Every week 
"Mendo, d’you know where you can stick your fucking sense of adventure next time?" Tres-Culos, bassist of the Tortillas de Pelo, broke the silence suddenly in his usual volcanic style.
Mendoza, continued to observe a mummified bug, relic of past winters, stuck between the window and the cracked sheath of the old Chevy van. He was about to reply when a burp of Tres-Culos banished the words from his mouth, making the interior of the van rumble with an echo-like effect between the cardboard walls of the vehicle.
For a fraction of a second, Machete stopped the chord progression of his new-born piece - somewhat way too similar to Ramones' “Do not Want to Grow Up” - and he cast a sardonic look at Tres-Culos. At the wheel of the Chevy, Tío Billy was a monolith in a leather jacket and Tom Ford.
After all, TC was right, the journey through the glacier was a bad idea. The members of the punk-rock group had come out with their bowels well tangled and the alpine vegetation, more than relaxing them, made everyone feel like sugar cubes dipped in a glass of viscous absinthe.
At least, now the van was sailing calmly through the grassy sea of that mountain valley. Mendoza thought back to how they had ended up accepting that unusual engagement and how unlikely it was that the mayor of a small village, nestled in the middle of the Alps, could have paid them handsomely and in advance to perform at the "Meat Festival".
They had accepted without asking too many questions. Only God, or someone else in his place, knew how much they needed a healthy injection of money. He was tired of recycling picks from every piece of fairly stiff plastic.
Meanwhile, Tío had nailed the old Chevy in front of a crossroads, undecided on which way to get to the village of Saint Judas, their final destination.
From the dusty window, Mendoza's attention was captured by a roadside shrine. It contained a simple painting, representing a lady dressed in a blue tunic and with open arms. On closer inspection, the madonna showed an awkward bright red skin. "Almost skin stripped" he thought, increasingly immersed in the picture. The protruding black eyes of the figure were pointy and vivid blades, thus contrasting with the pale, expressionless faces of the faithful kneeling around her. Only the noise of the Chevy, starting to climb the mule-track, broke the hypnotic contemplation of that strange religious representation.
The vehicle was trudging for a good hour through an anaconda of endless hairpin turns. Machete was almost interrupting the arpeggio to complain about the roadmap’s delay when, finally, the village of St. Jude revealed itself to the band's eyes. A myriad of small houses proliferated under the geological anomaly called Butcher’s Hook, a mountain whose top was bizarrely bent over itself, casting a perennial shadow over the village.
"I will need a steady and uninterrupted supply of booze tonight" Tío Billy solemnly noted.
After some contemplation Mendoza looked at Tio and nodded in agreement. There seems to have been some unspoken agreement about the amount of booze that is necessary among the four. At the yellow towering village door a skinny man waved at the incoming vehicle with a red flag to which Tio waved back swiftly braking the van. All four were hurled forward but, TC took the most damage, vomiting violently as he pushed out the door. "That's gotta clear out your system", commented Mendo, sarcastically. "Welcome! Welcome to St. Judas dear friends" a thick voice came out of thin Joey, "call me Joey I will be taking care of your needs, so if you need anything let me know, ok?" "BOOZE!!" yelled Tio, the rest nodded up and down like bobble-heads. Joey laughed and spoke softly: "That too will certainly will be arranged to your fill, dear sirs."
The next day at the event, three punks: Mendo, Tio and Machete entered the velvet curtains from backstage as crowd cheered, hoping to get started on setting up their equipment. TC has had an issue with his digestive system and was running a little late. The band members too got blown away by the presence of people all suited up and seated and formal with nary a trace of women-kind of human species all enthused and with a glee on their face but contained, and well groomed and the size of the hall that felt wouldn't have been much beyond the velvet backstage curtains. TC too arrives at this opportune moment and you could see he to was overwhelmed by presence, stage and lighting and all things the band never saw in their short career. The event goes on very smoothly to the very end. No stage dives, no mosh pits, no nothing. All gentlemen stayed seated in their chair savoring the crass riffs of punk rock as it were a wine tasting. "You all are a bunch of stuck up bankers" exclaimed Machete as he closed the ceremony with random strums and power chords, "Thank you very much, we had a great time."
An uproar of laugh follow an even bigger uproar of claps and cheers. The band goes back to the cramped up dressing room where they are joined by Joey all suited up and groomed. "Excellent work sir, The Mayor wish to see you." Another suited man walks in with a smile on his face. "Sorry! We couldn't arrange time to see you gentlemen yesterday, Marvelous work". TC farts loudly and himself feels a little embarrassed and apologizes qucikly: "Beans, my good siree. I am very sorry." The mayor was amused by the rhyme and lets out a chuckle. "Before we wave goodbyes it is critical that you know that we do this for our village and is in no way any comment on your musicality." Mayor speaks somberly. Joey quickly pulls out a gun and before the shock hits Mendoza a bullet does and as he falls down, three other follow. "The secrets of the lady Illuminati is preserved. Clean out this mess" the mayor speaks the words ritualistically as he leaves.
If you like what I'm doing here, help me out to get me some visibility and add me to your steemvoter or bring me a 
goddamnit.