Viva revolución

Molina was a few yards away, firing calm, rapid Spanish at a small group of FARC scouts. They listened intently, peppering him with questions. Molina seemed to reply to their satisfaction. One mercenary stood casually by the van door, peeking in from time to time to make sure they were still there. And to see if he could get another shot at Lenore naked. He'd been out on patrol a little too long.

Milo and Lenore hurriedly stepped into jeans and threw on old plaid shirts. Milo was more than a bit foggy from the previous night, and was trying hard not to think too much about the multiple orgasm he'd had while inhabiting Lenore’s body. His confused fingers were taking a long time to button his shirt.

Lenore struggled to dress Armand, who was mewling more crankily than usual.

"Nothing fits!" she complained. "It's like he grew a foot overnight." She finally safety-pinned one of her tee shirts to approximate size and pulled it over Armand's head.

Milo stopped fumbling his buttons. He stepped across a pyramid of empty fruit jars and his previous days' underwear, knelt before Armand and studied him, brow knit with concentration. To his dismay, Armand indeed appeared to be much taller. He noted, too, that Lenore seemed drawn and more than a little distracted. She kept looking at herself, then him, wearing an expression that could only be described as fuckstruck. Only more so.

Armand, meanwhile, had stopped fretting. He looked Milo square in the eyes.

"Du bist ein FUTZE!" He shouted the last word. Milo almost fell over. Spying the beer cache near his hand, he grabbed a bottle, popped the cap on his belt buckle and guzzled it.

Lenore taken aback as Milo, yet obviously proud, recovered first. "Where did you learn that, Armand?"

"Vom Onkel Karl," he said.

Milo finally did fall down -- hard -- and held his head in his hands, moaning.

"Jesus, it's real. That can't have been real. Fucking Jesus -- what am I gonna do? It can't have been real..."

Milo looked up at Armand's moon face. Armand grinned and picked his nose. Milo reached for another beer.

"Milo, what's going on?" Lenore demanded.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me." Milo tried to give her Cole's notes while their FARC guard kept peeking in, catching Milo's eye, and turning his back again.

So Milo told her about finding Furlonger's plans, and the fateful night in Kannenberg's lab, the lime jello, how he had hidden the apparatus and headed South, about his 'hallucinations' and what had happened at the cantina back in Yaviza. When he finished ten minutes later, Lenore looked down at her hands, expression flat and unreadable. For a moment they listened to the small man in the trenchcoat and the flight helmet chatter outside.

"You're right," she said finally. "I don't believe you."

She reached toward the beer box. Milo grabbed one, opened it on his belt buckle and handed it to her. As she took the second of two huge gulps, there was motion just outside the van. The man in the flight helmet climbed in and smiled. Rather greasily. It did not inspire confidence.

"Hi! I'm Molina! They want to meet you guys." He stuck out his hand.

A small wisp of the previous evening's haze lifted. Milo blurted, “You’re the guy from last night!” As the haze continued to clear, he looked abruptly away and changed the subject. "Uh, you've been following us on that little motorbike!"

Molina nodded, his untaken hand still out, still grinning. "Fucking right!"

"You're an American," Milo began again, somewhat desperately.

Molina shook his head. "Nope."

"I don't get it. What the hell's going on?" Lenore managed, bewildered.

“I’m Milo,” said Milo, putting out his hand, “And this is…” Molina cut him off, finally managed to grab Milo’s trembling, dodging hand, and shook hard.

“I know who you are, both of you. And this is little Armando!” Molina pumped Lenore’s arm vigorously, then bent slightly to shake Armand's little hand.

Armand!” corrected Armand, taking his finger out of his nose long enough to lay some skin -- and a booger -- on Molina's palm. “Du bist ein FUTZE!

"Selben zu dir, Arschloch," Molina replied , apparently in German.

"Nice kid," he lied, turning to Milo. His smile flickered for a split-second as he wiped his hand on the leg of his greasy suit pants. But with bigger fish to fry, he plowed on. "Here's the story: I told them Fidel sent you. You're trying to find the bastards who killed Ernesto. You know, to even the score."

"Who's Ernesto? What did you say your name was again? Why are you following us around on a motorbike?" queried Lenore.

"Come on. It's all right," said Molina. He motioned to the van door. "Thanks to me, you're now officially heroes of the Revolution. They really want to meet you. Let me keep doing the talking."

Lenore swigged another huge gulp of beer. Then she raised a skepticism-soaked eyebrow, shrugged, took Armand's free hand, and stepped out to the jungle floor behind the two men, averting her face slightly from their avid FARC peeper.

The previous night's events had her questioning -- seriously -- who in this party was male and who was female. She wasn't quite sure had had happened betweenMilo and her, but had a dim idea... and Molina had a suspiciously swishy swagger, to her jello-jaundiced eye.

She had little trouble recognizing her guard's expression, though. A cross between horndog lust and perplexity. She was pretty sure that he'd half-recognized her from one of her old Mexican porn loops, but that the penny hadn't quite dropped yet. She really hoped she was someplace else when it did.

"Viva revolución," she muttered, darkly.