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Entry tags:
Taking Care of Business by Vanillafluffy (PG-13)
Fandom: ONCE UPON A TIME IN MEXICO
Pairing: none
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
vanillafluffy
Author Website: fanfiction.net profile
Why this must be read:
Vanillafluffy's take on things is always innovative. This story starts almost immediately at the end of Clockwork Mexico, but with a surprising protagonist. Lisiado is a cartelista who has worked for the Gomez cartel for some time. He has married into the family and is raising a son. The Gomezes have suffered a serious setback compliments of the mysterious gun-slinging characters from the previous story, and the internal power struggles that ensue are, at first, of only cynical interest to Lisiado, a world-weary veteran of the cartel wars. Then his own past returns and a meeting with the enemy - El Mariachi himself, and his sunglasses-wearing American associate - opens doors of opportunity for himself and his family. Vanillafluffy warns that this is not a Sands story, and it isn't, though Sands is in it and remains a vital force behind the action. Sands threw "the shapes" that Lisiado "catches." It's great fun to view our two, er, heroes through the eyes of their enemies. This story is not to be missed.
After a trip to the market square, Lisiado is loading the provisions into the trunk of the sedan when Philomena gasps. "It's him! It's him!" She shrinks behind Lisiado as if the menace is charging in her direction.
"Where? Point him out to me."
"Over there, by the jeep."
Lisiado leans around the trunk lid. There is a battered jeep on the far side of the plaza from them. He notices a boy, about the same age as Ché, he thinks. Beside him... "In sunglasses?" he asks her.
The old woman peeks and draws back. "No, no! Him! In the black jacket!" Marisol mentioned a black jacket, he recalls, and looks again. His guts clench in shock, and he ducks back out of sight. For a moment he can't breathe; his lungs struggle for air. His heart is pounding suddenly.
"Philomena," he wheezes. "Here are the keys. I want you to go back to the hacienda. You're safe as long as he doesn't see you."
"But, Señor Lisiado -"
"I'm going to follow him, to find out his business. If I haven't returned by this time tomorrow, take the others and go back to Guadalajara."
The sedan departs at last, and Lisiado leans against a telephone pole, learning to breathe all over again and studying the man Philomena has pointed out to him. He's tall. Self-possessed. Not swaggering, but he displays the confidence of a man who has frequently emerged unscathed from danger. Not a man to cross. He hardly looks a day older than he did on the afternoon his bullets almost claimed Lisiado's life.
The man in the black jacket is talking to his companions. The second man projects watchfulness with little shifts of attitude. He scans the area, ever-mindful of threats. Where does he fit into his? Is he one of the ones who raided the hacienda? Who are they affiliated with? The man in sunglasses cuts short whatever the tall man is saying. He and the boy walk away from the jeep, and Philomena's intruder shrugs. He goes in the opposite direction.
Once in ten years, and now twice today, thinks Lisiado with grim amusement, following at a cautious distance as the other man swiftly mounts the steps to the cathedral. (Perhaps his quarry, too, has a grave he plans to piss on?) His heart races as he pushes open the door. This time, being struck down doesn't seem like such an unlikely possibility, but by a bullet, not a thunderbolt. But as his eyes adjust to the stained glass splendor of the church, he sees the scorpion on the back of the black jacket disappearing into a confessional.
How appropriate. He has at least two dozen sins on his conscience that Lisiado can think of. Quietly, the older man strolls toward the row of booths and amends the prayer he made earlier.
"Did you wish to confess, my son?" asks a passing priest.
"No, thank you, Father, I'm just waiting for someone," answers Lisiado politely. The gun he selected for guard duty last night is tucked under his shirt, digging into the small of his back as he leans against a pew.
When the door to the confessional opens, he is not surprised to confront a pair of pistols leveled at his heart.
Taking Care of Business
Pairing: none
Author on LJ:
vanillafluffyAuthor Website: fanfiction.net profile
Why this must be read:
Vanillafluffy's take on things is always innovative. This story starts almost immediately at the end of Clockwork Mexico, but with a surprising protagonist. Lisiado is a cartelista who has worked for the Gomez cartel for some time. He has married into the family and is raising a son. The Gomezes have suffered a serious setback compliments of the mysterious gun-slinging characters from the previous story, and the internal power struggles that ensue are, at first, of only cynical interest to Lisiado, a world-weary veteran of the cartel wars. Then his own past returns and a meeting with the enemy - El Mariachi himself, and his sunglasses-wearing American associate - opens doors of opportunity for himself and his family. Vanillafluffy warns that this is not a Sands story, and it isn't, though Sands is in it and remains a vital force behind the action. Sands threw "the shapes" that Lisiado "catches." It's great fun to view our two, er, heroes through the eyes of their enemies. This story is not to be missed.
After a trip to the market square, Lisiado is loading the provisions into the trunk of the sedan when Philomena gasps. "It's him! It's him!" She shrinks behind Lisiado as if the menace is charging in her direction.
"Where? Point him out to me."
"Over there, by the jeep."
Lisiado leans around the trunk lid. There is a battered jeep on the far side of the plaza from them. He notices a boy, about the same age as Ché, he thinks. Beside him... "In sunglasses?" he asks her.
The old woman peeks and draws back. "No, no! Him! In the black jacket!" Marisol mentioned a black jacket, he recalls, and looks again. His guts clench in shock, and he ducks back out of sight. For a moment he can't breathe; his lungs struggle for air. His heart is pounding suddenly.
"Philomena," he wheezes. "Here are the keys. I want you to go back to the hacienda. You're safe as long as he doesn't see you."
"But, Señor Lisiado -"
"I'm going to follow him, to find out his business. If I haven't returned by this time tomorrow, take the others and go back to Guadalajara."
The sedan departs at last, and Lisiado leans against a telephone pole, learning to breathe all over again and studying the man Philomena has pointed out to him. He's tall. Self-possessed. Not swaggering, but he displays the confidence of a man who has frequently emerged unscathed from danger. Not a man to cross. He hardly looks a day older than he did on the afternoon his bullets almost claimed Lisiado's life.
The man in the black jacket is talking to his companions. The second man projects watchfulness with little shifts of attitude. He scans the area, ever-mindful of threats. Where does he fit into his? Is he one of the ones who raided the hacienda? Who are they affiliated with? The man in sunglasses cuts short whatever the tall man is saying. He and the boy walk away from the jeep, and Philomena's intruder shrugs. He goes in the opposite direction.
Once in ten years, and now twice today, thinks Lisiado with grim amusement, following at a cautious distance as the other man swiftly mounts the steps to the cathedral. (Perhaps his quarry, too, has a grave he plans to piss on?) His heart races as he pushes open the door. This time, being struck down doesn't seem like such an unlikely possibility, but by a bullet, not a thunderbolt. But as his eyes adjust to the stained glass splendor of the church, he sees the scorpion on the back of the black jacket disappearing into a confessional.
How appropriate. He has at least two dozen sins on his conscience that Lisiado can think of. Quietly, the older man strolls toward the row of booths and amends the prayer he made earlier.
"Did you wish to confess, my son?" asks a passing priest.
"No, thank you, Father, I'm just waiting for someone," answers Lisiado politely. The gun he selected for guard duty last night is tucked under his shirt, digging into the small of his back as he leans against a pew.
When the door to the confessional opens, he is not surprised to confront a pair of pistols leveled at his heart.
Taking Care of Business