However – the Columbian drug lord DID take our wallets prior to putting us into that room seven years ago, and that’s just wrong. The beauty of dreams is the random inserted fragments of knowledge that others might refer to as back-story. Chris and I were pissed as hell to be held captive in what Hollywood celebrities might pay thousands of dollars a night for (the accommodations really were, without a doubt, top of the line). I mean, no outside contact AND no wallets, that’s absurd. About three to four years into our being taken prisoner, my work colleague Brendan started to show up on a regular basis. Every day he brought us fresh clothes, our four meals, and even slipped us a couple bottle of cognac and some sweet Cuban cigars for us to drink and smoke out on the patio as we overlooked our beach. For almost four years, Brendan showed up at least six times a day, without fail. In time one of the many guards let us know that Brendan was the Columbian drug lord’s newest acquisition – the latest, top of the line, most recent and efficient model of butler. And Brendan proved it all day, every day. Brendan never spilled a drop of our drinks, never forgot a napkin, never missed a meal or brought one morsel of food to us undercooked, overcooked, or raw. Brendan, for lack of a better word, was a butler-machine. One day, the last day of our overly relaxing seven year stay, imprisonment, Brendan poked his head through the only door to our living room during a part of the day when he never came by. It wasn’t meal time, it wasn’t wake-up time, and it wasn’t cognac and cigar time. It was a completely random part of the day, and to be honest – Chris and I were a little upset at Brendan for interrupting what we were watching on television. Brendan opened the door wider to walk in, and as he closed the door behind him we saw the bodies of two guards lying on the hallway floor behind him. Chris and I were kind of bewildered. Brendan, if you knew him, isn’t exactly the kind of guy you’d guess to go commando when you least expect it. He’s a ballplayer, he’s a motorcycle-riding web-master, and he’s got great fashion-sense – but he’s no commando. However, in Ben’s dreamland, there he was – with our wallets. Now, from the rumors Chris and I had heard over the years, the Columbian drug lord (I just noticed – he doesn’t have a name) slept with our wallets under his pillow. They were somehow placed on the very top of his list of personal trophies or prized possessions or whatever. The fact that Brendan had our wallets excited us. We both knew, right then and there, that Brendan either killed the Columbian drug lord and took our wallets, or he waited for the precise moment to spring us when the Columbian drug lord was out of the house. Chris and I each took our wallets, examined the contents, and then followed Brendan to the door in a sneaky, crouched down kind of position. Brendan motioned with his index fingers over his lips for us to keep quiet. He pushed the door open slowly, making as little noise as possible, until it was wide enough for us to walk out of. The two bodyguards were still there on the floor, dead or unconscious I don’t know, and past them were eight men all standing with their backs to us. The eight men had odd cases in their hands and arms, and held them like weapons. One of the men turned around to check on us – it was Antonio Banderas. He look at Chris and me, then to Brendan who gave him a quick thumbs-up and a short, but clear series of hand signals that instantly triggered Antonio Banderas, and every other mariachi from the Desperado and Once Upon A Time In Mexico movies into motion. Somehow, Brendan got all the mariachis together, armed to the teeth, and busted Chris and I out of the Columbian drug lord’s living room. If that doesn’t spell friend, I don’t know what does. |
