the piece that i actually had the balls to get published
As the double-doors closed behind, a feeling of tension immediately enveloped him. The best musicians in the world had come together in this small banquet hall. Everyone was here to audition for the personal mariachi of El Presidente de Mexico, and the competition was strong.
The murmers arose as he walked down the hallway, guitar slung over his shoulder. "Is that him?"
"Si, it is Marcos Velasquez."
Marcos was well known throughout Mexico for his awesome guitar playing abilities. He was a dangerous opponent for those who were trying to "make it big" in the business of mariachis. By simply playing a few chords, he was able to dazzle his listeners. Because of this, he made many enemies of the wrong people, and many wanted him dead.
Marcos chose a seat at the opposite end of the entrance, somewhat secluded from the rest. While in deep thought about his audition piece, a cold, rough hand slid over his shoulder. "Marcos," said a deep voice. "The Marcos Velasquez." Marcos lifted his head to see Juan Reymundo, a rival of Marcos' since the beginning.
"Hello, Juan. It's been a long time," Marcos said, looking him dead in his eye.
"It has. I've been looking forward to seeing you."
"Why is that?"
"You must come with me, hermano. I will show you what I have brought with me today. There is a guitarra in the back room."
"I have a guitar with me aqui," Marcos responded cautiously.
"It is El Angel, the guitar we have both been searching for, for many years now. I have finally found it." Marcos' desire to rest his eyes upon El Angel overcame his instinct to never trust the words of Juan. Marcos stood up and followed Juan to the far left side of the large, circular room. They walked through a single wooden door that led to the kitchen.
"Juan," Marcos said. "Porque esta El Angel in la cocina?"
"Don't be a fool," Juan replied. "You don't think I'd keep a guitar like that in the open, with men knowledgeable of it value around. The guitar is hidden in a room behind the freezer."
"A fool I am not, and a fool I will never be," Marcos said. He turned around and began to head back towards the hall. Before he could reach the doorway, two figures that were hidden behind the counters jumped up and each grabbed one of his arms. Marcos would not give in without a fight.
He pulled his right arm free, and in one swift motion, hit the stranger holding his left, who fell to the ground. Grabbing his gun from his belt, he ducked an incoming punch and hit the other man with the gun's handle, knocking him out. Before he could block himself, Juan hit him in the stomach, and Marcos tumbled to the ground, struggling for breath. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was a polished black shoe rapidly approaching his head.
Juan dragged Marcos into the walk-in freezer, shut and locked the door, and turned the dial to the lowest temperature possible.
Marcos came to as the door clanged shut. He knew his time had come. Sitting up, he let his eyes wander around his death bed. The room was completely silver, and shelves stocked with frozen meat lined the walls. He could almost hear Juan's throaty laughter from outside. Finally, he had gotten the best of Marcos Velasquez.
Marcos noticed that Juan had thrown his guitar in with him, and he grabbed it and sit it upon his lap. He scrambled through his frost-lined pockets for his pick. Sitting with his back against the far side of the freezer, he played the first flamenco song that his father had ever taught him. He played and played until his fingers stopped moving, and Marcos let Dios take care of the rest.
The murmers arose as he walked down the hallway, guitar slung over his shoulder. "Is that him?"
"Si, it is Marcos Velasquez."
Marcos was well known throughout Mexico for his awesome guitar playing abilities. He was a dangerous opponent for those who were trying to "make it big" in the business of mariachis. By simply playing a few chords, he was able to dazzle his listeners. Because of this, he made many enemies of the wrong people, and many wanted him dead.
Marcos chose a seat at the opposite end of the entrance, somewhat secluded from the rest. While in deep thought about his audition piece, a cold, rough hand slid over his shoulder. "Marcos," said a deep voice. "The Marcos Velasquez." Marcos lifted his head to see Juan Reymundo, a rival of Marcos' since the beginning.
"Hello, Juan. It's been a long time," Marcos said, looking him dead in his eye.
"It has. I've been looking forward to seeing you."
"Why is that?"
"You must come with me, hermano. I will show you what I have brought with me today. There is a guitarra in the back room."
"I have a guitar with me aqui," Marcos responded cautiously.
"It is El Angel, the guitar we have both been searching for, for many years now. I have finally found it." Marcos' desire to rest his eyes upon El Angel overcame his instinct to never trust the words of Juan. Marcos stood up and followed Juan to the far left side of the large, circular room. They walked through a single wooden door that led to the kitchen.
"Juan," Marcos said. "Porque esta El Angel in la cocina?"
"Don't be a fool," Juan replied. "You don't think I'd keep a guitar like that in the open, with men knowledgeable of it value around. The guitar is hidden in a room behind the freezer."
"A fool I am not, and a fool I will never be," Marcos said. He turned around and began to head back towards the hall. Before he could reach the doorway, two figures that were hidden behind the counters jumped up and each grabbed one of his arms. Marcos would not give in without a fight.
He pulled his right arm free, and in one swift motion, hit the stranger holding his left, who fell to the ground. Grabbing his gun from his belt, he ducked an incoming punch and hit the other man with the gun's handle, knocking him out. Before he could block himself, Juan hit him in the stomach, and Marcos tumbled to the ground, struggling for breath. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was a polished black shoe rapidly approaching his head.
Juan dragged Marcos into the walk-in freezer, shut and locked the door, and turned the dial to the lowest temperature possible.
Marcos came to as the door clanged shut. He knew his time had come. Sitting up, he let his eyes wander around his death bed. The room was completely silver, and shelves stocked with frozen meat lined the walls. He could almost hear Juan's throaty laughter from outside. Finally, he had gotten the best of Marcos Velasquez.
Marcos noticed that Juan had thrown his guitar in with him, and he grabbed it and sit it upon his lap. He scrambled through his frost-lined pockets for his pick. Sitting with his back against the far side of the freezer, he played the first flamenco song that his father had ever taught him. He played and played until his fingers stopped moving, and Marcos let Dios take care of the rest.