|Read :||Week Eleven Recap||
Rosa Loteria Confessional
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Wild Fox Confessional
Hey America! Rosa again.
There’s...okay, so much stuff’s happened. Mr. Berman said I should just start at the beginning and they’d cut what they need to, so here goes....
It’s a whole lot of getting picked.
Yeah, I know, I pick cards all the time. But I don’t shuffle through my deck face up and go Ooh, okay, her. I could use this one. I mean yeah, I do that, but that’s just strategy, that’s not how my power works. When I pick a card, I pick blind, and just deal with what I get.
Other people, it’s different. Like back when DB asked me out. Other girls are going Oh no, he’s a player and Cleo’s all Boo hoo! He used me and threw me away! Along with some nice bling, I might add. But hey, he’s hot, he’s rich, he’s popular, and he picked me. We had a good time. Part of why we had a good time was because I didn’t have any expectations. I’m not some telenovela Ugly Betty thinking just because she gets a date with a Takisian Prince, he’s gonna whisk her away to his castle beyond the stars. I’m Rosa Loteria, I’m an ace, and while I kind of like DB, I’m not gonna follow him around and be the chick with the tambourine.
But hey, sometimes it’s nice to get picked.
Curveball and Stuntman did the same with me last week, and it’s not hard to see why. She’s Ms. Offense, he’s Mr. Defense, and they needed someone who could do everything they couldn’t do if they just bought her some time. And hey, they picked right because we won.
Block party with my family? Best thing ever. Got to see people I hadn’t seen since my Quinceañera, ’cause you gotta remember, that’s when I turned my card, and I walked out halfway through the party. Bootsie–that’s my nickname for La Bota–she walked me all the way to Cleveland before I drew another card, and I had a heck of a time getting back. But American Hero gave me the rest of my party, letting me come of age not just as a woman, but as an ace.
Of course we also won the chance to go up against each other, except this week’s challenge was crap. We were supposed to be fighting a bunch of terrorists, but they’re the lamest terrorists on the planet. Any of the gangs in LA could eat them for breakfast.
First we had to fight our way through a bunch of stuntmen. Fair enough except it’s not. Jamal? He’s invulnerable. They can use real ammo on him and it won’t make any difference, so they did, but they were dumb. Real terrorists would have shot him in the eyes and blinded him like they did Tiffani a few weeks ago with the paintballs, or used a net or bolas, or chopped him up with a machete and put him in different dumpsters. But these were special ed terrorists.
Then Kate goes out with a bag of Nerfballs instead of marbles and her stuntmen have paintballs instead of bullets. Fair enough. Except, you know, added bonus for Curveball, Nerfballs are bigger than marbles so she has a lot easier time blocking the paintballs.
Then there’s me, and I’ll admit I pitched a fit, ’cause this loteria deck is a family heirloom, and at the fiesta, I promised mi abuelita I’m not going to let any damn paintballs near it. So Mr. Berman says fine, he calls wardrobe and they hook us up with a lasertag rig, and that would be great except they still don’t know what cards I’m going to pick and neither do I.
So I shuffle the deck and pull out Las Cerises, ‘The Cherries.’ If these had been real terrorists, they would have been hosed. Mr. Berman is all, “What the hell is a chick in a red dress and a Minnie Pearl hat going to do?” I never heard of this puta Minnie Pearl. But I bet even if she had a straw hat with cherries on it, she couldn’t pull off a handful and have the stems light with the other sort of cherries, you know, the type you get on cigarettes.
I toss a bunch under some random prop crate and blow the hell out of it, and he’s all “Cherry bombs? You make cherry bombs? Do we have any prop cherries? We don’t have the demolitions expert on payroll today!” and he runs around until Cherry gets bored.
So fine, whatever. I go back to the deck and pull La Rana, ‘The Frog,’ and one of the grips goes “Look! Buford’s got a date!” and everyone starts laughing.
Hello America, did you notice the colors? I was a poison frog lady. But no way do the stuntmen want to deal with real poison, so La Rana goes back in the deck and I shuffle again.
