70, Tequila

“This fuckin’ beer tastes like goat piss with the foam farted off.”  Special agent Death set the warm Mexican beer down on the cantina pub table and pushed it away.  “It’s not even cold.  Fuck.”

“It’s rodeo cold.  Don’t bitch.”  Demolitions expert Dale O’Connor shook his head in disappointment.  

“Yeah right, Doc.  Since when are you a fucking cowboy?”

With a shit eating grin, O’Connor lifted his own warm bottle to his lips and without having tasted it, he chugged the whole thing.  He wanted to grimace at the repulsive flavor but he kept his face as straight as a professional poker player in a high stakes game.  “I’ve never ridden a horse, but I’ve roped a few goats in my day.”  His lame attempt at a sex joke fell flat.

“I never talk about my exes like that,” Death said with a fake air of pompousness.

“No, you just ghost them like a good little secret agent.”

“Love ’em and leave ‘em,” Death snorted.

Ignoring her comment, he pointed at her bottle.  “I’ll drink it if you don’t.”

“Of course you will,” Death said.  She pushed the bottle to him and rolled her eyes as she looked back at the bar in hopes of seeing a bottle of booze that might make an appealing drink.  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to kill me.”

“I’ve seen you stab a shark underwater in the morning, then shoot up a building full of mafiosos in the afternoon on the same fucking day.  Murdock and I still have a bet that you’re immortal.”  The demolitions expert grabbed the bottle of beer and drank half of it in one big swig.  O’Connor struggled getting the dreadful elixir down his gullet without it coming back up.  With a straight face he said, “Rodeo cold for the win.”

“Fuck you Doc,” Death said with swagger.

“I deserve that.”  Earlier in the afternoon, O’Connor had suggested getting a drink at this particular cantina.  When Death had asked him why, he’d reasoned that it looked quaint and very Mexican.  He was right about both.  Dependable refrigeration wasn’t common in this part of rural coastal Mexico and the beer in this particular establishment was a victim of spoilage from the wicked Mexican summer heat.  “Remember what they say about drinking the water here.”  He forced himself to drink the remainder of Death’s skunky beer and shook his head in protest at the last swallow.  “If that doesn’t put hair on my chest, nothing will.”

Team Whiskey had been in Mexico for over a month, and now there was a lull in their mission.  They’d originally been assigned to arrest a corrupt Mexican general who was coordinating a revolution to overthrow the democratically elected government with the help of some greedy Russian oil men.  The assignment failed when the general and his fellow traitors were shot down by a rag tag group of thugs dressed as soldiers who’d been hired by a shadowy figure named El Padre.  Now, Team Whiskey had been using every contact they could dig up to find out who El Padre was, how he knew of the revolution, and why he had the corrupt general murdered.

Agent Death was cranky from the prolonged mission in a country that had such suffocating heat.  “We’ve been on a wild goose chase for a fuckin month now, and it’s starting to piss me off.  I need a god damn drink, and preferably one that doesn’t taste like a decaying skunk on the side of a Sonoran desert road, dammit.”

The lingering acrid aftertaste haunted O’Connor’s tongue as he said, “Technically I still didn’t buy the first round since I drank yours.”

“If I don’t get a buzz today, I promise the authorities will find your gringo carcass in an alleyway soaked in a puddle of your own urine and blood.  Help a sister out if you value your existence, Doc.”

“On it,” O’Connor replied with a passionless tone.  Death glared at him as he got up like she was going to break his face.  “Easy lady, I told you we’d get fucked up today.  You know I’m good for it.”  Even though he had no fear of his friend ending his life, he still knew he’d lose in a fist fight with her, and the thought of being in pain and crying like a bitch in a Mexican cantina didn’t sound like his idea of a fun afternoon.

O’Connor spoke perfect Spanish and it was clear that no one who worked in this part of the eastern coast spoke any English.  He walked up to the bar and asked them what their specialty was.  When the bartender answered with one simple word, “tequila,” he said he’d take two doubles.  The bartender took his sweet time pouring their drinks and O’Connor found the Mexican heat pushing his patience.  He promised himself that he’d never bitch about American winters ever again.

