This is my entry for the week #13 of the awesome contest held by 
More informations about the contest may be found here: https://steemit.com/contest/@f3nix/finish-the-story-contest-week-13
This week, the incredible story of the Tortillas de Pelo punk rock band continues...
Suggested soundtrack:
opening
What the fuck is doing a punk-rock band like the Tortillas de Pelo – a bunch of idiots who think a jam session is a type of orgy –in New Orleans, the homeland of jazz? You won’t believe it, but this is the simplest part of the whole story.
There’s no doubt that the Tortillas play like dogs. The fact is that "play like dogs" is still too euphemistic to describe the kind of noise that this band of demented produces: a concoction between an alpenhorn’s bellow, played by a crack whore, and the fornication of a pigeon with a dying elephant.
The only consequence can't be other than their chronic broke-ass status.
The money made in Saint Judas was drying up faster than their beer reserves and they quickly needed an idea, before their musical independence was jeopardized. In case the band couldn't self-sustain anymore, the alternative would have been to go back working as clerks in the filthiest sex shop of all New York, property of a third cousin of Machete.
That’s why - in front of the chance of a payment that, for once, was not limited to the booze during the concert - Mendoza did not hesitate to sell the Tortillas as refined jazz musicians and to conclude an engagement for a wealthy cocks’ private party in Louisiana. This was not before having sold to the organizer, a certain Madame Laveau, a whole amount of references, later confirmed by an old alcoholic xylophonist in debt with Mendo for a couple of favors.
After all, what did it take to learn a bit of fuckin’ jazz? They would have had plenty of time during the long trip aboard their rusty van to try something.
The Chevy left The Big Easy behind, spinning along Interstate 10 as a suppository stuck in a well-oiled colon. Mendoza stood thoughtfully at the back of the van, laying his back on his Marshall tube amp and using a tangle of wires like a pillow. From the window, the monotonous landscape did not show much of the bayou beyond the trees, beckoned only by a group of herons.
The singer thought back to that absurd weekend, all those hours of travel just to be thrown out from the sumptuous farmhouse immediately after their first song "Spiderman has hemorrhoids". He did not understand: the arrangement in a jazz fashion should have worked. Fortunately, they had not left empty-handed from that party of pricks. Machete had stolen a strange mask that had all the appearance of being ancient and very precious.
In fact, readily resold in the French Quarter, the mask had yielded them a nice nest egg. Everything that had happened after the sale of the object was very confused in his mind and had to do with Cajun boudin and cracklins, sailing in rivers of Brandy and Gin. He also remembered anatomically confused female details and, in the chaos, the blissy and sweaty face of Tres Culos, who was watching him clinging to a huge seventy-year-old-heavily-made-up lady like a lemur to a baobab.
He smirked… this was part of a true punk-rocker’s life, too. The fresh air filled the van and laid a regenerating feeling of unrealized adventures on his tired face and... fresh air?!
"Tìo Billy... for the dangling Jude’s nuts! Tell me that TC is there in front close to you"asked the singer, his voice imperceptibly trembling.
"What the fuck are you talking about, Mendo? Isn’t he there with you, farting as usual? " In answering, the drummer's voice had lost courage and momentum while something was becoming clear even for a Machete in the grip of his obsessive-compulsive riffs: Tres Culos was missing.
The sound of the nailing Van recalled a moan. The same prolonged moan that, at that moment, not far from the interstate 10, filtered through the basement of an old ruin among the cypress trees of the bayou.
My ending
Tres Culos was feeling confused. In front of his eyes there were breasts of every size and color, like balloons in a college party wrecked in bad alcohol after half an hour. Necklaces of colored beads were falling on him, enveloping him in an inextricable tangle. All swayed terribly, everything resounded as if a bunch of acid tripping hippos were playing the horn section of a big band with their asses.
From time to time, faces flew into his blurred field of vision and then moved away. Deformed, swollen, laughing faces, mouths opening like slices of watermelon.
He had not felt so bad since he and Machete had cut the last beer with anti-freezing liquid, the time the Chevy had seized in the middle of the night, in the middle of Vermont.
Two faces reappeared more than the others before him: that of an old fat woman made up like a colorblind clown, and a stiff, woody face that looked like a voodoo mask.
A very distant voice came to his ears, carrying bits of phrases interspersed with bursts of trumpets and saxophones:
"... rip off Madame Laveau, right?"
"... mask of Baron Samedi ..."
"... curse, better than an anti-theft ..."
The old woman's face broke into a mocking laugh that bounced between TC's ears like a ball of a crazy pinball machine, then dissolved in the air like some sort of hysterical Cheshire Cat; meanwhile, the mask slowly moved into the visual field of the Tortillas bassist, as if it were turning behind him.
He felt a dreadful pain in the ass and, before fainting, had a fleeting vision: the severe mask seemed to have opened in a terrifying grin.
"It's all your fault, as usual, Mendo! Finding these improbable engagements that only bring us trouble. The blind and dyspeptic pug of my uncle would be a better manager! " exclaimed Machete, pissed off.
Mendoza shrugged and pulled out of his left ear a cigarette butt not too smoked. The guitarist was right. The jazz breakthrough had been a disaster and they were wandering the streets of the French Quarter for hours without finding traces of the old Tres Culos!
They were passing in front of one of the many two-story New Orleans historic houses, with a balcony upstairs. A wooden sign written with an Art Nouveau full of flourishes said: "Chez Gator's".
"I remember this place ..." Tìo Billy murmured. "We came here to get drunk after selling the mask."
"Below, in the canal! What is it? "Mendo asked, pointing to what looked like a bag of rotting garbage half-soaked in sewage.
The sack gave a grunt and moved. There were splashes, pathetic spasms, then Tres Culos emerged as the monster of the swamp, dripping sewage no better identified.
The Tortillas de Pelo celebrated with him a lot, but from a safe distance. Then, finally gathered and reconciled, they packed themselves into the battered Chevy and left New Orleans, heading for the next misadventure.
"... the techno-polka is promising!"
"Go to hell, Mendo!" Cut short the man who, from that moment, would be known as Quatro Culos.
Join the fun! Here is how this contest works:
You receive an unfinished fiction story or a script weekly on
blog. This is the link for this week: https://steemit.com/contest/@f3nix/finish-the-story-contest-week-13
You finish it with your own post or a comment in the comment section. A limit of 500 words is recommended.
YOU WIN! 3 