Hott Lixx: I Think I Smell a Raton

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BrigandsHey folks. After the outpouring of support I got last week after posting Chapter Seven of my three-part novel, PESCADITO! One Boy's Journey on a Colombian Fishing Jitney, I figured, what the heck, I'll go ahead and proffer another chapter for your delectation. So here's the novel's dramatic Chapter 19, in which Luis/Gustavo finds himself in Paraguay, pursued by the dreaded and swarthy Marcos gang in a race against time to Presidente Analfabetos Airport. I'm proud of it, 'n I hope you all enjoy it. I know I do.

And, once again, I'd like to remind you all that copies of PESCADITO!, and all of my other novels, are available for purchase at my Arvada trailer home.

PESCADITO! One Boy's Journey on a Colombian Fishing Jitney

Chapter Nineteen: I Think I Smell a Ratón 


Jojo Timmins

ⓒ 1988, Marcus P. Timmins. All Rights Reserved.


"Don't say a word, pinche, just drive," Gustavo growled into the taxi driver's ear, "you try any mono business and I'll put a bullet in your cabeza, you hear me?"

The taxi driver, sweating bullets of his own, acquiesced, nodding nervously and sputtering incoherently. He whispered a quick prayer to Dios and put the taxi into gear. Stuttering, he struggled to glance back at Gustavo, whose unshaking hand held a chrome Colt .45 firmly to the taxi driver's right temple.

"A-a-adónde vamos?" the driver squeaked, pathetically. Gustavo calmly turned to look out the rear window, checking for tailing vehicles. He shoved the gun even harder into the driver's temple. 

"JUST DRIVE, pendejo!" Gustavo bellowed with unrestrained agency. The taxi driver complied with a loud gulp. 

As the taxi sped southward down the freshly-paved, wide lanes of La Calle de las Mujeres Disolutas, Gustavo finally began to relax. He slid his Colt .45 into the shoulder holster he swiped off of Officer Gomez's corpse after escaping from Manchito State Prison, then leant back on the pleather captain's seat. Mile by mile, the taxi driver's stress too began to gradually melt away, kind of like a marshmallow in a microwave. Finally, as Gustavo sat lazily gazing at the passing palm trees, the driver worked up the nerve to speak up, which he did with a lisping lilt.

"So, señor, what is your name?"

"That's none of your pinche business, huey."

The driver tensed up again, visibly. Gustavo chuckled weakly.

"But you can call me Luis. Luis Platano."

The driver laughed. "Platano? That is an unusual name."

"Well," Gustavo said slyly, "I'm an unusual man."

Gustavo suddenly sat bolt upright in the captain's seat, taking another furtive glance through the rear window to check for tails. Marquez's snitches, la policia, even the drug cartel's thugs - especially the cartel's thugs - could be following. Gustavo had made many enemies in the last 48 hours, and he was a wanted man. Gustavo turned back to look through the taxi's windshield, squinting through the blinding Paraguyan sun to check the approaching highway signs. Ahead, about a quarter mile, a large green handpainted road sign read "Presidente Analfabetos Airport, dos millas." Removing his Colt .45 from the shoulder holster, Gustavo gestured toward the highway sign. The taxi driver gasped loudly as the gun was pressed into his sweat-drenched temple.

"Turn up there, up ahead," Gustavo ordered, dictatorially. The driver began to let up on the gas pedal in preparation for the approaching hair-pin turn. Gustavo again shoved the gun brusquely into the driver's temple.

"DON'T SLOW DOWN!" Gustavo roared with wrath.

The driver gritted his teeth and slammed on the gas. Gustavo glanced through the rear window. Squinting, Gustavo caught a glimpse of a black Audi glinting in the distance. Shockwaves ripped throughout his nervous system. It was them. They had found him. Jabbing his pistol even harder into the driver's temple, Gustavo roared again, panic devouring his cranium like an old lady going to town on a cup of bread pudding.

"TURN!" Gustavo screamed, as the driver pulled the steering wheel violently to the right, turning onto Presidente Analfabetos Lane, towards the small, unassuming airport terminal. Gustavo's slight body was thrown against the rear driver's side door. He struggled to right himself as the antiquated taxi nearly tilted onto two wheels from the force of the sudden turn. Finally nearing the terminal straightaway, the driver gasped for breath. Gustavo made his way back to the center of the captain's seat and shoved his pistol into the driver's right ear.

"Domestic or International?" the driver entreatied, his voice reduced to hardly a whimper. The Colt .45 slid around on his head, wet with gallons of lubricious sweat.

"International, huey. I'm getting the fuck out of Dodge."

