Joaquin Andamun

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No, eet's worse. I farted een here, and the suit is recirculating eet!

Joaquin snatches the remains of the napkin from under the windshield wiper. "Geeve me dat! Dat's a napkeen, noat a parkeeng teeket." Inigo looks nonplussed. "What ees a parkeeng teeket?" Joaquin punches more buttons on his cuff. "Now, how do I poot dees t'ing away?" The wiper continues, speeds up, halts. No, one more wipe. Must be on "intermittent/mist."

Joaquin accepts the napkin and thrusts it sideways in Inigo's direction, casting a look of asperity at False Ransom. "Mees Ransom," he says, pushing a button on his cuff, "jou really should learn to hold jour liquor baiter." A windshield wiper extends from his bulky neck collar, squeegeeing the orange mess from his faceplate.''Dese NASA-surplus costumes are de baist, eh?" Inigo, wiping his face (and smearing his greasepaint pirate mustache) replies, "Whad' ees NASA?"

Joaquin ducks behind the bar for a quick refill of the bucket. He kneels hastily at the side of the sleeping Cardinal, and positions one of the Cardinal's limp hands so a few fingers dangle in the water. Moving nearer to his head, he lets out a loud, ostenatious, "Ahh...Ahhh....CHOO!" Automatically, the Cardinal mumbles in his sleep, "Bless you." Joaquin snatches the bucket and approaches Inigo. "Maybe not fool strength, but jou een a hurry, so eet weel have to do."

Stepping into the pub, Joaquin notices the melee. Upon noting Elvira's presence and the activities of the thugs, he steps quickly to the bar. Seizing a bucket of dishwater, he dashes it on Elvira, and steps back, an expectant smirk playing on his features. However, as she shows no apparent signs of melting on the spot, his expression fades to chagrin and confusion and he edges towards the door. "Huh," he mutters to himself, "eet worked when dat leetle girl wid' de dog deed it..."

It's pronounced "España", Inigo! Not "Es Panna," but "Es Span Ya"...got it? It's spelled with an "en-yay" in the word. E, S, P, A, EnYay, A. OK? And while you're at it, maybe you should "ick-stay" to the "ipt-scray"!

Mama's boy.

Control freak.

"Oh, can it, Inigo! It's your fault that our Lead Editor, not to mention the entire Continuity Check team, suddenly had to go out on so-called "Emergency Maternity Leave," which, thanks to you, left me with one, count him, one poor schmuck typing madly out of his grandmother's basement, trying to make a bunch of people laugh -- with absolutely nobody with professional qualifications to back him up and make sure that his DRECK ends up on the cutting room floor, instead of getting out in print where it can do untold damage to the franchise! Once, just once, you might consider keeping it "zeeped", and maybe we wouldn't be in this situation!"

Well, I would have used the Bat Cave, only it didn't sound Spanish. Trust me, this stuff is funny, when you're the one doing the writing. And it's dark o'clock in the morning. And you're drunk. I, uh, guess you had to be there. Sorry.

Joaquin carefully threads his way through the back alleys of the city, heading towards his master's secret base of operations, the "Motel Seex" at the corner of Sepulveda and Figueroa. He covers only a few blocks, however, before he becomes aware of a minor irritation near the top of his back. A clearly visible lump protrudes from between his shoulder blades, wrinkling the otherwise impeccable tailoring of his justacorps. What can it be, he wonders. He removes his coat and finds, to his shock, a radio transmitter. A thready whispering trickles from the dangling earpiece: "9-11... noble sacrifices...weapons of mass destruction..." Clearly a two-way device, and clearly used now for tracking, however improvised. He drops it and grinds it into the dust. Sticking out his tongue in the general direction of Jacky Tar, he turns and continues his escape. At last he arrives at his destination, footsore, weary, bewitched, bothered, and bewildered...but in surprisingly good spirits. "Eh, boss," he says, closing the door behind him, setting the night lock and putting out the "Maid Service: Do Not Disturb" sign, "I just have the mos' terrible escape of my life. I ron and ron. Een fact, I do ron, ron ron, I do ron, ron. But I get away clean. Eet was glorious! Dey gon' sing about dees one in de ballads in the future, I tell jou. I even start making op a virgin of de song myself. Leesten, eet go like dees." Giant steps are what jou take, Joaquin Andamun, I hope my legs don't break, Joaquin Andamun, We could walk forever, Joaquin Andamun, We could leeve together, Joaquin, Joaquin Andamun. "No bad, eh, Boss? ...Boss?" Montoya merely stares expectantly at his sidekick. The seconds stretch out until Inigo can stand it no longer, and roars, "...Well? ...Who jou ronning FROM, jou eedeeot?" Joaquin blinks, then brightens. "Oh, jes, I almos' forget. Rosie late sleep about de sheep in froant of all does pirates. Some of dem combing lookeeng for jou an' me. I theenk dey have jour cusseen, Taiddy, too. Whad' jou wanna do now?"

