Hey again. :] Another OUTIM one shot. No other chapters. Please review.

…

Sands had known the moment he had laid eyes on El Mariachi. Yes, he was an idiot. He had slouched down in the wooden chair, strumming casually on an unpolished guitar, a little tune he seemed to have picked up from some goddamn elevator. The Guitar Player, hah! Hooking his thumbs along the bridge of his jeans, Sands couldn't help but look at the chains on his jeans and jacket, almost snorting aloud.

Who did this guy think he was? A fucking Christmas tree?

Nevertheless, he had enlightened the dear Mariachi on his plans, almost repeating himself to make sure that the man understood. As he left, clanging away like some marching band, he popped a morsel of the succulent pork and spit it out promptly, as if he had been burned.

Sands shrugged, signed the check and then walked straight into the kitchen.

…

Sands had known the moment he had heard the voice of El Mariachi. The real voice of El Mariachi. He had known that El, was in some sort of pain. Family death, perhaps? Did your mother die? Not doing so well in bed? How charming.

He had stood with his ear slightly on tilt to the door, listening to El's prayers. The pained, soft voice of El that seemed so different from the bitter, apathetic tone that he had heard only a few hours ago. One thing did not waver, however, the thick accent that almost choked him. Fuck, he was tired of this country.

In that ridiculous disguise, Sands had put on his best Brando voice and explained to El, once again, what was going on.

"Failure to appear in locations at assigned times," Sands took off his dark sunglasses and looked towards the Mariachi. "Results in forfeit of protection. Protection you will definitely need."

Was the man blind? Was the man fucking blind?

The conversation lagged on ever so slowly, like watching the pot boil. Sands, however, had his gun pointed in El's direction at all time, ready to pull the trigger in any sudden movement. It was doubtful that the poor Mariachi would attempt anything dangerous, after all, he was a padre.

"When do I begin?"

"Give me a moment."

"Padre?" He heard El call as he left silently, abruptly, leaving behind El to pass or fail his test. Sands expected that El would pass, from what he's heard, he would do the best at his job. But who knows? Perhaps he would die, Sands would figure out a little bit, throw some shapes and set them up. Oh yeah, either way he was going to watch them fall like fucking cockroaches.

"And five, four, three, two, one.."

Resting his foot behind him casually on the wall, he dialed the numbers quickly and held up the phone to his ear. Within one and half rings, he heard the beep of the phone being turned on and smiled.

"Are you still standing?" Sands asked with a tone of amusement.

"Still," came the breathless reply.

The rest of the discussion over the phone was pointless. El would do just fine. Sands smirked, He may look like an idiot. But he doesn't play one.

…

[After the movie]

Sands had known the moment he had heard El Mariachi. He walked as if he were screaming for attention, fucking chains. Sitting with his back to the wall, Sands groped for his fork and then stabbed at his food before mixing it around casually, prodding the pork with the prongs until they became a texture that he especially liked.

He had his back to the uneven wall, no longer trusting to have his backside to any hallway, door or open space. A pair of empty sockets constantly reminded him to always, always stay on guard. Keep three steps ahead instead of one, and stay armed. Always.

El stopped at the foot of Sands' table, the scraping of his boots stopping about half a foot in front of where Sands was sitting. Listening to the screeching of the chair legs, he felt the vibrations against the soles of his feet. El sat down, still ringing like fucking church bells.

"Gosh El, it's great to see you," Sands said jovially, squeezing a quarter of a lime between his teeth. "You know, how have you been?"

Sands could feel the hesitation before El spoke with his thick accent, "It is dark in here."

"I was aware of that, yes, thank you very much," Sands said, the smile still stuck on his face.

"Why are you wearing your sunglasses?"

Sands placed his fork down calmly, voice lowering dangerously into a hissing whisper. "Who told you?"

"A connection, perhaps. Who did it to you?"

"Did what?" Sands asked, the smile plastered back on his face. "You mean, take my fucking eyes? Oh, some mad doctor who happens to enjoy collecting human organs. Just happens to be the usual, everyday type of thing for me."

There was a tense moment of silence for El, in which he tapped his fingers lightly on the table. What was he supposed to say to a blind man? Instead, he stared at Sands intently. Sands, however, was thinking the exact opposite. Gee El, someone got your fucking tongue?

"Stop fucking staring at me, El," his voice was like seething snake venom. El Mariachi turned away, looking instead at the pork dish that Sands had almost finished. Sands scraped the fork along the desk, back and forth, leaving light indentations against the already chipped table.

A waitress approached, and El spoke to her briefly in Spanish. Then the silence hung like a fog, rolling around in the air like a thickening smog. Sands added to the appearance, exhaling large amounts of twin, thin streams of smoke.

The waitress returned, setting the dish down in front of El. El pushed the plate towards Sands, who stabbed at it with his fork.

"Puerco pibil," the waitress said.

"What is this?" He looked up to the direction of the waitress. His voice was vile, fury like no other. "What is this? Is this my pork dish? Did you just order my fucking pork dish?" He turned to where El was sitting.

"Yes. You are almost done with yours," El lifted Sands' dish and handed it to the waitress, who glanced around, perplexed.

"What, fuckmook, you think because I have no eyes I can't even tell when I'm done with my own fucking dish?" His voice was still a raspy hiss, like the slithering of a snake's tongue.

"I did not mean it in that--"

"Of course, you did not mean it in that way. Since a blind man can't see, he obviously cannot tell when he's done with his meal, fucker," Sands slid the plate of pork towards El, who glanced down at it, unable to say a word. "Pick up the dish, El."

"Why?" El looked at Sands with knitted brows.

"Pick. Up. The Fucking. Dish."

El picked up the pork slowly, Sands felt the vibrations against the table as he felt the plate being lifted up from the wooden stand. Taking out his gun, Sands cocked it and shot it at the pork dish immediately. El snatched his arm back, looking at the remains of the still steaming pork on the filthy floor. He stared at the broken plate hard, ultimately shocked.

Leaving down a few bills, Sands walked out of the restaurant lightly, fingers outstretched in front of him subtly as it grazed across the tables and the tops of the chairs. He watched in amazement, the man walked in more confidence than the average man.

El Mariachi stared as the door swing forward and then back, hitting the frame with a slight ring from the entrance bell. Sitting in silence, he could still feel the thick tension of Sands wafting around the room like a heavy smoke.

The sounds of the other customers finally drowned out the silence, leaving him with the feeling of bitter apathy and guilt.

Sands walked along the dusty roads of Mexico, boots making hollow noises along the pathways. He dropped the butt of his cigarette, twisted his foot on it and walked on, feeling the sun tan his pale skin sluggishly, listening to the cheerful birds sing along the rooftops, the bitter taste of tobacco at his tongue, the smell of freshly turned dirt lingering in his nostrils. Everything was black.

I hate this fucking country, Sands thought with an acidic flavor at his mouth. Alaska?

…

Hey, thanks for reading. Yours, Lip Balm. [Please Review!]

I think I should consider writing a real fiction on OUTIM, not just a one shot. What do you think?