Why Tequila and Jalapenos Should Never Marry

Way back when, but really not that far away, we did a little contest on Scribophile for fun. You signed up to challenge opponents in writing a piece, using the avatars you chose as your ‘gladiator’. This is the piece I came up with first which brought me through the to the second round where I got pummeled. Cest la vie. Enjoy!

This is a logo I created for my brother-in-law's homebrewed beer.

This is a logo I created for my brother-in-law’s homebrewed beer.

The night blurry from making love to a bottle of tequila, I wake to the grit of sand instead of lush grass beneath me. Little worms dance the samba with a jalapeno sporting giant melons in front of my eyes. A puff of air washes over me, smelling like tuna left out in the sun to fester. My eyes blink and my vision focuses on the biggest pussy I have ever seen. Huge claws and a face puckered as if it had been deprived of a litter box for far too long, the tiger snarls.

I do what any self-respecting woman would in my prone position. I scream. I sissy slap the tiger across its whiskered cheeks, stunning the feline with my unorthodox high-pitched wail. It could also have been a product of my foot connecting with its hanging grapefruits. The worm and jalapeno now dance to AC/DC’s “Big Balls” in my waking dream. I blink when I realize the two were floating right by the tiger’s enormous head. Salvation from the orange and black terror. My hands grab the ripe melons of the jalapeno, much to his protest, and I squish those glorious globes into the eyes of the tiger.

Great. Now Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” is playing in my head.

The beast roars again, and I counter with another Mariah Carey-like warble. The worm is my next victim, taking that alcohol-soaked vermin and tossing it into the maw of the tiger. An offering to the carnivorous gods. The Jalapeno turns bright red, his salsa partner lost in a sea of jagged teeth but I have no time for a pepper paroxysm. I snatch the jalapeno and a handful of sand.

High in the air I leap, releasing the tiny granules of sand into the Tiger’s melon-laced eyes. The grains mix with the juices in one sticky mess. The Jalapeno struggles in my hands as if it knows my nefarious and deviant plot. I skid to a stop behind the tiger and give his hanging sack a good thorough punt with my foot again. His balls go through the uprights, or at least tickle his colon. Its tail juts up in the air and with a scream from my pepper friend, I plunge that hot tamale where the sun doesn’t shine. I make a mental note to thoroughly bleach my hand later.

Violated by laws in about seven or so states, the feline rears and clutches at its belly. In the confines of the fur, I notice a little wiggling bulge. Like two lovers reunited, I hear the sweet serenade of the worm and jalapeno through the clenched jaw of the tiger. The beast falls over, succumbing to the burning taint of alcohol combined with spicy food cha-chaing in his abdomen.

My only thought as I leave the fallen feline is I’m glad he’s got an ocean’s worth of sand to do his business in and I don’t have to clean it up.