Goddamn Rodriguez! Ever since I saw that shitty cheap looking El Mariachi, Mexico has toppled Japan from the top of my must-visit place. Forget New York and Ally McBeal, or that skinny models from Devil Wears Prada. Forget all the Holy Cities of old and its Omniscience Host (You-Know-Who). Forget Barcelona and Gaudi.
To Mexico! There I shall go.
There’s something magical, almost divine, that attracts me to that place. That arid, blazing hot, dessert-y place depicted in I don’t know how many movies. Of course, tequila alone has constituted half the attraction. Like angels, there is something divine in tequila, too.
To me, Mexico is the closest to Obama’s realm which is, unlike Canada (don’t get too personal now, Wolverine, you are still my favorite Canadian) never boring. So much have happened there, which, surprisingly, lack of better publicity. Zapatista, Juarez killing, maquiladora’s enslavement, cock-fighting (not that cock-fighting) to name a few. Even the cactus worth more exposure. As the most favorite bad guy’s escape destination in the entire catalogue of Hollywood’s movies, Mexico certainly worth my visit. That is to say, I want to know first-hand on why on Earth those cons, killers, rapists, drugs traffickers or simply hippies old timers always choose Mexico as their sanctuary.
So I fly myself to Texas. Like Kwai-Cheng Caine before me, I crossed the Mojave Dessert bare-footed, with nothing but flasks of water and loaded Wesson-Smith/Smith-Wesson Revolver (unlike Kwai-Chang Caine, I can’t do Kung Fu). Make my way to Rio Grande, swim across that river which known as the Winnetou’s tribe hunting border in the Old West’s days and enter Mexico.
On second thought. Instead of swim across the border, I rented a Buick, that cliche old, dusty farm truck loaded with hays and make a ride to the border’s check. You know, the one which says Mexico in one side and Texas in another? My forged passport (under the name of Kwai Chang Caine) worked just fine. I easily passed the border guards and the stationed Texas Rangers, drove a few miles off before I dumped the truck in Tijuana, where I resorted to the nearest old-looking bars to wash my thirst with a couple of tequila shots. I was spending a few hours there, gulping Butt-Burners and acting tough, before someone finally recognized that I’m a stranger there.
Just like the Wild West, such recognition always leads to suspicion, and suspicion, if not handled properly, would only means one thing: old school shoot-outs. And I, never famous for handling things properly.
Let’s not forget the fact that I’ve managed to smuggle my Wesson Smith few hours before, hid it under the hays stacks in the back of my truck. To no surprise, in the ensuing shoot out, with the help of my fella, Wesson Smith, I am the last man standing.
The bartender had reached his 12-gauge too slow and ended up with a one nice hole on his oversized head . The rests, who are simply too drunk to aim, couldn’t even shot down a drunken duck. I have the full advantage a few cowboys in the past haven’t. One bullet, one soul. Just like Jackie Chan and his Drunken Fist, I changed into somewhat a Javanese version of Lucky Luke. Well, sort of, since I’m not fast enough to beat my own shadow–although I certainly am against any average drunkards.
One man with a semi-automatic almost got me in his sporadic berserk. Very fortunate of me, I still got my move I learnt from Mariachi movie. A spring back somersault. It can be a quite difficult thing to do with crazy ass motherfucker shooting at you while at the same time, you him. The landing was not perfect at all. I had crashed too hard, almost sprained my angkle in the process. But the shot was perfect. That motherfucker would never call his mom again...
Happiness is a warm gun.
The bloodbath made me happy. Contented. The same way you would feel after you strike a major deal which enriched you by five-seven figures US Dollar. I felt like Doc Holliday minus the TBC. For the first time in my life, and I mean really really first time, I really want to hear We Are The Champion.
To Mexico! There I shall go.
There’s something magical, almost divine, that attracts me to that place. That arid, blazing hot, dessert-y place depicted in I don’t know how many movies. Of course, tequila alone has constituted half the attraction. Like angels, there is something divine in tequila, too.
To me, Mexico is the closest to Obama’s realm which is, unlike Canada (don’t get too personal now, Wolverine, you are still my favorite Canadian) never boring. So much have happened there, which, surprisingly, lack of better publicity. Zapatista, Juarez killing, maquiladora’s enslavement, cock-fighting (not that cock-fighting) to name a few. Even the cactus worth more exposure. As the most favorite bad guy’s escape destination in the entire catalogue of Hollywood’s movies, Mexico certainly worth my visit. That is to say, I want to know first-hand on why on Earth those cons, killers, rapists, drugs traffickers or simply hippies old timers always choose Mexico as their sanctuary.
So I fly myself to Texas. Like Kwai-Cheng Caine before me, I crossed the Mojave Dessert bare-footed, with nothing but flasks of water and loaded Wesson-Smith/Smith-Wesson Revolver (unlike Kwai-Chang Caine, I can’t do Kung Fu). Make my way to Rio Grande, swim across that river which known as the Winnetou’s tribe hunting border in the Old West’s days and enter Mexico.
On second thought. Instead of swim across the border, I rented a Buick, that cliche old, dusty farm truck loaded with hays and make a ride to the border’s check. You know, the one which says Mexico in one side and Texas in another? My forged passport (under the name of Kwai Chang Caine) worked just fine. I easily passed the border guards and the stationed Texas Rangers, drove a few miles off before I dumped the truck in Tijuana, where I resorted to the nearest old-looking bars to wash my thirst with a couple of tequila shots. I was spending a few hours there, gulping Butt-Burners and acting tough, before someone finally recognized that I’m a stranger there.
Just like the Wild West, such recognition always leads to suspicion, and suspicion, if not handled properly, would only means one thing: old school shoot-outs. And I, never famous for handling things properly.
Let’s not forget the fact that I’ve managed to smuggle my Wesson Smith few hours before, hid it under the hays stacks in the back of my truck. To no surprise, in the ensuing shoot out, with the help of my fella, Wesson Smith, I am the last man standing.
The bartender had reached his 12-gauge too slow and ended up with a one nice hole on his oversized head . The rests, who are simply too drunk to aim, couldn’t even shot down a drunken duck. I have the full advantage a few cowboys in the past haven’t. One bullet, one soul. Just like Jackie Chan and his Drunken Fist, I changed into somewhat a Javanese version of Lucky Luke. Well, sort of, since I’m not fast enough to beat my own shadow–although I certainly am against any average drunkards.
One man with a semi-automatic almost got me in his sporadic berserk. Very fortunate of me, I still got my move I learnt from Mariachi movie. A spring back somersault. It can be a quite difficult thing to do with crazy ass motherfucker shooting at you while at the same time, you him. The landing was not perfect at all. I had crashed too hard, almost sprained my angkle in the process. But the shot was perfect. That motherfucker would never call his mom again...
Happiness is a warm gun.
The bloodbath made me happy. Contented. The same way you would feel after you strike a major deal which enriched you by five-seven figures US Dollar. I felt like Doc Holliday minus the TBC. For the first time in my life, and I mean really really first time, I really want to hear We Are The Champion.
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