So, Sunday was just about the worst day of my life. I really mean that. In fact, you might say it was the worst day anyone has ever had in the history of having days that are bad, or something like that. I'm a third shift employee. My schedule starts me working at 10pm to 9am, and I clock out for the week on Sunday morning. It had been a shitty week for starters, and so to celebrate this shitty week, some friends from work and I decided to go get some breakfast at a little Mexican restaurant that used to be near my apartment. I've never had a Mexican breakfast, but I'm sure there's no better cure for the shitty week than tequila at 9am. We hopped in our cars and drove down a few blocks to "La Alfombra de la Mierda," with Will and his wife leading the way in their Honda Accord, me following them in my 1968 Mustang GT, and Greg taking the rear in his Bronco. The side is still beat in from where the swat team smashed into it. I told him he should get his insurance to pay for it, but he doesn't want his rates to go up.

We parked around back. Will always liked to park in back so he can sneak away at a moment's notice, and given his history, I wouldn't blame him. Greg got caught at a light, so we we were waiting for him. Will light a cigarette and put the pack back into his jacket. "I think ou'll like this place," he said, "they make a mean mole sauce." I didn't know why I felt so nervous, it was just breakfast at a crack in the wall Mexican restaurant in a bad part of San Antonio. What could go wrong at a place like this? Christy caught my nervous glances back and forth. I was scanning the day laborers for anyone who might slit my throat while I was taking a piss. She smirked, knowing full well that knives were the least of our problems, but she didn't bother to tell me that. Remind me to cuss her out for that.

From the corner of the building comes the blaring sounds of rock guitar and Dee Snyder's dulcet tones. "We're not gonna take it! NO! We ain't gonna take it! We're not gonna take it anymoooore!" That must have been Greg. The screeching tires proved our hunches to be correct. Greg barreled into the parking lot and slammed to a stop, double parking as usual. That guy's such a fucking badass, it makes me want to shit on your chest. "Hey guys, you hungry?" Greg tucked his knife behind his back and under his shirt. You won't catch him with his guard down. "I'm fucking starving. Let's chow down." Will stomped out his cigarrette and we went inside.

So, this place was a dive. The ceiling was droopy and water damaged, the wallpaper was peeling off, and the place smelled like somebody had used the carpet to wipe the asses of a thousand buffalo. We sat down at a booth, stepping over the puddle of vomit and God knows what. We were the only white people within 10 city blocks, and everybody in there knew it. But there was something else, something other than the blatent "no gringos allowed, fucker" look that everybody wore. The waitress came by, put some menus on the corner and took our drink orders. Will took a coffee, his wife took iced tea, Greg ordered vodka in a water glass, and I ordered a gin ricky. The table was strangely quiet, save the typical chit chat that coworkers usually have about their shitty week. Twenty minutes later, we had our drinks and had ordered food. I guess the only difference between breakfast Mexican and regular mexican is that you can get shitty eggs instead of shitty ground beef. I ordered 2 bacon and egg tacos and a scrambled egg enchilada with extra mole sauce. The drinks came first. I guess since it's the middle of September that lime selection is limited, or maybe they were just giving me the whithered ones as a polite way of saying, "I could have spit in your food bitch."

"Excuse me miss, could I get another lime wedge? This one was kind of... well, dry."
"What do you mean dry? It doesn't look dry to me," she responded.
"Well, that's because I put it in the glass. But yeah, it was a bit subpar."
"So," she crossed her arms, obviously thinking I was too fucking good for her fruit, "you're telling me that your lime didn't have enough juice. I'll fix that right up for you sir." She stormed off into the kitchen, rattling off that monkey language of hers, apparently to the guy cooking the food. A few minutes later, she came back with a fucking dinner plate full of limes, "Is this enough lime for you, esse?" I don't know why they call me that.
"Fuck, yeah you didn't have to do that. One would have been fine, but thanks though." I could feel the beady eyes of the immigrants at the bar staring into the back of my head.
"There's no fucking pleasing you is there?" And she walked off.

Somehow, I had the feeling that I wouldn't be eating the tacos. Greg downed the last half of his vodka. That's when I knew that shit was gonna go down. Greg never busts balls before finishing his drink. I saw him glance over his shoulder to his axe laying in the passenger seat of his Bronco. One by one, all the other patrons left, leaving us alone in the restaurant. It had been 45 minutes and we hadn't seen either the waitress or our food yet. When the last of the customers had left, the cook came out, threw his apron in the trash, and locked the door. Will shot a glance to his wife in that, "Are you ready?" sort of look.
The cook came over to our table, eyed us each one at a time, then looked at the plate of limes, "Finish your fucking fruit or I'll serve your corpse for dinner to my customers."
At this point, why the fuck not. I crossed my arms, looked up at him and defiantly said, "I can't sir, they're too fucking dry. Maybe if you got some real fucking limes instead of these bullshit green golf balls I could do something about it." I saw Greg reach for his knife and the cook's eyes grew red with rage. The sky grew dark and wind blew through the windows.
"Well gringo, if that's the way we're gonna do this, then let's do it." He stood back and clenched his fists. Christy reached into her purse for her Derringer, and Will took another sip of his coffee. Fucking guy never gets riled up.

