I: Up in Hell

Poncho Ramirez entered the small town of En Ninguna Parte in the middle of nowhere, as if by accident, he had been wandering for miles upon miles in the desert aimlessly, without thought. The town was the quaint, shoddy type of thing you'd expect to see in a bad spaghetti western, Poncho shambled his way towards what he thought was the inn and collapsed dead in the doorway with an epic coughing fit. He had vomited his voice box, the lining of his esophagus, bile, stomach fluid and a bit of blood. His tongue fell out of his mouth due to the acid and the death grip of his teeth, causing more of the precious plasma to further drain from him. At this point a local figured that it'd be right to shoot the bastard, and just that the local did, figured it'd put the bastard out of his misery or prevent the slight probability of a mentally destabilized sociopathic rampage. How did the local judge this? It was plain to the local that Poncho had the crazy eye, either the pain or the experience of having his tongue drop out of his mouth must have sent him deep into madness… but was the local right? No one knew. No one cared. They dumped his body into an irrigation ditch, with not a tear, with not a trace of sadness.