“This bullet wound ain’t shit,” Jack said. The bikers were carrying him away while dodging fire from the high flying hueys. While deep in the cover from the surrounding jungle, Jack attempted to cauterize the wound Rambo-style. But this was a spectacular failure and he soon went into shock.
After spending five days in a coma, Jack awoke to find his father standing over him. “Goddamn you, Jack,” Rod said. Then he punched his son out.
Jack spent five more days in a coma due to a severe concussion. When he awoke again, he found himself in a shack far away from Juarez. “Where the hell are we?” he asked.
The scarred up biker sitting nearby put down the tequila bottle. “Puerto Paloma,” he said, then belched and farted.
“Mexico?”
“Nuevo Mexico.”
Jose barged in splashing water on his face and cursing. “Hijo de puta!” he yelled.
“Why are we in the United States?” Jack asked.
Jose picked up the tequila bottle and shook his head. “While you were in a coma, we tracked Pablo and the cartel across the border,” Jose explained. “Your father is a bastardo.”
“Where is he? Whatever business my father had with cartel is over. I’m taking him with me.”
“Good luck with that,” Jose retorted. “He’s not listening to anyone!”
Jack got up from the dusty floor and walked out into the blazing sun. A few yards away was another shack where Jack presumed his father to be. He swung open the door where he found Rod Hardcock in deep meditation. “We’re leaving,” Jack ordered after he kicked in the side.
Rod emerged from deep thought and picked up a pair of nunchucks. He swung them around his body just inches away from Jack. “The fuck are you doing?” Jack asked.
“Why did you come to Mexico?” Rod responded, still focused on nunchuck practice. “I don’t need your help.”
“I’m not here to help you. I’m here to get you away from this mess!”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re 76 years old dad! Why are you still running around with a murderous gang of bikers?!”
Rod threw down the nunchucks and looked his son square in the eye. “You think I can’t hang? Try me!”
“Dad, you don’t want none of this.”
“I don’t want to fight you! I’m a pacifist! But I see that you’re still carrying around that pathetic .38. Come on now! You’re a big boy! Give it a shot!”
Jack cocked his head. “You want me to shoot you?”
“Shiiiiiiit, that bullet won’t come near me!”
Jack shrugged, pulled out the .38 and pointed it at his father. “I don’t know what you think this will prove,” he said, “but if you really want me to shoot you…”. He fired a single round and in less than a blink of an eye, Rod threw a shuriken which completely deflected the bullet.
“Mother of god,” Jack gasped.
Rod chuckled. “You still think your old man has nothing left to prove?”
“Alright then,” Jack replied while he re-holstered his gun, “so you’re a pacifist, eh? I should have known that you’ve become a filthy heathen. But why chase the cartel? What’s the point?”
Rod pulled an immaculate Samurai sword from off the wall and slowly swung it around. “You’re a messenger of the Lord’s Word,” he explained, “but I live by the Way of the Blade. I don’t know why fate has chose me, but I know it’s my duty to purify this land of its violent ways…specially by the tip of my sword.”
“Okay dad,” Jack agreed, “I will help you, but only because I have some unfinished business with Pablo. And after we mercilessly kill all of them, you’re coming with me.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
The Internet Ruined Everything 