La Vida de Doctor Caballeron

In late summer, when the hot sun of the desert sinks behind the mesas in the distance, it brings the noches rojas - the red evenings - to the small, isolated town at Río de los Cólicos. With the soft glow of the crimson skies comes the gentle breezes and refreshing relief from the unrelenting desert heat. The laborers leave the haciendas, a lone armadillo scurries across the sands, and the melancholy chords of a single guitar resonate between the walls of rock and adobe, and off the heavy roofing tiles of the smallest, humblest houses and the few gargantuan mansions alike. A lone pony continues his siesta in the plaza by the trickling fountain, his face concealed by his wide sombrero. Above him, smoke from the stoves and chimneys climb into the evening air as a pair of hawks drift slowly through the plumes.

A young mare leans against the balustrade of her balcony, sighing dreamily yet morosely as she watches the hawks. She brushes aside the gossamer threads of the mantilla that hangs from the Spanish comb in her mane. She reflects upon another lonesome day in the small town between the river and the mesa. She knows that she must soon sleep, for the next day will bring another long haul at the guesthouse cantina, surrounded by the smell of cheap tequila and spicy tamales.

The earth pony steps away from the balustrade, and her dress again falls to cover the mark on her flank - a bouquet of thorny roses. She has grown tired of serving the cantina wastrels - her passion was her flowers. She was once responsible for tending the gardens of the Viceroy of Río de los Cólicos before he passed away and was replaced with a new stallion that dismissed her from her duties. She knows that she most likely will never have such an opportunity again, for the drive to pour her heart and soul into her cactus roses has long since faded away. It had been overcome by the sadness that took hold when her lover left Río de los Cólicos many months ago. The stabbing pain of separation that plagued her heart had grown stronger every day as she waited on her balcony at night and dreamed of his return. But the practice was growing old. It seemed that the waiting, wishing, and hoping had amounted to nothing but lost time. And time was precious - she could not afford to let more of her young life slip away.

A single tear fell from her cheek onto the weathered tiles of the balcony as she approached the doorway to her bedroom. But just as she went to grab the handle, she heard a voice - that same voice that she believed she would never hear again - speak her name from the street below.

“Rosita! Rosita, mi amor!”

And suddenly the lonely brown mare’s eyes went wide. Surely she was dreaming. So many times before, she believed she had heard his voice, only to turn and find nothing but the wind behind her. But this time, it seemed so real… So she turned back from the door, dashed to the balustrade, and looked down to the desolate street of her quiet quarter of the town.

A stallion in a dusty poncho stared up at her from the dirt road, eyes filled with passion, hoof at his chest. It was him - it was unmistakably him, for she could see the mark of the golden skull on his flank. After months and months, her wish had come true. Her lover - Caballeron - had returned.

“Augusto… Could it be?” Rosita asked, nearly on the verge of tears. “Have my prayers been answered?”

“Ay, Rosita, did you ever doubt that I would someday come running back to your open hooves?” Caballeron called to her with raging passion. “We were meant to be together, Rosita. What is a guitar without its strings? What is a bird without its wings? What is a succulent enchilada without sour cream? They are NOTHING! They are nothing… just as I am nothing... without you.”

“Oh, Augusto,” Rosita sighed dreamily as she leaned across the balcony.

“But I am not well, Rosita,” Caballeron shouted angrily, turning his head away and stomping his hoof. “For there is an inferno raging inside of me, and for months it has charred my fragile soul.”

“Pero… Augusto… por qué?”

“Because,” Caballeron said, slowly turning again and locking eyes with Rosita. “My loins… They are on fire.”

Rosita knew the only cure for fiery loins. She threw open the door to her boudoir, dashed through the room and down the staircase. She grabbed the handle and yanked open the door to the house to reveal Dr. Caballeron in a suggestive pose with a rose clenched tightly between his teeth. Rosita threw her hooves around him and rubbed against the stubble of his cheeks.

“You kept your other promise as well…” She cooed into his ear.

“Sí, por supuesto,” he answered. “I would never shave the hairs of true masculinity.”

Rosita dragged the rugged treasure-hunter into her vestibule, and the pair collapsed on a divan. Caballeron moved the flowing mantilla out of her scarlet eyes.

“Rosita… you know well the careful steps one must take to turn the maize into a fine tortilla…” Caballeron said, letting the rose drop to the floor. “You must take the kernels from the cob, grab the pestle… and, again and again, as if life depends on it… you must pound them.”

“Oh… Augusto… Of course I remember.”

“Then we must make haste, my little chimichanga!” Caballeron roared. “We must extinguish the fires of passion that have burned unchecked for months without end. For if a tamale is overcooked… it will become too crispy.”

“Come, Augusto,” Rosita begged as she jumped from the divan and pulled Caballeron to the stairs.

