never came off once in his entire career. It was part of the reason he was so revered in this part of Mexico. He retired undefeated, except for two matches in which he owed the promoter more money than his winning purse would cover. Fortunately for the Coyote, Mexican professional wrestling statistics are flexible at best. Everyone in town considered him to have never met his better or even come close to losing a match. In his retirement, the still-imposing barrel-chested man now ran a sort of bar, hotel, brothel, nightclub, strip joint in this small village. But really, it was mainly a brothel. The Coyote like the word brothel a lot. It sounded way better than whorehouse. He thought it sounded kind of French, kind of classy. He hung Impressionist art reproductions on the wall, in velvet, of course, so in case someone threw a beer bottle, it wouldn’t shatter. Plus, the velvet paintings soaked up the booze. At the end of the night, he would wring out the artwork into a glass and give away the gnarly, ink-stained liquid as a free shot known as the “The Sweat of Monet.”
“Pull over,” Avery said. The mud and dust covered bus ground to a halt, backward, of course.
“Someone get Private Tango off my roof,” the General ordered.
Around them, old stone buildings surrounded an open square with a small, communal well. The pockmarked edifices were whitewashed but dingy. People walked by and seemed to not look, but they really did. It was hard not to notice the raggedy band of misfits that climbed off the bus. Even the donkeys noticed.
“Look at the size of the dinger on that one…” Fire Team Leader Alpha slapped Private Foxtrot across the back of his head. “I’m just saying, Team Leader, that’s some donkey.” The private rubbed his head.
“Fire Team Leader Charlie,” the General announced, “find someone to fix this contraption.”
“Why me?”
“You found it, you fix it. Pronto!”
“Roger that, General.” The Fire Team Leader looked around the village, wiped his face, and set out.
“We need disguises,” Avery suggested. “Have the men follow me.” Soon the crew was outfitted with large, colorful sombreros. Avery’s was yellow, with tiger stripes. A pudgy man in a yellow tracksuit leading a group of men in camouflage fatigues wearing brightly colored sombreros exited the small general store, trying to act inconspicuous.
“Walk Mexican,” Avery said as he dragged his feet and looked down. The rest of the men followed suit. A cloud of dust lifted behind the band of men as they made their way across the street. The most prominent building on the block had a large neon sign proclaiming it as the Coyote’s Lair. Avery noticed the flickering sign.
“Welcome!” El Coyote, said ushering the men inside. “Right this way, my friends.” The former wrestler pulled aside a scarlet-colored velvet rope that kept back no one. The men followed El Coyote inside — all except Ziggy, whose attention was captured by something further down the street. “Lupe, a table up front!” The round woman at the bar ignored him. “Lupe!” She walked away. “Don’t mind her,” El Coyote said. “Sit wherever you like. The next show starts any minute now.”
The men of the militia ambled up to a long table in front of the main stage. The place was empty except for a couple of dancers. “Don’t worry.” El Coyote wiped down the table with a greasy rag. “You’re just in time. The crowd starts to come in around sundown. Best to get here early. What can I get you gentlemen to drink?”
“Mountain Dew,” said Avery.
“Lupe, one tequila!”
“No, Mountain Dew, please.”
“Yes, tequila. Is very good.”
“Beer, cold,” said the General. The rest of the men nodded.
“Lupe, tequila and cerveza all around.” El Coyote walked toward the bar. Scantily clad women from the brothel’s rooms upstairs began to filter down the staircase into the club to check out what sort of fresh meat had just wandered in. Private Zulu’s jaw dropped. He’d only heard of places like this, and what he’d heard about them was very naughty. An overweight stripper wearing a leather bikini sauntered over and spun around in front of Private Zulu. Grabbing the back of his head, she shoved his face into her cleavage and violently shook her chest, grinding the skinny private’s face into the leather bikini top. Letting him go, she blew the frazzled private a kiss over her shoulder.
“She smelled nice,” Private Zulu said.
“What?” Private Foxtrot watched the stripper saunter away.
“Kind of like the seats inside a new truck.”
“Looked like forty miles of bad road to me. How about that one over there?” Private Foxtrot pointed.
“Naw,” Private Zulu said, “she’s two axe handles across the ass.”
“Good point. What about her?”
“You know, she’s a bit old for me.”
“Old? There ain’t nothing but old in this place.”
“Yeah, I just like a lady’s skin to fit a bit tighter.”
“She does droop in places that shouldn’t, but Daddy used to always say, ‘It’s better to have ten ones than one ten.’”
“Your daddy also tried to teach a raccoon to drive a tractor.”
“Yep, drove it right through the side of the barn…hold the phone, partner. What about that one?” Private Foxtrot pointed at the most beautiful girl in the bar. Dark hair, voluptuous curves, and a big pistol strapped to her hip. She was the bomb, and everyone knew it, especially her.
“Now you’re talking.”
“Naw, she’s out of your league.”
“What do you mean?” Zulu asked.
“I mean that she must cost a fortune. Look at those…”
“I got money!”
“How much?”
“Couple of bucks, plus a few old pesos I found lying ’round the HQ.”
“You’re out of luck, buddy,” Private Foxtrot said as he watched the gorgeous woman curl herself around the pole on the main stage. “The good news is you’ve got enough money to buy me something to eat.”
“We done ate today already. How can you be hungry again?”
“I’m always hungry.” Private Foxtrot waved for El Coyote’s attention. “What kind of vittles you got to eat around here?”
“My friend, we serve the best menudo in town.” El Coyote smiled. “Spicy! Good for a hangover, too.”
“Hey, Zulu, you like menudo?”
“Sure, but mainly their older stuff, before they went all commercial.”
“No, I mean to eat.”
“Never had it. What’s in it?”
“Stomach,” El Coyote replied.
“Stomach? No way, Jose, I ain’t eating stomach.” Private Zulu shook his head.
“My friend, it’s tripe. It’s good for you.”
“Tripe? Okay. I like tripe.”
“Excellent. Lupe! Two bowls of menudo, pronto.”
“Do you even know what tripe is?” Private Foxtrot asked his friend.
“Sure, it’s like chicken, right? Mexican chicken?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll like it.”
“He was kidding about the stomach part, wasn’t he?”
“Just trust me.” A few minutes later, the two privates were slurping away at large, steaming bowls of bright red soup with large chucks of honeycomb-shaped material and hominy floating in them. “What do you think?” Private Foxtrot wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his fatigues.
“Spongy.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty good.”
“Strangest-looking chicken I ever had before.” Private Zulu lifted his bowl to his mouth and drained the last bit of his soup. “Tastes like rubber. They must feed them something different down here, maybe plastic bags. Hey, what the heck has he got over there?” The private pointed to the front of the building, where Ziggy was carrying an iguana about half the size of himself. He made his way to the table and took a seat. He draped the long
