Pete Watters writes:

The cantina stood on the corner like the town drunk. Its cracked whitewash walls
were filled with gray plaster, and its bare dirt parking lot gave off puffs of
dust that blew across the street at freshly painted stucco stores like the
muttered epithets of a wino as he watches a young family walk down the street on
Sunday morning. The place was called The Sinaloa Saloon, and like any aging
alkie, it had seen much happen and forgotten most of it.

Miguel stood behind the bar, wiping his own sweat off the counter with a dirty
towel and watching his well-dressed patrons sit at tables discussing properties
with names like Mercado del Oro and Dinero Canyon Estates. "Fifteen years ago,"
Miguel thought, "the road in front was dirt and there wasn't a house for miles.
Then it was paved, and I had a Circle K for a neighbor across the street. Now it
is two lanes in either direction with a light at the corner and a 24-hour
grocery and pharmacy next door."

He spat through the slats of the wooden draining board he stood on and stared
out at the men he was certain leased their cars and mortgaged their souls.
"These men may  drink my whiskey," he thought, "but they would as soon have a
car wash here as my cantina."

The bartender's reverie was interrupted by the blinding sunlight from the
opening front door. He spied the silhouette of a short, squat, sombreroed man
leading a donkey by the reins. "Chinga," thought Miguel. "It's El Dupree!"

As the pair made their way to the bar, the patrons scrambled. To the left of
their path was a sidebar of attorneys; to the right, a subdivision of 
Realtors (tm). Those among them who had been in their cups quickly sobered.
Those with a slight buzz doubted that such an ungodly odor could possibly come
>from  a donkey. 

They were correct.

"Dupree," Miguel hissed as the two sidled up to the rail, "I don't serve burros
here."

"Then I'll just have a bottle of Hornitos," the bearded one said, "and a bowl
for my friend."

Miguel reached behind the counter and pulled the silver-and-green-labeled bottle
out. He set it down with a bowl, a shot glass, a salt shaker and a plate of lime
slices.

"Limas?!" bellowed El Dupree. "No necesitamos limas!" He grabbed the bottle,
unscrewed the cap and downed a fourth with hardly a shudder. He poured another
fourth into the burro's bowl  and slammed the half-full bottle back on the
counter. "Miguel, it's been a long time, mi amigo. How're Maria and the
children?"

Miguel shook his head slowly. "Maria ran off with some Tejano in a Lexus, and
the kids are grown up now. Jorge's a teacher, and Simon hangs with gangsters."

El Dupree pulled a half-smoked unlit cheroot from his mouth and took another
long pull from the bottle. "I'm sorry, Miguel." 

What more could he say? All he had for his friend's suffering was a little
compassion. The burro, however, let loose a hot stream that splattered a pair of
black wingtips at the next table.

"Pardon us," said Dupree, and turning to face the few remaining souls in the
cantina, he yelled, "A  drink for every fatherless biped in the house!"*

The olifactorily impaired were immediately enlightened as Dupree reached under
his sweaty gray poncho and pulled out a golf-ball sized gold nugget. Laying it
on the bar, he said, "For your troubles, Miguel." He took another pull and
started to peel the label off the bottle.

"Dupree, where'd you get..." blustered Miguel, but his porcine friend just
smiled, shook his head and re-lighted the cheroot. 

"We all peel labels,"** said Dupree as he took the burro's reins, turned and
walked out the bar.

A pasty-faced Realtor (tm) came up to the bar and asked Miguel, "Who was that? A
militia recruiter for the Keebler elves?"

Miguel looked at him darkly. "That was El Dupree, scourge of Sonora, world
champion of the deadly CamChata, the Devil Fingers game, and twice the man
you'll ever be!" Miguel quietly slipped the gold nugget into his pocket.

Outside, El Dupree mounted his burro and stared at a BMW convertible in the
dusty lot. He wondered why the gringoes would buy cars with #89 headsacks
installed and started his journey south, away from the cities that all looked
alike.

*Apologies to Edward Abbey.
**Apologies to Edward Albee.