Tippy prepares for the job

Tippy pushed the keyboard past his beer nestled closely on the small Caracas cantina he had found. All he needed was a decent Wi Fi, bonitas chicas conejos, and plenty of Corona. He felt bad for having to chastise Swirlypine, but he knew it was the right thing to do. If they were going to learn a thing from their adventures in fundamentalism, they needed to learn it the way he did – through the school of hard knocks. Becoming a good, distraught and totally ragged fundamentalist took time. One had to be nurtured in the environment, raised with the big hair of a Sunday school teacher hanging over his head, or the energy and mania of a clueless youth pastor, newly married, out to save the world. There had to be explosions, and tracts, and hard working goals of saving, and acting, purity, sinless ness, more purity, and Wednesday nights. Swirlypine had to go thought the fire if they were going to come out clean on the other side.
After a short yawn, once last puff of his cigar, and a wink to the la conejo bonita eyeing him across the bar, Tippy got up, grabbed his shotgun, gave one last nod to Javier the bartender, and made his way out onto the busy streets of dusk in downtown Caracas.
He knew Chavez had to be around somewhere. Even though the excitement and energy behind his journey had been dampened by news of Katrina, (how's Swaggert doing he worried to himself) he was determined to finish the task, cross the goal line, be the living example of hot or cold, and to not compromise his values. After a short left and right scan of the hustle and bustle before him he spotted something that made his innards shake.
Could it be?