Thursday, August 02, 2012
As the Money Mobile rolled into the Home Depot parking lot, it resembled more of a zoo of humanity than it did a home repair warehouse. Mexicans swarmed my car like a herd of zombies; trying to get me to hire them for the day but I wasn't having any of that. G$ hunts alone and his job required no manual labor. After a thorough glance through the sea of brown, it was evident that Roberto Hernandez had not surfaced. Damn! I figured that the smell of roasted green chili peppers was a sure sign but it was a mirage as it was just Mark Schlereth being a uisance like usual. I was running out of time and leads. As I drove out of the parking lot, I "accidentally" clipped one of the leaders of the group of illegals who only identified himself as "Omar Vizquel".
I offered to call the police and get my insurance involved but he didn't want any part of that. Being violent toward illegals truly is the perfect crime. They can't do anything about it. After admitting that he had no business being inducted into the Hall of Fame, Omar gave me a tip. Actually, it was more like a riddle. He told me to "follow my gut". I told him to fuck off and left.
This was going to require my full attention so I called in sick to my regular job and just drove around for awhile trying to process Omar's clue. It started to sink in that I may fail this mission and that was something that had never happened before. I was up against the clock. The pressure was on. The pubic hair let me down. Home Depot let me down. Lucha libre was a dead end. This fucker was going to skate and probably blow up the AEP building or something.
It was getting close to lunch time so I decided to stop for a quick bite. I was in the mood for some authentic Mexican cuisine (as chasing them usually does that for me) so I followed my gut and headed to The Olive Garden. No one employs more Mexicans in the kitchen than they do. As soon as the hostess sat me, I could tell that something was askew. Either today's special was burnt cat abortions or Fausto was here. I should have known right away that he would be here. Those people are ALWAYS here.
I slowly crept toward the kitchen; being extra careful due to my love of not being stabbed. As I swung open the door to the kitchen, I was 20 feet and 12 Dominican "Italians" away from my prey. He saw me right away. He could tell what my intentions were. I made my move to him and he flung a never-ending pasta bowl at my head. It was surprisingly delicious. I was going to need the jolt of carbs to continue this dance.
We both exited the rear of the restaurant and the chase was on. Carmona and I both successfully performed numerous kick-ass parkour stunts through downtown and up High Street. The homos in the Short North couldn't hide their erections at the sight of our wicked flips and jumps. As I was gaining ground and closing in on Hernandez due to my ELITE SEC speed, he made a quick left heading west on Champions Lane.
I had him at the bridge. He was stuck. The police had set up a blockade there as a means to arrest Ohio State football players for doing their usual illegal stuff and Carmona had nowhere to go. He was mine now.
"FAUSTO!", I screamed, "Do you want to get shot"? I didn't have a gun but I did paint my hand with eye black while I chased him and used my superior white intellect to know that he would fall for it. Then, the average pitcher threw ME a curve ball.
"I didn't kill my wife! It was Devlin MacGregor and LENTZ!"
Why was he quoting The Fugitive? Am I about to get blindsided by the one-armed man? My confusion seemed to send him back to reality as well for his next question was sane.
"What do you want from me," Carmona asked. "I'm not here illegally this time. You can't do this to me!"
"I don't care," I replied. "Your papers mean nothing to me. I'm told that you shouldn't be here and I'm going to send you home NOW. But before I do, you're going to answer some questions and admit to your crimes." I continued to hold my finger gun at his head. He still believed that it was real.
"ADMIT THAT YOU CHEATED IN THE 2007 ALDS! ADMIT IT! YOU PURPOSELY DIDN'T SHOWER FOR A YEAR SO THAT THOSE GODDAMN BUGS WOULD FOLLOW YOU TO THE MOUND AND BOTHER SWEET, SWEET JOBA! YOU CHEATED! REAL MEN DON'T NEED CANADIAN INSECTS TO WIN! YOU ORDERED THE CODE RED, DIDN'T YOU? I WANT THE TRUTH!"
Carmona followed up by asking, "So we're doing A Few Good Hombres now? In that case, YOU WANT ME ON THAT MOUND! YOU NEED ME ON THAT MOUND!"
"No, Jesus, but I want you to admit that your poor hygiene caused a midge infestation and that was the only reason that Paul fucking Byrd was able to be the last pitcher to win a playoff game in Yankee Stadium! That guy eats his own boogers for God's sake!"
"OK, I admit it," he professed, "But I had no choice, gringo. Kidnappers said that they were going to kill my family of tomato picking royalty if I did not win that game. Now they say that if I don't make it back to the bigs, they will rape my father. You can't send me back! You don't know what it's like to disappoint Ugueth Urbina."
"So are they going to murder/rape the Carmonas or the Hernandezs? You know what, it doesn't matter. I'll make you a deal: if you can strike me out right now, I will let you go. Fair?"
"OK, white devil, let's do it...right here on CHAMPIONS LANE!"
In the game of bounty hunting, the only thing better than securing your target is to watch him perish. When I received this case on Tuesday, my goal was to send Fausto Carmona back across the Rio Grande where he belonged. Instead, I watched him die in the Olentangy but not before I drew an ELITE walk that helped me win the big game. Plus, I was home well before Julie Chen hit the TV screen. Today was a good day. FIN.
And thus concludes my first and probably only attempt at Fausto Carmona/Dog The Bounty Hunter fan fiction. I hope that you enjoyed it.