North Bergen had split into a city of two camps; those who believed in shmutz and those who didn’t. Both ideologies claimed popular support, and posters adorned every available inch of open space, impinging on outdoor advertising. Smack in the middle of a billboard for DigiCell’s newest internet phone would be plastered a large poster that said "Shmutz: It’s Here, Get Used To It!", or one that said "Shmutz Is Not Healthy For Living Things."

Shmuel Derschkowitz, the leader of the militant pro-shmutz faction (otherwise known as shmutzinistas), exhorted his followers to commit acts of vandalism, arson and sabotage. He had vowed in videotaped messages to destroy all who opposed him, and the city was not in any shape to face these threats unassisted. A plot had been foiled over in Jersey City when a shmutzinista ring was infiltrated and their facility raided. They had been constructing a "dirty bomb" designed to spread shmutz over a fifty square mile area. The NBPD had placed a million dollar bounty on Derschkowitz’ head, and Mayor Tony Crandall was being pressured by city officials to ask the Governor to send in National Guard troops to restore order.

To further complicate matters, the shmutzinistas had now broken into several government facilities, ripping out computer equipment, breaking windows, and placing "Shmutz; Love It Or Leave It" stickers everywhere they went.

Mayor Crandall was fed up. He had just received word of an ugly new escalation in current hostilities, and only knew of one possible way to regain control. Time to call in his secret weapon. He felt under his desk and flipped a switch, opening a secret compartment in the wall, then reached inside and dialed one digit on the yellow phone.

El Pinche had just gotten out of the shower, and was trimming his toenails when the red eye on his special yellow phone blinked and the alarm warbled. He dropped his towel and rushed to pick it up. Ssshhh...Don’t wake Lesmeralda.

"Si, Señor Mayor."

"Yes, El Pinche, we have a situation. Let me lay it out for you. One hour ago, armed shmutzinistas broke into the Outland Research Facility and released several chimpanzees from their cages. They have been spotted in several neighborhoods, creating havoc. They have broken into homes and stolen food, attacked several people, and one was spotted driving a stolen Studebaker."

"Que?" El Pinche shook his head. Perhaps his ears had heard wrong.

"Er...yes. These chimps were undergoing various stages of experimental genetic protocols, and some of them are more...advanced, if you will. That’s about all the information I have and I’m asking you to round them up. Can you do it?"

"Of course, Señor Mayor. Rest assured that Whipmaster El Pinche is undefeatable."

"Uh,.. yeah. Think you’ll need backup?"

"El Pinche fights alone." He bristled.

"Very good, then. Oh, and by the way, this conversation never took place."

"What conversation, Señor? Heh..heh."

El Pinche dressed silently and with purpose. His spandex and black leather jumpsuit was made expressly for these missions. He needed to be able to move fast and keep his whip arm free. He strapped on his utility belt, then selected his best combat whip, the Revenger X. It was twenty inches longer than the standard competition whip, and featured a custom grip, fitted to only his hand. He adjusted his tiny sombrero over the black skullcap, hooked up his hands-free comm system, kissed a still-slumbering Lesmerelda, and headed out the door.

The titanium silver SUV, windows tinted purple, glided through chaotic city streets alive with people running from an unseen threat. Screams echoed from alleys and smoke and flame poured from several buildings as fire crews battled to contain the outbreaks.

El Pinche turned on his comm console and was immediately in direct contact with the NBPD dispatch.

"Agent E reporting. What’s my target?"

"Agent E, proceed to P.S. #9 at Twenty-Fourth and Abercrombie to remove a gang of chimps that have commandeered the school cafeteria."

"Proceeding. Ayyy...chihuahua!"

Public School #9 was a three story worn out red brick building, with the cafeteria on the northwest wing of the first floor. A crowd of sobbing and angry parents had gathered outside the main entrance; a single security guard tried to calm and hold them at bay.

El Pinche parked the suv and ran up the steps, parting the crowd. He flashed his badge and was beckoned inside by the guard.

