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Blue Inferno for Tres Culos
"They're coming outta the walls! They're coming outta the goddamn walls!"
Tres Culos awoke startled, at the sound of his own raving nightmare. A muffled sound that multiplied in the bottled and synthetic sounds of a dinghy seen from the inside.
Where the hell was he?
Around him, a blue claustrophobic hell jolted convulsively, smashing him repeatedly against plastic walls encrusted with unspeakable miasmas.
"I was hoping that hell was more spacious and above all less shitty, in the literal sense of the term." He thought as a trail of excremental smell slapped him almost with the same physical strength of the umpteenth jolt.
Tres Culos was still too stunned and disoriented to react to that torture. He tried to faint again, but the smell did not allow it. Even the after-effects of what looked like a colossal hangover couldn't help him.
Now that he was slowly focusing on himself, he tasted something different in his mouth than the usual rancid of the after-booze. Something bitter. Something that moved jerkily.
"Yearrrrrrgghhhhhhhhhhhh!" He spat and screamed together. On the grey floor stood a cockroach still tangled in Tres Culos' saliva. The brown insect seemed to look at him scornfully as if it wanted to say "Wassup, never seen a roach?" If it had a small arm, it would surely have shaken his fist as a challenge to the wide-eyed Tortillas De Pelo bass player.
"Mum, there's a screaming toilet!" On the sidewalk of Allerton Avenue, a child tried to interfere in the conversation between his mother and the neighbour with the only result of receiving a frowning look.
For Tres Culos, the revelation took place progressively, triggered by the irreverent attitude of the cockroach. The bassist's eyes slowly moved from the insect to the wall ahead of him. On the blue-spotted plastic stood an inverted heart that could very well be interpreted as a bum: he knew that sign. A ubiquitous symbol in all rock festivals in which he had participated.
The brand of the renowned Montezuma porta-potties. He was imprisoned inside a fucking chemical bath.
He tried to open the door. He tried to undermine, crack, push his shoulder against the bloody door, but there was nothing to be done. At the umpteenth jolt, another moment of awareness struck him: the door would not open because it was pressed against other toilets, all piled above a van in movement.
He screamed asking for help until almost vomiting. And it was between one gagging and the other that he heard a guitar riff coming weakly through the wall. His beady eyes widened as his already fine lips blanched and stretched out in surprise.
"Machete is that you! What the hell are you doing here?!"
"Hi Tres, did you hear this riff?" Answered the unmistakable voice of the Tortillas guitarist.
"Machete are you telling me that while we die slowly because of the shitty smells, your only idea is to play? And then, for God's sake, why were you in a toilet with the guitar? "
The presence of the guitarist made his hypothesis of an accidental post-concert kidnapping unlikely.
"Très .." The guitarist continued complaining "There's very little we can do. Have you ever heard of the legend of the Masonic porta-potties association?"
"If there was Mendoza, he would take us out with one of his plans." Tres Culos thought desperately.
"This guitar riff is really cool. If only there was Tìo Billy, I would ask him to follow me with the drums." Machete thought.
“Here’s a new song I made up,” Machete said through the plastic walls, he then began to play the chords from the song The Climb by Miley Cyrus.
Tres Culos didn’t argue the creator of the song with Machete, instead he concentrated on the contrast of blue from sunlight to shadow on the plastic shell of the porta-potty. When the van passed a large object everything turned dark blue; then the light blue returned in a block from right to left.
“That means I’m on the driver’s side of the van, standing in a toilet,” Tres Culos said to himself. The awful smell, and constant bombardment from flies, would never let Tres Culos forget this blue hell a traveling bathroom.
The van slowed down, and Tres Culos began to hear people talking again over Machete’s guitar. They all seemed to be in a festive mood. The crowds became dense as the van moved slower and slower before halting.
Tes Culos and Machete waited.
“Compadres, no worries, just wait a sec,” Mendoza’s familiar voice rang out as the doors to the van opened.
Tio Billy drummed Machete’s toilet wall. Then something rocked the plastic prison from above. Machete felt the entire toilet being pulled into the air. Only to be set down a moment later. Tres Culos had the same experience before he opened the door to walk out of the chemical bath, and into the parking lot of Mercedes-Benz Stadium. He then saw the crane that had picked up the porta-potties.
Tortillas de Pelo united as one again. They celebrated by giving each other high fives and hugs. Tio Billy shook his head happily, and pushed back his long greasy hair with both hands.
“What’s going on Mendoza?” Tres Culos asked.
“We’re playing the halftime show at the Superbowl.” Answered Mendoza.
“What?” Machete asked again dazed and confused, his brother Tio Billy tapped his chest with a drum stick, and flashed a big smile.
Miley Cyrus then stepped out of the van. Some fans, in the crowd of Superbowl spectators in the Mercedes-Benz Stadium parking lot, began to charge screaming, “Miley!”
Miley Cyrus waved her hands, the crowd stopped rushing toward her, and went back to mingling before the biggest game of the NFL season began.
“Miley Cyrus keeps saying we played for an eternity in Dante’s Inferno before striking this deal with her. Only she’s claiming to be the Yellow King, who brought us back in time to play the halftime show at the Superbowl in order for him to gain mind control over the masses,” Mendoza said exasperated. “Crazy, only here we are with Miley Cyrus playing the halftime show at the Superbowl, and I don’t remember last night . . .”
“Just go with it,” said Miley Cyrus. “Believe me, you guys are some of the luckiest dirt bags ever.”
Your adventure ends here.
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