El Mariachi Muerte, the masked minstrel of demise, the purveyor of notes that weave death into melody. Your songs echo through the air, warnings draped in sorrow, fates sealed with the strum of a guitar. But let me tell you a tale, a parable of science and inevitability, one that reveals just how flawed your so-called power truly is.

Once, there was a fiddler who wandered from village to village, his music mesmerizing all who heard it. His tunes were haunting and strange, carrying an air of finality, as though they foretold the end of all things. Wherever he played, he left whispers of doom behind, his victims marked by the cadence of his strings.

The fiddler, shrouded in mystery, believed himself untouchable. His violin was no mere instrument—it was an artifact of power, capable of bending the very threads of fate. With it, he thought himself the master of life and death, weaving destinies as easily as he played his mournful tunes.

One day, the fiddler came to a town where a peculiar inventor lived—a man of wires and gears, of bubbling beakers and glowing tubes. The inventor was no ordinary man; his mind was sharp as a scalpel, his heart cold as steel. He had little use for music, finding its chaos unworthy of his precise, calculated world.

The fiddler, arrogant and bold, decided to mark the inventor with his song. He played a dirge so potent that the townsfolk wept, and a single black rose appeared in the inventor’s hand. But the inventor did not tremble. He did not weep. Instead, he smiled—a thin, sharp smile—and said, “Music is fleeting. Science is eternal.”

The inventor went to work. He constructed a great clock, a marvel of engineering, with gears that ticked in perfect harmony. It was not a clock to measure time, but one to measure probability, to calculate every note and nuance of the fiddler’s song. With each tick, the inventor unraveled the threads of the fiddler’s power, reducing his melodies to mere vibrations in the air.

When the fiddler returned to claim his victim, he found himself trapped within the clock’s unyielding mechanisms. His violin strings snapped, his notes turned to silence, and the rose withered in his grasp. The song of death, once unstoppable, was undone by the cold, unfeeling hand of logic.

Do you see now, Muerte? Your music may haunt the weak, but it is nothing but noise to a mind like mine. You wield death like an artist’s brush, but I dissect it, study it, and remake it in my image. Your melodies will falter, your roses will wither, and when your final note dies in the air, I will be there to record it.

Because death, El Mariachi, is not a song. It’s an equation. And I’ve already solved it.