Five Dumb Guys Walk Into a Bar

By Scott E. Newton

What would you do if the fate of the world were in your hands? If you were suddenly given responsibility for the certain, and apparently quite thorough, erasure of the human species, how would you respond?

This is exactly the dilemma five friends unexpectedly find themselves facing. While they are often called the five dumb guys, they had better rise above their reputation now.

The five, ordinary middle age friends, are on their way to their favorite camping spot. They stop for a few drinks at a dive bar in some out-the-way Nevada town, where they strike up a conversation with a local desert rat. This drunk, who goes by the name Alaska John, soon turns out to be far more than he seems. He claims he is a god, and he’s here to erase the human species, given its total failure as a useful contributor to the advancement of life in the universe.

The five friends drink with Alaska John well into the night, and eventually he informs them he would really rather just sit in the bar drinking Budweisers, and hit on the barmaid. He tells them running around erasing cities full of people is just too much work, so he will hand over his powers to them, and the five dumb guys can decide which city to erase next. The catch is, only the location is optional, and if they don’t choose, Alaska will indiscriminately destroy the human race, one city at a time.

The tale then unfolds, where cities, along with millions of people, are erased in a puff of steam. As the five dumb guys try to reign in Alaska John, they travel the west, from the Grand Canyon to Big Sur. Along the way they meet fellow travelers and adversaries; witches and Wiccans, Jesus Freaks, the Vatos from deep in Mexico, and a Navajo shaman. They are pursued by the NSA and the FBI. All the while the five friends must make massive moral decisions, while trying to stop the erasure of the human species.

Is it a deal made in the heavens? Can five regular guys save the earth? How long can they distract their apocalyptic pal with Budweisers? Can they destroy the destroyer? Can anyone score with the barmaid? The five guys have a momentous dilemma; do they help Alaska John or try to stop him, and for that matter how?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott E. Newton
• Release date: Feb 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466038554

Scott E. Newton

When not working on his next novel or painting watercolors, you might find the author wandering the red-rock deserts of Utah or Arizona. Scott is an old desert rat in his own right, and he would be happy to run into Hayduke himself out there on a trip one day. The two would likely hit it off famously, especially if Bonnie were along. In his spare time Scott studies ontological arguments and manages really big software development programs. For this later role he has found his Berkeley philosophy degree, as well as his time in a Buddhist monastery, of indispensable value. Of course, if the Five Dumb Guys did exist, Scott would be a charter member.

Book preview

Chapter 1 - Five Dumb Guys Walk Into a Bar

As five guys walk through the door, the patrons warily note their entrance while also studiously appearing to ignore them—glancing up and then quickly returning their attention to their libations. Three Mexicans are playing pool. Some old desert rats are slouched over beers at the far end of the long bar. The barmaid is standing chatting with the desert rats.

Such is the way of things in a bar like this.

They come through the door and look the place over, assessing its demeanor and the clientele. Then it seems each knows his role. One heads for the pool table and begins a conversation with the Mexicans. Another stops at the jukebox near the door. One goes toward the head. Two proceed directly to the bar.

The barmaid comes down the bar, regarding them with a suspicious smile.

Howdy, gentlemen. What’ll ya have?

Ah, my dear, says the tall, thin goateed one, we’d love five vodka tonics. SKYY vodka if you have it, or better yet Hendrix Electric.

Hendrix Electric? Five SKYY tonics coming up.

The shorter and clean-shaven one, to ease her misgivings, says, I’m Beez. My esteemed friend here is none other than King Salmon.

Sure, she says. Next you’re going to tell me you are mightily parched after the long ride you just had, right?

We might do just that.

She looks them over as she mixes the drinks. They are definitely a conundrum. King Salmon looks more like an aging hippie than a king. He’s wearing faded jeans, an AC/DC t-shirt, and a baseball hat that says Byte Me. And Beez? What is that about? His Tilley Hat, faded denim shirt, and dark green cargo pants make him look like a mercenary.