“No, no, mi amor,” Caballeron protested, “not here.”

Caballeron was promptly bitch-slapped by his companion, and groaned with romantic delight.

“It won’t be like the last time, Augusto! I don’t hide the flautas under the pillow anymore!”

“Not the flautas, Rosita!” Caballeron said as he grabbed the brown mare and held her close. “It is your bed! Far too firm. It does not properly yield to the force of our undying love… to the force of my masculinity…”

Caballeron was bitch-slapped again.

“No, Augusto. I refuse to use the kitchen table again,” Rosita cried dramatically with a hoof to her head. “I’ve had to replace it four times already.”

“Not the table, Rosita. I mean… I want you to come back to Dos Broncos. To my hacienda, to the very room where our love first began.” Caballeron gave Rosita a quick yet forceful kiss on the cheek.

“But Augusto… it is late… The streets are not safe at night… What about the banditos?”

“We need not fear the banditos, Rosita,” Caballeron explained as he ran a hoof through his lover’s mane. “My compadres are here. And they have brought the wagon.”

Sure enough, as Caballeron led Rosita out to the street, they found a small, broken-down wagon with peeling white paint waiting outside the house. Two mustachioed stallions - also in dusty ponchos -  were already in the reigns, and another sat in the rear of the cart, with a guitar in his lap. The three ponies reeked of sangria so strong that Rosita could smell it from the front stoop of the house.

“Of course you remember the three Enricos,” Caballeron stated with a wave of his hoof.

“Of course I-” Rosita exclaimed, stopping in mid-sentence. “Wait, I thought there were four Enricos. What happened to the fourth Enrico?”

“Never made it back from the last expedition. Qué lástima, for his chest was nearly as hairy as mine,” Caballeron wept as he ushered Rosita into the wagon. Then, he climbed aboard himself, and shouted, “Vámonos, mis valientes!”

The two Enricos in the reigns reared up and started off, pulling the wagon behind them, as the third Enrico waved his horn and started belting out powerful chords on his guitar.

Dr. Augusto Caballeron serenaded his lover with a romantic song as the Enricos drove the wagon through the empty streets of Río de los Cólicos, making their way from Rosita’s barrio to the crumbling clay and stone walls of the town, through the gates, and down the desolate, agave-lined road to Caballeron’s hacienda.

“Andale, mis amigos!” Caballeron roared as the Enricos picked up the pace. The rickety wagon thundered into the night, as the red skies faded to the dark of night. “Any delay would be a crime… An insult to the hearts of two lovers.”

Caballeron and his entourage raced through the gates to the ranch, past the neglected, untilled fields and up to the grand porch that surrounded the building. There, the doctor and his lover hopped off the wagon as the Enricos bid them farewell and bolted off into the night. In the distance, the shaky notes of a lone trumpet player sounded through the desert as Caballeron and Rosita dashed through the front door, past the display cases of Caballeron’s countless stolen artifacts in the foyer, and up the staircase. His heart pounding with intense intimacy, Caballeron kicked the doors of his bedroom open with his hind legs and carried Rosita to the grand, king-sized bed at the center of the room. He sat her down on the edge of the bed, threw off his poncho, and tore open his signature tan shirt to reveal his inordinately hairy chest.

“So many months, Rosita… So long have I waited for this moment!” the doctor exclaimed as he stared into her eyes.

But to the treasure-hunter’s surprise, the passion he had seen in Rosita just minutes ago in her humble home seemed to have disappeared. Her eyes were dull, and they stared off into some corner of the room, rather than into his own. Her hooves quivered as she sat on the edge of the bed, her mind in an entirely different place.

“Rosita. Mi amor,” Caballeron began. “This is what we have waited for. The guitar has its strings… the bird has its wings… there is enough sour cream on the enchilada to cause severe coronary disease! Why do you shake like some skimpy chihuahua?”

Rosita was silent for a moment. She again brushed the veil out of her face, covered her mouth with her hooves, and said,

“I can’t.”

Caballeron was taken aback.

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“There’s something I haven’t told you, Augusto,” Rosita mumbled. Her eyes met his now, but the flames of unrelenting love had died. They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds.

“What have you not told me?” Caballeron demanded. “Is there another!?”

Rosita was silent.

“Rosita! Digame! Is there ANOTHER?” Caballeron asked as his brow wrinkled in disgust. Further silence from Rosita only enraged the doctor further. He turned his back on Rosita and stomped away. “It’s that little creep from the cantina, isn’t it? The little jerk that rolls the cigarros at the plantation? Is it him? Or is it that little shmuck who rides with the Garrochistas who might… might have chest hair that rivals my own?”

Rosita only sat on the bed and quivered. Caballeron spun around and marched back toward her.

