The Adventures of El Pinche Reynoso by Edward

The pensive and hatless figure that was El Pinche Reynoso sipped his tea, listened and watched from his back porch as the morning unfolded. Crows perched on persimmon branches were battling in harsh duets. Scarce winds moved the landscape. Leaves had turned red and were falling end to end in slow motion. A softness had settled onto grey clouds, marking the end of summer and the birthing of cool rains.

The comm unit bleated, caller ID showing a familiar number, bringing a toothy grin to El Pinche’s face. His buddy Larson Gunnsmythe, the reigning Extreme Tiddlywinks Grandmaster, was on the line.

"Hey, cabron, how does it hang?" El Pinche had missed his old friend. They had a lot of catching up to do.

"Good, good. Haven’t seen you since the wedding. How are you, and how’s that pretty wife?"

"She’s just beautiful, she sings to me. We’ve been hard pressed to get all moved in, but our new hacienda is wonderful. We’ve been busy working. Either I’m in training or chasing common or some not-so-common criminals. The crime in North Bergen never stops."

"I know." Larson was one of only a couple of people that El Pinche confided in, the other being Lesmerelda, about his undercover law enforcement role. "Hey, I saw you on ASN (Alternative Sports Network). You took out that dude with the hammers with style, man! I wish I had your touch."

"Well, my friend, I have spent my life studying the whip. I am the Grand Whipmaster, and sometimes I look at all these trophies and awards and cannot believe it."

"El Pinche, I did want to tell you the good news...I’ve won the Lower Northeast Regional Division , and I’ll be going for the gold at the National Finals in Omaha next month. I wanted to see if you and Lesmerelda could make it."

"Let me talk to her; we’ve both needed a vacation, and it sounds like fun."

"It would be a nice three-day getaway for you two, travel and accommodations are on me. Oh yes, it will be fun and interesting. You’ve never experienced Extreme Tiddlywinks unless you’ve seen a match live." Larson had a dollar or two squirreled away, and he could well afford to pay. The noted author of "Extreme Tiddlywinks for Dummies" and the wildly popular sports murder mystery action thriller "Big Stink Tiddlywink", his fortune enabled him to pick and choose, come and go as he pleased. "OK, buddy, talk to Lesmerelda and gimme a buzz back."

"Si, señor."

He called back ten minutes later. Lesmerelda was excited. She’d never been anywhere, let alone the Midwest in fall. She had read that the people were hospitable to a fault and everyone in Nebraska outweighed her by a minimum of at least fifty pounds. She was easily able to take time off; she just rescheduled her stint at the Cucaracha Club.

El Pinche settled for an extreme emergency-only status while he was out of town. Mayor Tony Crandall wouldn’t call him except in the event of catastrophic calamity, such as a plague of something or mass alien abductions.

The A10 touched the runway, tires smoking, thrusters reversed, seats in the upright position. The afternoon sojourn from North Bergen had been short and the stewardesses were pleasant, and, thank God, the air traffic controller’s strike was over. El Pinche and Lesmerelda retrieved their luggage from the conveyor and walked out to meet Larson. He stood in the Ace Airways lobby, looking fit and happy. Redheaded and blue-jeaned, his neck, biceps and plaid shirt left an unforgettable image of a lumberjack. People who saw him noticed that something was missing, perhaps an axe or crosscut saw. Pleasantries exchanged, hugs all around, they headed for the cab and the Hilton.

It was full-on autumn in Omaha. Crisp knife blade air invaded the lungs. Maple forests wore bare twigs, saving their new buds for spring. Heavy liquid sunlight wrapped itself around glistening wet buildings and slickened streets.

El Pinche and Lesmerelda checked into their suite at the Cass Street Hilton and

scanned the ubiquitous entertainment brochures for likely local hotspots. They settled on a restaurant-bar with live music and made reservations for eight o’clock. The recently-weds were relaxed and having a good time. This was their first vacation together and traveling to a new place was,...well,...fun. Lesmerelda’s hair smelled so good, and El Pinche couldn’t keep his eyes or lips off her.

"Lucky, she half-whispered. "We’ve got a few hours ‘til dinner. How about a nap?"

El Pinche said nothing, only smiled through his eyes as he pulled her to him.

Larson knocked on the door to their room at seven thirty and the three friends hailed a cab and headed out for the evening. Larson, the consummate single guy with no taste, had changed into a new plaid shirt. El Pinche and Lesmerelda were casual, no whipmaster paraphernalia or hidden weapons, only the grey snakeskin boots, and Lesmerelda striking in a long black dress.

The Bonepecker Lounge was THE hotspot of Omaha’s blues crowd, be they ordinary hammer wielders or congressmen who appreciated good music, and all came to listen and mingle. The Lounge was that kind of special place where humanity got it together and shared, if for a short time, the harmony that could exist between people in this place. In the spirit, Larson struck up a harmonious conversation with a vivacious brunette, Mindy. She revealed that she was the vice-president of CARE, the Committee Against Reality Entertainment, and offered to show him the town and later, her doll collection.