"What’s the situation?"

"Well," replied the guard, a pimply faced young man named Lance, "The chimps broke into the cafeteria at lunch time and overran the place. It’s been chaotic. We don’t have any injuries reported, but apparently the kids have been herded into one corner while the chimps eat everything in sight. What’s your plan?"

El Pinche thought hard for a minute. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for this, but...

"My plan is to rescue the children and fight off the chimps simultaneously. I’ll need you to get the kids out the door while I keep the chimps busy. Can you handle that?"

"Let’s do it,"

From his utility pouch, El Pinche selected an immediasleep stunner. This was a metal hollow needle filled with a powerful sedative, that when affixed to the lashtip and flicked into the body of the enemy, could put an elephant to sleep in seconds. It was good for four hits, then a new stunner had to be loaded.

Armed and feeling dangerous, El Pinche opened the door to the lunchroom. A cacophony of yips and hoots greeted him. Six chimps stood on separate tables, grinning at him with bared yellow teeth. Two of the chimps had bandaged skulls, all six walked on fully shaved legs. They moved as one, off the tables and onto the floor toward El Pinche, forcing him to stay near the door. Senses tingling, whip hand itching, he decided to preempt the chimps’ attack, and faster than thought, the Revenger X slid

into his hand, uncoiling with controlled fury.

Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Reload. Four chimps lay contorted, limbs limp, torsos twitching, as Lance herded the handful of students out the door. One of the remaining chimps made a feint to the left, then ran in a half-crouch to the right. El Pinche was not fooled. Crack! Another chimp bit the dust, leaving only one, a graying male who sat unmoving, watching El Pinche through liquid black eyes. The chimp calmly unscrewed the lid on a jar of prunes and ate them one at a time, never taking his eyes off El Pinche.

Confused into frozen inaction by the chimp’s behavior, El Pinche was even more surprised when the chimp spoke.

"The prunes were delicious."

"You...you can t...talk!" El Pinche sputtered.

"Of course, doesn’t everyone?" The chimp’s voice sounded rasping and eerie, like Joan Rivers with emphysema. As the chimp spoke, he toyed with a small vial hanging from a chain around his neck.

El Pinche moved closer. "Steady now, I just want to talk! What is your name?" he asked the chimp.

"God."

"Who told you your name was God?"

"Professor Klingst."

Well, that explains it, thought El Pinche. This was another case of a mad scientist inserting human genetic material into wild primates in order to create a race of intelligient chimps and take over the world. This kind of thing happened now and then, you just needed to nip it in the bud before it went any further.

"What’s in the vial on that necklace?" he asked "God".

"Shmutz."

"I knew it!" yelled El Pinche. Those shmutzinistas were planning on building an army of genetically enhanced simians. Foul. Foul indeed.

The Revenger X lashed out one last time, and "God" fell from the table, twitching and whimpering. El Pinche walked up to the muttering chimp and snatched

the chain and its deadly vial. It was heavy and warm in his palm. He looked closer, held it up to the light. The semi-solid contents were alive, boiling, glinting gold with an inner luminescence. Shmutz, eh? This is what has everyone killing each other?

El Pinche looked closer. The vial felt warmer and a tingle ran up his arm. So pretty. So damn pretty. Look at the pretty light. He felt faint suddenly, knees weak, an overwhelming thirst for the contents of the vial blocking out all other reality. The urge to open the vial became an insistent command in his brain. Open it..open it.. I must open it...now.. Helpless, he reached to unscrew the gold cap just as Lance knocked him down and kicked the vial across the room. El Pinche sat stunned. It took several minutes to regain his composure and speak.

"Thank you."

"It nearly had you, man."

El Pinche’s comm unit warbled. It was Lesmerelda.

"Yes, my sweetness. I’ll be there soon." He pushed the button for NBPD dispatch.

"Agent E here."

"Go ahead, Agent E."

"Once more, El Pinche has prevailed. Site is secure. Send somebody to pick up six sleeping beauties, por favor."

