Capítulo 0: Máscaras
Jul 29, 2023 11:57:19 GMT
Post by Peregrina Loca on Jul 29, 2023 11:57:19 GMT
"Perfume was first created to mask the stench of foul and offensive odors...
Spices and bold flavorings were created to mask the taste of putrid and rotting meat...
What then was music created for?
Was it to drown out the voices of others, or the voices within ourselves?"
~Emilie Autumn~
The Mexico-USA International Border Line
Approximately 300 miles from Las Vegas
With an asthmatic rumble, the beat-up old bus slumps into one of the chaotically-arranged lanes of traffic clamoring for entry over the border. The air outside is sweltering, seeming to shimmer in simpatico with the sound of several hundred struggling engines. Inside, tension reigns, dozens of tan faces staring nervously out of the windows, as dozens more fumble to check on bags and passports. At odds with the atmosphere are two particular passengers; a woman of compact, but powerful build, shrouded in a grayscale poncho, the brim of a battered leather cap doing little to hide her determined, slanted hazel eyes...
And the woman's young daughter, who wears a focused expression, chewing intently upon her bottom lip as she thrashes away at the nylon strings of a brightly-painted toy guitar. Her discordant, staccato rhythm is taken up by the bus driver, his calloused fingers thrumming away against the bare-metal steering wheel, and by another passenger who produces a maraca.
The child's dirt-smudged face splits into a smile, and spirits lift, as time drags on.
And on.
The bus creeps forward, inch by agonizing inch.
~clonk~
The mother throws out a commanding hand, abruptly curtailing the noisome din of the miniature mariachi as the doors are wrenched open and loud commands are barked in American, causing a tumult amidst the crowded travelers onboard. The girl lets out a plaintive whine, but her protests are lost in chaos. Bodies shift and move, torrents of hurried Spanish eclipsing the perished optimism of makeshift music, until more brusque yells break through the waves like dogs through sheep. Herding them, in a formation like a dissolving snake, until the passengers find themselves ushered into a low, musty building, lined with high desks and the glowering faces of exhausted bureaucrats. They're separated, driven in singles and pairs toward their fateful interviews.
"Name."
He looks more like a brute than a bureaucrat, thinks the mother, swiping her gaze over the man - taller and broader than her, with shoulders like hastily-molded doughballs, a concave chest, and skin blotched with inconsistent sunburn. She's still measuring him when there's a furious twang from beside her, and the man's face twists in disdain, his mouth opening to uncharitably protest the mounting noise as the small girl tries to resume her musical stylings. With a fierce wrench, the cheerful little guitar is removed from her clutches, and a finger flies to her lips, jamming them closed before she can raise an objection.
Eyes wide with juvenile indignation meet a glare of utter fury, and the would-be musician burbles into silence.
"Peregrina," sighs the woman, breezing into a charming smile, hazel eyes meeting the officer's slovenly, lizardly stare, "Peregrina Loca."
"Fuck kinda name is that?" He shoots back, scowling. A hand lifts to scratch at the greasy pool abutting his right nostril, and Peregrina notes a tattoo upon his forearm - a faded eagle, a tattered flag. Stars. Stripes. "Crazy bird, right? How 'bout I just call you crazy bitch?"
It takes every ounce of control not to roll her eyes. She bolsters her smile, leaning forward upon the desk.
"Jesus fuck, you people," continues the man with a sigh, "Passport?"
She has it ready. It's suspiciously new, still bearing the faux shine applied by the men who forged it. It's never been stamped. He fails to notice precisely none of these things, and she succeeds masterfully in making him fail to notice that she's noticed that he's noticed. Her eyes are bright, alert, and his are rimed with grime, not just dull - but nearly dead.
She's been warned about men like this, and she shifts, feeling the comforting bulge of her backup plan against her hipbone.
"You got work?"
'Go ahead,' say his grimy eyes, 'Bullshit me.'
"Lucha Libre."
She can't keep the pride from her voice, and he scoffs, firing back, "Yeah, where?"
"Las Vegas."
This time he doesn't scoff; he about chokes, erupting into an ill-humored guffaw that barely reaches those hollow eyes.