She is still wary as she places the five drinks on the bar. After all, these five guys have just walked in, scoped out her bar, and then dispersed as if they were up to something. On the other hand, they seemed laid back, not coming on too strong or anything.

Nice to meet you, Mr. Beez and Mr. Salmon. I’m Pinky. She shakes hands with each of them.

King Salmon nods and says, Of course you are. As if he had expected her answer.

Be right back, says Beez. He picks up three drinks and heads off to make deliveries.

Pinky is intrigued by King Salmon’s reaction to her name and asks him, Do I know you guys?

Doubt it, he says. It just seems like whenever we visit a bar we meet a Pinky.

The Corner Bar is L-shaped. It had once been someone’s house; now, its inner walls have been removed, and the entrance opens onto the 90-degree turn at the base of a great big L-shaped bar. The bar stretches straight ahead down the long side where the living room and kitchen were. A pool table is to the right down the shorter leg, which used to be the garage. The place is dark, the only light coming from the lamp hanging above the pool table, a florescent tube behind the bar, the jukebox by the door, and the various flickering neon beer ad signs in the curtained off windows. In a bar like this, dark is better.

The Five Dumb Guys, for that is who they are, had come through the door in single file. At first glance, they appeared innocent enough, until you looked closer and decided you were not quite sure. Were they just here to have a drink or to buy the place? Maybe they were looking for someone, with some nefarious objective in mind. It’s hard to tell, but it’s clear they are here for a reason. They walked in watchful, wary, like a pack of dogs checking out a new territory. The only thing missing was that they didn’t piss in the corners. Actually, one went straight to the head, so symbolically at least there was a marking of territory.

They are all over fifty. They range from wiry to stout. Two are bearded. One limps, but somehow you think he was meant to. There is no pattern to their attire: random caps, three bareheaded, t-shirts with various logos, jeans, sneakers, hiking boots, and a pair of sandals. They move about confidently, but there is no leader or alpha male, as at any time any one of them seems to be directing. They might be on a mission, and you hope it doesn’t involve you. Or they might just be stopping by for drinks.

At the pool table, Beez hands a drink to his comrade, and after being introduced to the Mexicans goes over to the jukebox and hands off another SKYY tonic. Here a serious discussion ensues regarding music selections, followed by the insertion into the machine of what appear to be several large bills and a rapid pushing of buttons.

Willy and Waylon’s On the Road Again begins playing.

The Five Dumb Guys have established themselves, and the bar has regained its equilibrium. The one who went to the men’s room, presumably having officially marked his territory, joins King Salmon and Pinky at the bar. He picks up a drink, saying, Dr. SKYY, I presume?

Laughing at his own joke, he introduces himself. Hello, beautiful lady. I’m Big Black Jim.

Pinky smiles and throws up her hands in exasperation. Of course you are, she says. I’m Pinky. Pleased to meet you, Big Black Jim. She shakes hands again.

You have met my friend King Salmon, I imagine?

She assures him she has and adds, And Beez over there. I can’t wait to meet the last two. Pinky smiles, putting her hand to her cheek in mock awe and anticipation.

Pinky is in her mid-thirties; her shoulder-length hair is blonde, with a few vermillion streaks. She’s exceptionally fit, and the Five Dumb Guys will later debate at length as to whether any augmentation has been involved. Her silky-thin, light blue blouse has two strategic buttons undone, and her jeans are just tight enough. Her large, dangling pink earrings could be a concession to her name. The Dumb Guys at the bar are infatuated, and as the night wears on and the SKYY flows, this affliction will spread.

The jukebox starts playing, Are You Lonesome Tonight.

We’re going to need another round soon, Big Black Jim says. That first SKYY has gone down smooth and fast, and he is liking this bar. Quiet, good tunes on the jukebox, people minding their own business, and a beautiful barmaid named Pinky. An auspicious beginning for a Five Dumb Guys trip.

You boys are thirsty. And you seem to be thoroughly scoping out my bar. What have you decided? Even as they flirt with her, Pinky is watching these two closely.

