Blood Brothers (The Making of a Desperado)

By Peggy

(Author's note: The character of Buscemi did not have a name in the Movie 'Desperado'; therefore, I've used his real name as it was listed in the credits. The characters are borrowed from Robert Rodriguez. This story is meant as a tribute and is in no way an attempt to steal or earn money from his ideas.)

A dark lump lay in the middle of the bumpy, dusty road in northern Mexico. Buscemi applied all his weight on the brakes of the rattletrap pickup truck, but stopped barely inches from the deathly still object lying in the baking heat of the sun. The door stuck. Hitting it three times with his shoulder, it opened with a rusty screech. He scrambled from the seat, his heart pounding and fanning the dust from in front of his face as he quickly knelt beside the inert figure covered with powdery dust.

Flies swarmed over a black, bloody mess on the left hand. Fearing the worst, he turned the body over to see a bruised and battered face, encrusted with grime. The lips were split and covered with bloody mud, now caked and dry. Heat waves rose in the space above the body.

Buscemi's fingers held the limp wrist and tried to find a pulse, but felt nothing. Assured the man no longer lived, he stopped trying to be careful. He couldn't leave any man, dead or alive, out here for the buzzards that were circling the white-hot sun overhead. Sliding his arms beneath the body, he sat him up, then reached an arm beneath and pulled him to his feet. With a grunt, he tugged until he could prop him against the fender of the truck. He put his shoulder into his midsection and hoisted him up. With difficulty, he deposited him into the passenger seat and closed the door quickly to hold him upright.

Sweat stood out on his forehead as he walked around the front of the truck and crawled in behind the steering wheel. He put the truck in gear and hurried on down the road. Dust rose behind him in billowy waves, floating on the air like a curtain of death.

A short way farther on, a large chuckhole appeared in the road. He attempted to avoid it, knowing the brakes would not stop him in time. As he swerved, the impetus tossed the body away from the door and tipped it into Buscemi's lap. A groan came from the presumed lifeless body. The unexpected sound startled him. He stopped the truck as fast as he could. He hit the door with his shoulder, and it opened the first try. He pulled a canteen of tepid water from beneath the seat and struggled to pull the man into a sitting position.

Applying pressure on the injured man's lower jaw forced his mouth open enough to pour some water inside. At first the water ran right back out again, dribbling through cracked lips, over the blood-caked chin, and onto his chest. A couple more tries and at last he swallowed. Buscemi forced as much water down as he could, then capped the canteen.

Buscemi tried to provide a more comfortable position on the lumpy seat, but opted for the same position as before. The injured man's head lay gently against the back of the seat as he closed the door to keep him inside. He returned to his seat behind the wheel and continued the bumpy ride, much more careful of his passenger's comfort.

Five more miles through the desert heat and dust brought them to a rather small house with a wide porch, shaded by two huge trees. Two men sat in the shade, wiping perspiration from their foreheads with the sleeves of their loosely fitted white shirts.

"Raoul, Manuel, come and help me." Buscemi called out, forcing the door open before the truck came to a stop in front of the house. He pulled the passenger door open just as his two brothers arrived to see what he needed from them.

Raoul saw the unconscious man first. "Who's he?"

"Don't know, found him in the middle of the road a few miles back. Let's get him into the house."

Without knowing the extent of his injuries, they tried to be careful as they hoisted him from the truck. A grimace of pain flickered across his face, but no sound came from between his lips. Neither did his eyes open. He remained unconscious as they carried him inside and laid him on the worn sofa.

Manuel brought water and a semi-clean towel to wash the blood from his face. They forced him to take a few more swallows of water.

After a thorough inspection, they concluded someone had knocked him around pretty badly, then dumped him in the road for the sun to finish off. No bones appeared to be broken, but he was badly bruised and scraped. The worst danger was dehydration.

The hand worried them, too. Something pierced clear through the palm and exited through the back of his hand. The brothers agreed it looked like a bullet hole. He needed a doctor for that. They cleaned the wound with an antiseptic and bandaged it, then applied damp towels to his overheated body to cool him down. They forced him to drink a little water every few minutes.

At last his eyelids fluttered, once, twice, then opened wide, instantly alert to the three men standing over him. His eyes were wary, but showed no fear as he looked from one to the other in the circle above him.

Buscemi held out his hand to let him know they intended no harm.

Too weak to respond in kind, he let his eyes slide closed, then opened them again and whispered, struggling to force legible words through his lips, "Where am I?"

Buscemi knelt at the side of the sofa to be able to hear more clearly. "I found you lying in the road about seven miles from here. Thought you were dead."

"I'd be hurtin' less if I was dead." He whispered hoarsely, "Why didn't you leave me there?"

Buscemi leaned over as he answered, "My old truck would probably have high centered if I had run over you, besides the buzzards were wantin' you for lunch. Do you think you can sit up and drink more water? We have tortillas cooked up if you can eat something."

