The M.I.L.F. Man

The Two Stooges

We sat in front of Chucho's prefab house for a few minutes feeling a wee bit uneasy.

"I don't see any cars or anything," Cici said. "Feels weird."

"Very quiet, yes," I said, letting the driver's side window down to have a better look and listen.

I was hoping to see a curtain move--something stirring, however faintly.

"Maybe he's as uneasy about this as we are," I said.

And as I got out of the car hoping that might elicit a response, two men ran out from behind the house, guns raised--one of them pistol-konked me into oblivion at once.

I awoke later to find myself lying in the back seat, sopping with sweat, my head throbbing so badly I couldn't see or think clearly. I found it difficult to breathe as well. The SUV had become a sweltering sauna.

And I was alone—that woke me up: Where was Cielo?

I had enough presence of mind, despite the pain, to ease up just enough to peek out of the window and drop back down. Bleak terrain. Wide open desert, blazing hot and barren.

Both men were outside. One on his cell, one standing over Cici who'd been set on the ground, her hands tied behind her with what looked like a bandana.

Her clothes were rumpled and dusty and her face was scratched on one side, possibly from being thrown down into the gravelly dust in the struggle.

I was terrified that they might've tried to rape her—my limbic brain fired up but our Bond gadgets were in my bag in the trunk. She'd been squeamish about carrying them for the duration of the ride, so we'd planned to slip them into our pockets again before going into Chucho's house.

So I eased up the back of the seat again to see if I could slide an arm down into the trunk and feel around for my bag as my hands weren't tied. But the movement alerted the guy on the cell, who headed right over, his gait somewhat peculiar. In fact, when he tripped over a large stone he had trouble righting himself. Frightening, given that he was also holding a pistol in the hand that swung wide in an attempt to regain balance.

His friend looked over and sent some colorful cuss words his way, starting a little argument which allowed Cici to shoot me a glance and mouth the word, "Don't!"

But then both guys tottered over—drunk and/or stoned, I decided. And as they hauled me out of the car, the acrid alcohol fumes confirmed that assumption. They were so clumsy struggling with me that I snatched at a pistol, but they slammed me up against the SUV.

And one guy bellowed, "The fuck, fool?" Raising that pistol to my temple as Cici screamed, "Oh God, please don't! Please—"

"Put 'im in the goddamned trunk," the taller one said. "And we shoulda just dumped her crazy ass off somewhere like I told you!"

"They'll take her faster'n' him," the other one said. "Less complicated."

He was a little barrel-chested guy with the same "Prince Valiant" haircut Geronimo has in that famous shot of him holding a rifle. The taller one had a very long braid down his back and deeply pockmarked skin. Reminded me of a joke a Texan once told me about a woman who "looked like her face had been set on fire and put out with an ice pick."

He flung the back door up and then slung our bags out of it with a few more hissed obscenities as the "flashlights" flew out of my bag and skittered through the gravel toward Geronimo's feet.