The taxi sped along Presidente Analfabetos Lane, barrelling towards the international terminal. The taxi driver moaned as he approached the bustling departure gates. Gustavo again jabbed the lukewarm steel into his temple. Gustavo turned around, looking for his nemeses. There they were, following in their stolen black Audi, trailing by about half a mile. Gustavo whipped his head around again as the taxi driver approached the departure gate. Gustavo jabbed his gun towards Air Bolivia's terminal gate and screamed, his voice cracking in adolescent rage.


The taxi driver slammed on the brakes, causing Gustavo's head to crash into the steel driver's cage. Dazed, Gustavo burst through the passenger-side door and sprinted full-tilt towards the Air Bolivia counter. Looking to his right, he saw the Audi quickly approaching. Gustavo sped through the airport's automatic doors despite the impassioned protestations of the Skycap attendant, then scanned the interior of the airport terminal, looking for a place to hide. Outside, he could hear the Audi's brakes squeal and the car's doors fly open, followed by the staccato pounding of jackbooted feet.

Shoving his handgun into the back of his pantalones, Gustavo sprinted to the Air Canada counter and vaulted over the attendant's table, knocking the hostess to the ground with a scream. Lying, still dazed, on the floor along with the terrified Air Canada representative, Gustavo held his index finger to his lips. The attendant nodded, her eyes welling up with tears of confusion and passion. 

"Stand up. Act like everything is normal," Gustavo whispered. The attendant shook her head.

"Who ar-?" 

Gustavo brandished his pistol, causing the attendant to gasp. 

"Get up. Act like," Gustavo reiterated. The attendant slowly rose to her feet, running her hands through her now-unkempt hairdo and struggling to compose herself as the infamous Marcos Gang, brandishing AK-47s and wearing their trademark red silk uniforms, entered the terminal and searched for Gustavo. 

Gustavo remained hidden, squatting behind the Air Canada counter, gripping his pistol with both hands and struggling to catch his breath. How had the Marcos Gang found him so easily? Who talked?

Could it be? 

No. Impossible. Gustavo's body temperature began to rise like a Cialis-popping retiree's manhood on shuffleboard night. Maria would never talk to the policia. She'd never rat on me.

Or would she?

The sound of the prowling Marcos Gang's heavy boots resounded throughout the terminal. The leader of the gang, Santos J. Tovar, barked orders to his men in Honduran-inflected español.

"Jaime! Ver allí para ese idiota!"

Gustavo knew his time was running out. The Marcos Gang was close, and there was no way he could match their firepower. This was going to take guts and brains. And balls. Gustavo looked around, desperately trying to formulate an escape stratagem. As the sound of one of the Marcos Gang's footsteps approached the Air Canada booth, Gustavo made his move.

Squatting, Gustavo released his pistol's safety mechanism. He pointed the gun up into the air and fired three quick shots. Immediately, the airport terminal filled with the panicked shrieks of terrified commuters. The Marcos Gang, bewildered, spun around in circles, struggling to find Gustavo among the throngs of horrified passengers running towards the door. One gang member, Jorge Martinez, was knocked to the ground and trampled by a Chinese tour group.

As the crowd fled in panic, Gustavo jumped to his feet and hit the large red "Conveyor" button behind the Air Canada counter, quickly lying upon the now-moving baggage conveyor belt. As he slid into the baggage sorting area, he could hear the fading howls of Santos Tovar in the main terminal.


Gustavo breathed a tentative sigh of relief as the conveyor belt headed towards the Air Canada baggage loading dock. Lying on his back, Gustavo closed his eyes as rage once again started to fill his slim body. Maria. How could she? How could she rat me out like this, to the Marcos Gang of all people?

They say revenge is a dish best served cold.

Well, Gustavo thought, no better place to grab a cold dish than Canada.



Marcus “Jojo” Timmins is the lead guitarist of the Denver Metro Area metal band Hidden Valley Man Ranch 2, formerly known as Hidden Valley Man Ranch. “The Ranch” is available for birthday parties, cocktail parties, bat mitzvah’s, and high school dances. 


  • 1

    Red silk uniforms! Those sound hot. How do I join the Marcos Gang and get to strut those snazy duds?

  • 2

    Yo en segundo lugar, que la emoción. El señor Pear, por encima de mí, es totalmente correcto. Uniformes de seda roja, al igual que los calzones de seda roja que me pongo cuando estoy solo (y nadie sabe!), son fáciles de encontrar aquí en Mexico.

    Mi primo es un idiota. Él se robó mi pijama rojo de seda y las usaron para hacer una diadema improvisadas. Si yo nunca verlo de nuevo, voy a golpear la mierda de él. Pero de todos modos, me gusta esta historia mucho, y yo también espero a sumarse a un lugar fresco, como la organización Marcos Gang.

    Tres estrellas! Cuatro de sexy bragas!

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