62, Skills

“You are a crayon eating idiot and I will not cry at your funeral.”  Special agent Bradley McVandalay took the last bite of his fish taco as he walked down the very hot gravel road.  As he spoke, a small piece of mango salsa dribbled out of the side of his mouth.  “You’re just a future bullet sponge waiting to donate blood to the dirt.”

Special agent Trent Murdock laughed at the insult.  He pointed to the food escaping from McVandalay’s mouth and spoke like he walk talking to a toddler.  “Oh wook, widdle Bradwey’s wearning how to eat!”  He giggled at his own immaturity and spoke normally.  “I remember the first time I ate and walked at the same time.  You’ll get there, you’re young.”

Demolitions expert Dale O’Connor was a few steps behind the two men and couldn’t ignore the conversation without throwing in his own insults.  “If you two knuckle dragging troglodytes don’t step up your pace, I’m gonna miss happy hour at the cantina and you don’t want to see me angry.  I have skills.”  He had a portable coffee thermos full of home made high octane moonshine whiskey and sipped it with a smile.

“You already smell like happy hour, Doc,” Murdock shot back.  He turned his head to see O’Connor taking another sip.  “Come to think of it, you always fucking smell like happy hour.”

“This shit is almost too strong for me.  It burns like hell with every sip.”  He smiled.  “I love it.”

Murdock said dryly to his best friend, “You’re a mess, brother.”

“I’ve got skills,” O’Connor said with a shrug as his esophagus burned.

The hot Mexican sun pounded down on the three gringos as they walked through a sketchy neighborhood outside the downtown heart of Mexico City.  The buildings were made of adobe and all of them were in some state of disrepair.  It wasn’t a pure ghetto, but it was on its way.  The sidewalk was made of gravel and occasional flat stones, but the road was dirt and had small washed out gullies full of collected trash and gravel.  Every once in awhile a breeze would blow and the air would become dusty.

“Drinking booze is not a skill, dude,” Murdock snapped.

“Agreed.  It’s what you do with the booze that counts,” O’Connor replied matter of factly as he took another awful fire filled sip.

The men were supposed to meet an informant named Marco who worked in the Mexican intelligence department.  Marco allegedly had information about a crooked Mexican general who was trying to overthrow the democratically elected national government of Mexico.  He loved his country and wanted the general behind bars, but Marco knew the general was too well connected and had a loyal following of soldiers.  The general was more dangerous than the narcos.

“Doc smells like a distillery and this place smells like… like…”  McVandalay took a second to find the words.  “It smells like decades of dog piss and regret.”

O’Connor couldn’t resist the chance to throw another insult.  “You mean it smells like Murdock’s love life?”

Acting incredulous, Murdock pretended to be an actor in a Victorian era play.  “Why, good sir, do you think that my love life would smell like dog piss and regret?”

“Cuz you date bitches,” O’Connor replied without hesitation or emotion.

McVandalay chimed in immediately.  “Murdock, you date women that are like broken motorcycles.  They sit all day in a corner looking tempting, and everyday you dream that you can fix them up but you can’t.”

“And they always leak gas,” O’Connor dryly added.

McVandalay appreciated the added insult and pleasantly said, “Nice fart joke, Doc.”

“I have skills,” O’Connor replied.

Murdock again feigned insult.  “You two are sexist.”

McVandalay answered, “It’s not just women, chief.  It would be the exact same if you were a pecker checker.”

“If he was in the navy?” O’Connor asked innocently.

“I meant if he was gay,” McVandalay calmly joked.

“I though that meant you were a sailor,” O’Connor quipped.

“Same thing,” McVandalay said with the smugness of an army soldier.

Murdock, still pretending to be insulted replied with dismissive arrogance, “I do not approve of your homophobia, sexism, or the fact that you’d use the word bitch to describe any of my exes.”

As the three men verbally tortured each other, a large group of Mexican thugs very quickly appeared from around fences and walking out of doorways.  None of the thugs were smiling and they all had mean scowls on their faces.  They were quickly converging on the Americans.  “Speaking of bitches,” McVandalay muttered.