"You're fuckin' with me? Razor Rockwell's shithole?"
She raises an eyebrow, tightens her lips. Pleasantly dares him to elaborate.
"It's a shithole," he all but repeats himself, and this time she does roll her eyes. His thick, clammy lips smear into a grin, leering as he leans forward to meet her halfway across the desk. "You're desperate."
Peregrina tries not to choke on the dehydrated foulness of his breath, her eyes beginning to water as the sickly fume of his cheap deodorant washes over her. She risks a glance to either side - sees the office occupied in a thousand other ways - and forces sugar through her soul, shifting a hand to finger the tightly-rolled clip of crisp American dollars shielded beneath her poncho.
"Perhaps," she acknowledges, smiling up at her extorter, "But my problem could become a wonderful opportunity for us both."
The man snorts, shifting his gaze from Pera's, looking down not to the hand slowly sliding the bribe into view, but to the narrow 'v' where the poncho's edge meets her throat. A bead of sweat trembles down his cheek, dripping onto the desk between them as he rasps out a chuckle and leans back, stamping the forged passport in swift, business-like motions. Pera starts to reach forward, but he yanks it away from her fingertips and slips it into a breast pocket. She frowns, and he waves a finger at the little girl.
"Oh-- of course," she's off-guard, a little surprised and a little relieved, producing the second passport. It's stamped, and placed in the same breast pocket, the combined contents of which are given a smug pat.
"Now," rumbles the man, rough slab of a tongue oozing over his lips. "Leave the diablillo. Door on the right." He jerks his head, and Pera follows the gesture, sees the sign... sanitario. "Wait five minutes," He flashes the fingers on one hand, then resumes his discourse with another leer, "We talk about my opportunity, and then you'll get yours. ¿Comprende?"
His tone is mocking, and would be dismissive if not for the underlying anticipation that shifts her stomach. Those dead eyes meet hers, and Pera is overcome with the urge to reach out and hurt this man. Sí. She understands.
Slowly, numbly, she nods, and takes her hand from the wad of bills that she won't be needing.
"Amá-" begins, and ends, the girl beside her, wide, innocent eyes only widening further as a freed finger descends upon her lips.
"Lupe," murmurs the mother, with urgent affection, turning to envelop the concerned child in a swift, single-armed hug. It's little effort to scoop her up like this, and carry her toward the hard, plastic seats lining one side of the office. She's plopped down, and Pera pulls away, pursued by tiny hands that reach out first to her - and then the confiscated guitar swinging from one hand. It's pulled out of range, the free hand finding and caressing a tan cheek. Their eyes meet, one pair scared and confused, the other strangely moist, belonging to somebody else. An alien.
"Sé una buena niña," Peregrina hears herself plead. Be a good girl.
The words are left echoing in her wake, and in her heart, as she heads to that door on the right, past a cold-eyed security guard who does nothing to stop her, and into the sweaty confines of a narrow corridor that bends sharply to a right-angle; playing host only to a lidded trash can before it opens into a gloomy gape on slick, slimy tiles that reek of human waste.
Pera pauses in the tight passage, setting the toy guitar atop the garbage can, taking care to remove her poncho and set it in this relatively clean corner. She's left exposed in a simple, white tank, her tan skin flushed as she rolls her shoulders. Her own perfume is light, floral, and does little to mask the odors milling from the unsanitary sanitario.
"Sé una buena niña," she whispers, reaching out to pluck a note on the colorful little instrument...
Five minutes later, she plays a few more.
Alone in the corridor again, Peregrina slips back into her poncho, hastily rearranging her hair before stepping out through that right-hand door and into the lapsed din of the passport office. Much of the crowd has dissipated, though one couple is still attempting to argue loudly against their attempted extortion. Their raised voices wash over the luchadora as she strides through this bureaucratic nightmare toward her daughter, who has curled up to sleep in the plastic bucket seat.
Guadalupe quickly stirs at her approach, bleary eyes struggling to focus, but young mind still fixated on what she lost just waking moments ago. Grasping for words, finding their meaning, she asks, she begs for her missing toy.
"Confiscado," is all Pera can offer in return, bundling up her daughter and burying the truth as she repeats, "Confiscado."
