The Padre de la Iglesia and the Capitán de los Conquistadores are brothers. Together, on horseback, they lead their army across the wild pradera blanca. History is not far ahead.
“Heathen souls”, cries the Padre de la Iglesia.
“Gold”, bellows the Capitán de los Conquistadores.
But shadow and dust are all they have found so far.
“The Queen commands you to appear!” they both call out together.
But the wind remains the only messenger greeting them and it passes behind their backs, howling at them.
“We are getting nowhere!” a soldier cries out.
“What do you expect from this Author of our Fate?” answers another.
“He types like a dripping faucet!” complains a third.
The Capitan de los Conquistadores brings his horse close to the Padre de la Iglesia. He leans and speaks quietly in earnest.
“Padre. Hermano. All I know for sure is that we are on page 273.”
The Padre de la Iglesia farts loudly, and then pats his horse on the neck, saying, “There, there, bless you, my goodness, it must be this pradera grass that affects you this way.”
“Padre, we are lost, I am telling you!”
The Padre de la Iglesia looks up to the Capitán de los Conquistadores and intones, “The Author of Our Fate works in mysterious ways.”
“Padre, the Author of Our Fate may be an imbecile! But we can shape our own Destiny, I tell you! Let us take a direction of our own! Abandon this…”
And suddenly the Padre de la Iglesia slashes the face of the Capitán de los Conquistadores with his pole that bears the banner of The Savior. He then licks the blood from the tip of the pole.
The Capitán de los Conquistadores sighs, and looking up off of this page says, “Thank you, Author of Our Fate. I needed that.”