By the end of the workday, Fernando wasn’t sure what he’d accomplished besides busting up himself and everything around him. Chico seemed impressed with him, however. Onto a shaded beam Fernando collapsed, chugging water from an old milk jug and trying to catch his breath. Grinning, Chico clapped Fernando on the back where he sat.

“Nice work, city boy. I did my best to break you, but you’re a tough bastard, I’ll give you that. Come have a drink with us.”

Fernando went over with them to an open-air bar a few blocks away. It was dingy, loud and dirt-floored. The place was crowded already with day-labors and sad-eyed whores. For these women, their daily work was only just beginning. They drifted about, aimless yet seeking. They wove through the tables like passing ghouls. They paused at the booths like attendant spirits.

Fernando watched them with morbid fascination while Chico led them over to the bar. Roughly, he elbowed in among the glowering patrons. These grimy, surly workmen made Chico and his group of punks seem fresh-faced and friendly by comparison.

Not a few of these bargoers were well on their way to becoming good and drunk. In the midst of this motley, a big old particolored rooster strutted about across the packed dirt between tables. The rooster was one-eyed, bandy-legged and scarred. His scaly brown feet were notched and furrowed, grooved through with white like gouged tree limbs.

“El Demonio,” Chico said to Fernando with a grin. “The undefeated champion. Pepe’s uncle bought this bar off his cockfight winnings, didn’t he, Pepe?”

Pepe nodded.

“Bad luck not to retire El Demonio after that. Like spitting in the face of God.” Chico’s dark eyes glinted. “Or the Devil.”

Lalo crossed himself with an idiot’s sage gravity. Chico sneered at him.

One drink turned into two, then three. Fernando could feel himself starting to get drunk. But everyone around him seemed drunker.

“Let’s see what you’re made of, city boy,” Chico said, slurring slightly as he steered Tito into the seat opposite Fernando and put up both their arms.

Fernando arm-wrestled Tito and won with ease. He arm-wrestled Pepe and won just as handily. Chico couldn’t stand it after that, and plopped himself down, smirking.

“Okay, enough with the warm-ups.” Chico rolled up his sleeves and propped his elbow on the table. “Let’s go.”

Fernando arm-wrestled Chico and won against him, too. Chico jumped up, seething.

“Hijo de puta!”

He tried to shove Fernando off his seat, failed, then cursed him again. Chico kept stomping and fuming over his loss until Fernando whipped the gorilla-armed Lalo as well. After this stunning victory, Chico became Fernando’s champion, boasting that he was unbeatable to the tavern at large.

“The beast from Bogotá—who dares to face him?”

More arm-wrestling ensued, with bets being shouted and placed. Fernando was now pitted against burly mine workers twice his age. Like El Demonio himself, Fernando emerged victorious from every scrape. Whether because he was stronger or simply soberer was impossible to say.

With banknotes bursting from his fists, Chico danced around Fernando and his combatants, yelling in gloating triumph. He tipped more beer down Fernando’s throat for good measure, kissing and embracing him like a brother. Lalo shielded them while Tito and Pepe went around collecting the winnings.

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