"Confiscado."
Mother and child are halfway to Vegas before anyone thinks to check the sanitario, and nobody ever pauses to consider that perhaps the mangled, broken miniature mariachi guitar slightly jamming open the lid to the neighboring trash can has anything at all to do with the border control officer found with his pants unzipped and his brains spilling out onto the filthy tiles.
The cold-eyed security guard files an accident report, and moves on with his life.
Las Vegas, Nevada
Perilously, regrettably close to the Bobby Shitake Arena
With a relieved sputter, the beat-up old bus lurches to a halt on the outskirts of Sin City, sinking onto its suspension as if it means to never move again. Its final gasp and the clattering expulsion of its beleaguered door deposits a visibly-exhausted Peregrina Loca and the slumbering, cried-out form of little Guadalupe next to a rusted billboard whose intended purpose has been erased time and again with multiple layers of competing vandalism.
A STORM IS COMING, reads the penultimate work of graffiti, done by a steady hand and only recently painted over in a far more disheveled daub by the piss-yellow legend, GOTTA SAY.
Pera staggers onto the dusty roadside, a bulging duffel bag slung across her back and Lupe in her arms, looking past the war-torn billboard to the decidedly humble sight that greets her beyond it. The far-from-picturesque view is partially blocked by a figure silhouetted in the setting sun.
"I trust you didn't have any problems, Ms. Loca."
She's not sure if the accent is Nevadan, but it is American - and it suits the cowboy hat, and the duster, sported by the long, rangy man who twists to face her, sparing a crooked smile.
"None worth remembering," she replies, and the man cuts in with a laugh before she's done.
"None that didn't turn into opportunities?"
His too-blue eyes sparkle, not with the joy of humor but something more dangerous - a morbid kind of mirth, the twin of which she feels rise up as it has a thousand times before. And suppresses. Sensing her discomfort, the man extends a hand, two fingers splaying out to proffer a thin cigarillo.
"They told me you quit, but of course, you know that ain't an option."
Pera considers the smoke, then thoughtfully pauses to settle her sleeping daughter against a sandstone boulder, placing the grayscale poncho behind her head as a pillow, and letting the cool air sweep over her shoulders as she rejoins the man, accepting the cigarillo and a light. The boiling ember flares as she inhales, watching the handsome stranger with a measured gaze.
"Every time I get away," she admits, exhaling through her nose, "He finds a way to pull me back in."
The stranger smiles, wistfully, taking the cigarillo as she passes it back.
"But you mean to have the last laugh, of course."
And laugh she does, as he takes his turn drawing on the proverbial peace pipe, a short and breathy bark that expresses nothing and everything.
"Don't we all?" The question hangs, as she looks to sleeping Lupe, nodding firmly. "Sí. I do."
"Yours?" He asks, tipping the wafting ember toward the girl.
"Claro," she returns dismissively, a little angrily, turning her eyes back to the stranger and snatching the cigarillo from his extended hand. "Enough bullshit. Tell me about this place."
She takes a passionate drag, as he smirks and looks to the horizon.
"This place? This place is a shithole."
Pera shakes her head, looking down at the smoldering stogie with a frown before handing it back.
"So everybody keeps telling me."
"Well, it's all you need to know. Do what you're here to do, and get out. Go home."
There's that word. And with it, rebellion. Her chin lifts defiantly, eyes flashing.
"What if this is home? What if they love me?"
The façade of friendship falls away. The stranger snarls.
"So what if they do? You got a job. Wear a mask, make 'em smile, entertain 'em, but don't get any delusions. These shitheads, in their shithole, would hate you if they knew you. If they saw you."
That makes her angrier than she expected to be. The cigarillo is swatted from his lips, and she has a handful of his collar before she's even aware that she's moved.
"You know nothing about love. None of you! You never have!"
He holds up his hands, matter-of-factly, not bothering to struggle.
"I know about duty. I know about death. And I know you've got a match to get to, 'Peregrina'." His accent is flawless, and jarringly so. She eases her grip, and moves to turn away, but he stalls her, "Reach into my pocket. There's a phone, and your keys. We're your family. Don't forget that."