Stick around. We might just buy the place, Big Black Jim tells her, with a twinkle in his eyes and a smile.

Pinky indicates the group of Mexican pool players and says, Look out, these guys might be Mexican Mafia. Your friend does not want to mess with them.

She says this completely deadpan, so they can’t tell if she’s joking or serious.

King Salmon smiles at her. Not to worry—that’s King Ron. He can make friends with anyone. I don’t believe he has ever pissed anyone off . . . well, besides a few of our wives.

Pinky raises an eyebrow.

King Ron himself, having left a stack of quarters on the side of the pool table, walks over and joins them at the bar.

Greetings, gorgeous barmaid. I’ve got the next game with Pablo. He’s cool.

Pleased to meet you, too. So you’re King Ron. I’m Pinky, she says, smiling at him and shaking his hand, although I think I’ll just have to call you Mountain Man.

Hmm, I have been called that before, he admits, eyeing her carefully. How did you know?

Oh, I know many things, Pinky says, with a grandiose, mysterious tone. This is very strange. Here I am whiling away the hours in my Corner Bar, and what should happen but the bunch of you show up.

Surely no coincidence, replies King Salmon.

Pinky nods. No coincidence indeed. First, there’s you, who ought to be Lefty. Then this one, who I will agree is damn big but not so black. And now this mountain man here, she says, indicating King Ron. What the hell, that makes Two Kings and an Ace of Spades. And a Beez over by the jukebox, with I’m afraid to ask who?

"The Beez, not a Beez," Big Black Jim says.

The jukebox is playing, It Ain’t Me Babe.

Normal and Beez have finished programming that very machine and arrive to join the others at the bar.

King Salmon does the final introduction. Pinky, Normal; Normal, Pinky.

Pinky smiles and shakes hands once again. Normal, does this mean there is really a normal one of you guys? She laughs.

Well, as normal as can be. Sometimes we use Norm so as not to confuse anyone.

Pinky rolls her eyes.

Normal seems genuinely happy to meet her. My god, I can’t believe it, another Pinky. I am very pleased to meet the most bewitching Pinky. And I hope soon to be another Goddess as well, hey Beez? he says glancing at Beez, who nods agreement. I do love your bar, and your jukebox. Great tunes.

Beez remarks, You have now officially met all of the Five Dumb Guys.

The Five Dumb Guys began by accident some twenty years ago. They were acquainted, all working for the same company, but not particularly friends. Two of them were sitting in a cubical talking about going camping, and the other three randomly happened by. Before they knew it, all five were up in Yosemite, and since then they have taken as many as a half a dozen trips a year.

They didn’t start out as the Five Dumb Guys. Early on, they even invited others along on their trips, but soon they discovered that no one else got it. Sometimes the trips were dumb, and other times they just did dumb things. They began journeys at midnight, sledded down ice falls at 2 am, camped on twelve feet of snow, prepared green salads over a campfire, forgotten sleeping bags, tangled with bears, lost all their food to raccoons, and the list goes on. Other people thought their antics were stupid, but they knew them to be acts of creativity and rebellion.

In their daily lives, these five were some of the top troubleshooters in their industry. Between them, their experience covered very nearly the history of computers. Their expertise was vast: processor design, hardware, firmware, software, microcode, management, engineering, and systems analysis. They fixed the really hard problems. Five dumb guys indeed. Perhaps the Five Dumb Guys was their escape. Their trips had real meaning.

Well, I guess my world is now complete. Pinky grins at them and opens her arms wide, as if to embrace them all. This of course further endears her.

They often run into barmaids named Pinky, and some of them get elevated to Goddess status. Being attractive and flirtatious are criteria for sure.

Pinky smiles and stands back to give them a serious once over, maybe deciding whether she is charmed by their act, or even if it is an act.

We need another round, says King Ron. And by all means mix one of whatever you would like for yourself, on us of course. King Ron’s feeling mellow. This bar suits him just fine. And he’s thinking, This Pinky is a babe.