The special agents were all armed and were experts at hand to hand combat, and even though they weren’t worried in the slightest, they were having too much fun insulting each other to be in the mood to fight.  All three gringos could sense that these thugs weren’t armed with guns, but a few held chains and other had large pipes as weapons.  The agents instantly knew that a fight was inevitable, and in unspoken body language they communicated that they’d finish the confrontation quickly.

“Hola amigos!” Murdock said with a jolly smile as he raised a hand to wave.  Four thugs aggressively stood in front of the special agents to make them stop walking down the sidewalk as other thugs closed in to create a circle around them.  “Que pasa, vatos?”  Murdock asked innocently.  He kept his face happy which confused the thugs, and he didn’t stopping walking which closed the distance between him and the leader.

Without waiting for an answer, Murdock did a front kick and blasted the leader in the chest with the bottom of his foot.  It looked like a reenactment of a scene from the movie “300”, and Murdock felt like a Spartan warrior momentarily in his mind.  The thug went flying backwards.  The back of the thug’s head hit the nose of the thug behind him and both bad men went down hard.

McVandalay had crouched and lunged towards the next closest thug.  He threw a haymaker and hit the thug in the jaw so quickly that the other thugs hadn’t even processed that a fight had already started.  As that man went down, McVandalay stepped around him and sent a hard left jab at the next man who was trying to get his fists up in defense.  Being too slow, the jab connected and knocked the thug out instantly.

O’Connor was in the rear of the fight and as Murdock and McVanadlay were already dropping people, O’Connor had taken a big mouthful of the high octane moonshine whiskey.  Some of the thugs from the outside of the circle had closed in fast as the action began.  O’Connor pulled a pocket butane jet flame cigarette lighter out nowhere and had it ignited it in one click.  The blue flame hissed as O’Connor lifted the lighter to his face.  he pursed his lips and spit the whiskey out in a tight stream.  The whiskey ignited instantly and his mouth became a flame thrower, blasting burning liquid at the oncoming attackers.  O’Connor moved his head in an arc perfectly and covered everyone of the charging thugs with the burning liquid.  

McVandalay had dropped four men and Murdock had taken out a third man with one punch as they turned to see the fire show.  Even though they were impressed at the display, their instincts were in fight mode.  They pounced on the nearest burning men and reigned down fists as O’Connor did a side kick at a man who’d gotten within striking range.  The force of the kick sent the man backwards through the air as if a cannon ball had hit him in the ribs.  O’Connor spun his body like a kick boxer and did the same move to the next thug, sending him flying as well.

The sound of McVandalay and Murdock’s fists could be heard as they broke jaw after jaw.  Only one thug recovered enough as the whiskey flame burned out on his clothes.  He raised his iron pipe and swung it like a baseball bat at Murdock, but he didn’t have the coordination to recover and swing again before Murdock blasted the man with a face kick.  The blow didn’t knock him out, but it was enough that the thug dropped the pipe.  As the thug got himself upright, a strong jab sent him to la la land.  His world went dark as he saw the gringo gingerly scratch his nose.

The three secret agents looked around at the carnage.  Fifteen thugs lay in various heaps of disarray all over the dirt street.  A breeze blew and a dirt devil wound down the road.  O’Connor bent over and stuck his hand in the pocket of the leader of the thugs.  He pulled out a small wad of colorful money, stood up, then put the money in his own pocket.  

The leader groaned and started to get up but O’Connor kicked the man hard in the jaw as he was on the ground.  The leader instantly collapsed as the side of his head hit the dirt road hard.  O’Connor made eye contact with his friends, they all nodded at each other, then they all stepped over the bodies and resumed walking calmly as if nothing had happened.

“I told you,” O’Connor muttered.

“Yeah, yeah,” Murdock muttered back.

“I told you.”  O’Connor wouldn’t let it go.

“We get it, Doc.”  McVandalay knew what was coming.

“I fucking told you.”

“Ok, Christ!”  Murdock gave up.  “You have skills.  We fucking get it!”

“That’s right, fucker.  I have skills.”

McVandalay had to concede as well.  “I wondered how we were gonna get out of that one without blasting a few of them, I won’t lie.  I figured we’d have to shoot at least half.”