Pera does as she's told, maintaining sharp eye contact as she retrieves both items, and takes a step back. The stranger dryly chuckles, adjusts his collar, and bends down to pluck the fallen cigarillo--
~crack~
Her foot soundly impacts his chiseled jawline, sending him sprawling into the dirt.
"She's my family," spits the luchadora, pointing at the slumbering Guadalupe. "Nobody else."
"Alright," acknowledges the stranger, holding up a hand to ward off Pera as the other massages the fresh welt. "Fine. Just-- take care of yourself and the kid. Do your job."
"I always do."
"Maybe lighten that load a little."
Pursing her lips, she turns and walks toward her daughter, all too eager to part ways with this aggravating messenger. There's a spiteful huff from the fallen man, as he falls back onto one elbow, tipping his hat at the departing woman's back. Offering one last, casual barb...
"And, uh, send my regards to Craneo."
Pera freezes, just for a second, and then keeps walking, pulling the newly-acquired phone from her pocket as she realises she has one last, critically-important stop to make.
'Hacienda del Alma'. The sign outside swings back and forth on a rope strung with multi-colored beads, jovially drawing attention to what - from the outside - looks like little more than a fancifully-painted shack. Inside, one entire wall plays host to line after line of beautifully-made mariachi guitars, including - tucked along the bottom, almost out of sight, a number of pint-sized examples. They're just as well-appointed and lavishly-decorated, and Pera momentarily hesitates.
"¡Hola, señorita!"
From the gloom at the back of the shop bursts the flamboyant, mustachioed proprietor - too much of a stereotype to not be the real deal. His smile is infectious, and he even smells like home. He follows the eyeline of his lone customer, and is quick to spring into action.
"¡Guau! You have an eye for excellence. Let me assure you, every one is an authentic artisanal import from our spiritual homeland of México - you will find none finer this far from the border!"
His enthusiasm tells her; there's a price to be paid. His desperation, and the dilapidated building; that few are ever willing to pay it. Reaching down, she plucks a few notes on the toy-scale guitars. They're tuned, and sing quite beautifully. In this moment, her heart feels light.
"This... could be a wonderful opportunity for us both."
Smiling warmly, Pera reaches for the clip of bills tucked discretely into her waistband.
The Mexico-USA International Border Line
Approximately 300 miles from Las Vegas
With an asthmatic rumble, the beat-up old bus slumps into one of the chaotically-arranged lanes of traffic clamoring for entry over the border. The air outside is sweltering, seeming to shimmer in simpatico with the sound of several hundred struggling engines. Inside, tension reigns, dozens of tan faces staring nervously out of the windows, as dozens more fumble to check on bags and passports. At odds with the atmosphere are two particular passengers; a woman of compact, but powerful build, shrouded in a grayscale poncho, the brim of a battered leather cap doing little to hide her determined, slanted hazel eyes...
And the woman's young daughter, who wears a focused expression, chewing intently upon her bottom lip as she thrashes away at the nylon strings of a brightly-painted toy guitar. Her discordant, staccato rhythm is taken up by the bus driver, his calloused fingers thrumming away against the bare-metal steering wheel, and by another passenger who produces a maraca.
The child's dirt-smudged face splits into a smile, and spirits lift, as time drags on.
And on.
The bus creeps forward, inch by agonizing inch.
~clonk~
The mother throws out a commanding hand, abruptly curtailing the noisome din of the miniature mariachi as the doors are wrenched open and loud commands are barked in American, causing a tumult amidst the crowded travelers onboard. The girl lets out a plaintive whine, but her protests are lost in chaos. Bodies shift and move, torrents of hurried Spanish eclipsing the perished optimism of makeshift music, until more brusque yells break through the waves like dogs through sheep. Herding them, in a formation like a dissolving snake, until the passengers find themselves ushered into a low, musty building, lined with high desks and the glowering faces of exhausted bureaucrats. They're separated, driven in singles and pairs toward their fateful interviews.
"Name."
