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Going to Saint Mike's
by
Jerry Vilhotti
Now what was deeply buried inside Johnny's mind began entering his thoughts; put
there by all the movies depicting Mexicans as the heavies like when attacking
The Alamo and their attempt at taking back Texas and other places that once
belonged to them after they had taken it from the out-gunned indigenous folks.
So Johnny began to casually look about him for the ambush by men wearing large
brimmed hats and ammunition belts criss-crossed on their chests while twirling
tremendously large machetes at the ready to hack them to little pieces -
especially if they didn't "HMO" ( hand money over) pronto and even if they did,
Johnny thought, he could still see their bodies being thrown to their deaths
into the deep valley below in an extra strong pay back: "the
gringo fling!"
"This damn car!" Joe Chicago, nicknamed so because he had spent some years in
that city when working for a rich person at one-fourth a hyphenated-American
would get, said reaching into the glove compartment; pulling out what appeared
to be a screwdriver. He grinned at Johnny - just like the bandido had at the guy
who often played God's voice in movies.
"Hey Linda, here's where the bandidos show up!"
Her giggle almost went out of control as she looked behind and to her sides in
nearly one head sweep.
Within minutes, Joe was starting the car and the bucking and coughing had
miraculously vanished and they were on their way to San Miguel de Allende where
people enjoyed each other's company.
END 4-12-06
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