Mike Renning posted:

    The sun beat down on the adobe roofs of Hacia Poco like an unsupervised
Philadelphia cop.  If dirt could sweat, the streets would have been raging
rivers.  Dirt cannot, in fact, sweat - so rather than forming rivers, the dirt
in the streets amused itself by forming little dust devils rising in the hot
breeze to cover the village with a light, uniform coating of murk.  Outside
houses dogs lay panting at allegro tempo and flies buzzed like Tim Leary's
brain.
    Down the main street shuffled a figure both impressive and absurd.
Although it was clearly a man, it was a man unlike any other ever seen in
Hacia Poco:  roughly the size of an oxcart, with his head crowned by a
broad sombrero hung with tassles around the rim, a sight barely descernible
through the unusually heavy cloud of dirt that hovered around him as he
sauntered along.  As the man passed by the mule stable on the corner, one
could have sworn that the sounds which issued from inside were the sounds
of mules gagging.  (Of course, one never would have heard that sound before.
Unless one were perhaps an experienced, fully educated veterinarian.  But
then what the hell would one be doing in Hacia Poco?  Did one ever think
about that?  But one digresses...)
 
                               * * *
 
    "Thees veelage is too quiet," muttered El Dupree under his rank breath.
"Where ees the cantina?  Where are the mariachi seengers?  And the senoritas?"
    He stopped and looked up the dusty main street, scanning for signs of
life, listening for the cacophony of music and inebriated voices that would
lead him to his familiar niche in this new place.  No sounds of celebration
reached his hairy, wax-caked ears, but a block away he saw a man standing on
the cracked sidewalk.
    "Perhaps," thought the Odoriferous One, "thees cabron can help me to find
the action in thees leetle pueblito."
    Dupree moved along the street as fast as his cumbersome bulk allowed.
As he drew closer, his dirty, pock-marked face began to wrinkle in confusion.
The man on the sidewalk was quite an unusual sight - he wore dark pants
with suspenders, a t-shirt with horizontal stripes, and his face was painted
white all over.
    "What weecked magic ees thees?" wondered the Saliently Obese Traveller.
    The Fat One stopped a few feet in front of the Mime and looked him over.
The Mime looked back at El Dupree and then began to gesticulate.  He waved
both hands frantically in front of his nose, then pinched his nose shut with
one hand and rolled his eyes while waving in seeming greeting with the
other hand.
    Dupree grunted in bewilderment at this display, but then decided he
might as well give this loco the benefit of the doubt and ask him where
the nearest saloon might be.  After all, from the looks of him, he had
probably already been enjoying some Michoacan Moonshine today.
  "Pardon me, senor," wheezed the Fat Traveller, "but do you know how I
can get to the cantina?"
    The Mime nodded his head fervently.  He pointed down the street in
the direction Dupree had been going, then he turned to that side and
began walking in place.  After a minute, he turned to his left and
continued his stationary striding.  A moment later he began stepping
upward as though climbing stairs, and then he turned back to his right
and walked in place once more.  Suddenly he stopped, turned left again,
and pushed both arms out straight in front of him and motioned as
thought pushing aside two swinging bar doors.  He looked at El Dupree
and smiled an ingratiating smile from his caked white face.
    Dupree watched this performance with obvious puzzlement.  At its
conclusion, he said to the Mime, "So you no wanna tell me where ees
the bar, eh, senor?  Ees all right.  I weel find heem.  You know,
I don' have much dinero.  Can you spare a leetle change, eh, buddy?"
    The Mime put his right hand on his hip and his left on his forehead
and stood as if deep in thought.  Then he stood up straight and looked
the reeking drifter in his bloodshot eye and held up his forefinger as
if to announce something.  He reached into his pocket and began to
search inside with his hand.  From his pocket he pulled a blue
handkerchief.  He pulled it all the way out, and at its bottom end it was
tied to a red handkerchief.  The Mime stopped a moment in mock surprise,
then continued to pull.  At the bottom of the red handkerchief was
tied a yellow one, which was followed by a green one, then blue, then
red, then yellow...  Each time he came to a new one, the Mime pretended
surprise.  El Dupree shifted his girth from foot to foot, growing
noticeably impatient....
 
                          * * *
 
    In the hot, still air of Hacia Poco at high noon, the snap of a
#18 headsack was heard.  The dust was enlightened.
    "That was something else!" said the Mime.