The emcee looked strangely nervous as he approached the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that tonight's featured act is unable to perform, owing to a...family emergency."
Ray Brooks, head music critic for the Herald, frowned. Inconsiderate of them to have an emergency when I have a deadline, he wrote in his Moleskin. He tended to write down whatever he was thinking; he was funny like that.
"We have managed to find a replacement, and we hope you enjoy them. Please give a warm welcome to La Familia Mariachi!"
The crowd applauded and the host walked--almost ran--off the stage. Quickly, his place was taken by two men and one women in charro suits, sombreros, and ridiculous mustaches. Even the woman.
If these three are actually Mexican, he wrote, I'll eat my hat. I'll eat their hats.
"Buenos noches," one of them said in an obviously fake accent. "Me llamo es Miguel, y...umm..."
Probably forgotten the words in Spanish already.
"...and this is my brother Marco, and our sister Anna! We hope you enjoy the show. Here is our first song, 'Jarave Tapatio!'"
Their rendition of the song was only half as brutal as Ray's review of it.
Why the hell is there a French Horn in a mariachi band? Not the right sound. Not at all.
What Miguel lacks in talent on guitar, he makes up in enthusiasm. Unfortunately, it's a lot to make up.
The middle one--that must be Marco--clearly doesn't want to be there. He and I agree on that, at least.
If I'm lucky, I'll get a call about a family emergency, so I can leave too.
The song finished, and a few people clapped politely. Some stood up to leave--not soon enough, as Miguel had stepped back up to the microphone.
"Gracias! Our next song has no Spanish translation, so we use its English name."
Oh God, they're doing another one, Ray wrote.
"We call it...WHOLESALE SLAUGHTER!"
"Wait, what?" Ray looked up to see that the three performers had discarded their instruments in favor of firearms. Anna wielded a pair of pistols, Miguel had a machine gun, and Marco held a tactical shotgun, which he showed far more skill and interest in than the guitarrón.
Screams filled the club as they opened fire. Some tried to hide under the tables; others ran around screaming until they were picked off. Ray ducked behind his chair and looked for the exit. He saw one man try to make a run for it, and had almost reached the door when an explosion went off, sending the runner flying back into the room.
Ray was pretty sure he heard Anna giggle.
"No one leaves until we finish our set!" Miguel cackled, having completely abandoned his accent. Resigned to his fate, Ray could think of nothing else but to pick up his notepad.
The good news is that Miguel is only a slightly better shot than he is a guitar pla
Ray Brooks, head music critic for the Herald, frowned. Inconsiderate of them to have an emergency when I have a deadline, he wrote in his Moleskin. He tended to write down whatever he was thinking; he was funny like that.
"We have managed to find a replacement, and we hope you enjoy them. Please give a warm welcome to La Familia Mariachi!"
The crowd applauded and the host walked--almost ran--off the stage. Quickly, his place was taken by two men and one women in charro suits, sombreros, and ridiculous mustaches. Even the woman.
If these three are actually Mexican, he wrote, I'll eat my hat. I'll eat their hats.
"Buenos noches," one of them said in an obviously fake accent. "Me llamo es Miguel, y...umm..."
Probably forgotten the words in Spanish already.
"...and this is my brother Marco, and our sister Anna! We hope you enjoy the show. Here is our first song, 'Jarave Tapatio!'"
Their rendition of the song was only half as brutal as Ray's review of it.
Why the hell is there a French Horn in a mariachi band? Not the right sound. Not at all.
What Miguel lacks in talent on guitar, he makes up in enthusiasm. Unfortunately, it's a lot to make up.
The middle one--that must be Marco--clearly doesn't want to be there. He and I agree on that, at least.
If I'm lucky, I'll get a call about a family emergency, so I can leave too.
The song finished, and a few people clapped politely. Some stood up to leave--not soon enough, as Miguel had stepped back up to the microphone.
"Gracias! Our next song has no Spanish translation, so we use its English name."
Oh God, they're doing another one, Ray wrote.
"We call it...WHOLESALE SLAUGHTER!"
"Wait, what?" Ray looked up to see that the three performers had discarded their instruments in favor of firearms. Anna wielded a pair of pistols, Miguel had a machine gun, and Marco held a tactical shotgun, which he showed far more skill and interest in than the guitarrón.
Screams filled the club as they opened fire. Some tried to hide under the tables; others ran around screaming until they were picked off. Ray ducked behind his chair and looked for the exit. He saw one man try to make a run for it, and had almost reached the door when an explosion went off, sending the runner flying back into the room.
Ray was pretty sure he heard Anna giggle.
"No one leaves until we finish our set!" Miguel cackled, having completely abandoned his accent. Resigned to his fate, Ray could think of nothing else but to pick up his notepad.
The good news is that Miguel is only a slightly better shot than he is a guitar pla
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