metropolitan police agency. You’ve smuggled a gun across the Mexican border in your peg leg. You were almost robbed at gunpoint by a thirteen-year-old taco junkie, and here we are drinking piss warm beer in a Mexican motel parking lot. You ask if this is stupid? Hell, boy, this is the most fun I’ve had since popping dopeheads in South Florida. This ain’t stupid, son, this is the time of your life.”
“You know, I don’t think I could ever repay you for everything you’ve done for me. Tiffany is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I want you to know that.”
“She is the only family I have left. She means everything to me. I started doing this because she asked me to, but now I am here for you, son. Nothing makes me happier than you and her together. Just promise me that you’re not gonna lose your shit and drive around the country killing illegal aliens,” Joey said as he returned another empty bottle to the wooden picnic table.
“I’ll do my best,” Seven replied with a snicker.
Goat waved a white flag in his taco war. The table was covered in paper wrappers and empty beer bottles. The three of them were full and two of them were half drunk. They made their way back to their room with thoughts of a long peaceful night, slumbering under the sounds of a noisy air conditioner and a fat, snoring Italian.
It started with a slight rumble. Nothing much to worry about, Seven thought to himself. He glanced over at the clock next to his bed. It was 2 a.m. local time. His finished off the evening of tacos and beer with a call to Gainesville, Florida, and the love of his life. That was hours ago and up until just that minute he had been sleeping peacefully on the surprisingly comfortable motel mattress.
The gentle rumble in his stomach began to fester and grow in strength and intensity. It went from a slight uncomfortableness to severe cramping in a matter of minutes. Seven recalled every joke, limerick, and warning that had ever been told to him on the topic of dining in Mexico. “Montezuma’s