Day of the Miriachis

Dear readers,

I apologize for my absence. Work had been slow and I got depressed in my apartment in Bolivia, and I ended up going on this month-long bender through downtown La Paz, where I used up most of my money and ammunition. I had trouble paying my cable bill, and lost internet access for a little while.

But the Bolivian government paid me handsomely for beheading a wealthy land-owner, and my financial burdens were temporarily eased. And with a little extra money to spend, I took a chance and flew to Cancun (Mexico) for this mercenary convention. I was a bit apprehensive from the start, because these "conventions" tend to be loser fests of novices, has-beens, and never-weres in the world of mercenarydom. The real mercs are out in the field racking up body counts and toppling monarchies, and the conventions are for the outsiders and newbies that are looking to get into the shit. But work has been slow and I went, hoping to get a good lead.

There were a few booths peddling second-rate assault rifles (I don't think anyone outside of Africa would want them), a couple ex-mercs signing autographs, and then some sign-up tables for people looking to join developing militias to stage coups, take on warlords, blow-up factories, or that sort of thing. Covert ops for suckers. No thanks. I'm not signing up to be the monkey-boy of some flunky third-world ex-treasurer or ex-governor staging some unprofessional one-man war to settle a grudge.

Depressed, I strode out to the beach with my BAR and squeezed off a few rounds at some dolphins that had swum in for high tide. I soon ran out of bullets, and then lobbed a grenade at the blasted ocean-rats. There was alot of glare form the sunset, and I couldn't tell if I got any of them. Dejected and worn-out, I just sort of shrugged and sat down in the sand.

And that's when I saw the fuckers....three miriachis, seemingly oblivious of my presence, strode across the sandy beach like ghosts in a landscape. Now in Spanish, the word "miriachi" loosely translates to "he who sings with the devil." And when I was a child in St. Kitts, my grandmother used to tell me stories of "the Miriachi"- grown men turned into zombies by Latino witch doctors, eternally roaming the earth to feed on the flesh of the living and bellow their praises to their master, the prince of darkness, occassionally kicking babies and spitting on the weak and the elderly as they did their evil master's bidding. So these bellowing demons strummed the devil's music as they got closer, and I had a flash-back to the Football Gods. I thought I was dreaming and rubbed my balls to make sure I was awake. Yep, I was awake.

The miriachis got with-in rifle range and I raised my BAR and took aim- I pulled the trigger expecting to see body parts and blood flying into the air, but nothing happened- rats- of course, I wasted my ammo on those bloody dolphins. I was out of my grenades, and I had thrown my Ka-bar at a babbling drifter only hours before, so I was essentially unarmed. The miriachis came closer -with-in a few feet of me, and I cowered in their presence. I put my hands over my eyes, and curled up in the fetal position, and wept for 10 to 15 minutes. Their demonic singing pierced my ear drums, and I wept harder- but I dared not look up-

Later- maybe hours later, I looked up again. The miriachis were gone. I looked at the sand and the surf, and aside from a seashell and a dolphin flipper, there was nothing else- no foot-prints, no guitars, no evidence that the miriachis had ever strolled through. They were toying with me- tempting me at a moment of weakness.

I immediately swore revenge, but knew it would take time before I was strong enough to take them out. Fore I presently lacked the weapons and man-power to conduct a house-by-house search through downtown Cancun city to find and summarily execute the bastards. There was no solace for me. No vindication. No revenge. And that's just the way it is sometimes. But tomorrow is another day.