Disclaimer: Seth, El Ray, Santanica Pandemonium are owned by Tarantino and Rodriguez. Sands is owned by Rodriguez, and Blackheart is owned by…who owns Blackheart again? Dunno, but it isn't me. I do own Xanny, Augusta and Marcos. And that's it.

REDONE! Some (most) of this chapter you'll recognize. It's been a long time since I've been able to really dig my teeth back into this story, and I'll tell you why. I always knew, always planned, that it would directly tie into the events from the movie, and that somehow, some kind of "Vampire King" would want to get revenge on Seth because he killed Satanica Pandemonium. But who exactly that vampie monarch was, I had no idea, and I couldn't launch the story without him. And then I came across Ghost Rider and the very lovely Wes Bentley, so now it all falls into place.

It's been so long, I honestly don't know if anyone cares anymore. But people are still adding to the FDTD section, so if you old readers are out there anywhere, please let me know what you think.

A/N: The following information was gleaned (and some of it blatantly stolen) from the DVD commentary from the movie FDTD, about what El Ray actually was, and an analysis of the last scene of the movie. It was rather enlightening.

One: Myth

There was a certain mythology around the life of a bank robber. They were glamorous creatures, slick and mysterious, almost like movie stars, bigger than life. They dominated everyone in their path, and then, one day, when they decided they were done, they made one big last score and retired, usually to Mexico, occasionally to Canada, although that was a less glamorous idea, to live what was known as "the good life."

This was not true. Seth had known for some time that this wasn't true. Yet he clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, he and Ritchie would be different.

He and Ritchie had been more different than just about anyone. They were a team, they worked together as one single unit, they existed as the right and left arm of a single body. They complimented each other in such an extreme way, it was like they were two halves of a single person. Now, more than ever, Seth appreciated his brother. He had always loved him, but now, he knew he would follow him to the ninth ring of hell, come what may. Ritchie was officially the last person on earth, besides himself, that he cared about.

So maybe, the two of them would be able to work something out. They would be able to survive anywhere, always watching each other's back, always looking out for the other, keeping each other going.

Because Mexico was not the bank robber's paradise that the legends wanted the world to believe. Especially not where Seth and Ritchie were going to go. They were going to El Ray.

And El Ray was hell.

When people pictured Mexico, there were certain pre-conceived stereotypes that popped up inside their heads. Either it was the rich and glamorous, ocean-side resorts of the wealthy and tourists, or it was the wild jungles and run down towns embedded in dirt poverty that most movies always had their criminals roaming through. This wasn't always true---stereotypes did not exist without a basis in reality, a strong basis, but they were not without exception. There were places where people could make good lives for themselves, raise families, live like comfortable human beings.

El Ray was not one of those places. El Ray was literally hell on earth. It was dirty, decaying, filled with the worst kind of specimens humanity had to offer, and it existed for one purpose---to keep criminals out of American prisons. It did not offer any kind of "good life."

To get in to El Ray, like in Greek myth, you had to pay the ferryman---in this case, Carlos. You had to pay him thirty percent of your loot. Scripture, so let it be written, so let it be done. Actually, that was a line from the Ten Commandments---awesome movie, even though Seth didn't care so much for religious films. He really got off on the big splashes of violence and depravity---slaves being crushed under stone blocks, being whipped to death, being used as prostitutes and then casually murdered if they even so much as made a peep of objection. The orgy as the people worshipped the golden calf---that was a great scene. And Yul Brenner was possibly his favorite actor on the planet. One of the reasons he didn't smoke, though---cigarettes had taken Brenner away, and they weren't going to get Seth, too.

Back to the point---El Ray was hell, and that was where they had to go if they didn't want to die at the hands of the law. But once you got into El Ray, you didn't get out. You lived off your money, whatever you had, and when it ran out, you didn't get to go running out and steal some more. You just…stayed. In El Ray. Forever. And you rotted away, either crushed under the boot-heels of the stronger who came after you, or died of neglect and starvation, or were killed by someone else just as desperate and pathetic as you, trying to survive.

Seth didn't like to think about it. He told himself that with Ritchie, the crazy psychopath, the fucking nut---although he'd never say it to his face---he would survive. Ritchie could and would do anything. Together, they would survive. When their money was gone, they would leave, or maybe even stay and pick off the thieves who came in, loaded with their cash, take what they had, live it up all over again. It did not seem like such a bad existence. And maybe Ritchie could find some peace there.

Seth had believed it. Maybe he still did, somewhere. It didn't matter, though. Ritchie was dead.

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Two weeks. That was how long she'd been on this road. On the back of a very expensive Harley, with only the bare essentials. But with her money, she could afford to buy a new designer outfit one day, and toss it out like garbage the next.

Where this was going, Alexandra Baxton wasn't quite sure. But she was a lot less confused now than she had been two weeks ago. At least, on most days. Every now and again, Augusta would dress her up and drag her out on the town, back to the world of the rich and famous, and Xanny would spend most of her evening watching everything around her and wait for someone to come up to her and throw her out.

