Rancho Viejo
In Rancho Viejo, death is the rule, not the exception.
José Clemente Orozco, Riña en un Cabaret, 1944.
Two men stared at each other in the cantina del pueblo.
Neither had ever laid eyes on the other but recognized one another from Wanted posters.
Both their faces were caked with mud and dust, their mustaches blacker and thicker than they actually were.
When one drank, so did the other. When the other smoked, so did the one.
After a few dozen glasses of pulque, the other stumbled back and the one fell upon him, knife out.
The barman rang a bell. The men roared and the women squealed.
In the town of Rancho Viejo, if no man died every day — it was bad luck.
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