"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.

Some guy came from nowhere and stood to the van. He was listening to the riff Machete were playing.

"You're playin' good." The guy said.

"Thanks, dude."

"I can play some good riff. You know."

"Really? Cammon, play something."

"I didn't bring my guitar. Can I use yours?"

Machete gave him a guitar. The guy took it but didn't start playing. He looked all over the guitar like he was searching for something.

"This is my guitar." The guy said.

"Yours?!" Machete was surprised.

"Somebody stole it while I was pissing by a tree in the Oz park. I left the guitar for a while, and somebody stole it."

"What are you talking about?" Machete stepped out. "The guitar is mine. Give it back."

"Yours? Prove that."

"I bought it. It's mine."

"You bought it? Show me the bill."

"The bill?!"

"So, you don't have the bill. You don't have the proof of ownership."

"Where's your bill?"

"I don't have to prove anything. I went to the Oz park after a gig in Apsana club. I leaned the guitar against a tree and gone to piss by another tree. And somebody stole my guitar. I'm kicked out from the band."

"What the fuck are you talking about? I've never heard of Apsana club. And where that Oz park is?"

"Don't pretend you don't know. And leave me alone now."

"Are you kidding me?! Hey Tres, get out man! This guy wants to steal my guitar. You have to help me!"

Tres went out of ven, tried to stand up, but couldn't find his feet. So he set on the ground.

"Hey man," said Tres. "It's better for you to give back that guitar."

"Who the fuck are you?" The guy was surprised. "Where did you came from?"

"Listen to me, man." Tres was serious. "That guitar is infected with Ebola. If you hold it yet for a while, there's a good chance for you to infect."

Machete was shaken.

"Ebola-infected?!" The guy laughed. "I don't see that this guy is infected." He showed to Machete.

"He is genetically modified. He is resistant to all diseases."

The frightened guy dropped the guitar, looked to his hands and ran away screaming.

"Fuck hangover." Said Tres Culos. "I'll never drink again."