Crime Inc #3 - El Corrido de un Hombre Quebadro

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Crime Inc #3 - El Corrido de un Hombre Quebadro

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The Offices of Doctor Anastasia Matthews

A knock sounded at the door, causing Dr Matthews to stop her client mid sentence with a click of her fingers, the entire room freezing as she walked over to the door. Opening the door she saw a Hispanic man dressed in board shorts and a plaid shirt standing on the other side, an antique mandolin in his hands.

“Mr Ramirez you’re early, as I stated yesterday your session starts at 10:30. I’m currently with a patient, can you please head back to the waiting room, and I’ll call you in when it’s time to start the session.” Dr Matthews sighed as she looked back at the leathery winged pterodactyl man dressed in the torn remains of a lab coat.

“Uh sure, it’s just I need to tell you something.” Ramirez stuttered in a Latin accent.

“Can it wait fifteen minutes?” Dr Matthews asked.

“Si, I think it can.” Ramirez answered before getting a coy smile from Dr Matthews before she closed the door and clicked her fingers again. “So Ptera-Doctor, I want to talk about the motives behind time you chained the Natural History Museums staff to phone boxes around the city…”

Heading down the corridor Ramirez sat down in the reception area and looked glumly at the receptionist covertly playing ‘Angry Bats’ on her phone. Looking her up and down, he took in her slightly anorexic features wrapped in a low cut peasant blouse and long red skirt the same colour as her hair. “Excuse me senorita,” He purred as we walked up to the desk, “you wouldn’t know if the Doctor has any free single sessions coming up?”

“Busy, need to demolish the Toad King’s palace to complete the game.” The receptionist moaned. “Besides I’m on my break.” She added before shooting him a look. “Plus I’m sure that the Fickle Fender isn’t on our client list.”

“I’m not the Fickle Fender!” Ramirez snorted in surprise, “I am El Corrido, besides the Fickle Fender owns half of Memphis, why would he be here.”

“I don’t know.” The receptionist stated blankly, “You’re here aren’t you?”

“Ah so it is my history that you wish to know.” Ramirez said with a smile before strumming his guitar. “It begins when I was a boy in Hermosillo in my homeland of Mexico,” He told her, the reception room fading away to be replaced with a landfill site, a young boy of nine or ten, scrabbling through the waste.

“That…that stinks!” The receptionist yelled as the boy walked over to her and grabbed her phone. “Hey he stole my phone!!” She screeched as the boy pulled a battered PC out of the wreckage.

“I will return it later.” Ramirez reassured her, “This is me, forced to look through waste for valuable computer circuits. I wasn’t paid much, but I knew what little money I earned was to be set aside for this.” He added as the landfill arranged itself into shelves loaded with religious icons and other, more ominous items. “This is where I saw my first guitar; I wanted more then ever to be a narco-corrido, a musician and a folk hero.”

“Narco what?” The receptionist asked as a teenage walked in, his clothes torn, a wad of pesos clenched in his hand.

“It is the telling of stories about current events. At the time I didn’t know all the illegal activities connected to the music scene.” Ramirez sighed as his younger self paid for a mandolin hanging off the wall. “In addition I had no idea that the instrument was cursed. As soon as I had what I had wanted for most of my life I started writing my own corridor, the first albeit unwitting step towards my life of crime.”

“What did you write about?” The receptionist asked as Ramirez stopped playing his mandolin. “And why did you stop playing?” She added as the curiosity shop morphed back into the reception room.

“Senorita, you must understand the nature of this cursed instrument. While it tolerates story telling, it will never take part in anything good. And what it wants most of all is to be cruel, and revels in bringing crimes to life.” Ramirez announced as he placed the mandolin down on the chair. “My first and only corrido starts with a young couple…”

**

Juarez, Mexico - Six Years Earlier

Jose pulled down the ski mask over his face as he checked the safety on the FX-05 Xiuhcoatl Assault Rifle he was armed with. Looking over to his girlfriend Marisol, dressed all in black and equipped with a fuel tank on her back, he smiled behind his mask as the pair of them stepped out of the blacked out Cadillac. Calmly the pair walked into the bank, with Jose opening fire almost immediately, expertly cutting down the three security guards with his weapon.

“All of you get down and shut up!!” He bellowed as Marisol walked over to the cashier, and unclipped the acetylene torch connected to the tank she wore. Half smiling she powered up the tool, and touched it to the bank teller’s face as Jose dragged the manager out from behind the desk.

“Please we’ll give you what you want.” The Manager squealed as Marisol finished charring the teller’s lips and started moving up towards her eyes. Smiling Jose handed him a pair of bags, which the manager filled with cash as quickly as he could, without looking over to the scarred teller and her torturer.

“Well that’s a lot of cash.” Jose stated as Marisol walked over, before dipping the acetylene torch into both sacks, flames leaping up as the money caught alight. Dropping the bags the pair of criminals walked calmly out of the bank, with Jose moving the car up to the doors, and blocking the escape, screams already sounding from the quickly growing inferno.

**

The Offices of Anastasia Matthews

“That evening Jose and Marisol retreated to a shack outside the city, one that would be their final resting place.” Ramirez explained as he handed the receptionist back her phone. “You see the bank was owned by the cartels, and the big boss was less then pleased with what they had done. He had his men find the pair of them, and fill their shack with rattlesnakes, while the couple baptized their violence with a little carnal action on the side, oblivious to the striking serpents.”

“Crime happens, it could have been a…”

“What? A coincidence? Si that is what I thought at first, but the robbery and the murder was too similar to the corrido I had written.” Ramirez announced. “I thought about getting rid of the mandolin but what if it fell into truly evil hands, as such I hung onto it, using its power to steal but never harm, not if I could help it.” He added before picking up the instrument and checking the time on the clock above the desk. “It’s why I need to talk to Doctor Matthews about leaving, I may be a villain but I am also a hero for keeping the curse under control." He continued before his voice dropped into a whisper. "And while I have to be both, I can’t be neither.”

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waezi2

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Wow... Dark....

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ImpurestCheese

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@waezi2: Actually what I described is tame for narco-corrido. I remember hearing one song, translating the lyrics and being genuinely terified. The subject matter would actually get me banned it was that graphic.

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waezi2

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ImpurestCheese

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@waezi2: Yep even discussing it can have dire consequences;

In one incident the tortured and mutilated body of a man and a woman were found hanging of a bridge in the city of Nuevo León in September 2011. A sign stating “"This is going to happen to all the Internet busybodies," was found next to them signed with the letter Z.

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@cbishop: Thanks, expert more on it's origins later

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Claymore1998

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ImpurestCheese

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@claymore1998: It is. Narcocorrido artists typically don't live past the age of 35

@cbishop: Thanks anyways