With the haunting image of the red-skinned madonna staring deep into Mendoza's soul with her haunting black eyes he wondered if this was a bad omen. As his daydream was climaxing, they pulled in to the meat festival, if it were not for Tres-Culos' violent elbow nudge to hurry Mendoza out the Chevy he may have dazed into a deep sleep. Mendoza was the deep thinker of the group often opting for poems instead of nightly pints of ale with his bandmates.

"Where the fuck is the drinks bitches!?" Pronounced Tres-Culos as if the van was a mobile stage that garnered immediate attention where ever it magically landed, only no one was there but a small group of individuals with black hooded robes. These people did not seem impressed with this grand entrance made by these punk rockers. "Well, what the hell? He asked a fucking question I really need a drink!" Tío Billy vehemently seconded Tres-Culos demands.

Mendoza went back into the van after feeling embarrassed. Machete asked, "Can you please hand me my pipe and tobacco Mendo?" Mendoza complied. At that very moment a thunderous beat erupted from the hooded men in black robes as one had a large hand drum that was being played loudly and rhythmically, they had started chanting in perfect synchrony with each other the phrase "One of us, One of us". All the band members but Mendoza prepared for a fight that instance. They then decided as if they were communicating via esp to run towards these men. As they approached these men flaming arrows from all directions consumed the men. SLAM! Went the van doors. Mendoza jumped into the driver seat of the van and drove off.

"Thank god those dicks were bad about leaving the keys in the ignition!" Mendoza loudly shouted as he speed away leaving his bandmates to suffer the consequences of their poor choices.