"Wagon’s on its way. Go on home, but remain on standby."

"Si. Agent E out."

He stood up, straightened his tiny sombrero, holstered his whip, adjusted his aviator sunglasses, then as cheers erupted from the crowd, El Pinche exited the building.

Satan was just finishing the lyrics for his latest disco release, “Feel that Burn”. His assistant, Bob, spread out the final proofs for the album cover. The splashy pitchfork and blue flame logo looked bitchin’. Under the title was a picture of Satan dressed in his new white polyester suit, gold medallion the size of a dinner plate hanging from the massive chain around his red neck.
Satan didn’t like anybody calling him “Satan”. It was so ...well....satanic. Instead he was commonly known to his friends as B.L. He signed all his important documents, checks and insurance policies, “B.L. Zebubb”.
He’d worked hard for months on this new album. The songs were back to back tight and slammed into each other like angry fists. This album was going to be huge and he knew it. After all, he was Satan.
His band, The Icemen, was made up of the best the underworld could offer, except for the drummer. His name was Jason Freddy and he lived in St. Petersburg. He played with a skinhead band called Satan’s Lovers. B.L. felt so honored and impressed by Jason’s frenetic styling that he arranged for Jason to come on down and play for him whenever he wanted. Jason said that was cool, but he did have an inborn aversion to lakes of fire. B.L. had replied that all that lake of fire stuff was just hooey, anyway. Hell was now air conditioned and almost everyone there had gone vegan. Leather was out and polyester leisure suits with gigantic lapels were in, and “Disco Inferno” was the official anthem.
The dark side wasn’t without its problems of course, unemployment hovered around 99%, but what in hell could you do? Anyway, B.L. figured that if he could provide a cooler environment and get everyone eating right, he could then keep his minions discoing and happy. It was a delicate balancing act, but he’d had a few millennia of experience. He’d tried all the traditional stuff, demons (makeup), a cool devil costume, fiery pits (barbecue), and a hundred other schemes. It had really gotten tiresome around the year 2000 when he had decided to institute some changes.
The guys in the office building at 1600 Heavenly Way had been pissed, though. They accused him of flip-flopping, and told their flock that they’d best not be casting envious eyes towards the party down the street. They were in heaven for all eternity, white robes were mandated, and if God had wanted them to disco, he’d have kept it alive, he wouldn’t have made it die when it did.
Tonight, at the Cucaracha Club, B.L. and the Icemen were going to unveil their new music. They would rock the crowd with their opening number, “Field of Fire”, follow it up with “Hot Booty Baby” and “Toast Me Up”, then encore with the disco remake of “Burnin’ Down the House”.
Even in the underworld, music defined culture. B.L. had studied music tomes, he had even read that music had the power to soothe savage beasts..or was it savage breasts? Anyway, it had wrought some changes in this part of the universe. It wasn’t exactly like pointing a scaly claw at some third world despot and enabling him to wipe out a million souls. Disco worked on you more subtly. It put a bop in your walk and you became the damned with attitude.
“OK, Bob, get the barcodes on and let’s start production. I want the CDs cut and packaging printed by Thursday, in shipping by Friday, and delivered to Dark Tower Records by Monday”.
“You got it, B.L.”.
“Oh and don’t forget to remind everybody about the rehearsal Tuesday. We’re going to audition a new vocalist.”
“Really? Who is it?”
“You may have heard of him already. Do you know Michael Jackson?”

     El Pinche Reynoso surveyed the image in the mirror. Not bad, eh? His tight baby blue pantaloons were embroidered in silver, and his red leather jacket had all the shoulder pads money could buy. Black snakeskin boots with silver toes clad his feet, and his small sombrero perched atop his head at a jaunty angle, completing his ladykiller persona. El Pinche, he thought, tonight you will get lucky. She’s out there. She’s waiting. Go get her, cabron!                      

     He took one last look in the mirror, flashed his whitest smile and a practice wink, then with bullwhip in one hand and breath spray in the other, he swaggered into the bar.