“Yeah, well the human flame thrower here took care of that for us,” Murdock begrudgingly admitted.

“Those fuckers made me waste a full mouthful of whiskey.  Maybe we should’ve shot them just on principle alone.”

“Booze will be the death of you someday, Doc.  Mark my words,” Murdock said with authority, as if he could predict the future.

“Yup, but not today,” O’Connor agreed.

Ten minutes later, the men had reached their destination.  They stood in front of the only nice house within a couple mile radius.  It had a north facing entrance with an enclosed porch that had slender Roman columns on either side of the entry.  The deck, columns and railing had been painted with brilliant whitewash at one point, but a few decades of neglect left the paint faded and chipped in places.  

Two old women were gently swaying in rocking chairs, chatting carelessly in the afternoon shade.  They stopped chatting and gestured for the men to approach them from the street.

Birds were chirping and it made O’Connor nervous.  “God damn birds.  We’re being watched and I don’t like it.”  Dale O’Connor was the quietest member of Team Whiskey, and when he spoke, half of what he said was true while the other half was crack pot conspiracy bullshit.

“Oh fuck, not now, Doc.  Jesus,” Murdock said defeatedly.

“Birds aren’t real.  They’re robots with video recording eyes.  We’re fucked.  We have to come back at sunset when their cameras haven’t switched over to infrared.”

McVandalay was typically patient with his friend, but now was not the time for O’Connors conspiracy theories.  “For fucks sake, dude.  You’re a soldier in the fuckin’ army, you work for the CIA, and you have more drinking buddies in high ranking government positions than a bartender in D.C.  They’d let you in on something that big, you dumb shit.”  

“I read it online.  Birds aren’t real, dude.  It’s the biggest one of them all, Bradley.  Bigger than the UFO’s, or time travel.”

McVandalay stepped aside and gestured for O’Connor to step forward.  “God dammit Doc, we’ll discuss this at the cantina when we get what we came to get.  Right now we need you to pull your shit together and go do your thing.”

“Fine,” O’Connor said in a huff.  He exhaled audibly, and as he breathed out, it was as if he was breathing out all of his negativity and pent up conspiracy anger.  In that one exhale, the bird cameras didn’t matter to his mind anymore.  A smile slid across his face and he walked with a pep in his step towards the old ladies in the rocking chair.  With pure charm, he spoke in perfect Mexican Spanish.  “Hola señoras.  Por favor, necesitamos hablar con un hombre se llama, Marco.”

The women were pleasant and answered in a joking tone that he’d be out any minute now.  In the meantime, if the men would like to have an hour of entertainment, they could simply pay outside.  O’Connor relayed the info to his friends.  

McVandalay was confused.  “Entertainment for an hour?  What drug lasts an hour?  Tell her we don’t want any drugs.”

O’Connor didn’t get the chance to answer as the front door opened.  A white guy with shaggy brown hair and a shit eating smile walked out.  He looked disheveled and was surprised to see three white guys standing on the porch chatting with the old women.  He innocently adjusted the collar of his long sleeve button up shirt to hide a fresh hickey on his neck and gave the guys a wink.

Murdock was usually the dim one of the three, but he figured it out first.  “These women aren’t selling drugs, guys.  They’re selling sex.”

The light bulb clicked in the other agents heads very quickly.  The white guy who walked out answered Murdock fist in Spanish, then in perfect English.  “Sí amigo, this is the finest house of ill repute in the whole barrio.”  He extended a hand.  “I’m Marco.  Marco Rodriguez.  You must be Murdock?”

“In the flesh,” Murdock replied as he shook Marco’s hand.  “Speaking of flesh, your fly is down.”

“Oh.  Thanks!”  Marco pulled his zipper up and gave the fellas another wink.  His confidence and shit eating grin made the agents a bit uneasy.  “Let’s take a walk, amigos.”

The Mexican ladies out front said in Spanish enthusiastically that they’d see the men soon and to come back anytime.  O’Connor pulled out the wad of colorful Mexican bills and took half, folded them over and handed them to one of the old women as he said in Spanish, “we were never here and you never saw us, right?”

The woman took the money hesitantly and answered in an uneasy tone.  “Sí.”

