The motorcycle pulled up alongside a grocery store on the curb—'Mevilla Store'. The old man dismounted, stepping inside to gather a few essential supplies.
Fifth rule: Living out in the desert means always keeping a tent on hand.
He picked up a box of nails and a small canvas umbrella to pay, handing an envelope over to the middle-aged, fair-skinned storekeeper who was listening to the news on old television. Unfolding the letter inside, the owner let out a dry smirk.
"Hmph... Hijo de la chingada (Son of a bitch). No wonder you're still kicking after all these years. How many names is this now?" The storekeeper shot him a knowing look.
"Like I give a damn... How long's it been anyway? Ten?" The old man spoke with easy familiarity.
"Twenty-eight. Mm-hmm... Why're you still hunting him down?" The storekeeper tucked a photograph of a mysterious man beneath the letter.
"Ain't out for revenge. Just want back what's mine... plus a couple stacks of cash."
"What was yours was destroyed a long time ago. You know the hell that's gonna follow if you pull something like this."
"Where'd you last see him?"
Sixth rule: Gather your intel from sources you can actually trust.
"Follow me." The storekeeper snapped his fingers.
CLACK!
An automated system immediately pulled the drapes and shut every window blind. The two strode past the red curtain behind the counter, revealing an elderly woman slumping to one side in a wheelchair.
The centenarian woman caught sight of the old man's face and instantly jabbed an accusing finger straight at him. "Y-You~! How dare you step foot in here."
POOF~
A loud, reverberating fart echoed through the room.
"Ooh~~" She let out a heavy sigh.
"Afternoon, Mama Janis. Might wanna cut back on the crispy nachos—oh, right, forgot~ She's only got three teeth left... hard to chew, I imagine." The old man tipped his straw hat, hanging it on a peg attached to the wheelchair of the grump-faced old woman. "Your ma still gives me the same warm welcome as ever. Still listening to good ol' country tunes like Don Williams, too."
"Yeah, well, she's doing better than before." The storekeeper led his close friend up to a hidden room tucked under the stairs.
"No kidding. Back in the day, she'd have popped up and smacked my head till I rolled across the floor! Ha-ha!" The old man chuckled heartily.
The storekeeper flipped the light switch in the under-stair closet, revealing a massive desert map spanning the border territory of Mexico. He flipped the map panel over to reveal an underground tunnel network buried deep beneath the sand—'Los Espejos (The Underground City / Mull)'.
"Los Espejos... man, ain't heard that name in a age. That filthy rat hole I crawled around in for twenty long years." The old-timer reminisced about his bygone days.
"Well, it ain't the same place no more. Turned into a subterranean slave bunker, ten times worse than it was twenty years back. And the connecting tunnels? All caved in and sealed up so the cops can't trace the blood back to them. The bastards even started expanding like a fast-food franchise.
"Intel I got says the guy you're looking for, Charles Goreya, your former partner in crime, is laid low down there. Sub-level 472. It's a biker meth lab and production zone, and Charles is the foreman running tight ops for Marko."
Before he could finish the name, the old man raised a hand to cut him off.
"Don't speak that bastard's name. Please." The old-timer held up a warning finger.
"Alright, whatever floats your boat." The storekeeper opened a safe mounted above the map table, retrieving a strange key from within. Using a pair of pliers, he bent the neck of the key into a sharp curve resembling an arrow, then snapped a signal tracker onto the head to serve as a directional beacon.
"This here's a bunker key I modified off the latest blueprint. The tracker'll point you straight to the entrance. But whatever comes next... you're gonna need guts and about ten loaded guns."
The old man narrowed his eyes in skepticism. "Seven years I spent prepping for this, and you're telling me I gotta go blow up a tiny rat hole? Sounds like a colossal waste of my damn time, don't it?"
The storekeeper nodded. "Mueller's a subterranean underworld—anything goes down there. If it's a cakewalk for you, be my guest, pal. Besides, you got personal business to settle with the guy anyway. Better you put a bullet in him yourself."
"So you really retired to run a grocery store, huh? How're you still playing the know-it-all informant?"
"You know me—still the same nosey bastard as always. But our era's over, man. J vanished like smoke in the wind. T got hooked on gambling. A opened an auto repair shop. And the rest? All wiped out under a hail of lead. As for me, E—I'm just an old convenience store clerk now. Peaceful enough, if you ask me. You're the only one still stuck in the past, hiding behind fake names."
The storekeeper picked up a lapel pin forged in the shape of an ancient Celtic cross.
The grizzled old-timer flashed a crooked, knowing grin. "Neither of us were ever saints, Elliot. Difference is, we ain't chained to their rules no more. We're just stubborn enough to do what we reckon is right—and that bastard still hasn't paid for his damn sins."
"I'm way too old for this shit~ Done with these suicide missions. You honestly think you can take 'em all on by your lonesome?"
"If I'd known where that skull-faced bastard was bunkered up, he wouldn't still be drawing breath today."
"It is something you cannot buy and it's the same thing you cannot hide... At the end of the day, no matter how steep the price tag is on what you're looking for, you can't buy back what's already gone." Elliot handed the bunker key over to his old friend.
The old man took it, tucking it securely into his chest pocket.
"Best of luck to you. And if you somehow make it out alive... don't you dare come back here."
"Count on it, Elliot. I've never missed the final bullseye."
The black old-timer reached back for his straw hat and patted the shoulder of Mama Janis, who was glaring at him with intense eyes. "Stay strong, Mama Janis. After today, you might finally get your wish and never have to see my ugly mug again."
The elderly woman squeezed his hand, offering her blessing. "¡Buena suerte!" she spat out, saliva spraying everywhere.
"Mmm-hmm~ Free ear cleaning, no q-tip required," Elliot chimed in as his old buddy took the full blast of Mama Janis's shouting right into his ear.
"¡Alto y claro! Hmph!" The bearded black old-timer chuckled, wiping his ear clean with the back of his hand.
Rule 6.1: Draw strength from those you trust, 'cause you might never get another word out of 'em again.
The old man stepped out into the blazing sunlight, his gaze sweeping across the peaceful, rustic frontier town. The faint, soulful strains of a Mexican ballad drifted from down the street. Across the road, he watched a little girl and her mother walking hand in hand, their faces lit with simple, joyous smiles.
He tipped his straw hat, mounting his gleaming chrome motorcycle. As he sat down, his eyes caught a biblical verse scrawled across the brick wall of the building opposite him, echoed by a raving madman shouting at the top of his lungs nearby:
"And I saw! And behold, a white horse! And he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him, and he went forth conquering, and to conquer...!"
Hearing the lunatic's cries, the old man patted the handgun tucked into his waistband, adjusted his hat brim with a smirk, and fired up the engine.
"Time to swap out your worn-out parts, old boy," he murmured, patting the motorcycle's fuel tank.
He kicked into gear, twisted the throttle, and shot forward, heading straight north toward the perilous path he had chosen to walk.
I never put my faith in destiny, but in sheer persistence.
Luck never picks the ones who sit around waiting, it stands beside those who make it happen.
It might play a cruel joke on you now and then, but I've never stopped chasing it.
No damn wonder I've lived this long.