Her entire life had been spent in the gutter, compared to the glamour of Augusta's world. And she had tried very hard over the last six months to take the gutter out of herself. Dressing, walking, eating with the right utensils…it felt so pointless. More important to her had not been going stark raving crazy over the money and the luxury it afforded.

One of the most important lessons that Xanny had learned over the last six months was that there were several kinds of rich people in the world. First, there were the kind who flaunted their money, ran from the paparazzi, and generally made public embarrassments of themselves. In the second category were people who were so unbearably rich that they couldn't help but be noticed, even though they reacted by trying to hide themselves, and occasionally succeeded. Then there was the third kind of rich person -- the person who was so rich, they could be completely unnoticed. The kind of person who was so formidable, it was better for the rest of the world to just pretend they didn't exist -- like a sleeping dragon, the press tip-toed around them so as never to wake them.

The Baxtons strove not to be the first, longed to be the third, but most usually ended up the second. And with the Baxton twins reunited after an entire lifetime of separation, the press couldn't help but converge on the story like a lion pack on a felled gazelle.

Six months. She wouldn't have survived the first one if not for the fact that Augusta had supported her every step of the way. Family was family and the press could go to hell, had become the mantra of the house. She had deployed bodyguards to rival Tom Cruise to keep the paparazzi out of their yard and out of their face. Going out in public had been unthinkable that first month, and Xanny was grateful for it. But more important than any of that had been Marcos.

Stupid, stupid Marcos, Xanny thought as she crushed what was left of her cigarette beneath her boot-heel. Then, remembering herself, she picked up the butt and disposed it into the trashcan.

"Ready to go?" came Augusta's voice at her elbow. Xanny glanced at her. It had been weird, at first, seeing her dressed in biker's gear. But leave it to Augusta to make it look fashionable. Of course, Gus insisted that motorcycle fashions were classic and never went out of style, and that Xanny had never once looked shabby when she was in leather chaps and a plain, unlabeled jacket. Augusta, however, went with a more racer-type image, with white lines accentuating the cut of her jacket, and her chaps a mottled black and white.

"Anytime," Xanny agreed. "Where are we again?"

Augusta sighed, but she was smiling as they walked out the high arch of the hotel's front entrance. On the other side of the sheltered drive stood their motorcycles, freshly polished and completely dirt free from the previous day's ride. "I told you we should have made a more comprehensive plan," Augusta said.

"No, no way," Xanny said, slipping her helmet over her head. "Bad enough I let you buy these stupid helmets with walkie-talkies in them, but it's against the biker creed to plan out a schedule. You go where the road takes you, when it takes you."

"Yes, well, the road took us into North Carolina last night," Augusta replied, her voice sounding just a touch haughty, even more so when she added, "and it's communications gear, not a walkie-talkie, heaven's sake, girl…Raleigh, to be specific."

"What, the communications gear?" Xanny asked.

"No, the city we're in." Augusta rolled her eyes at Xanny's smirk. "One of the most beautiful cities in the world. I'm seriously considering buying a house out here."

"What's stopping you?" Xanny asked, wondering how Augusta could ever hesitate to just buy whatever she wanted.

"Hurricane season," Augusta replied, and they revved up and were off.

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They took their time getting out of North Carolina. It was every bit as beautiful as Augusta said, and Xanny found herself getting lost in it. She had always loved biking, and had likened it to flying on multiple occasions. Getting lost in the world, becoming part of the airstream, having nothing separating you from the outdoors except a very thick cow's hide, and yet moving as fast as you wanted to. Which was even easier now that paying speeding tickets was as much an obstacle to her as buying a postage stamp.

The main problem, though, that all this beauty afforded her time to think. And her brain seemed to have a will of its own on choosing the topic. It was always Marcos.

Stupid, stupid Marcos. She loved him. He just…couldn't deal with the consequences of loving her back.

It stung, every time she thought of it. If she thought about it too suddenly, it would cause the muscles in her hands to clench, and on the handles of the bike it affected her ride. She always had to check herself and make sure she hadn't left Augusta behind in the dirt – although that had only happened once, Augusta wasn't going to let her forget it, nor forgive her if it happened again.

Marcos. It felt like a lifetime since they'd sat on that couch on that hotel room, like two normal people, having a normal conversation. Getting to see what was inside, as people do. Especially people who were beginning to fall in love. She'd been foolish enough to think of it that way. The planted seed that had spouted into bloom.

Augusta had tried to make things go as smooth as possible, but this seemed to be something even her magic touch couldn't fix. She was the one who convinced Marcos that it was more important to act on his feelings than to worry about being scandalous, and she who had convinced Xanny that no, the man was not "too good" for her and that she should just stop hesitating and just relax. And for a few months, it had seemed to be the right course. The sails were out, the winds were blowing, and the sea was calm.