With a groan, he ran his tongue lightly over his sore lips to moisten them and to test for tenderness.

"We've got some salve to put on your lips to keep them moist while they heal."

"Gracias," he whispered on a painful breath as he attempted to sit up.

"Careful, you might have some cracked or broken ribs. We don't want one to puncture a lung."

He shook his head slightly, "Just bruised…it doesn't hurt much to breathe, it just hurts to move," he mumbled in answer.

"How did you get out here, anyway? Ahhhh, never mind, we'll talk when you're feelin' better." Buscemi reached behind and gently helped him sit up enough to swallow.

He took the glass of water Raoul handed him in his right hand, knowing the left one was useless, and drank a few more gulps. The water didn't go down easily, his throat felt stuck together. He gave up on the food idea, fell backward and let sleep overtake him once more.

"Let him rest, we'll try again in a couple of hours." Buscemi ushered the men back outside. "Either of you ever seen this guy before?"

Manuel shook his head, "Not me."

Raoul ran his fingers through his hair. "Looks kinda familiar to me, now the swellin's goin' down some." He scratched his head, "Seems like I saw him before, but…yeh…I remember him now. Saw him in a bar in Santa Rosa. He was playin' with two other guys…he's a Mariachi…pretty damn good, too."

"Well, that explains his clothes," Buscemi commented thoughtfully.

"Crowd liked him a lot…all 'cept one guy. Pulled a knife on a girl. This Mariachi laid him low with his guitar…didn't even stop playin'."

"What happened after that?"

"Kinda strange…homely hombré in a white suit, mean-lookin' cuss, came in clappin' his hands. Crowd got real quiet-like. This guy just stared down the Mariachi. Everyone got up and left, myself included. Don't know what happened after that."

"You suppose it had anythin' to do with the guy with the knife?"

"Don't know, coulda been. Mighta been a relative of that mean-lookin' guy or somethin' like that."

* * *

"Bout time you decided to eat somethin'," Buscemi looked up from his breakfast and waved his hand toward an empty chair at the table. "Sit down, want some coffee?"

"Sounds good, eggs smell good, too," the Mariachi sniffed the air as he sat down.

"You got a name?"

"Si, I have a name."

Buscemi watched him expecting to hear his name. But no, the guy wasn't talkin'. "You wanna see a doctor about that hand of yours?"

"Nah, I'll patch it up."

"Be kinda hard to play guitar again with that hand, don'tcha think?"

El Mariachi threw a quick look toward his rescuer. "How'd you know I play guitar?"

"Your clothes for one thing…another is that Raoul heard you play in Santa Rosa."

A dark shadow passed over his slowly healing face, and a shutter closed over the curious expression in his eyes. Cold vengeance quickly replaced the curiosity. He didn't comment, but continued eating…keeping his eyes on his plate.

Buscemi looked down at his plate, "Who was that guy in the white suit in the bar in Santa Rosa?"

Startled, he glanced up sharply, "You know about him?"

"Yeh, Raoul was there. Told me about the guy with the knife, too. Said you took care of him."

"Si, I took care of him all right," came the bitter reply. He shoved his plate and chair back at the same time and stood up quickly. He gripped the chair, fighting the sudden dizziness, then walked outside where he stared off into the distance…lost in thought.

Buscemi watched, and wondered what he was thinking, but he didn't ask. "You want more food?"

"No, no more. It tasted good though. Do you have a needle and some thread?"

Buscemi stood and walked to a cabinet, pulled out antiseptic, a needle and a spool of thread, which he carried back and placed on the table. He threaded the needle and handed it over. "You sure you don't want some help with that? A doctor?"

"No doctor." He took the needle and laid his hand, palm up, on the table. Stretching it as far as he could, he poured antiseptic all over it and soaked the thread. Only the tightness of his jaw and a hint of green around his mouth gave any indication that he felt the pain as he placed careful stitches around and across the gaping hole, allowing his palm to stretch so as not to restrict the movement of his hand. Sweat dripped from his brow by the time he finished the palm and turned his hand over. He wiped his brow with his sleeve and repeated the painstaking stitches on the back, then poured more antiseptic over his entire hand before re-wrapping it.

The color completely disappeared from the man's face through the process. He staggered when he stood up, and Buscemi placed an arm beneath his elbow to help him back to the couch. He fell back against the cushions and placed his arm across his eyes.

The Mariachi's condition improved over the next few weeks. He ate better, slept better, and his strength improved. But his mood didn't. He began taking walks, by himself, in the cooler mornings and evenings. Very few words crossed his lips.

Where he went and what he did while he was away, Buscemi didn't know, but he did notice he had acquired a gun. Whenever he left the house, the gun went with him, securely tucked into the waistband of his black pants.

Following one of his forays into the desert, the Mariachi returned with a black guitar case.

After the evening meal, he pulled the guitar from the case, and sat down on the top step of the front porch. He strummed with his right hand a few times and carefully tuned the strings.

