A desert desperation pushes me even further south. The bottom of my stomach falls out as I defy the warning and I try to grasp the co-ordinates: News at Night reports of Mariachi bands gunned down in border bars, Phoenix kidnappings and more decapitations. Scrying the dashboard compass which defies its own directive, a truth of great import is conveyed. Palpitating hearts held up to the All Seeing Eye, the blood of corruption running down the pyramid as it has always done. I’ll take this as a hint to listen to my Spanish CDs. Soon, I'll be able to fluently describe the machinations of Coatlicue, Chicomecoatl and other starving gods and goddesses plugged into current gang brains, demanding even more sacrifice than before. Would the drug thugs understand my slang rendering, a revelatory mural of Queen Elizabeth masquerading as the Virgin of Guadalupe? Perhaps they’d be awed by the royal Marian vision, see who they are really working for and the guns pointed at me would be dropped. The Mexican police would be the ones giving me money as I worked my way to the heart of Zeta headquarters. I’d continue to tug on their corazón strings in hopes of becoming a cartel bard or at least a jester taunting the profit launderers from some kingpin stronghold affording me peninsular invisibility.
Anticipating the bliss that only danger can provide, I head for a beckoning corona, an alluringly grave terminus in the direction of Acapulco. One to be slain for, earmarked only with my own unmooring. A medallion pinned to my AC vent comes to life and the same old serpent struggles to break free of the archangel's stomp as we cross the border at Los Olgodones.
Mesmerizing glare of the highway aside, I'm sure all this has already happened, even with the gear shift still in Park.