The jukebox is now playing, Do You Love Me by the Contours.

Pinky mixes six SKYY tonics, a number the Dumb Guys are quick to notice, and which pleases them immensely. The third and final criterion for Goddess status is to drink with them.

She hands around the drinks, and raising her glass to take a sip, addresses them all: So, who are you guys, and what are you doing in my bar? You seem to have come in here and pretty much taken the place over. In a very subtle sort of way though, I might add. Don’t cause any trouble, I won’t stand for it. She sweeps her arm around indicating her bar in general and ending with her finger pointing directly at them.

Trouble? Us? We’re innocent.

Hell no, we’re peaceful and friendly.

No, no. Just here having a few drinks.

We love your bar. And you, too!

We’re the Five Dumb Guys.

Her bar is the Corner Bar in Mesquite, Nevada, a typical local dive in the desert. She doesn’t own it, but it’s her bar nonetheless. Even the owner, some old retired snowbird, defers to her on the rare occasions he comes in. The desert rats at the end of the bar, as well as the Mexican gangster pool players, are all under her thumb. She plans to be in firm control of these five as well.

Five Dumb Guys? I’m afraid to ask how you got that name, but I suspect it’s appropriate.

King Salmon tries to sound charming as he answers. We’re just old friends. We get together a few times a year to go camping, or to see the World of Outlaws, stuff like that. Nothing dumb about it. He takes a large sip of his drink.

I love dirt track, Pinky exclaims. Especially WOO.

We go to tracks all over California, Normal tells her. Normal is a connoisseur of dirt track racing, whether sprint cars, midgets, or motor cycles. Normal’s as taken with Pinky as the rest of them, and even though he is devoted to his wife, he will dream.

But how do you all know each other? Are you brothers, cousins, or something? Pinky asks.

Big Black Jim says, Nothing like that. We’ve known each other for a long time; we originally all worked for the same company. In fact, we all worked on the same product at the same plant way back when: old mainframes, the big iron. That plant closed years ago and guys have moved around. Three live in the San Francisco area and two in So Cal. We’re computer geeks; three hardware and two software.

Dinks and pukes, says Normal.

Yeah, but nobody ever knows which is which, King Ron observes.

I bet Mountain Man King Ron is a hardware guy. You look more like a back country guide or something than a computer geek, Pinky says. How long has this whole Five Dumb Guy thing been going on?

We go back a long way, at least to the ’70s, thirty some odd years for sure.

Wow, and you all still get together after all those years? That’s impressive.

Truckin is on the jukebox.

Don’t go away, Pinky says. Then she heads off to get beers for the desert rats and the pachucos at the pool table.

The Five Dumb Guys exchange a toast, congratulating themselves on discovering yet another great dive bar, with yet another awesome Pinky for a barmaid. They’re getting near a level three buzz as this third SKYY nears its end.

We need more SKYYs, says King Ron.

There are nods of agreement as they all admire Pinky crossing the room.

On her return, Pinky automatically starts mixing them drinks, indicating one for myself? with a nod to King Ron, who indicates damn right with a corresponding nod.

Then she asks, So is it always you same five guys? And what brings you to beautiful downtown Mesquite? Where are you headed?

Beez says, It is definitely always the same five of us, has been for more than twenty years.

She’s starting to look at them a little more seriously. Like maybe she thinks there is something more to them being here than just randomly dropping by her bar. In fact, a couple of the guys have noticed that her demeanor grew a little more serious while she was off delivering drinks.

And I still want to know why you are Dumb Guys.

You should get to know us, but trust me, we have been known to do some pretty dumb things, Big Black Jim tells her.

More than a few times, says King Salmon.

Perhaps it’s all these SKYY tonics you drink. She hands around the new drinks, toasting them with hers. What are you doing here?

The jukebox starts playing, Purple Haze.

We’re heading out to our spot in the desert. It’s east of here over the mountains. Off road about sixty miles. Beez points generally eastward. Near the edge of the Grand Canyon.