“Maybe it’s that guy in the distance who was playing the trumpet a couple minutes ago! Augh, the señoritas always fall for the musicians! Dios mío. Why must a ruggedly-handsome renegado like myself continually come second to the pretty-boys that devote themselves to the performing arts? Is his trumpet REALLY more enticing than my chorizo?”

“There isn’t another, Augusto,” Rosita finally managed to say, voice quivering uncontrollably.

“Well then if there isn’t another, what’s the problem?” Caballeron demanded. The muscles of his loins throbbed, displeased with his inactivity. “Are you REALLY still angry about the ONE LOUSY TIME I spoiled the pico de gallo?”

“No, Augusto. I don’t care about trivial things like that.”

“Then WHAT IS IT?” the doctor demanded.

Rosita sighed, stood up from the bed, and sulked over to the window. And as she looked up at the moon in the night sky, she answered,

“You aren’t the only one who has returned to Río de los Cólicos.”

Caballeron was silent.

“Two weeks ago, at the cantina… I saw him,” Rosita revealed.

“Saw who?”

“The face, the voice… unmistakable.”

“WHOSE face? WHOSE voice?”

Caballeron was right behind Rosita now. After a few moments, she finally said,

“Raúl Espada. He… he came back.”

With the mere mention of his name, Caballeron began foaming at the mouth. His eye twitched as he turned on his hooves, fell to his hinds, raised his forelimbs into the air, and screamed,

“POR QUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!?”

“You know why he’s back,” Rosita said. “He wants to settle the score with you, and somehow he knew you were headed back to town, and he’s ready and waiting for-”

“Rosita, are you that dense?” Caballeron grumbled, returning to all fours. “I know why he came back! When I said ‘por que,’ I meant 'why the hell didn’t you tell me this when we were at your place?' Why the hell did you wait for me to go through the whole below-the-balcony routine, do the thing with the rose in my mouth, go through the elaborate wagon ride, and let me get ready for a long, dirty, passionate lovemaking session, only to tell me now and kill the vibe?”

Rosita bitch-slapped Caballeron once again.

“I was caught up in the moment,” Rosita growled.

“Understandable,” Caballeron conceded as he glanced at his reflection in his bedroom mirror, flashed a toothy grin and flexed his muscles. “But unfortunately, none of that matters now. There will be time for romance luego. Right now, I need to plot my next move. If Raúl Espada wants to settle the score, then settle the score I will.”

The name Raúl Espada may seem innocuous enough. But anypony who lived in the isolated town by the mesa knew of the feud between Espada and Caballeron. In their younger days, they were Garrochistas - the soldiers that defended Río de los Cólicos from the banditos and outlaws from Appleloosa. But then came the day when they both left the law behind to become treasure-hunters. And for several years, they were notorious partners in crime, turning healthy profits from tomb-raiding, museum theft, and highway robbery. But at one point, something happened. Nopony knows what exactly the “something” is, but it caused the two outlaws to go their separate ways. Anypony in Río de los Cólicos could tell you that Espada and Caballeron are now sworn enemies.

“But Augusto!” Rosita cried. “Why? What happened those years ago? What made two lifelong compadres up and turn their backs on one another?”

“Rosita,” Caballeron said sternly, dropping his head and closing his eyes. “You know that I cannot say why. This matter is between myself and Raúl Espada alone.”

“Is there no way to make amends?”

“No. Raúl Espada insulted my honor… my machisimo,” Caballeron said as he shook a hoof. “What he did was unforgivable. We must finish what was started. And this time, only one of us can walk away.”

The unsettling, quivery notes of the lone trumpet began again. Caballeron caressed his temples, ran to the window, threw it open, and shouted into the night,

“Oye, pendejo! Shut the hell up!”

After slamming the window, Caballeron put his head to the wall.

“Rosita. Who is this idiot with the trumpet that follows us around all the time?”

“Don't be that way. I think he’s only trying to help. He’s adding to the severity of your-”

“No, he’s not,” Caballeron interjected. “He’s a little freak who couldn’t make it to the concert hall, so he comes out here and thinks he can set the mood during our personal affairs. It’s like he’s stalking us or something.”

Caballeron regained his posture, flexed a muscle, and took Rosita into his arms.

“But for now, we must not worry about the pendejo with the trumpet,” Caballeron continued. “We must find the Enricos, take the wagon back to town, and deliver you home safely. Then, I will come back here, to Dos Broncos, and make the plans to do what must be done.”

“But how are we supposed to find the Enricos after they’ve ridden off into the night?” Rosita asked.

“Hah, rode off into the night. That’s funny, Rosita,” the doctor answered. “Forty bits says they probably just ran to the far side of the property and started drinking sangria.”