He looks more like a brute than a bureaucrat, thinks the mother, swiping her gaze over the man - taller and broader than her, with shoulders like hastily-molded doughballs, a concave chest, and skin blotched with inconsistent sunburn. She's still measuring him when there's a furious twang from beside her, and the man's face twists in disdain, his mouth opening to uncharitably protest the mounting noise as the small girl tries to resume her musical stylings. With a fierce wrench, the cheerful little guitar is removed from her clutches, and a finger flies to her lips, jamming them closed before she can raise an objection.
Eyes wide with juvenile indignation meet a glare of utter fury, and the would-be musician burbles into silence.
"Peregrina," sighs the woman, breezing into a charming smile, hazel eyes meeting the officer's slovenly, lizardly stare, "Peregrina Loca."
"Fuck kinda name is that?" He shoots back, scowling. A hand lifts to scratch at the greasy pool abutting his right nostril, and Peregrina notes a tattoo upon his forearm - a faded eagle, a tattered flag. Stars. Stripes. "Crazy bird, right? How 'bout I just call you crazy bitch?"
It takes every ounce of control not to roll her eyes. She bolsters her smile, leaning forward upon the desk.
"Jesus fuck, you people," continues the man with a sigh, "Passport?"
She has it ready. It's suspiciously new, still bearing the faux shine applied by the men who forged it. It's never been stamped. He fails to notice precisely none of these things, and she succeeds masterfully in making him fail to notice that she's noticed that he's noticed. Her eyes are bright, alert, and his are rimed with grime, not just dull - but nearly dead.
She's been warned about men like this, and she shifts, feeling the comforting bulge of her backup plan against her hipbone.
"You got work?"
'Go ahead,' say his grimy eyes, 'Bullshit me.'
"Lucha Libre."
She can't keep the pride from her voice, and he scoffs, firing back, "Yeah, where?"
"Las Vegas."
This time he doesn't scoff; he about chokes, erupting into an ill-humored guffaw that barely reaches those hollow eyes.
"You're fuckin' with me? Razor Rockwell's shithole?"
She raises an eyebrow, tightens her lips. Pleasantly dares him to elaborate.
"It's a shithole," he all but repeats himself, and this time she does roll her eyes. His thick, clammy lips smear into a grin, leering as he leans forward to meet her halfway across the desk. "You're desperate."
Peregrina tries not to choke on the dehydrated foulness of his breath, her eyes beginning to water as the sickly fume of his cheap deodorant washes over her. She risks a glance to either side - sees the office occupied in a thousand other ways - and forces sugar through her soul, shifting a hand to finger the tightly-rolled clip of crisp American dollars shielded beneath her poncho.
"Perhaps," she acknowledges, smiling up at her extorter, "But my problem could become a wonderful opportunity for us both."
The man snorts, shifting his gaze from Pera's, looking down not to the hand slowly sliding the bribe into view, but to the narrow 'v' where the poncho's edge meets her throat. A bead of sweat trembles down his cheek, dripping onto the desk between them as he rasps out a chuckle and leans back, stamping the forged passport in swift, business-like motions. Pera starts to reach forward, but he yanks it away from her fingertips and slips it into a breast pocket. She frowns, and he waves a finger at the little girl.
"Oh-- of course," she's off-guard, a little surprised and a little relieved, producing the second passport. It's stamped, and placed in the same breast pocket, the combined contents of which are given a smug pat.
"Now," rumbles the man, rough slab of a tongue oozing over his lips. "Leave the diablillo. Door on the right." He jerks his head, and Pera follows the gesture, sees the sign... sanitario. "Wait five minutes," He flashes the fingers on one hand, then resumes his discourse with another leer, "We talk about my opportunity, and then you'll get yours. ¿Comprende?"
His tone is mocking, and would be dismissive if not for the underlying anticipation that shifts her stomach. Those dead eyes meet hers, and Pera is overcome with the urge to reach out and hurt this man. Sí. She understands.
Slowly, numbly, she nods, and takes her hand from the wad of bills that she won't be needing.
"Amá-" begins, and ends, the girl beside her, wide, innocent eyes only widening further as a freed finger descends upon her lips.
