle--and pulling on his black leather gloves, he felt more like himself than he had for...a long time. Things began to fall into place. He only put a glove onto the wrong hand once, and the boy didn't even laugh.

Chin held a bit higher, he flexed his fingers in the tight leather.

I'm living la vida loca. I work for...no one. Mexico is my beat, and I'm walking it. One has to rig the game. Creative sportsmanship, creative negotiation. I throw shapes, they catch them.

And, as he stood just outside the center of the city, ready and waiting for them all, not unafraid but at least not alone...

...Sands' theme began to play.



"I don't hear you running."


**********
Denouement

They laughed at him when all his shots missed. He heard; and he didn't miss again. He was hit in the leg once, but both enemies came out dead. A piece of metal in your calf was infinitely preferable to death. But he fell when they fell, sunglasses sliding down sweat and blood and tumbling off his face. He. Had. No. Eyes. Without warning, losing the shades left him feeling vulnerable, exposed. Two black gaping holes stood out where warm, artful, never-a-dull-moment brown eyes once were. He gulped in the hot, dusty air, sinking to his knees. His face fell onto his limp, outstretched arms, his once perfectly slicked-back hair flying forward.

"Get up." The sunglasses were back on his face. He was glad. Not so much when the muzzle of a gun was pressed under his chin. Ajedrez. Synonymous with traitor. She pulled him to his unsteady feet, giggling. "See anything you like?" Nibbling impishly at his lips.

She was one of those responsible for robbing him of his second-most distinctive feature. At least he still had the cheekbones. No thanks to her. Thanks to her, they were covered in a slow-moving waterfall of blood.

The muzzle of his gun pressed into her belly, fired. She stumbled back, apparently stunned. He unattached his fake left arm, revealing the gun in his real hand. He heard her body fall to the ground, without so much as an apology from the wench.

"No," he said in hoarse, defiant answer to her question, before collapsing beside her.

Unconsciousness is associated with dark. Waking up is associated with eyes opening. How do I know if I'm asleep or awake?


Ding-ding.

Coming closer. Ding-ding. With all the strength that remained within him, he hoisted an arm into the air. The bike stopped next to him, where he lay sprawled out on his back, amidst stray fires and smoke left over from the fighting and the parade.

Somehow, he sensed the boy was...smiling for him. Smiling that he still lived. He remembered smirking outside the church, asking El if he was still standing.

Yes. Still.

***

He stood, propped up against the wall of some building, enervated, leaning his head back. He could feel the congealing blood reaching down over his jaw, collecting under his chin. His mouth was open. I don't know how much more of this I can take.

Ah. Agent Ramirez stopped by to say hello. Seems he got one of his men. Good for him. Evidently, all three of those responsible for sending Sands into dark horror were now dead. And he had outlived them.

Jorge tossed him the phone back, as if he could see it and would be able to catch it. His arm jerked up automatically--and he managed to catch it anyway. But he had to admit, the retired FBI man had done well.

"If that's not inter-agency cooperation," he told Jorge a little breathlessly, "then I just...I just don't know what is."

A chuckle. "See you later."

See you later? What did the man mean, see you later? Was he cruel or just blind? Could he not tell?

Sands muttered--wished him luck with a capital "F".

Then good, faithful Chicle Boy asked him if he was okay. He let out a tired breath, letting his head roll back helplessly. He felt older than his forty years. And Sands hated feeling old.

A truthful "No se", answering in the language he did know but usually refused to speak. Translation of "no se": "I don't know".

The boy replied that he would be. There was a smile in his voice.

Later, but only a few minutes later, when Sands asked him how he looked, the boy told him the blood--that had spent the past few hours rolling down his face--looked like chocolate. Where the boy had ever seen chocolate, he'd never know.

Sigh. Blood and Chocolate. Not exactly the makings of a tragic hero. But then, he was Sands. Nobody's hero. The anti-hero. He sets people up, he watches them fall. Only now, as they crashed down under the effects of his latest schemes, he wouldn't be watching. He wouldn't be able to.

Ah well.... The beat may change, but the melody remains the same....

"Say, kid...if I can't get in touch with my men, you think I should go to--"

"Mi casa?"

Sands had been thinking more along the lines of the hospital, but.... "Does your mother know how to make puerco pibil?" His accent when he pronounced the food's name was exquisite.

"Si."

A faint smirk. "Uh-huh. It's settled then, kiddo. Set another place at the table tonight. Hola, Mexico...you're not rid of me yet."


...And the song is called...Sands' theme.


The End.

Posted by moodymistress at 6/26/2004 08:57:00 PM |