Jeremy Daniel Buhler posted: Hi all. I made a pilgrimage to the new a.bsfg homepage, where I drank deep the sweet wine of El Dupree. Suffice to say I liked it, so let me begin with an invocation: Sing, Muse, of the stupor of El Dupree, Prodigous pistolero, hard-hearted handler of headsacks, Dangerous don of the deadly Devil Digits, Burrito-belcher, wayfarer in the Western Waste. Declaim through me his drunken dalliance >From the cold campos of the Cordillera, In the frost-light of eventide, filled with coyote-notes, Across the desert's rust-hued dust, pebble-paved, Fell heat-hell where gilas hiss hatefully, To the misty miasmas, mosquito-home, Of the sun-streaked, sweat-leafed selva. What, then, befell the Obese One, Gourmand of grease and guacamole, As he slumped snoring, saguaro-shaded Beside that silent strip of street Which, sliding stealthily from sleepy Santa Elena, Tipples through tequila-tasting Tecalitlan And then, winding wearily toward Oaxaca, Meanders muddily past Mejave Mai? --- The land was at war with the sky. Somewhere in the yellow-white of the upper air, the sun raged and flung down blast after searing blast, though even it could not further widen the cracks in the parched earth of the street. From below, a ragged column of blazing tin rooftops and flaking stucco shouted defiance. A high cloud briefly attempted shuttle diplomacy between the combatants but was soon burned out of existance by fire from above and below. Vultures lazily rode the updrafts, hoping to make a meal of the collateral damage. Beneath a monumental saguaro, maintaining his neutrality in the ongoing struggle, lay the slumbering bulk of El Dupree. His sombrero, which would have fit quite nicely atop the cactus, was instead tilted down over his sweat-drenched face. A fat drop of moisture had beaded at the end of his broad nose, uncertain whether to further subject itself to the Rotund One's insufferable breath or perhaps to take its chances among the wildly stubbled expanse of his chins. Dupree felt no obligation to help the drop make up its mind. Instead, he dreamed of more important matters. Lunch. The road to Mejave Mai. A scorpion he had found in his boot that morning. The corzappa, now a hard mass poking unsubtly into the roll of flesh above his gunbelt. Dinner. Dupree grunted and shifted his mass away from the corzappa. The drop, with new resolution, plunged headlong from his nose and was lost in the grease-stained wasteland of his shirt front. He considered eulogizing the drop's bravery but settled instead on a respectful belch. As his dreams shifted to thoughts of Juanita, Dupree heard the sounds of a quarrel split the air to his left. He cracked open a gummy eye and rolled slightly to watch the altercation. "Do you expect me to stay here? In this, this, this *cagadero* that smells of grease and old tequila? *Carajo*! What kind of a life is that?" A young man, dressed in the city fashion, was berating a wizened old crone who sat, grinding corn, by the door of a humble adobe hut. He punctuated each obscenity with a little stamp of his tooled leather boot. The crone winced. "I didn't say that. You're a grown, educated man, practically a licenciado." She spoke this last word almost reverently. "I can't tell you what to do. Nietito, the day your father left to join the zapatistas, I promised to look to your education. Por favor, remember his dedication, and his love for you, when you decide where you want to go." Spent with the exertion of unaccustomed speech, she fell silent and continued to grind. El Dupree opened his other eye, yawned, and considered whether to sit up. For him, it was a momentous decision. As he began to lift himself, raising a cloud of malodorous dust, the young man tossed his head and stamped again. "My father was a fool! He threw away his life to run with those, those *pendejos chingados* ! Now I have to tell my friends at the university that he died when I was a chiquito." He considered the foulest epithet he knew and settled on the English version. "Mother fuck!" . Across the street, two children playing in the dust turned their heads in alarm at the strange word spoken with such obvious disgust. In the yard next door, a little dog began to bark furiously. "Abuela, I'm going back to Mexico City - now! - and I'm going to make something of this family's stinking name. Maybe then people will finally treat me with some respect!" He spat; the spittle sizzled in the dust of the street. "Santa Maria, hija de puta!" . The crone shuddered and stopped grinding. She picked up her mortar and pestle and rose painfully, turning toward the door. In a voice too aged and tired to hold venom, she rasped: "Just don't expect me to call you *patron*." She disappeared into the hut. The little dog continued to bark. El Dupree stretched his legs from under the cactus into the path. He fumbled in the pack, stained and reeking of sweat and hair oil, that had lain beneath his head. The little dog, satisfied that it had made its point, fell silent. The young man cursed again and turned on the heels of his expensive boots. Head erect, eyes searching the distance as if for a sign, he marched stiffly away from the hut along the street... and tripped over the casually outstretched legs of El Dupree. In a flash, the Rotund One extracted a #23 vinyl head sack from the sweaty pack and pulled it over the head of the young man sprawled before him. Dupree rapped him smartly on the head with the corzappa. The tooled leather boots twisted angrily as the man fumbled for the drawstring of the headsack. He ripped it off and struggled to his feet, dazed from the blow of the corzappa. Gazing unsteadily at the grinning slob who reclined beneath the saguaro, he shook his head and tried to think of a sufficiently foul oath. What finally emerged was more of an animal snarl. Throwing down the headsack, he wheeled and resumed his march, eyes fixed firmly on the horizon. He did not seem to notice that he was marching opposite the way he had come. El Dupree recovered the headsack and returned it to his pack. He was more careful with headsacks these days; his supplier in Tijuana had raised the prices. From the pack, Dupree produced the dented canteen he had been seeking and drained the last few drops of mate which it contained. He lay back, readjusted his sombrero, and returned to his important thoughts. Juanita. Tequila. The corzappa. Dinner. The heat increased as the sun redoubled its furious assault. In the dusty yard down the street, the little dog was enlightened.