"Lupe," murmurs the mother, with urgent affection, turning to envelop the concerned child in a swift, single-armed hug. It's little effort to scoop her up like this, and carry her toward the hard, plastic seats lining one side of the office. She's plopped down, and Pera pulls away, pursued by tiny hands that reach out first to her - and then the confiscated guitar swinging from one hand. It's pulled out of range, the free hand finding and caressing a tan cheek. Their eyes meet, one pair scared and confused, the other strangely moist, belonging to somebody else. An alien.
"Sé una buena niña," Peregrina hears herself plead. Be a good girl.
The words are left echoing in her wake, and in her heart, as she heads to that door on the right, past a cold-eyed security guard who does nothing to stop her, and into the sweaty confines of a narrow corridor that bends sharply to a right-angle; playing host only to a lidded trash can before it opens into a gloomy gape on slick, slimy tiles that reek of human waste.
Pera pauses in the tight passage, setting the toy guitar atop the garbage can, taking care to remove her poncho and set it in this relatively clean corner. She's left exposed in a simple, white tank, her tan skin flushed as she rolls her shoulders. Her own perfume is light, floral, and does little to mask the odors milling from the unsanitary sanitario.
"Sé una buena niña," she whispers, reaching out to pluck a note on the colorful little instrument...
Five minutes later, she plays a few more.
~ ~ ~
Alone in the corridor again, Peregrina slips back into her poncho, hastily rearranging her hair before stepping out through that right-hand door and into the lapsed din of the passport office. Much of the crowd has dissipated, though one couple is still attempting to argue loudly against their attempted extortion. Their raised voices wash over the luchadora as she strides through this bureaucratic nightmare toward her daughter, who has curled up to sleep in the plastic bucket seat.
Guadalupe quickly stirs at her approach, bleary eyes struggling to focus, but young mind still fixated on what she lost just waking moments ago. Grasping for words, finding their meaning, she asks, she begs for her missing toy.
"Confiscado," is all Pera can offer in return, bundling up her daughter and burying the truth as she repeats, "Confiscado."
"Confiscado."
~ ~ ~
Mother and child are halfway to Vegas before anyone thinks to check the sanitario, and nobody ever pauses to consider that perhaps the mangled, broken miniature mariachi guitar slightly jamming open the lid to the neighboring trash can has anything at all to do with the border control officer found with his pants unzipped and his brains spilling out onto the filthy tiles.
The cold-eyed security guard files an accident report, and moves on with his life.
~ ~ ~
Las Vegas, Nevada
Perilously, regrettably close to the Bobby Shitake Arena
With a relieved sputter, the beat-up old bus lurches to a halt on the outskirts of Sin City, sinking onto its suspension as if it means to never move again. Its final gasp and the clattering expulsion of its beleaguered door deposits a visibly-exhausted Peregrina Loca and the slumbering, cried-out form of little Guadalupe next to a rusted billboard whose intended purpose has been erased time and again with multiple layers of competing vandalism.
A STORM IS COMING, reads the penultimate work of graffiti, done by a steady hand and only recently painted over in a far more disheveled daub by the piss-yellow legend, GOTTA SAY.
Pera staggers onto the dusty roadside, a bulging duffel bag slung across her back and Lupe in her arms, looking past the war-torn billboard to the decidedly humble sight that greets her beyond it. The far-from-picturesque view is partially blocked by a figure silhouetted in the setting sun.
"I trust you didn't have any problems, Ms. Loca."
She's not sure if the accent is Nevadan, but it is American - and it suits the cowboy hat, and the duster, sported by the long, rangy man who twists to face her, sparing a crooked smile.
"None worth remembering," she replies, and the man cuts in with a laugh before she's done.
"None that didn't turn into opportunities?"
His too-blue eyes sparkle, not with the joy of humor but something more dangerous - a morbid kind of mirth, the twin of which she feels rise up as it has a thousand times before. And suppresses. Sensing her discomfort, the man extends a hand, two fingers splaying out to proffer a thin cigarillo.
"They told me you quit, but of course, you know that ain't an option."
Pera considers the smoke, then thoughtfully pauses to settle her sleeping daughter against a sandstone boulder, placing the grayscale poncho behind her head as a pillow, and letting the cool air sweep over her shoulders as she rejoins the man, accepting the cigarillo and a light. The boiling ember flares as she inhales, watching the handsome stranger with a measured gaze.