The building started to shake. I tried to grab on to the bench in a panic, but couldn't find anything to grab on to. Plates and glasses were shattering, and the cook was laughing like a maniac. He raised his arms and the fucking building just ripped apart at the seams. The cook lifted into the air, suspended by powers from beyond the grave. His laughter grew to insanity. The sky cracked open with lightning, the thunderstorm he had summoned was ripping up the sidewalk and toppling over buildings. Greg jumped up, knife drawn and dove head first at the Mexican Beelzebub, but slammed into a field of energy that had been put in front of us. The Demonic laughter was booming, overpowering the cracking thunder and the terrible screams coming from the day school across the street. The little restaurant then fucking lifted into the air. With a terrible jerk we were airborn, being carried on the wind of this hurricane in the middle of San Antonio. The spinning made me nausius, and I could feel myself beginning to black out from the force. My eyes started to close. Greg punched fiercly at the force field screaming that Korrok the Vengeful would not see his children suffer. Will took another sip of his coffee, and then I blacked out.

I woke up to a seering pain in my leg. It was dark. I could hear muddled voices around me. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I started to see the destroyed remnants of the restaurant. It was astonishingly cold, something you don't expect in San Antonio. I sat up and my head spun. Greg helped me to my feet, which was excruciatingly painful since there was a shard of metal in my calf. When I collapsed, Greg was kind enough to hold me down with his foot on my neck and yank out the shapnel. I said some really mean things about his mother and he helped me up again. I walked over to a hole in the wall and saw snow. This was definately not San Antonio. It was a fucking mountain. A fucking mountain covered in snow, in the middle of nowhere. A Satanic mexican cook left us to die of hypothermia all over some fucking shitty limes. Will and Christy were outsime smoking, talking about the situation.

"So isn't this a shitty way to start our weekend." Greg said as he helped me limp out the door. There was a bottle of whiskey laying in the snow. I poured the foul liquid into my wound and spoke about violating Greg's mom again. Greg cut some strips out of one of the curtains that we found lieing in the wreckage and using a peice of wood, made a make shift splint and bandage. I stood up and looked around. There wasn't any sign of civilization to be seen. Or at least, not at first. Christy noticed a fire in the distance behind us. We started walking towards the light when we saw another fire, then another. They were torches, and whoever had them probably noticed that Mexican restaurants usually don't fall from the sky. But the bigger question was who the fuck uses torches?

A few hours later, we were half frozen still walking through the snowy forest in the direction of the torches that were coming closer to us when Greg suddenly stopped and ducked down. Knowing that he was the best tracker of all of us, we did the same.
"Greg, what's wrong?" Christy whispered.
"There's something in the trees. Over there." Greg pointed to our right into some tall trees that were visible through the snow covered brush. I certainly didn't see anything.
"Are you sure Greg?" I asked him.
"Sure enough to fuck a dog." He saw the puzzled look on my face, "What, you've never heard that one before?"

Before I had time to answer, we saw the mexican chef, or at least what was once a mexican chef. He was more of a snake now, a twisted flesh stretched abomination that unwrapped itself. His skin bubbled and split open, dripping pus and blood down on the tundra below. He had grown two curling black horns that grew out of his head and a pair of black wings that bellowed smoke when he extended them. His arms were like skin stretched over bone, but his hands became jagged claws and his feet were cloven hooves. He was feasting on what looked to be the strangled corpse of a horse with tentacles instead of legs. I'm not sure if I had just seen the devil himself, but I do know that I shit my pants.

"Stay down. I don't want that fucker noticing us." Greg whispered to us. Christy clutched her Derringer and started looking for some escape, but it was evident that if we moved out of the bushes that we would be the monstor's desert. The mexican chef quickly finished his feast and slithered back up the tree. He wrapped around a branch and started cleaning his horns the way a cat cleans its ears. My legs were cramped and my back hurt from squatting in the bushes for the next hour as we watched the beast pleasure himself, shoot his monster load into the tree across from him, and then fall asleep. What a fucking ass hole.

We left the clearing and kept walking to the torches. It wasn't longer than an hour before we came to the top of a hill overlooking a campsite. We crouched in the bushes and had our first encounter with the fucklers.

TO BE CONTINUED...