It was a dingy little dive, nothing fancy or appealing to the eye. A small interior littered with various tables and chairs, none quite matching the next. A bar rested in the far corner of the room. Behind that bar, were arrayed various beverages of a drinker’s choice. Somewhere in the back of the tiny resturante, a group of cooks prepared dishes for various customers. Though, at the moment, they were not too terribly busy. Only one customer resided in “El Pollo Diablo” and he did not seem to be in the biggest hurry of his life.

      Sitting at one of the café’s small tables, nestled back in the corner, as if to watch the resturante’s entrance, was the customer. He was not incredibly tall, nor very muscular. Dressed all in black, he looked to have not changed clothes for at least a day or so. The man’s hair was dark and dirtied, but reached down to the tops of his shoulders. One could tell he carried a gun, tucked safely away in his black belt. It was an interesting belt, which sported an emblem of a marijuana leaf as its buckle. Dark shades covered his eyes, and for good reason. Had the man removed his sunglasses, well, he might have caused quite the uproar. In truth, this visitor to “El Pollo Diablo”, had no eyes at all.

      C.I.A. Agent Sands sat comfortably in the tiny café. In his hand was a tequila with lime, as always, and he waited patiently for his entree from the kitchen. Slow roasted pork was his favorite, though he had already killed almost every chef in the city who could make it to his liking. There had been a time when the sociopathic Central Intelligence Agency agent would never have hesitated to pull the trigger of his weapon. Now, he took no more pleasure in “balancing out” the streets and cafes of Mexico. He could no longer see what his work accomplished. He would never again be able to watch as pawns betrayed other pawns, all ultimately working toward his own desired goals.

      “Your order, senior.” A young waitress said as she set a plate before the man.
      Sands nodded, “Gracias.” But he made no move to enjoy his meal.
      No, the man had other things on his mind.

      After the attempted coup d’etat, lead by General Marquez, Sands had found himself lost in a sea of chaos. Barillo’s agents had continued to follow him though, with their boss having been killed by “El”, the agents began to back away. This left Sands with a sense of paranoia. He could not see, therefore it was slightly to his disadvantage to be wandering the streets of Mexico with enemies at every turn. After the Day of the Dead, Sands found his way into a hospital, getting his arm and leg wounds treated. The doctors had said they could do nothing for the agent’s eyes, which, he had suspected would be the case. Sands left the hospital the next day. He had no desire to return to his hotel room to gather his belongings. The man simply wanted to get back to the United States as soon as humanly possible.

      An odd jingle reached Sands ears. It was faint at first, but then familiar footfalls echoed throughout the café. The man had found, during Marquez’s attempted takeover, that he had a knack for listening. If the agent focused hard enough, he could shoot a man just by hearing where he stood. Now, someone was distinctively walking toward him. But who and why were questions first to Sands' mind. The ‘who’ however, registered within moments as the drag of a chair signaled that the man was deciding to sit before him.

      “El.” Sands laughed slightly, “And I had thought you would just, oh I don’t know, run to the farthest corner of Mexico after all of this.”
      The mariachi shrugged, “I was on my way, yes, but I had a few questions for you first. What did you get out of it? That, is the only thing I don’t understand.”
      “Apparently nothing, amigo.” The agent replied. “I was going to be filthy rich, which to say the least, would have been a nice prize. But I was double crossed by my partner, if you could even call her that, and now… well, there’s not much to say on my end.”
      “No witty pun?”
      Sands smiled, “Not off the top of my head, no. I’m not quite in the mood for it these days.”
      “I see.” El replied, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Killed any good cooks lately?”
      “No actually.” The man said, “Haven’t been in the mood for that either.”
      “Too bad.”

      There was silence as El studied the man sitting before him. Sands took a drink of his tequila, but he made no move toward the food, which actually surprised the mariachi. He had not had close dealings with the crocked C.I.A. agent, and frankly the man disturbed him, but El felt a sad sort of pity for the guy after everything that had happened. Perhaps this would teach him a lesson about using and killing people at a whim.

      “Barillo do that?” El asked, indicating the man’s shades.
      Sands nodded, “A real nice guy that Barillo. Decided to let me live without so much as a second thought.” The comment was completely sarcastic however as the man removed the sunglasses from his eyes.

      Gaping sockets stared back at the mariachi, now free from the blood, which had flowed profusely from them only days ago. Sands had remembered it all rather well, the memory seared into his mind for all eternity. The pain, the fear, his own weaknesses and his shame. It was all a vivid picture of how little and insignificant he truly was in the grand scheme of things. It was all a reminder that one must pay his dues in the end.

      “Then consider your revenge taken.” El replied, standing as if to go.
      Sands shook his head, “My revenge was taken by my own hands, mariachi. I shot that back stabbing partner of mine in the street. Barillo’s most precious possession was destroyed before his own twisted eyes.” The agent leaned back in his chair, relaxing a bit. “I’m just going to go home. There’s nothing left for me here.”
      The mariachi nodded, “That is good, then. You can leave Mexico and never darken another cook’s doorway again.” Turning, the man began to walk back out the door.
      “El.” Sands spoke up, halting the man in his tracks. “Where will you go now?”

      There was a moment where the mariachi had to think. He was not quite sure exactly what he would do next. Perhaps he would track down Lorenzo and Fideo and go back to a musician’s way of life.

      At last he answered, looking at the guitar case which he had deposited next to the café’s doorway. It was battered and beaten, but it was his most prized possession and the only thing left to him in all the world.

      “I will play the guitar, that is all I know. I will be a mariachi again.”

      As El left, picking up his guitar case and making his way out of town, Sands realized that he would indeed need to go back to life as he knew it. Did that mean returning to the states? No, at least not yet.

      With a sigh, Sands placed his shades back over his eyes and picked up a fork. He took a bite of the pork, careful to judge it’s taste as always. He found it lacking in no way and, with a slight nod of his head, he smiled.

      “Much better than last time.” he whispered and, taking the gun from his belt, stood and left the table, heading for the back of the resturante.

      Life for Sands would go on, much as it always did, once upon a time in Mexico...