Blood & Tacos #1 (15 page)

You don't need a plan when you have angry Mexican women on your side.

The two remaining bikers didn't stand a chance against the naked fury of the naked furies. Nobody stabs quite like an angry
senorita
. Let alone three of them. Chingón and Amanda Gray were relegated to the sidelines while the three women went
carniceria
on their former captors.

Chingón's only disappointment was that Walker had already split. Running away with his tail between his legs to report back to his master like the dog that he was.

No matter to Chingón. He had the girl and now it was just a matter of returning to Los Angeles to deliver her. And receive his money.

When the carnage ceased, the Mexican women—now wearing the leathers of the dead bikers—offered their bodies to Chingón. As tempted as he was, Chingón was on a schedule. And when he was with three ladies, he preferred to take his time.

Chingón and Amanda Gray walked across the road to Chingón's lavender 1964 Chevy Impala. Riding Astro Supremes with 5.20 whitewalls, Chingón's ride was barrio beautiful. The crown jewel being an airbrushed image on the hood of a topless woman wearing a sombrero, riding a comet, and pulling the pin out of a grenade with her teeth.

"That was anticlimactic," Amanda Gray said, "I didn't even get to shoot anyone."

"Be careful of what you wish for,
mamacita
," Chingón said, "This day isn't over."

While Chingón preferred to drive the Impala low and slow, now was not the time for cruising. Grabbing the scorpion-in-polyester-resin knob of the shifter, he slammed the Impala into gear. They hit the highway in a cloud of dust and gravel spray.

"I never thanked you for saving me back there," Amanda Gray said, watching the desert blur past her. "Thank you."

Chingón grunted his response. He glanced at the girl. Maybe sixteen. Old enough. He liked the way the tattered leather vest she had found looked against her pale skin. And the way she was sitting, he could see one of her perky breasts underneath. Chingón liked that, too.

Seeing that young flesh brought his thoughts back to his own youth and his life before he became the World's Deadliest Mexican.

It seemed so long ago that his wife Juanita was murdered by those drug-runners. How he had gotten his revenge. Bathed in blood and mad from grief. How he had found each link in the chain until he destroyed all the men responsible. No matter that they were villains or
vaqueros
, politicians or policemen, they had scheduled their execution when they had killed the only person that Chingón had ever loved. And would ever love. It was impossible for Chingón to remember the humble
campesino
(farmer) that he once was.

The shattering of the back window jolted Chingón from his memories.

"
Coño
!" Chingón shouted, "My Chevy."

Looking in the rearview mirror, he eyed the two Jeeps on his tail. One driver and one shotgunner in each vehicle. The smoke from one of the shotguns still exiting its barrel. Walker sat in the backseat of one of the vehicles, picking his teeth with his knife and grinning like a bastard.

"Get down," Chingón said, but Amanda Gray wasn't going to miss her second chance for a scrap. She turned in her seat and aimed the pistol out the window, firing three quick rounds at the Jeeps.

Three holes in the Jeep's windshield later and in the most undramatic of fashions it slowed to a stop with the horn blowing full volume and two dead men looking asleep, save for the holes in their foreheads.

The other Jeep kept on, gaining ground and returning fire. Chingón hit a switch on his dash, setting the hydraulics in motion. The back end of the Impala lifted, taking away the angle on the back window.

Chingón eyed the road ahead. And the curves into the mountains. This was going to get
loco
.

"Grab the wheel," Chingón said.

Amanda Gray grabbed the small chain steering wheel, as Chingón pulled four grenades from his bandolier, two in each hand.

The gunman in the Jeep had swapped out his shotgun for some kind of machine gun. He opened fire, lacing a row of puckered holes in the side of the Impala.

"
Pinche pendejos
," Chingón proclaimed. And like the image of his dead wife on the hood of his car, he put the pins of all four grenades in his mouth and pulled.

"Let's dance, bitches," Chingón laughed, as he dropped the grenades one by one out the window.

The Jeep darted out of the way of the first grenade, the explosion just missing. Weaving to miss the next grenade, it overcompensated and spun out. Ultimately, the error saved their lives as the other two grenades exploded in front of them.

While Chingón had meant to end the battle there and then, he would take the delay as a victory and put some distance between the Impala and the Jeep.