A minute later he returned to the pub table and sat the plain warm booze in front of Death.  O’Connor shrugged.  “When in Rome, bitch.”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me.”  Special agent Death put the glass to her lips and took a sip.  The booze tasted like a combination of paint thinner and gasoline.  Death hated it, but she loved this form of misery over drinking the awful beer.  “You’ve totally redeemed yourself.  I’ll let you live another day.”

“Yes, o’ mistress of doom and despair,” he said with a grin.  For the first time all afternoon, Death smiled.  “Geez, that’d be a good name for a punk band,” he joked.

Dale O’Connor was a daily drinker, but he could feel his guts protesting at the first sip of this new beverage.  The skunky beer wasn’t sitting well in his belly and Death could hear his guts gurgling from where she sat.  “Jesus, Doc, if you’re sick go to the hospital.”

“Unlike back home, I could actually afford it.  Maybe we should stock up on some antibiotics and other medications.”  O’Connor took another sip of tequila and his guts rumbled a little bit more.

“You should get some steroids, Doc.  You’re as weak as a third grade girl.”  Agent Death grinned at her own joke, knowing she could easily kick O’Connor’s ass.

“That means I’d have to lift something that weighs more than twelve ounces.  Exercising would cut into my drinking time.  Can’t do it.”

“Fair enough,” Death replied.  The tequila sat well with her since she hadn’t downed two spoiled beers like her friend had.  She raised her tequila glass in a toast to O’Connor. “This stuff could degrease an engine.”

O’Connor nodded and said, “Or degrease a person’s insides.  I feel like my intestines are getting cleaned from the inside out.”  He wanted to fart but didn’t trust that he wouldn’t soil himself.  “Lord have mercy, I’m gonna have Montezuma’s revenge here soon, I can feel it.”

“I can drink alone just fine.  Text me if you need me to rescue you from the bathroom to take you to a hospital.”  Death took another sip of tequila and it seemed to go straight to her head.  The slight buzz made her happy and eased her hate for the oppressive heat just a little bit.

“See you in a bit, maybe tomorrow,” O’Connor joked as he got up from his chair.  “You can have the rest of my drink if I don’t make it back before the next round.”

“I call dibs on your antique dynamite collection back home if you die,” she joked.

As he half walked, half waddled away towards the restroom, he replied, “It’s yours.  I’m not gonna survive this.”

A minute later, he was sitting on a toilet as his bowels violently emptied themselves of their contents.  The bathroom was predictably filthy and smelled of stale piss.  The stall door was crooked and didn’t lock correctly, but O’Connor didn’t care.  His guts were a mess and he struggled through the discomfort.  “I gotta quit eating so much corn while I’m down here,” he muttered to himself.  “Fuck.”

His guts seemed to have emptied themselves of the first round of expulsions and the relief he felt was nice.  He turned and flushed the toilet while staying seated, and gratefully it worked normally.  While sitting there, he heard the bathroom door open.  Two men had entered and were talking in hushed tones in slow Mexican Spanish.  O’Connor had a little bit of trouble hearing every word, but he could make out the gist of what they were talking about.

“The gringo is gone, amigo.  I’ll bet he’s back to America or Canada or wherever he’s from.”

“We gotta keep looking.  We can’t disappoint El Padre.”

The two Latino men flushed their urinals and exited the bathroom without washing their hands.  As the door closed, O’Connor’s guts began round two of their savage evacuation.  Regardless of the fact that he was astonished at how much fluid was exiting his body, he also knew he had to text Agent Death this new development.  He pulled out his cell phone and typed furiously as his body dehydrated itself at a staggering rate.  He hit send, put his phone away, then used both hands to steady himself by holding onto the toilet seat.  “Mexico hates me,” he muttered to himself as he appreciated for the first time how large the volume of contents the human digestive system could contain and then powerfully expel.