I pull El Valiente and he calls, “Okay, any of you Hollywood pendejos have a fake knife?” and at least they have that. So he goes through the stupid gauntlet and stabs all the terrorists except the last couple. Then I’m told it’s not ‘heroic’ for El Valiente to tie up the stuntmen with his serape and hold a prop dagger to their throats until they tell him where the bomb is, ’cause they say terrorists always lie, and torture never works, and this is a family show.
Isn’t this the same network that produces 24?
Whatever. The next challenge is an obstacle course. El Valiente does fine until there are three doors with some crap written on them. They were supposed to be riddles, but here’s a riddle for America: If you were a terrorist, would it be a good idea to write crap on a door so idiots would stand there and read it while your sniper draws a bead on them?
Props to Curveball, she was thinking the same thing. She blew the hell out of those doors with her marbles, so she was quicker to find the lame maze than I was, just kicking doors down. But I mapped out the whole place in case there was something important somewhere, because, you know, if terrorists always lie, couldn’t the point of the riddle be to make us waste our time thinking about math problems instead of actually rescuing hostages?
So anyway, I finally find the hostage, and at this point I’ve pretty much given up thinking these terrorists might be smart, so the hostage can’t be a terrorist telling me crap to screw with me, and the terrorists were too stupid to just kill someone who knows where their bomb is too.
El Valiente doesn’t want to deal with any more of this crap, so when we get to the corridor with the booby traps–you know, like the stupid riddle doors could have had–I draw again and pull El Diablito. She’s a blue devil girl with a lightning bolt pitchfork, and she’s lightning quick, so I get to the bomb just in time to have it blow paint in my face.
If I hadn’t had my deck in my pocket, Mr. Berman would have needed a new ass.
So anyway, Curveball and I are both pissed, and Jamal’s sitting pretty because he thinks he’s going to get the immunity and he’s going to get to pick which of us to boot, and I get ready to kiss my ass goodbye because there’s nothing Curveball can do to hurt him, so he’d be stupid not to pick her. Then the judges give a twist – no immunity, everyone’s necks are on the chopping block, and it’s going to be the Discards are going to decide who goes.
I didn’t think Curveball would get cut. I mean, I’m not saying she’s Miss Congeniality, but there’s not much there to hate. Kate’s got a respectable power, but it’s not so kick-ass that it scares people, and it’s not something that makes them laugh either. Me? I do both, sometimes at the same time. If you get your ass handed to you by a chick in a baseball cap, you can still respect yourself in the morning. But a chick in a straw hat with exploding cherries? You’re hating life, and that doesn’t win me any popularity contests. Of course Jamal had that crap with Rusty, and if you’re indestructible, it makes you look like a whiner at best. That doesn’t win you any popularity contests either.
Next thing Tiffani’s in front of me, smirking, and she says, “I said I’d pay good money to see you under a bus.” I wanted to slap her, but I knew she’d just turn to diamond, so I said, “Yeah? Well people are going to be paying to see you under a donkey in Tijuana, puta.”
I think Wild Fox did an illusion of himself as the bassist from Joker Plague, the one who isn’t the devil dude. And I was going over to talk to Spasm, who I like, and didn’t vote against me. Then suddenly Rusty clanks around and says he’s going to Egypt to save the jokers and what the hell?
They’re going to get killed. It’s a gang war! And I know, ’cause I’ve been in them! Except those pendejos in Arabia are way more serious about it than they are in East LA, ’cause they’ve been doin’ it for centuries and they’re completely loco.
Rusty I can kind of understand. He’s a joker. They’re jokers. But he’s built like a tank and can rust tanks. And Simoon, some of those people are her family, and hey, I understand family. But the rest of them? Bubbles and Ana and Holy Roller and Hardhat and even King Cobalt? I don’t care how strong you are, you can’t wrestle an army! They all up and leave. At least they have the sense to leave Rachel behind. And then I’m crying, because I promised mi abuelita I was through with gangs, and gang wars, and I was going to Hollywood to be a reality television star and I was going to win a million dollars and no one would have to die. No one.
Then those pendejos in Egypt had to start a war.
Damn them. Damn them all to hell....