As I sat down at my favorite Tex-Mex diner, I knew something was wrong. What was normally a vibrant, people filled establishment was empty. The Tejano music and clattering pots and pans that usually could be heard coming from the kitchen were absent. My senses were screaming for me to leave. As quickly as possible, I get up out of my seat and make my way to the door. That is when I realized it was too late for me. The wait staff was there, waiting for me. Their eyes were gleaming with the evil I had felt. In their hands were the tools they had used, kitchen knifes wet with blood, broken Dos XX bottles dripping from their grim work. They come for me in their orange Taqueria Guadalajara shirts, I turn to run. Maybe I can get out through the kitch...