Jacky Tar doubles over in pain from an unexpected attack of congenital lactose intolerance. While tying the ropes, Siren breaks a nail. Joaquin skates. So there. Nyah. While leaving the scene, however, Joaquin notices a strange glowing discontinuity in the scenery. "Whoa, look at dat! A reep in de fabreec of space-time! I guess I yank on de plot a leetle too hard. How I gonna feex dees?" A man with close-cropped hair, coveralls and a strange, blinking backpack leans out and grouses "I told you not to cross the streams!" A hand reaches through and jerks him back. He is replaced by an even more outlandish fellow, in a pointed hat, elaborate brocade robes, and sporting a waist-length, flowing white beard. From around his neck he produces a curious necklace. "I think about three turns should do it," he says handing it to Joaquin. Wide eyed, Joaquin spins the tiny hourglass. The world begins to shimmer. Suddenly the robed man snatches the pendant back, and retreats into the rapidly closing void. His voice floats through in an uncharacteristically petulant tone, "Very good. Now don't make me come up here again!" The shimmering ceases, and Andamun finds himself ... (pulls out reading glasses, leafs back a post or two...) ... ah,yes. Alone. The sounds of a defiant conversation float over the air from a few blocks away. "Teddy!" he exclaims, starting in that direction, then halting, torn by indecision. "...no, I gots to fin' Inigo and Rosarita, like she say. Dey know what to do." He starts to pick up the few remaining peacock quills. Why Inigo's cousin, after their collision, had grabbed so many and had run the other direction, he could not fathom. All he had said to Teddy was that Rosarita had spilled the secret of the ship, and that they were after him. Why does everybody want his cursed feathers, anyway? Then he turns back and sees the slowly settling trail of debris. He rolls his eyes in disgust. "Joaquin, jou not de sharpest cutlass in de armory," he grumbles. He drops the now ruined feathers, dusts off the last of the churro crumbs, and sneaks away.

Hearing the unmistakable sounds of pursuit, at some indeterminate distance but clearly approaching, Joaquin commences to weave and dodge among the cramped back alleys of the quayside. He pitches madly over the frequent impediments imposed by the barrels, carts, piles of detritus, and the occasional unsuspecting and annoyed shopkeeper. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to him, he is followed by a steady wafting of brilliant teal and black fragments, settling to the packed earth in his wake.

Without breaking stride, Joaquin calls over his shoulder, "Jou gon' hav ' to take dat op weeth Jacky Tar. Dese fedders comb off my Aztecs, an' beleeve jou me, I gon' hab a hard eenoaf time getting back de cleaning deposit on de costumes wid'out any help from jou peoples! Whad' dat Jacky Tar theenk he doing, anyway? Geeveeng away stoff dat not even hees to geeve! Jou peoples act jus' like a bonch of pirates!"

Hearing the rhythmic crunch of heels on gravel and caked mud receding beyond the doorway, Joaquin slowly rises from where he had been cowering among the empty bottles behind the bar. Wide-eyed, he surveys the inhabitants of the booths and tables. Many are leaning forward with a new interest, an avaricious light kindling in their eyes. "Madre de Dios," Joaquin breathes, "Rosie, what have jou doan?" From somewhere in the dim depths of the pub, a pirate lazily squeezes a concertina, and begins chanting in a weather-ruined croak: There was chest on chest of Spanish gold With a ton of plate in the middle hold And the cabins riot of stuff untold, And they lay there that took the plum With sightless glare and their lips struck dumb While we shared all by the rule of thumb, Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum! More heads raise from their stupor, brows beetling over narrowed eyes, exchanging significant, questioning glances one to the next, and a slow look of shrewd consideration and rising greed dawning on their craggy countenances. Joaquin, stopping only to gather an armload of peacock quills from the bartop, backs towards the door, his gaze leaping from one face to the next as he retreats. Three steps past the threshold, he turns and pelts down the street as fast as his panicked legs can pump.

