Paco Valdez
BS
The only real available hiding spot is in an old mound of hay over in one corner of the decrepit barn. It will have to do, even though it's located far away from the door. You scramble to your feet, fighting back the concussion, and make a mad dash toward the mound.
You dive into the mound headfirst - and swiftly realize the stupidity of that decision when your shoulder collides with something cold and sharp. Upon further investigation you find that it's an old pitchfork! What you could really use at this point is a shot of whiskey, your six-shooter, and your trusty steed, but for now this pitchfork will have to do.
The haystack smells awfull and you wonder how long it's been rotting in here. You fight back the urge to vomit again, the urge brought about from your sudden movement and the rank odor of the hay. You settle in to your hiding spot none the less and wait with anticipation.
It doesn't take long for the gangly Mexican to return. He stops dead in his tracks when he realizes you're not where he left you. "Okay, mister," he says in his usual calm and collective demeanor. "I know you're hiding somewhere in here. Playing games with us right now is only going to make it harder on yourself in the long run. Come out from wherever you're hiding?" Okay, the politeness of this guy is really starting to irk you. And he speaks about the most refined English you've ever heard spewed from the mouth of a Mexican (with the exception of his lazy south of the border drawl). How did someone like that make it into the Vigilantes!? You deduce that he must be the brains of many a bank heist and highway robbery. Either that or he's a real good sharp-shooter.
He waits patiently for a minute or two, then shrugs and begins lumbering around the barn in a slow but deliberate search. Right about then you feel a yourself beginning to retch. The composting hay stack is getting a little overwhelming. You supress the building urge to vomit as long as you can, but eventualy it becomes too much for you and you gag on the odor loudly.
Well dammit all. The Mexican grins obnoxiously and trots over to where he heard the noise. "Okay, Mister, time to give up," he presses you. "Game's over. Come on!"
Your curse inwardly and try to formulate a plan. He's pretty damn close at this point, and this pitchfork is well within thrusting range of his torso. But there could be more of Paco's thugs waiting right outside. You'd have to be very quick if you're going to attack. Then again, if you try and make a run for it, you'll have to be even quicker. But you really don't want to kill this stupid little Mexican. Time's running out, you need to make a choice and you need to do it now!
The only real available hiding spot is in an old mound of hay over in one corner of the decrepit barn. It will have to do, even though it's located far away from the door. You scramble to your feet, fighting back the concussion, and make a mad dash toward the mound.
You dive into the mound headfirst - and swiftly realize the stupidity of that decision when your shoulder collides with something cold and sharp. Upon further investigation you find that it's an old pitchfork! What you could really use at this point is a shot of whiskey, your six-shooter, and your trusty steed, but for now this pitchfork will have to do.
The haystack smells awfull and you wonder how long it's been rotting in here. You fight back the urge to vomit again, the urge brought about from your sudden movement and the rank odor of the hay. You settle in to your hiding spot none the less and wait with anticipation.
It doesn't take long for the gangly Mexican to return. He stops dead in his tracks when he realizes you're not where he left you. "Okay, mister," he says in his usual calm and collective demeanor. "I know you're hiding somewhere in here. Playing games with us right now is only going to make it harder on yourself in the long run. Come out from wherever you're hiding?" Okay, the politeness of this guy is really starting to irk you. And he speaks about the most refined English you've ever heard spewed from the mouth of a Mexican (with the exception of his lazy south of the border drawl). How did someone like that make it into the Vigilantes!? You deduce that he must be the brains of many a bank heist and highway robbery. Either that or he's a real good sharp-shooter.
He waits patiently for a minute or two, then shrugs and begins lumbering around the barn in a slow but deliberate search. Right about then you feel a yourself beginning to retch. The composting hay stack is getting a little overwhelming. You supress the building urge to vomit as long as you can, but eventualy it becomes too much for you and you gag on the odor loudly.
Well dammit all. The Mexican grins obnoxiously and trots over to where he heard the noise. "Okay, Mister, time to give up," he presses you. "Game's over. Come on!"
Your curse inwardly and try to formulate a plan. He's pretty damn close at this point, and this pitchfork is well within thrusting range of his torso. But there could be more of Paco's thugs waiting right outside. You'd have to be very quick if you're going to attack. Then again, if you try and make a run for it, you'll have to be even quicker. But you really don't want to kill this stupid little Mexican. Time's running out, you need to make a choice and you need to do it now!