Blue Inferno for Tres Culos

by @f3nix

"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 neighbor 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.

My Ending

“Why the fuck would Tio Billy be here with us?”

“Why not?”

Tres heard another riff come from Machete.

“You have to be kidding me. We just got wasted and passed out in the toilets. Fucking Machete you and your stories.”

Tres waited for an answer but all he got was another riff of the guitar followed by another one.

“Focus on the cords Tres you will make it. Soon you will know the truth of my stories.”

Tres lost track of time as his body bounced off the walls. He did focus on the music. He tried anything to try and forget where he was. Yet the music kept playing. Then it all stopped.

“Tres you still there?”

“Aye Machete”

They could hear a sound of the porta-potties being moved off the truck. Tres pushed at the door. At last, the door gave way and he spilled out into the bed of the truck. He couldn’t see anyone. The truck was being unloaded by an automated system. Machete came out holding his guitar looking fine.

“Tres you look like shit man. Smell like it too.”

“Fuck you man how did you handle all that.”

“No one used the one I got suck in guess I am just lucky”

Tres wanted to slap Machete but he was already jumping off the truck. He followed suit and caught up to him at a panel on the wall.

“Machete what are those symbols?”

“Tres you never did listen to me about the Masonic. I told you they ran things. I have been trying to find them for a while now”

Machete pressed at a few of the panels and a door opened.

“Pretty easy code, Let's go Tres.”

Machete didn’t wait so Tres had to follow. As they walked into the room the door closed behind them. The room had showers. Tres didn’t have to think twice about cleaning up. When he got out of the shower all the found where some robes. Machete was dressed and waiting.

“Are you ready Tres?”

Machete pushed through the doors and they entered another room it was dark. They could see three figures sitting behind a desk.

“Sit and we will begin.” one of them said

Tres and Machete sat down.

“The Tortillas, most of our group were surprised to find so many of our secret messages in your music. But it is clear that at least one of you know of us to get through that door.”

Tres didn’t say much as Machete went on and on with them. Was this really happening? Who are these people? They finished up and took them into another room. Each of them got a new tattoo. You will have to answer when called you are in for life now. A car waiting out front to take them home.

“Tres you should have thought more about those lyrics I gave you.”

“What am I in now Machete.”

“You will see brother you will see”

Image by @EdibleCthulhu

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