Of course, Ferarre was also a very important name, and Marcos almost succeeded in getting his family into that third category of rich, except that he was much too good in his business world, and was a worker, not the kind of man to spend days on end lounging beside a pool or playing game after endless game of golf. Although he did enjoy those things, moreso when he was sharing them with Xanny. She even got him to grow his hair out just long enough so that it curled in soft, loose waves around his head. She adored threading her fingers through it, and he was more than willing to please.

But the press had teeth. They were pissed at how well Augusta was running the gauntlet around them, and being unable to get a real story, they went with the next best thing: one made up from a mixture of gossip, with just enough facts thrown in to be dangerous. The talk of the broken engagement between Marcos and Augusta had been concerned, then caustic. What was the new heir trying to pull? Was she trying to steal everything from her twin? But no, the two sisters had bonded deeper than anyone could realize, and someone wanted to write a book about their adventure on the road with the Gecko brothers, how Augusta had been rescued by her long lost sister. But there was another stink, a huge one: could the whole thing have possibly been a set-up to get Xanny into their lives? She had a criminal record. She was heavily linked to Seth Gecko. She was an object of suspicion.

And with suspicion came more scandal.

They tried to ignore it. Underneath the layers of expensive suits and lush surroundings, Marcos was a very un-snobby man, content to disguise himself in sneakers and T-shirts and stroll through the Taste of Chicago booths holding hands in baseball caps and sunglasses. They got close, and quickly. But over the proceeding months, it became clear that closeness had consequences.

The backlash started light – the boys in the club could appreciate him having fun, after all, Augusta had dumped him and Alexandra had the exact same face. They slapped him on the back and teased him, but when Marcos didn't return the camaraderie with raunchy stories and assurances that yes, she was just a fun piece of ass, why shouldn't he get something out of the years he'd invested in Augusta? – after a while, when it became clear that Xanny was not a rebound fling, their voices few colder, the invites to dinner grew less frequent.

Stocks started to fall. Only slightly, and Marcos knew his craft, and his more important associates were much too smart to let some stupid strutting in a country club drive their investments. Money was money and there was a very good reason Marcos had a lot of it. First it started as he simply needed to work more and play less, show his mettle was still the same, and stocks went back up, the world assured that Marcos Ferarre had not lost his smarts along with his heart.

By the end of the third month, the rumors had had time to sink in deep, and his face appeared on more and more covers of rag magazines. The talk show hosts had their fun, until it became a running joke…and the joke was going to run a marathon. It was turning from a slight to a smear across his public image, and it was hurting more than just his business. The shockwaves rippled – invites to important dinners went first, as no one wanted to risk Marcos bringing his eccentric girlfriend of questionable honor into their homes. Then the stocks started to slip and when he went to raise them up again, it was harder to get people on the phone, and he wound up cashing in favors to accomplish simple matters of business.

They had talked about getting serious. They had talked about things like marriage and children. They had discussed sleeping together, but Marcos hesitated, put off by all the unruly talk. It wasn't so much that Xanny wanted to – when it came to sex, it was "been there, done that," – but Marcos' reasons were not the right ones. He wouldn't even talk to the press about his personal relationships, and yet he was letting them scare him away from a deeper intimacy with a woman he was supposed to love? He had never come out and directly admitted to being with her, either. And then, by the fourth month, he was telling her that they needed to wait a while before they got very serious, let things blow over.

In the fifth month, he retreated completely into his business world, trying like hell to keep his head down and his stocks up, trying not to let stupid gossip destroy what he had worked so hard to build. They talked less, and when they did, it was nowhere near the level it had been before. And finally, when he was starting to make things right again with his public image, and he'd been interviewed for a magazine, he had said, flat out, that he and Xanny were not involved.

That was enough.

It amazed Xanny, how peaceful her criminal life had been, compared to this. The only difference between the rich and people like her was that she was ducking the law and he was ducking the rest of the world. She didn't care what anyone thought, she never had. She had long since given up caring about the rest of world, knowing it was enough to have her peace with herself and God and that was all she could ask for. But to have someone she'd let into her heart suddenly impose all those things on her, let those things measure his affection for her, let it determine the extent of his commitment to her...it was too much. She hadn't realized Marcos' weakness, the depth of it.

Two weeks ago, the drive across the country had sounded like the best idea in the world. She hadn't told him she was going. She didn't care if he knew or not. She didn't want him to come chasing after her – although it hurt her more to think that he wouldn't. She hadn't even called him on the magazine. The thought of going to him and showing him what he'd said – she hadn't even known about it until it was published, as the interview was done two weeks before the magazine had even come out and he hadn't said a single word about it—just felt like too much drama for her. The possibility of him denying it or excusing it felt belittling, and the possibility of him confirming it felt devastating. So now it was six months since she'd become a Baxton and already she had the scars to prove it.

Or maybe the scars to make her wish she wasn't.