Bad Movie Night
Early Thursday morning, I tried to contact my paternity-stricken companero so we could review the chosen movie and maintain our integrity and not disappoint our thousands of readers. However, Orlando's lady love informed me that the sot had left her and all their children and run off to Mexico for good. I was crushed.
But in the mail on Saturday I received a letter from him, and in the interest of all involved I will now retell the tale that was handed down to me by him. Enjoy.
Ye gods man, I never thought the day would come. I have fled for better or worse. I always knew I had it in me, I just hoped it would never happen. I set foot on Mexican soil this morning and let me tell you, the stench of rurality is everywhere.
The first thing I saw was a cantina, so I stepped in for a beer. The adobe building was hot inside and senoritas were fanning themselves to stay cool. I downed a beer and a few tequilas, and had some lunch. Back outside, I started to feel strange so I found the nearest inn and holed up.
I got to my room, grabbed a shovel and dug into the bed so deep that the sunlight couldn't reach me. I don't know how long I was out, but upon waking I had a sudden rush of euphoria, so I went back to the cantina to find a lady for the night. The memory of what I saw will scar my recollection until I depart from this world.
To the left of the cantina entrance was a group of what looked like buffalo playing bridge and chewing tobacco. Occasionally, one would spit into the spittoon and the others would stand up in applause. I let it pass and moseyed up to the bar. The bartender was a huge lizard with raccoon paws for hands. He handed me another tequila. I downed it and looked around for a girl.
She was alone in the corner, reading a book, smoking a cigarette.
I spoke in broken Spanish. "Buenos noches, senorita." She looked up from her book, but only to swat me across the face with her hand, which turned out to be a huge actual fly swatter. I nearly puked. God knows how many filthy insects she had smashed with that hand.
That was enough. I got up and left and I'm telling you first that I'm on my way home. No matter the strangeness that occurs at home, and how bad it gets, it's still not as bad as a huge fly swatter across your face, and a tequila served by some freak lizard. I'll see you soon, Socrates.
In a Conflagration of Regret,
Orlando will be back next week when we review "Breeders," a 1986 classic, and the things he saw were probably due to his drink or lunch being spiked with some hallucinogen. But then again, I've never been to Mexico.
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