Jefe de Los Mariachis: Sinclair's Story

You want me to do that…?

The child's eyes quivered. His skin went pale, and his well-furbished mustache wriggled like a caterpillar.

El jefe… he's feeling uneasy. It's all up to you to cheer him up, aye, novato?

Another child softly comforted him.

All the other children had their eyes fixed on the one they called "jefe" or "boss", who was holding maracas in trembling hands.

You see, novato… this is like a rite of passage.

Sip, that's right. It's… something all true purveyors of joy oughta experience to be un verdadero mariachi.

The appointed child's face was so pale, it was starting to take on a shade of lead.

But… I've heard the stories. If I say that to our jefe, Sinclair…

Sip, your head will go pop.

For sure, un cráneo explosivo.

"What did I just say!" The child angrily argues, but the other children shake their heads and say the same thing:

…We all went through it once.

The child let out a long sigh after that.

Then… he realized that there was no way out of it.

The child carefully opened his mouth and spoke to the boss…

Um, B - Boss… P-Prepare the pañata party pl -

Before that sentence could finish…

Shaka.

A wee spout of blood gushed out of the head of the child who mentioned "pañata".

Mhm. Bien hecho, novato.

Sip, the boss… has entered boss mode.

The rest of the children scratched themselves on the backs of their respective heads as they watched the fainted child with proud eyes.

From the looks of things… it seems to have reminded of them of their own experiences.