*   *   *

The following evening, Rosita dragged her tired frame home after another long day at the cantina guesthouse. It was as typical as any other; the house tequila flew off the shelf despite its smelling like an old sock, Rosita’s apron was covered in green guacamole stains, and one of the cantina lowlives was impaled with a shiv during a card game. What was not typical, however, was Rosita’s returning to her house to find her front door slightly ajar.

Ever since the new Viceroy came to power and reduced the size of the town guard, crime had been on the rise in Río de los Cólicos. Rosita wrote off the unlocked door as simple forgetfulness, though proceeded into the house with caution. She saw a small, hoof-shaped dirt footprint on the rug in the vestibule, but also wrote that off - it was probably left by Caballeron during their meeting from the previous night. Continuing down the hallway, the brown mare entered her humble kitchen. She looked around the place and felt that something was not quite right, though couldn’t quite see anything specific that was out of the ordinary. She removed her stained apron and threw it onto the table. This particular table, of course, was the fourth replacement. For the previous tables were all destroyed during her steamy lovemaking sessions with Dr. Caballeron before his absence.

But when Rosita opened her icebox to take the dinner that she had prepared the day before, she knew that something was completely and utterly wrong.

“My flautas…” Rosita gasped. “Where are my flautas?” She knew that she could not possibly have misplaced such a delectable dinner. She slowly backed away from the icebox, gripped with overwhelming fear.

“Somepony must have broken in… maybe that somepony is still here! Ay, ayúdame, alguien!”

Rosita turned to run for the door, but was caught by a burly stallion whose face was masked by a bandana. There were two others behind him, who smirked as she fought to escape, but was unable to break her captor’s grasp.

“Please!” Rosita begged as she was dragged into the vestibule. “I’ll give you whatever you want! My money, my valuables-”

But when she saw who was leaning against her staircase, she shrieked in terror. It was the red stallion she had seen just weeks ago at the cantina. There was no mistake about it - there was the mark of the elaborate sword on his flank, the bushy, black beard beneath his dark brown eyes, and his morion - that crested metal helmet with the delicately-engraved comb. It was Raúl Espada, the sworn enemy of Dr. Caballeron. And to make matters worse, he was chewing vigorously as he held the remnant of a flauta in his hoof.

“Unfortunately, señorita, I’m afraid I do have to do this,” Raúl Espada said through a full mouth. “Oh, and by the way, these flautas are superb. Easily the best I’ve ever had. What’s the secret?”

“You let the jalapeños soak in a special brine of lime marinade for three days, and then you use the same marinade on the tortillas before you melt the cheese,” Rosita said. “And then you slice up part of a mango and throw that in, too. It was part of abuela’s traditional recipe.”

“Oh, see? I told you those were mangoes!” one of Espada’s goons added.

“These things are great,” Espada said, spitting bits of tortilla as he talked. “And very soon, you’ll have plenty of time to make them for us.”

“No, please!” Rosita screamed as she struggled again. All three of the bandana-wearing thugs restrained the frenetic mare.

“Caballeron must meet with me on my terms,” Espada grunted, stuffing the rest of the flauta into his mouth. “And unfortunately, taking you with us is the only way we can be sure he’ll do it.” Espada reached into the small bag slung across his back and pulled out a thin but sturdy rope. ”We don’t want you running away, now, do we?”

“You’re monsters, all of you!” Rosita spat.

“I’m only doing what must be done,” Espada said sternly as he threw the rope to his goons. Somewhere in the distance, the lone trumpeter began playing again, this time accompanied by the grating minor chords of a single guitar. Espada reveled in the haunting notes.

“Don’t tell me the trumpet guy is working with you idiots, too,” Rosita hissed as the three stallions tied her with the rope.

“Actually, no,” Raúl Espada admitted, turning to the open window of the house from which the music could be heard. “We’ve been trying to figure out who that is ourselves. He’s been following us around all day. Yeah, it’s kinda creepy. But he’s good. It’s a really nice touch.”

The three stallions finished the job and left Rosita by the stairs. One of them tied an old cloth around her muzzle to keep her from making too much noise.

“Leave the note, and let’s get out of here before the Garrochistas suspect something,” Espada ordered, approaching the mirror on the stairs by the wall. He observed his facial hair and nodded with approval. “We must make haste for the mission, and prepare for Caballeron’s arrival.” One of the henchmen made for the kitchen, while the others lifted Rosita onto their backs.

“You will pay for your grave insult to me, Caballeron,” Espada said through clenched teeth as a mischievous smile spread across his face. "You claim I insulted your honor, when the truth is that you insulted my honor. You believe that you are the greater stallion? That your cause is more noble? That your chest is hairier than mine? You’re a fool.”

“Hey, um, jefe,” one of the henchmen said quietly. “You’re doing that thing again where you stare into mirrors and talk to yourself.”

“I must rehearse for my meeting with Caballeron, you philistine!” Espada raged. “It must be… perfecto.”