Back at the pub table agent Death was enjoying her warm tequila.  It wasn’t a booze she normally drank unless it was masked inside of a margarita, but today it felt right to get a good buzz.  She’d heard that tequila makes people horny or feisty, and she was feeling both emotions.  She watched two rough looking Latino men walk up to the bartender.  She didn’t speak Spanish but she was bright enough to see that they were being forcefully rude.  They pulled out a piece of paper and showed it to the bartender, then spoke quickly and angrily as they pointed at it.  They obviously were asking for information about something.

“What in the fuck do we have here?” she asked herself as a smile crossed her face.  The thought of getting into a fight sounded like a good idea.  She took note of the sensation in her body and then said to herself, “Shit, tequila makes me wanna fight!”  Her eyes got big as she realized she liked the feeling.  A lot.  She knew she was a psychopath and never once had it bothered her before.  Now with tequila fueling her internal need for primal carnage, it was a power she was wanting to let loose.

A second later her phone lit up with a text from O’Connor.  “I overheard two men who just left the pisser that they don’t wanna disappoint El Padre.  They were afraid.  No clue what they look.  Still in the stall, still shitting.  Awful.”  

Instantly disgusted, Death replied, “Tequila makes me wanna fight, and fuck you for being gross.  Hurry.”

The two men said something threatening to the bartender, then turned to exit the cantina.  Death got up and pretended she was gonna step outside with her drink.  She intentionally didn’t pay attention to them and took a step in front of the men pretending she didn’t notice them.  She was over a foot smaller and about a hundred pounds lighter than each of them and her super pale white skin stood out in contrast to their dark skinned ethnicity.  She pretended to stumble a little bit acting like she was drunk.  The men seemed annoyed but let her stumble in front of them without saying anything.  

Outside, the street was completely empty as people hunkered down inside to escape from the insane heat.  She was alone with two thugs and tequila was telling her to kick some ass.  It was on.

Death turned around and was still pretending to be drunk.  “Oh, hi amigos!” she slurred heavily as she acted drunk, wobbling back and forth.  She raised her glass to them as if she were gonna give them a toast, then in the blink of an eye, she threw the booze in one man’s face.  He was completely unaware that an attack was coming and the booze hit him in the open eyes.  As the other man realized what was going on, it was too late for him too.  Death threw the glass at his forehead and connected with cruel force.  He went down hard.  The first man’s hands had come to his eyes and left him defenseless.  Death kicked him in the crotch and connected with ball shattering force.  A second later he was on the ground wailing in pain.

Agent Death jumped on the second man and threw a huge wind up punch with a tight closed fist to the man’s jaw.  It cracked and knocked him out.  She jumped off and was going to do the same to the second man, but he was curled up in the fetal position, fighting for breath and clearly in a ton of pain with his eyes on fire from their unwanted tequila bath.  For now, the thugs were neutralized.

She stepped over them casually, walked back into the bar and grabbed O’Connor’s glass of tequila, then walked back outside as she sipped it.  Her mood was calm, but internally she was feeling the rush of a fight topped with a slight tequila buzz.  Death realized, she fucking liked it.  The crushing heat didn’t bother her anymore.

She leaned down over the first man who was passed out.  She reached into his pocket to retrieve the piece of paper that he’d shown the bartender.  Death gasped when she saw a picture of her friend and coworker, special agent Trent Murdock.  It was a close up picture of Murdock with slot machines in the background, so it was obviously taken when he’d been at a casino.  “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” she said to herself.  

She folded up the picture and put it in her pocket.  She sipped the tequila leisurely and felt her phone vibrate.  A text from O’Connor said he was “almost done” and it made her laugh.  She replied with her thumb and realized that her motor skills were beginning to become impaired.  It took her longer than it should have to reply, and by the time she hit the send button she felt the desire to take another sip.  Tequila was a cruel mistress, she realized.  It unlocked a primal part of her power, but at a cost.

Five minutes later, O’Connor came stumbling out of the cantina.  He looked like he was twenty pounds lighter.  His face was gaunt and he was sweating profusely around his neck and arm pits.  He wiped off his forehead and saw the scene in front of him.  “Oh, you found the Latino dudes.  Nice.”  He didn’t question why they were on the ground, one passed out and the other curled up in pain.  It didn’t even cross his mind to ask.