The Moanin’ Glories were the featured bluesmen tonight. They were a powerhouse in town and could always draw a large crowd. They had the reputation for playing right to the gut, in fact, whenever they played their classic, "Homeless Child Blues", people got all misty-eyed and morose, and left early. None of that tonight, though. Their current contract with The Bonepecker had a No "Homeless Child Blues" clause. It didn’t matter. They picked up the house and ran with it. The joint was jammin’ all new and old and hot, and El Pinche was ready to slippedy-slide across the dance floor a third of the way through "Black Buick Blues". Lesmerelda abandoned her mai tai and joined El Pinche, and the two rambled and box-step lowdowned until way past late.

El Pinche and Lesmerelda sat back in plush purple leather seats, champagne flutes in hand and looked out on the marvelous box seat view of the playing field. Courtesy of Larson and his sponsor, Filton Hadley, exclusive manufacturer of high end alternative sports equipment, the private seating they occupied provided them with a commanding view of the competition. In case they missed an important play, the suite contained a smaller version of the giant Digicell MegaCam plasma screens at either ends of the field, but with independent instant replay features.

The stadium was packed, over fifty thousand raving tiddliacs had gathered to binge drink, fight, and plan the route for the traditional after-game nude run through downtown Omaha.

Extreme Tiddleywinks originated, predictably, during a late night beerbust when several Sigma Pi geeks decided to take their strategy-oriented board game and scale it up. Previously, it had been a game won by those who had best mastered the opening moves. Now, it was a skilled one-on-one Armageddon.

The pot was a six-foot diameter moving target that traveled around the perimeter of the two hundred foot diameter field. The winks were thirty-two ounce colored saucers caught and flung back at incredible speeds with a curved titanium racket, the winksquidge.

The round-pie field was divided into three zones, one red, another blue, and one white. Players could score from the white, or neutral, zone, but were not allowed to aim the wink at their opponent, thus the neutral zone was where players could slow the action and plan their next move. To keep up the pace of the game, though, a player could not keep possession of the wink more than three minutes. Overtime possession was an automatic penalty , forfeit of two points, or tiddlies. A wink in the pot was worth five tiddlies. Hitting your opponent was two tiddlies, so a player not only had to squidge their wink into the pot, but simultaneously dodge the inevitable wink hurling toward his body, all the while trying to work his way toward the neutral zone.

The unruly fans were whipped into a frenzy. The national anthem trailed off into "We will, we will rock you". Two waves were making their way around the stadium from different directions. The overhead argon lights brightened, illuminating the field as the countdown to squidgeoff reached its final seconds.

The announcer’s introduction cut through the din. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the National Extreme Tiddleywinks Championship Final, and welcome to the beautiful city of Omaha." The crown stood and cheered.

"Introducing the finalists, in the Red Zone, the Lower Northeast Regional Division Champion and Grandmaster, Larson Gunnsmythe!" The stadium erupted in a new round of bloodcurdling screams. Larson burst from a paper tiger’s mouth and ran onto the field. His uniform was a single piece padded crimson bodysuit. A round silver helmet and tinted face shield protected his head and face, fingerless gloves and spiked red shoes finished the officially sanctioned competition clothing.

"In the Blue Zone, the Upper Northwestern Regional Division Champ and Silver Crown Master, Flint Benton!" Flint, in head to toe sky blue, ran to the neutral zone, waving to the adoring crowd.

The crowd started to chant, Squidge!....Squidge!....Squidge!....Squidge!

Just as the announcer opened his mouth to say the word that would officially start the game, the seven-helicopter flyover began, each chopper hovering in formation just above the stadium, each flashing a differently colored rotating laser light. The effect was spectacular. The arena lights went dim for a few minutes to let the lasers play over the crowd.

The two champions took their places in the middle of the neutral zone. The referee, dressed in black sweatpants and black and white checkered shirt, wore a wireless comm unit and head-mounted minicam. Video from the view of the official was a novel idea, you always knew what the referee actually saw. Larson and Flint shook hands, the ref inspected the wink for any foreign substances or illegal alterations, and once satisfied, tossed the coin.

"Heads!" Flint always chose heads. The gold coin hit the turf. It was tails.

The players took their positions. The first wink was thrown out by Mayor Poppleton. Flint went for it, but Larson was a split second faster, snagging the wink and cradling it in his winksquidge. He feinted for the red zone, hoping to place himself between Flint and the now moving, ever elusive goal.

The pot passed directly beneath the Reynoso’s private box, causing Lesmeralda to duck and screech, and inadvertently elbow El Pinche in the groin, causing him to spill champagne in her hair. They recovered in time to watch Larson squidge his wink at the pot, now moving away from their box. At the same moment, Flint launched his body across the wink’s path and blocked the shot. He scooped up the wink and hurled it into Larson’s leg. The fans roared with drunken fervor as the scoreboard flashed its led numbers; Benton, 2 tiddlies. Gunnsmythe, 0.