Taking back the wheel from Amanda Gray and driving like a madman through the windy mountain roads, he just missed a semi on a blind corner. The tiny wheels just held onto the tarmacadam.

"Do you see them?" Chingón said, eyes focused straight ahead.

"They're about three turns back. What are we going to do?" Amanda Gray said.

"Chingón is tired of running," Chingón said.

He slammed the brakes and expertly slid the car behind a gigantic boulder. He jumped out, pulling at two more grenades.

Standing just behind the boulder at the side of the road, he pulled the pins on the grenades, closed his eyes, and waited. He listened to birds' wings miles away, the wind brushing the mesquite, and the approaching tires of the Jeep.

Chingón threw the two grenades in a high arc almost straight up in the air, and then walked into the middle of the road to face the oncoming Jeep. As it rounded the turn, the murder in Walker's eyes was revealed for only a moment.

"
Adios, cabrons
," Chingón said.

The arcing grenades made their descent and with perfect timing landed in Walker's lap.

"Motherfu—" Walker said.

The Jeep exploded.

The burning metal carcass flew over Chingón's head and off the steep cliff behind him. He lit his cigar on the burning hulk as it passed and walked back to his Impala.

Running his finger along the line of bullet holes in the side panel, Chingón said. "
Puta madre
, I wish I could kill them again."

He got in the car and turned to Amanda Gray. Chingón said, "I think that's enough adventure for one day. Let's get you home."

On seeing his daughter alive, Senator Gray was overjoyed. So much so that he paid Chingón double the asking price. That was on top of the bonus that Amanda Gray had given him on the ride back. Not money, but mouth sex.

Chingón shook the man's hand and said, "And while I did this for the money, I also did this for what is right. No woman should be stolen by any man. Men cannot make their own rules. They must follow the rules made for them by other men. And as long as people do not abide by those rules, Chingón will be there to punish them with the lash of his whip and the explosion power of his grenades. Because there are no rules for Chingón. Chingón follows no man, but enforces their rules, for money. And men best follow those rules. Because they are the rules. And rules must be obeyed. Rules."

"I agree," Senator Gray said, "Now, I must go. I have an election to win."

And with that, Chingón turned and walked to his Chevy Impala. He usually left politics for men with bowties in their dresser drawers, but he was going to make an exception for Governor Deutsch. He thought he'd pay him a visit and see where he stood on the death penalty.

FIN

Along with his role as editor of
Blood & Tacos
,
Johnny
Shaw
is a screenwriter, playwright, and the author of the novel
Dove
Season: A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco
. For the last dozen years, Johnny has taught
writing, lecturing at both Santa Barbara City College and UC Santa Barbara.

I like titles. Not the gentry type, though those are ok too. No I mean book/story/movie
titles. Where there are folks that will judge a book by its cover, I'm more
inclined to judge by its title. You can tell this is true with a quick look
at what I've published in the past – books with …odd, perhaps, but
distinctive titles: Stays Crunchy in Milk, Installing Linux on Dead Badger,
Amityville House of Pancakes – I mean, come on.

So when Johnny was in the process of getting himself
all set up as a real honest-to-god author of a novel (never mind that he'd already
put more words to paper than Moses) and was tossing around website domain ideas
and names, along with a healthy dose of badgering from me about how important
a web presence was, the phrase "Blood and Tacos" came up.

It was love at first hear for me.

I tried, believe me, begged, cajoled and browbeat,
to get him to call his author website Blood & Tacos, as differentiated from
the domain itself – URL it what you will, says I, Blood & Tacos is
a fantastic TITLE. And the domain is open, you know, in case you wanted it!

No go – in some ways my old chum is kind of
traditional, and stuck with "JohnnyShawAuthor.com" but I kept up the
badgering to not let the name Blood & Tacos die.

And so here we are. As the one-time owner of the
website ClassicPulp.com you can imagine I'm pretty thrilled with what Blood
& Tacos has become – perhaps even more than if it were an author site.
Even more thrilled that I've done precious little of the work, but still get
to hang my name on it. At any rate, thanks for coming along for this first ride,
and look forward to seeing you a couple more times this year.

Pete S. Allen,

Creative Guy