Montezuma Pleads with the Gods to Change His Act of Revenge

I’m going to be honest with you, the last few centuries have been pretty rough on me. When was the last time my name came up in conversation and someone said, “Oh, you mean the guy who ruled over the greatest period of expansion in the Aztec empire?” Never, that’s when. Instead, it’s more like, “Oh, you mean the diarrhea guy?”

So, I was hoping you could give me a do-over on the whole Montezuma’s Revenge thing.

I’ll admit, I got a kick out of it at first. Whenever a conquistador made a run for a hole in the ground, everyone in the afterlife was like, “Hey, Monte, you got another one,” and we’d laugh it up and high-five each other. It really helped me cope with my tragic death. But I got so caught up in the limelight, I forgot I was the Huetlatoani. So did everyone else. Five hundred years later, if you come to Mexico and get diarrhea, it’s all my fault.

What in your names happened to me? I had subjects travel thousands of kilometers to pray at temples I built. Now, tourists pay big bucks to see those very same temples, but when they go home it’s never Montezuma the architect, Montezuma the high priest, or Montezuma the Great, it’s always Montezuma gave me the shits.

Do you know what I would have done if someone disrespected me like that when I was alive? Of course you do, you’re Gods. If someone takes your name in vain, you smite them. I wish I could smite people, but I was only semi-divine, so I sacrificed them instead. And back in my day, no one performed more sacrifices than yours truly.

That’s got to be worth something as you consider helping me move past all these years of being blamed for the side effects of people with weak intestinal fortitude.

And I have a few ideas about how to make that happen.

Here’s what I’m thinking. You remember Mendoza. Short, swarthy, power-hungry guy from Chiapas, not great with sacrifices. We put it on him. When people get the old Aztec two-step, we start saying, “Oh no, you got Mendozaed.” If anyone asks what’s up, point out we both have a Z in our name, say it was all a mispronunciation, and blame it on white people.

Then we get to work rewriting my narrative.

Don’t worry, I’m not after anything crazy like reincarnation or mystic powers—unless smiting is on the table. As long as the outcome means I lose the making people crap themselves moniker, I’m good.

Big picture, I like what the Greeks have done for their dead heroes. They’ve all been gone way longer than me and people still fear and revere them.

So my first thought is we go for something like the Madden Curse. Let me mess with people’s minds instead of their bowels. Maybe this is where the smiting comes into play?

I also dig that myth where people say your name three times and then you magically appear. I did some research and they’ve made a bunch of movies about the topic. I think a Hollywood makeover would be great for my rep. Goodbye poop jokes, hello heartthrob.

Or, if we really want to make a statement, we could do a Cinco de Mayo-type thing and name a day after me. After all those post-victory sacrifices, I know you know I have a long list of military conquests worthy of being honored with a national holiday. So we pick a day, throw a big party with some fireworks, and before we know it, when my name comes up in conversation it will be about my brilliant strategic mind on the battlefield, not how I gave people the trots.

I don’t think that’s too much to ask from the mighty Aztec emperor who brought chocolate to the people.

Also, the sacrifices. I made a lot of sacrifices for you guys.