Big Black Jim says, Clinton made it a Wilderness Area. We found the spot five or ten years ago and have been returning ever since.

Is it a vortex out there? asks Pinky. With this question, she definitely grows increasingly serious.

Hell yes. Even better than the ones we sometimes camp at in Sedona, Normal tells her, a little tongue in cheek, or maybe not.

Pinky doesn’t seem to notice, or care: she is getting more serious and interested every moment. Her forehead wrinkles, and she places both palms down on the bar, looking at them intently. Beez and King Ron have noticed and are watching her back just as intently. King Salmon is hardly paying attention to any of this, scanning the room again. Normal and Big Black Jim are just enthralled with anything she says.

The Rolling Stones are singing Gimme Shelter.

You guys are kind of mysterious. Let’s try this. What is the name of the place where you are going?

Beez says, We call it our Holy Ground, and I give you my word it is surely holy to us.

We consider it a sacrosanct place, King Ron tells her.

Pinky stares fixedly at him, her mouth slowly dropping open. Oh my god, I think you’re the ones. She seems startled, as if she has suddenly realized who they are and why they are here. For some reason, she also glances down toward the desert rats.

Now all five of them are paying attention to her reactions. Their advancing mellow mood is slightly held up by her sudden seriousness. They look at one another and then back to Pinky. She still seems bewildered.

The ones what? asks King Salmon gently. He’s a little concerned at her sudden turn.

Beez wants to recapture the once growing mellow mood and tries to make a joke, although on one level he is not joking at all. Oh, you can be sure we are the ones; we will go our own way and do not suffer fools lightly. We take no prisoners! He proclaims this with mock seriousness, raising his glass.

Big Black Jim says, Perhaps you should join us? We could be Five Dumb Guys and a Girl.

Normal ignores all this and with a serious tone asks Pinky, Yeah, like ‘the ones’ what? What do you mean by that? Normal is a student of Indian legend and lore, and when he gets out in the desert, he is always looking for signs and evidence of the old tales and lore. He’s thinking, or maybe dreaming, There is some old Indian legend at work here. He also glances down the bar where Pinky looked, to see who or what she is checking with. The only thing down there is still the desert rats.

Pinky recovers from her apparent shock.

Oh, ah … I just meant … ah nothing, she says.

Yeah, but what did you mean, we’re the ones? asks Big Black Jim.

Then she completely regains her composure and tries to ignore the whole thing. Oh, nothing, nothing. It’s just, well … oh well, I guess maybe you guys must be the ones who have been going out there. Out in the desert, like you said. You see, you’re a little famous with the locals. Some of the ranchers from out there, when they come in for drinks, say they keep running into these scruffy guys in SUVs and pickups once in a while, and they can never figure out what they are doing out there. You know the ranchers who run cattle on BLM land are a little suspicious and sometimes not the brightest.

Or the friendliest, says King Ron.

Yeah, we have run into a few. We definitely get a ‘what the hell are you guys doing in our desert’ vibe, Big Black Jim says. He has always wondered what is up with these ranchers out there. The economics of running cattle in the desert seems sketchy at best.

Beez says, Like who would want to have anything to do with their scrawny cows anyway.

Yeah, and what business do they have being the police of the desert? It’s BLM land, and we have as much right to it as them. In fact, I don’t see why they should be allowed to have their stupid cows wandering around out there. All they do is shit all over the place. King Salmon dislikes government rules that impact him. And the government letting someone use his public land to make a personal profit is even more offensive.

Trying to calm things down, Normal says, They have never been very friendly but pretty much they mind their business, and we mind ours.

King Ron finds the whole thing kind of interesting. So we are famous with those old guys?

Pinky nods. Yeah, these ranchers have come in here a bunch of times talking about these strange guys out in the desert.

Except we are the Dumb Guys, not the Strange Guys, Big Black Jim says, laughing.

Pinky has now completely glossed over her you’re the ones comment and distracted them by changing the subject. This is not hard to do. After all, they are the Dumb Guys, and they are on their fourth or fifth vodka tonic. But they will only forget about it for now.