     It was Lady’s Night Out for Lesmerelda Katz and her friend Vivian. Lesmerelda hadn’t been lucky in love, was on the verge of giving up the chase, and had to be coaxed into going out. “Oh c’mon Les,” said Vivian. “Who knows? This might be your night.” Lesmerelda reluctantly agreed. She thought about what her father had told her. “Sweetie, he said, Your lovely name will be your saving grace. After all, in Castilian, Lesmeralda means The one to whom others go.” She had meant to ask him where he had found this information, but never got around to it.

     She sat at the end of the Cucaracha Club bar, idly stirring her mai tai, watching the goings on. B.L. and the Icemen were on stage playing The Five Cent Boogie, and booties were shaking all over the place. Her friend Vivian was already bumping hindparts and hips with a longhaired blonde guy named Kerr.

      “Please God, prayed Lesmerelda, let me find somebody!” She’d never had a steady boyfriend. Those young miscreants at school had been creeps, every one of them. She hadn’t met one young man that had shown any interest in her other than leering and drooling. She had been through all the castigation, tried dating services, (nothing but self-centered divorced professionals with good teeth as their only redeeming social value) and she was discouraged and fed up with it all.

      Maybe tonight I’ll just sit here and watch, she thought resignedly, when the entrance to the bar exploded in color and something jingling. El Pinche had entered the building. Lesmerelda’s heart stopped. She realized she was staring at the handsome yet surreal figure diddybopping into the bar. Somehow, she thought, he should have been riding a horse. A big white one. A big white horse raring up on two legs. Knees shaking and drinking hand trembling, she knocked over her mai tai and jumped up from her chair as the contents of her glass spilled onto her leg. El Pinche, noticing the commotion, flashed over to her table, and with an elegant two-fingered flourish, pulled a large pink bandanna from his hip pocket. He leaned down, his mustache close to hers. She could smell the earthy scent of Old Spice. “With your permission, Señorita?” “Thank you, yes!” she nearly screamed. He reached down and carefully dried her leg. Lesmerelda thought she would faint, but merely swooned instead.

     “May I join you?” His smile was wide and toothy.

      “Please do.” she said. “I’m Lesmerelda.”

     “El Pinche Reynoso, but my close (wink, wink) friends call me Lucky.” El Pinche laid his pearl handled bullwhip on the table, clapped his hands above his head, and yelled above the din for the drink hostess. Ten minutes later he managed to catch her eye and ordered himself a near beer and a refill for Lesmerelda. “Dance?”

      She thought he’d never ask. The first few bars of Blue Moon over Biloxi pulled them together in a slow dance, bodies touching, lights dim. Lesmerelda had to pinch herself. Was this for real? Here she was, in the arms of this handsome stranger, emotions in overdrive, and enjoying every tasty minute. The stage lights were reflected in El Pinche’s silver belt buckle, creating a point of brilliance that moved in slow rythm across the ceiling.

     The last beats of the music faded away and both couples headed to the table, eyes locked on one another, touching, flirting, lips ready. Introductions all around, everyone sat down, and Kerr broke his gaze from Vivian long enough to take a really good look at El Pinche.

      “Hey man, what’s with the whip?, Hyuk, Snhyuk.” Kerr looked like a stallion and laughed like one, too.

      “Self defense.” said El Pinche, his voice suddenly tight and small, eyes narrowed and glittering. “Perhaps you’ve seen me on the cover of Whipmaster magazine.”

     “Sorry, no.” said Kerr. “Can’t say as I have.”

      “I am a Tenth Degree Whipmaster.” said El Pinche, suddenly expansive. “I proudly wear the small sombrero to mark my ascencion to the top ranks of competitive whip snapping.”

     “Oh, so that explains the weird little hat. Is the clown suit part of the uniform too?” El Pinche ignored him and turned to Lesmerelda. Without a word, she gathered up her belongings, threw a twenty on the table and hand in hand, El Pinche and Lesmerelda left the building.