Buscemi, Raoul, and Manuel sat nearby with big smiles on their faces, expecting a nice serenade.

El Mariachi flexed his seemingly healed hand slowly, then massaged it gently to loosen up his palm. He placed his fingers on the strings to form a simple chord, and began picking the strings with his right hand…so far so good. He formed another easy chord…one string didn't go down hard enough and the note didn't ring clear. He tried again…it got worse. He tried to change the chords back and forth from one to another, but the transition wasn't smooth and he couldn't make the changes quickly enough. Frustration began to show on his face. He flexed his hand again. Two more chords he tried, but the anger he felt now complicated his movements even more.

He abruptly sat the guitar on top of the case and stood up. He ran his fingers through his hair and stared up at the night sky, frustration evident in every movement, then stormed off of the porch and across the yard, kicking at a Prickly Pear Cactus with the toe of his boot.

The same thing happened several evenings in a row. Concentrated effort to form the chords and make them sound clear became a nightly ritual…always with the same results. With each failure his bitterness grew until one night he put the guitar away with a finality that Buscemi knew was heartbreaking for him. He didn't pick up the guitar case again until a week later. He took the case and went for another walk. When he returned, he placed the case in a corner and told everyone "hands off".

His trips into the desert by himself began again. He left right after breakfast, only returning just before the hottest part of the day. A look of sheer determination imbedded itself into his face. It sometimes contorted his normally handsome features into someone Buscemi didn't recognize.

Then the schedule changed. His walks began following siesta, and he didn't return until long after dark.

Buscemi felt horrified when he first heard of the bloody massacre in a small town to the south. It happened again to the east, then the west. Most of the men who were killed were drug dealers who hung around the bars. Rumors of a guitar case full of guns, and a phantom Mariachi, were whispered around the territory.

A Mariachi…Buscemi began to put two and two together. He decided to confront his Mariachi friend when he next put in an appearance. He waited a day and a night.

El Mariachi carried his guitar case up to the house. Buscemi noticed he favored his right arm. A bloody bandana served as a bandage over an obvious wound.

"What the hell you been doin', man? You get yourself shot up again? You think I saved your bloody life so you could get yourself killed?" His tirade might have gone on, except the Mariachi threw him a look that warned him he should say no more.

Still, he tried again. "I've been hearing stories of a Mariachi with a guitar case full of guns, that couldn't be you, right?"

Another warning look darted his way, packed with the all the threat and danger of a wounded cougar.

Buscemi backed up a step or two, but started again, "Is it you, man? Is it?"

The Mariachi collapsed to the step, holding his head in his hands. "They started it…they always start it. All I did was ask a question and they opened up on me. What was I supposed to do, let 'em kill me? They already tried that."

"You crazy? They'll be huntin' you down like a killer dog."

"Let 'em! I'll get Bucho before they get me."

"Bucho!" Buscemi exploded…"You want to kill Bucho? You ARE crazy, man!"

"His men… they killed my girl, they shot my hand, they ruined my life. He ruins a lot of lives. It's happened to a lot of people I know. He's a drug dealer and I'm gonna get him."

"And you don't care if you get killed in the process?" Buscemi asked, incredulous.

"Not particularly…if that's what it takes." With a sullen look on his face, he stared into the darkness, away from the light of the windows behind him.

Buscemi sat down next to him. Feeling his friend's frustration, he sat quietly, not saying anything for a few minutes. Finally, he spoke softly. "You are on a deadly path, my friend. Can't I talk you into giving up this obsession with killing Bucho?"

The Mariachi didn't answer, but a muscle twitched in his jaw as he stared into the dimming evening light across the desert.

"Bucho has a lot of men working for him, do you plan to kill them all?"

At last the Mariachi spoke, "I only want Bucho. I don't want to kill anyone else, but I will if I have to."

With a shake of his head, Buscemi walked toward the roadway. Looking up, he noticed the billowing of dust that told him a vehicle, traveling fast, was approaching. Within minutes, the vehicle pulled up and stopped.

Manuel, visibly upset, piled out and ran up to the porch. He clutched the railing to steady himself before flopping down, too shaken to stand. Facing them, he took a deep breath, "I have bad news. Melina was hit in the crossfire of a gun battle between some stranger and Bucho's men. They took her to the hospital, but she died."

The Mariachi sucked in a breath at the mention of Bucho's name.

Buscemi's legs wobbled beneath him as he walked back to the porch, forcing him to collapse onto the step, too stunned to utter a word. His beloved sister, Melina, dead? Melina, who always thought first of others, dead? It could not be true.

The men were silent, each busy with their own thoughts. At last Buscemi turned to El M. "I'm ready to help you, amigo. What do we do?"

Two weeks later, after a foray to gain information, Buscemi knocked on the door of a seedy hotel room.

"He's there." Buscemi rubbed his head where El M struck him with the barrel of his gun when he opened the door.

"Bucho is there? Where do I go?"

"Santa Cecilia. The Tarasco Bar is a good place to start."