Us, strange guys? Those ranchers are damn scary. Pinky, I think we need another round, King Salmon says.

Sure you do, says Pinky. As she begins mixing the drinks, she glances down the bar once again.

I think my other customers need another round as well, she says, handing out the SKYYs.

It’s on us, shouts Beez, feeling at least a level three plus magnanimousness.

Yeah, and for the pool hustlers over there as well, King Ron adds.

Pinky heads down the bar with a tray full of beers.

The Dumb Guys don’t seem to notice her whispered exchange with the nearest desert rat.

Instead, they turn to one another.

That was kind of odd, Normal says.

King Salmon agrees. Wonder what she is hiding there?

Beez say, Aw, don’t be crazy. She wouldn’t hide anything from us. I think I’ll ask her to marry me.

Your wife will kill you, King Ron reminds him.

I’d say she was definitely acting a little suspicious for a sec, Big Black Jim says.

When Pinky returns, she says, Boys, everyone thanks you. You may be Dumb Guys but you sure know how to make friends and influence enemies.

The jukebox begins playing, You are the Sunshine of My Life.

Pinky, will you marry me? Beez asks, in apparent earnestness. After enough SKYYs, he always asks attractive barmaids this, and sometimes not so attractive ones as well.

She eyes him warily and says, And what about that ring there on your finger?

Oh, I’ll get one just like it for you! he replies enthusiastically.

Well then all right, she tells them all. I guess that will make me one of the Dumb Guys.

Ah, a Dumb Girl, I would think, says Big Black Jim.

Everyone’s suspicions are put aside—at least for now.

Chapter 2 - Corner Bar Patrons

Normal notices that the music has stopped. Hey, we need new tunes! he says, and heads toward the jukebox.

Beez says, Be right back, and follows Normal.

Some catalyst seems to have occurred—perhaps the jukebox stopping, maybe the dogs needing to re-mark their territory, or perhaps Beez hitting on the barmaid, but whatever it was, over the course of a few moments the Five Dumb Guys disperse throughout the bar.

King Salmon and Big Black Jim head for the pool table. Beez and Normal, once the machine is re-fed, both wander down to the end of the bar to meet the old desert rats. King Ron stays at the bar, chatting with Pinky.

Big Black Jim is actually a good pool player, at least when relatively sober, and by far the best pool player among the Dumb Guys. He is also the analytic Dumb Guy. He writes complicated software algorithms as well as designs and debugs hardware and circuit boards. He’s an avid sailor, as much for the challenge of figuring out how to get the most from the wind and his boat as for the joy of being on the open sea. The way he is seeing things tonight, there is something odd going on in this bar, and he’d like to figure out what it is.

He and King Salmon, who is not a very good pool player drunk or sober, arrive at the pool table bearing three Dos Equis for the Mexicans.

Tres cervezas para mis amigos. Dos Equis, says King Salmon, offering the beers.

The Mexican pool players greet them graciously and accept the beers with thanks and smiles.

"Muchas gracias.

Gracias.

King Salmon is the dreamer among the Five Dumb Guys. At any moment, he may be thinking about the possibility of faster than light travel or how to achieve world peace. He consumes random information off the Internet at a voracious pace. This weirdness in the bar has him fascinated, and he is hoping these Mexican guys can shed some light on things. After all, these three in Mesquite is plenty strange all by itself.

Introductions are made. Turns out the Mexicans are officially known as the Vatos. They are Pablo, Héctor, and Alejandro. They are a little wary, not withstanding meeting King Ron earlier. What Mexican native would not be wary in a Nevada desert dive bar, right next door to Utah?

When King Salmon explains that he and his friends are the Five Dumb Guys, there is every indication that this may be the beginning of a lasting friendship; it’s reminiscent of a pack of eight-year-olds meeting on the playground and hitting it off, perhaps just before they start a game of kickball, or decide to go build a fort.

