A few words over the limit. Here's to the 45th week of Finish the Story.. The possible routes for the story to go were infinite. I tried to wrap it up in some way, from the presence of Machete to the Masons to the title.
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.
Machete continued pontificating about the Masonic porta-potties association. In contrast to Tres- Culos who rattled against shit-encrusted walls like an abject refuse of a Jakson Pollack painting, Machete sat calm. His ports-pottie hadn't been used. It was an extra reserve toilet at an otherwise unattended concert. Another failed gig, Tìo Billy had noted. And Mendoza went off to complain about this to the organizers of the show, and ensure they got paid.
Where had Tres wandered off to? He met a girl, he remembered that much. She brought him over to a festival ground and he they drank some tea then...
"So the Masons are actually just architects who think shapes are magical. Just sacred geometry," Machete rambled.
"I swear to god if you don't shut up, if I don't die in here covered in shit I'll strangle you to death."
The van halted with abrupt force and Tres smashed against the wall. He heard shouting and boots and began to scream for help.
The door to the porta-pottie was thrown open and men in red robes stood before him.
"Another worm wallowing in excrement," one of the robed figures said. A series of gold shapes adorned the cloth and Tres struggled to make sense of it. Every time his eyes perceived a specific shape, the lines ran on again into infinity.
What could have been his saviors, he quickly understood, were in fact his captors.
They ordered him out at gunpoint and brought him into the middle of a dimly lit warehouse and hosed him down. Machete stood calm, trying to figure out the rest of the riff on his guitar.
“W-w-w-w-what is this?” Tres asked, shivering and wet as the ice cold water sheered off the day-old shit.
“You’re from that rock band?” one of the robbed men asked. Tres knew it was only a rhetorical question, and that this man, whose robe was more finely adorned in gold then the others, was the leader. “The one singing performing at the festival? It is written in by scribes that a consort of musicians would arrive one day to summon the inferno of azure thunder.” The robed man held an old book.
“What?” Tres asked, shivering on the concrete.
“He means we’re some kind of prophesy,” Machete explained.
“The four sinners, of blade, of father’s brother, of three, and cold mountain,” the man said.
Machete laughed then went back to working his guitar riff.
“C-c-c-cold mountain, my balls,” Tres said. “So you kidnapped us?”
“You will write the forbidden song to awaken the inferno!” the man drew a blade. Tres screamed.
“That’s it!” Machete exclaimed. He looked to Tres. “I found the perfect note!”
“Are you not listening? This guys going to slice my nuts off!” Tres shouted.
Then Machete began to shred, his fingers bending and switching notes at impossible speed. Lightning shot out from his guitar, melting the robed men.
“Can you remember that riff for me?” he asked Tres. "I got a bit caught up."