O’Connor told her in Spanish that they didn’t want to cause you any trouble.  In Spanish he said, “When we come back, I’ll be sure to tip you again for keeping your silence about us.  God bless you.”

The woman’s eyes got huge as she looked at the money in her hand, then she put it into her own pocket quickly to get it out of sight.  O’Connor had no idea how much money he’d handed her but he assumed it was several hundred dollars worth of bills.  As the four white men walked away, Marco said, “That was wise to pay those women to be silent.  They gossip like little school girls.”

O’Connor had heard this saying in Spanish before, but Marco’s English was perfect.  “Are they connected with any narcos or crime families?”

“Not directly that I know of, but a lot of bad hombres are customers of theirs, and if the bad men start asking questions, those women will remember your generosity for when you return.”

“Oh, I doubt I’ll ever go back there, but I wanted them to think that I will.  I’m hoping this situation with the general works itself out quickly.”

Rodriguez laughed.  “Sí!  I do not like el heneral.”  He spat on the ground.  “The hombre is dancing with el diablo and I hope he gets burned.”  He pulled out a small thumb drive and handed it over to Murdock.  “These are the names of the colonels who are in league with el heneral.  We also have intel on a Russian oil man named Gosavich who’s in league with the criminals.  I hope this helps.”

Murdock accepted the thumb drive gratefully.  “Gosavich.  Sounds like a pussy.”

Marco laughed.  “Who knows, muchacho?  Gosavich is Russian, he doesn’t smile, and it’s said that he can bend a spoon with his mind.”

O’Connor was superstitious and his fear betrayed his thoughts.  “Magic.  We’re fucked.”

McVandalay was always the voice of reason.  “Shut up with your shit, Doc.”  

Murdock firmly held the thumb drive in his clenched hand, then slipped it into his own pocket.  “I will give this to our best man for safe guarding.”  Murdock didn’t fully trust Rodriguez and didn’t want to accidentally upload a virus to his computer.

“Our best woman, that is,” McVandalay added, referring to their computer expert friend Yen Roar.

“Suit yourself amigo, I just want Mexico to stay free.”  Rodriguez’s version of free was different from the agents, but they could tell he was being sincere.  

“What do you want to do with that freedom, Marco?” Murdock asked.

“I want to keep doing what I do.”

“And what is that, exactly?”  Murdock expected the man to tell him stories of espionage, intrigue, and visits to houses of ill repute, but Rodriguez’s answer caught him off guard. 

“I’m a farmer, baby.”  Rodriguez was smiling.

O’Connor was intrigued.  “Oh yeah?  What do you grow?”

“I grow sugar beets.  Sometimes winter wheat.  Alfalfa for my amigos who are loco enough to raise cattle!”  He laughed to himself.

O’Connor swore he’d heard those words as lyrics in a shitty yet catchy song once but couldn’t place it.  “Sounds like a lot of work.”

Out of nowhere, Rodriguez excused himself from the conversation and started walking out into the dirt road.  “I need to be somewhere, amigos.  It’s good to know that you all are helping mother Meh-hee-ko stay united.  Adios!”  With that, Marco side stepped into the street and headed a different way.

O’Connor watched Rodriguez walk across the dirt road and start jogging until he was around a corner.  “Los Estados Unidos de Mexico.  Isn’t that crazy?  Mexico is a federation of united states, but when anyone around the world uses the term The States, they mean America.”

“We’re American, Doc.  We don’t give a fuck.”  McVandalay was dry, but he got serious and asked, “Do you guys trust that man?”

Murdock muttered, “As far as I can throw him.”

McVandalay nodded.  “Let’s get this thumb drive to Roar and see what she finds.”

O’Connor went back to sipping the remainder of his high octane rocket fuel whiskey and confided his fear to McVandalay.  “I’m afraid of this Gosavich guy. Magic scares me.”

“Don’t worry Doc, you’ve got skills.  Besides, he’s a Russian oil man.  How scary can he be?”

In the distance, two old Mexican ladies prayed grateful prayers of joy on their rosaries as they counted out the equivalent of fifty thousand dollars dollars worth of pesos in large denomination cash bills that a tall gringo stranger who smelled like strong booze had given them.