"Every time I get away," she admits, exhaling through her nose, "He finds a way to pull me back in."
The stranger smiles, wistfully, taking the cigarillo as she passes it back.
"But you mean to have the last laugh, of course."
And laugh she does, as he takes his turn drawing on the proverbial peace pipe, a short and breathy bark that expresses nothing and everything.
"Don't we all?" The question hangs, as she looks to sleeping Lupe, nodding firmly. "Sí. I do."
"Yours?" He asks, tipping the wafting ember toward the girl.
"Claro," she returns dismissively, a little angrily, turning her eyes back to the stranger and snatching the cigarillo from his extended hand. "Enough bullshit. Tell me about this place."
She takes a passionate drag, as he smirks and looks to the horizon.
"This place? This place is a shithole."
Pera shakes her head, looking down at the smoldering stogie with a frown before handing it back.
"So everybody keeps telling me."
"Well, it's all you need to know. Do what you're here to do, and get out. Go home."
There's that word. And with it, rebellion. Her chin lifts defiantly, eyes flashing.
"What if this is home? What if they love me?"
The façade of friendship falls away. The stranger snarls.
"So what if they do? You got a job. Wear a mask, make 'em smile, entertain 'em, but don't get any delusions. These shitheads, in their shithole, would hate you if they knew you. If they saw you."
That makes her angrier than she expected to be. The cigarillo is swatted from his lips, and she has a handful of his collar before she's even aware that she's moved.
"You know nothing about love. None of you! You never have!"
He holds up his hands, matter-of-factly, not bothering to struggle.
"I know about duty. I know about death. And I know you've got a match to get to, 'Peregrina'." His accent is flawless, and jarringly so. She eases her grip, and moves to turn away, but he stalls her, "Reach into my pocket. There's a phone, and your keys. We're your family. Don't forget that."
Pera does as she's told, maintaining sharp eye contact as she retrieves both items, and takes a step back. The stranger dryly chuckles, adjusts his collar, and bends down to pluck the fallen cigarillo--
~crack~
Her foot soundly impacts his chiseled jawline, sending him sprawling into the dirt.
"She's my family," spits the luchadora, pointing at the slumbering Guadalupe. "Nobody else."
"Alright," acknowledges the stranger, holding up a hand to ward off Pera as the other massages the fresh welt. "Fine. Just-- take care of yourself and the kid. Do your job."
"I always do."
"Maybe lighten that load a little."
Pursing her lips, she turns and walks toward her daughter, all too eager to part ways with this aggravating messenger. There's a spiteful huff from the fallen man, as he falls back onto one elbow, tipping his hat at the departing woman's back. Offering one last, casual barb...
"And, uh, send my regards to Craneo."
Pera freezes, just for a second, and then keeps walking, pulling the newly-acquired phone from her pocket as she realises she has one last, critically-important stop to make.
~ ~ ~
'Hacienda del Alma'. The sign outside swings back and forth on a rope strung with multi-colored beads, jovially drawing attention to what - from the outside - looks like little more than a fancifully-painted shack. Inside, one entire wall plays host to line after line of beautifully-made mariachi guitars, including - tucked along the bottom, almost out of sight, a number of pint-sized examples. They're just as well-appointed and lavishly-decorated, and Pera momentarily hesitates.
"¡Hola, señorita!"
From the gloom at the back of the shop bursts the flamboyant, mustachioed proprietor - too much of a stereotype to not be the real deal. His smile is infectious, and he even smells like home. He follows the eyeline of his lone customer, and is quick to spring into action.
"¡Guau! You have an eye for excellence. Let me assure you, every one is an authentic artisanal import from our spiritual homeland of México - you will find none finer this far from the border!"
His enthusiasm tells her; there's a price to be paid. His desperation, and the dilapidated building; that few are ever willing to pay it. Reaching down, she plucks a few notes on the toy-scale guitars. They're tuned, and sing quite beautifully. In this moment, her heart feels light.
"This... could be a wonderful opportunity for us both."
Smiling warmly, Pera reaches for the clip of bills tucked discretely into her waistband.
~~ FIN ~~