the ballad of juan miguel... chapter 2

Acclaim for:

The Ballad of Juan Miguel
by Mihk Vergara and Mackie Galvez

"Not since the book of Genesis has there been a book that should be required reading for the entire human race."

"Food no longer needed, thanks to 'The Ballad of Juan Miguel'."

"Intimate, funny and wise... The authors at their most persuasive."

"As nearly perfect as any book can be."

NOTE: here it is. chapter 2 of the ballad...

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Dramatis Personae:

Juan Miguel, a boy
Miho, a girl
Baron Giuseppe, a mysterious man, Juan Mig’s friend
Billy Bob, 1 mig’s friend, boy
Whiskey Joe, disgruntled Vet

Chapter 2
Band Aid

In a small café, a girl tuned her guitar to prepare for tonight’s set. The café didn’t have many patrons, and the pay wasn’t good. She had often wondered why she played here as long as she did. She glanced over to her lead singer, the man whose voice had been blessed by the angel, our hero, Juan Miguel Sevilla. Once again, as he had done so many times before, her resolve had been strengthened. She would strum on her guitar and give the world its greatest gift, Miguel’s angelic voice.

Miguel, clucked hiss tongue at the mike, checking if the decibel level was just right. It was. He launched into what the masses had come to call “God’s Q-Tip”. He opened his mouth and began: two beers please.

Miho blinked hard. Excuse me? Two beers please. Uh, Strong ice. Oh, two beers. Yes. Yes of course. Miho cursed herself as she left to place his order. Had she been staring again? Twice this week! Twice this week! She said to herself. Miho often dreamed of performing onstage, but she never got the nerve to do so. It was the same old story. Her friends said she had talent, she was convinced herself, but it never came to anything.

Her fellow waitress walked over. You’re doing it again. I know! I know! At least you keep him coming here. Shut up! I’m not the reason he comes here! Irked by her co-workers remark, she went off to wait more tables.

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Miguel waited for the beers. Things had smoothed over between him and Billy Bob, but they weren’t exactly on speaking terms just yet. He squinted at the stage lights as he searched for Miho’s figure going through tonight’s audience. He could tell from their attitude, that tonight hadn’t attracted the most “civilized” of crowds. The trash of Manila seemed to have found their way into the club that night. A rowdy bunch, this author might say.

Miho had gotten The Voce of God’s two beers as an unknown vagabond came up from behind her. His breath reeked of the night’s most potent medicine: tequila. Whiskey Joe would once more try his luck on Miho. It would not be. Tonight would not be the night. In fact, never agin would he be able to try hihs luck on this diamond in the rough.

The stage lights had just momentarily left from one miguel’s vision, revealing the atrocity that could happen. Again, love’s call beckoned to him as Joe ran his hands up and down Miho’s bare arm: love of countryman. Whiskey Joe was a veteran of the Third World War, and had been struck by the most unlikely of projectiles, a crate of whiskey, therefore embedding his obsession with the potent liquid.

History Buffs may wonder what exactly started the Third World War, and seeing as how it is too lengthy to discuss here, the authors will summarize it as thus: it never happened. Whiskey Joe simply was pelted by a crate of Whiskey at an early age. He was dropped several times as a child before that. Since that fateful day, when Joe first experience flight from three stories up, there had been no sign of his mental disability. Until another fateful day, (the authors would say that Whiskey Joe was one ruled by fate) when Claire Danes during an interview for her box office bomb, Brokedown Palace, commented that Manila was a “ghastly” place. From that moment on, a personal war against Claire Danes and thus the rest of the world ensued. Now this story does not take place in Manila, nor was Whiskey Joe a Filipino, but he did not take this lightly. The bar, where this chapter is situated, does not take place in Manila as well, it just so happens that the drudge that found its way into the bar were Filipino citizens. So much for Whiskey Joe’s history.

Now, Fate’s Chew Toy, took one last swig from his bottle as he strode towards Miho. A stern face of intent was painted all over Whiskey Joe. He took the final step, and placed a firm grip on Miho’s arm. He squeezed it hard, as if she hadn’t already placed her attention to this reeking man. He whispered through his teeth,
–Do you know who he is? Do you know whose heart you desire?
--What do you mean? She pulled her arm, but the vice that Whiskey Joe had replaced his left hand with, held firm.
--Do you know what this means? Do you?
--I don’t know what you’re talking about! Miguel? No! You’re mistaken! She screamed. Once again she pulled. There was no escaping this vice-like vice grip.
--Don’t you understand what this means? His heart belong to no body! Except…

Onemig could barely make out the figure of Joe against the spotlights pointed at the stage. The Villegas Lighting Company had truly the most powerful of equipment. A premonition of this very moment had occurred to Miguel at that moment. Miguels premonitions were of moments that happened at the very same moment he got them. It was only one curse of many that Baron Giuseppe had placed on him, lifetimes ago. The curse of the Monitions. Only when the gleam of Joe’s newly polished vice pierced thru thee cigarette smoke, did Miguel know that something was amiss. Joe had never polished his vice before. A small link, the authors understand, a very weak link, admittedly. But Onemig had never been a fan of logic. This on the other hand, was not one of Baron’s curses. Miguel was born this way.

Miguel, clucked his tongue, drew a deep breath, and let out one note: L sharp. We are aware that this note does not exist. But the beauty that spewed out of miguel’s vocal chords deserves to be named after the first letter of life’s biggest mystery: LOVE.

No sound waves flew threw the air, since miguel’s notes do not travel through the air. Directed only at Joe’s vice, L sharp shttered the vice into pieces. But there were no pieces that flew as shrapnel, for the shattered bits of Joe’s vice floated down like petals. Now the reader may be led to believe that the iron of the vice actually turned into rose petals, but the reader must not be misunderstood. They merely floated down like them. In terror, whiskey joe felt something he hadn’t in decades: soberness. Such nostalgia did Joe feel, that he plopped down on the floor, and a slow tear ran down his cheek. The terror had ended.