Death took the last swig of the glass of tequila, then reached into her pocket to pull out the picture of Murdock.  “Yeah, and look what they had on them.”  She handed the picture to O’Connor and said, “They were showing the bartender this picture and saying threatening shit to him.  Obviously these two are looking for Murdock.”

O’Connor took a moment to process this new information, then shook his head in disbelief.  “Of course they’re looking for Murdock.  I mean, what else would a couple of thugs be doing in a small coastal town in the middle of fucking nowhere?”  His thick sarcasm cut right through the hot Mexican sun.  Discussing the misdeeds of his best friend was one of O’Connor’s favorite pastimes.  “Murdock either slept with the wrong man’s muchacha, or he crossed the wrong bad guy.”

“Maybe both,” Death shrugged.  She rifled through the first guy’s other pockets and took his cell phone along with a business card.  It was from a casino and had the contact info for the head of security.  “Bingo.”

A month earlier, Murdock had won almost a million dollars from a casino owned by a crooked narco.  Their security staff had escorted Murdock back to an interrogation room, but with the help of master thieves Owens and Boothausen, Murdock had walked away untouched with all of his money.  Clearly the security staff was after him, and they were using thugs to do the searching.

O’Conner was holding his belly as if to keep it from getting upset again.  “I’ll frisk this guy,” O’Connor said.  He struggled as he leaned down.  The American secret agent clearly felt like shit.  The thug started to look like he might fight back, so without warning, O’Connor balled up his fist and smashed the guy’s jaw exactly like agent Death had done to the first guy.  The thug went unconscious and O’Connor quickly rifled through his pockets.  He also confiscated a cell phone and a wallet that contained only cash.  “No I.D., but the dude could live for months on this many pesos.  Interesting.”  He tossed the wallet to Death and she caught it one handed.  “I say we each get a drink to go and take these fuckers to the safe house back inland.  Perhaps a little interrogating is in order.”  She tossed the wallet back to O’Connor and said, “Make mine a triple.”

“As you wish, your highness,” O’Connor joked.  He looked like a mess and felt like shit.

“I’ll call Porter and have her pick up Murdock, wherever in the fuck he might be.”  Death shook her head and added, “Fucking idiot.”

“Truer words have not been spoken.”  O’Connor was weak from his gut situation, but the idea of seeing his best friend and bickering about dumb shit made him smile.

O’Connor walked back into the bar, ordered a couple of large tequilas to go, tipped the bartender an obscene amount of cash and told him in Spanish that he’d greatly appreciate it if he didn’t say anything about two gringos drinking in his bar.  He also said that he took care of the thugs from earlier and that they wouldn’t be bothering him anymore.  As O’Connor exited the bar, his guts rumbled and he realized that he’d need more time in the bathroom.

Agent Death didn’t seem to mind the hot Mexican afternoon anymore.  “I texted Murdock and filled him in that we needed you two to do some interrogating at the safe house.  He said he’s in and that he’ll be there before dinner.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” O’Connor said uneasily.

“Then I actually chatted with Porter and it turns out she’s only thirty minutes away with the van, maybe less with how crazy she drives.  We’ll load these assholes up and do what we do best.”

“Drink?” O’Connor said as he handed Death a wax paper Coke cup full of plain tequila.

“That too,” Death nodded.  “Same stuff?”

“Mexican truth water, at your service,” he said as he took a sip from his own tequila cup.  Yet again O’Connor’s guts rumbled.  He handed Death his beverage and said, “I gotta use the restroom again.  Same goes as last time, if I’m not back by the time you’re done with your drink, mine is all yours.”

“Jesus, Doc.  If you die, I still call dibs on your Dusty TNT back home.”

“Heh!  Dusty TNT.   That’s a good name for a punk band,” O’Connor said as he moved with purpose to head back inside for the restroom.

In the distance, an American pilot screamed through the bumpy, pot hole filled highways of rural Mexico in her van as the transmission whined at high RPM’s while the Mexican summer heat unforgivingly robbed all humans in the vicinity of any joy they might have unless they were artificially being cooled by air conditioning or being fueled by powerful alcohol.