Teams are chosen for 9-ball: King Salmon and Pablo against Big Black Jim and Héctor. Alejandro heads to the jukebox, muttering, Caramba, let me see if we can get some real music instead of this old hippie shit. I want to hear some Norteño.

So, Big Black Jim says to Héctor, what are a bunch of Mexican banditos doing in a place like the Corner Bar, let alone Mesquite? There is not much here. Big Black Jim is a Southern California native, and sympathetic to Mexican culture. Desert rats, Pinky, the Vatos, and the Five Dumb Guys, all in the same place; no coincidence he figures.

If these were El Monte or Pico Rivera OG type Chicanos, a greeting like that might get you killed. But these three are real Mexicans from down south, not from the hood, and they take no offense.

The Vatos laugh, and Pablo ask right back, We might ask the same of five pasty-looking, none-too-skinny, or young anymore for that matter, middle-class white boys.

There is more laughter. Fair enough, says Big Black Jim, but who you calling a white boy?

They are going to get along famously.

The banter continues as the pool game ramps up and Alejandro rejoins them. Pleased, he says, My friends Normal and Beez and I have decided to alternate some real Mexican music with their hippie tunes.

Hasta el Limite begins playing on the jukebox.

So where are you guys from? asks King Salmon.

Like many first-generation middle-class Mexicans, the Vatos are proud of their heritage and accomplishments. And rightly so. Turns out the three of them grew up together near the small village of El Lobo, in Landa de Matamoros in the central mountains of Mexico. The Sierra Gorda. The Wolf and the Gorda Mountains. Both familiar icons to the Five Dumb Guys. Coincidence? Maybe.

Pablo and Héctor are brothers, and Alejandro is their lifelong friend, likely a cousin, although no one is 100% sure. Although they still call the village home, they have all moved up in the world: Pablo has a master’s degree in Education, Alejandro is an engineer, and Héctor is helping his father turn their once small trucking business into an international concern, moving freight through most of North and South America. Theirs has been the generation to move from the lower economic rungs to the middle class, in many ways not unlike the Dumb Guy’s parents.

And what about you guys? asks Pablo. We’d like to know what the hell you are all doing out here in the desert, too, and where you came here from.

Reasonable questions, replies Big Black Jim. And he and King Salmon explain about the Five Dumb Guys, their years of friendship and camping trips in the desert. This story gets some raised eyebrows from the Vatos, which the Dumb Guys notice, but it’s nothing as marked as Pinky’s, Oh my god you’re the ones. For some reason their story, unremarkable as it is in their eyes, seems to pique more than a passing interest with the patrons of this bar.

Eventually Pablo says, My friends, this is all becoming quite strange. I must tell you of how we came to be here. It is an odd little drama, and you might not believe it, but I swear it is all the truth.

Yes, it is even a little embarrassing, says Alejandro with a chuckle. Our mothers told us to come here.

Everyone laughs rowdily.

This is going to be good, says Big Black Jim. But more beers first. He heads to the bar.

King Salmon says, "Ha! Now that I believe. If there is anyone who can make a bunch of macho banditos like you guys do anything, it would have to be your mothers. So why did they make you come here?" King Salmon is taking a real liking to these guys. They are down to earth and straightforward—not full of pretense. These are characteristics he appreciates in people.

The Vatos are not really embarrassed. They have been sent here by women they hold in the highest regard. Not just their mothers, but wives and grandmothers as well. For them respect for the elderly remains, and they have not abandoned the old values, even with their modern education.

Big Black Jim returns and hands around beers and SKYYs.

You see, says Pablo sheepishly, it started with our grandmother Lupe.

They explain that Lupe is actually Alejandro’s wife’s grandmother. It seems this Lupe is a serious village shaman, and is known to have hexed a number of people, including some who may have subsequently died. Everybody believes this in the mountains. The villagers all around live in great respect and fear of Lupe. She lives in a little mountain village near El Lobo, and she is celebrated across much of Mexico. A few months ago, she started going into some kind of trance. Ever since, she has been ranting and raving about the return, the end, Guadalupe, The Inti, and "The