From a booth near the back, Joaquin Andamun rolls his eyes, sighs a long sigh, and rises. He ambles over to Montoya and relieves him of the rope. He looks ceilingward for a few moments, gathering his thoughts, then down at the rope. His brows furrow in concentration, as his hands begin to move. A few passes and... "Joaquin, you beeg dummy!" says Montoya. "Dat's not a noose, dat's a beckett stopper." Andamun shrugs, and tries again. His frown deepens, and his hands become an increasing blur, pausing only momentarily at each attempt. Between his fingers materialize in rapid succession ... a bowline ... a shoe knot ... a clove hitch ... a monkey's fist ... an Irish pullover ... a macrame bust of Jack Nicholson ... a spiderweb spelling "Some Pig" ... a pair of fishnet stockings (he startles and blushes, and glancing at the Cardinal, hastily thrusts them behind his back while he undoes the knots). Finally he comes to a halt. "Sorry boss," he says, spreading his hands in a gesture of defeat. "I ask de instructor at Four-Aitch, but she say dat noose is too dangerous."

De Cardinal had to wait for hees secretary -- jou know, de big eedeeot who do all de typing? -- to get back from hees evening off. Hee say some fool t'ing about odder commitments. De Cardinal ask him what be more important dan de Lord's work? He say some rubbish about keeds and baid-time stories. De Cardinal tell him, "Get a life, jou eedeeot! A PYRATE life, jou hear?" Well, den de beeg dummy stomp off in a hoff. He kin' of sensitive, jou know? I tell De Cardinal dat maybe no soch a good t'ing to say, eh? For de record, Inigo an'me, we not approve of de recent heavy-hand behavjor of de Admiral. (Shhhhhh.... after Inigo t'row hees leetle tantrum back on page tree, I tought dat be plenty obvious to jou all. But don' tell heem I say dat, okay?) Don' jou worry, we gon' take care of dat beeg bully. Maybe jou even laugh how eet happen. Depen' eef he cooperate a leetle. We see. Well, got to ron. Got a bonch of Aztecs ready to reep out my heart. Don' wan to keep dem waiting....

Eh, Inigo, I t'ink mebbe Lady B ees not yawning and weeshing jou jus' shut up wit de awful jokes. I t'ink mebbe she jus' dissing jou 'cause jou Spaniard. Eet called "beeing a carrot" ...no, dass note right... "beeing in a carrack"...ehhm... "in char-act-or." Sabe? ...Okay, I admit. Mebbe it ees de awful jokes after all.

The door slowly swings open again, revealing another Spaniard halted within the jamb. He enters, rubbing his nose. Montoya calls scornfully, "What take jou so long? Eh, where you been, Joaquin Andamun? Hahahahahahah!" Joaquin Andamun eyes his superior quizzically. "Why jou always say that? And den jou laugh? Whaat?" "Joaquin, take these three thousand and eighty nine evil-eyed, black-handed, bow-legged, flint-hearted, claw-fingered, foul-bellied, bloodthirsty, burarum -- eh, escuse me, mus' be de pickled eggs. Where was I? ...oh, jes. Book 'em, Dano." Joaquin Andamun straightens slightly and pulls a battered scroll from under his jerkin. He begins to read in a loud voice. "Jou have de right to be tortured until jou confess. Everyt'ing jou say weel be tweested to mean somet'ing else, den we use it againts jou in court. In fact, we gon' be makin' stuff up, an' say jou said it. Jou have de right to be put in chains, and hung by de neck until jou are daid, daid, daid!. Jou have -- wait a min', dis stuff all be cross' out. Jus' a sec...here we go. De Keeng has classified jou as enemy combatant, so jou don' gots no rights at all." Joaquin Andamun jerks the bottom of the scroll abruptly, causing it to retract violently onto its roller (thwip-thip-thip-thip, thip...thip). He stuffs it back in his shirt, and turns to the nearest pirate. "H'okay, jou, Meester Cooperative, jou feerst. Jus to cho jou we does too know how to count, we gon' call you 'Juan'." He looks at his hands, realizing they are empty. "Eh, boss, jou de one gots de rope."