Espada

Sunlight glared down. Gusts of wind roared, lifting the sand into the air.

The splintered wood of the one-story building creaked, though the sound was drowned out by the winds of the vast desert in La Mancha. Small trees and bushes sentineled the towering mountains which guarded the horizon in the distance. Sand journeying across it without abandon, gathered in the corners of the large rectangular sign of the bar with the words ‘El Muro’ emblazoned on it.

A 1980 Chevrolet Camaro, with pale red paint and rust gathering on the hood with mismatched colored doors was parked in front of the shaky building.

Cervantes hid his hands in the pockets of his worn-out long coat, keeping it close around him as three buttons were missing. The bottom of the coat billowed in the wind.

Most of his clothing seemed worn out and faded. The dark pants, the collar of the blue button-up shirt, and the boots reflected the life he had chosen. The only article of clothing that didn’t seem old, though still battered, was the straw hat that sat obediently over his short dark hair despite the strong wind.

His face was rugged, stubble covering his chin. Grey eyes peered at the establishment in front of him. He gave the rusty old car a momentary sideways glance before he headed towards the entrance.

The wooden door closed behind him as he took in his surroundings. There were tables and chairs littered about the place; some wooden, some plastic with the words Heineken’ barely readable. All empty. All unused.

At the opposite end of the bar, two men sat on stools, their backs to him as they watched the televised football game. The images flickered and the sound buzzed as Barcelona struggled 2 to 5 against Real Zaragoza.

As Cervantes approached the bar, the wooden floor creaked. One of the two men, the one with the broken nose, turned and saw Cervantes approaching and nodded his head in a slight greeting before returning to watching the game. His friend, seated to his right, ignored the newcomer in favor of watching the game.

The man with the straw hat took a seat on a stool at the bar, one stool in between him and the other two customers.

A moment later the barman stomped out of a door behind the bar. He was middle-aged, with a thinning hairline, a cigar placed in his mouth. The smoke from the cigar mixed with the stench of his sweat and made a truly abominable smell. Cervantes had to resist recoiling as the smell wafted over his nostrils.

Placing the dirty cloth with which he’d been wiping his hands into the sink, he gruffly asked the man; ‘¿Que quieres?’

‘Whisky.’

The barman blew a puff of smoke in Cervantes’ face. ‘Sure thing.’

Ignoring the smoke in his face, Cervantes’ placed his hat on the bar. As the barman came back and left the glass in front of him, one of the men seated at the bar groaned.

‘That idiot,’ he growled out as he took a swig from his drink. ‘How is that not a foul?!’

‘Because that was an interception Emilio, not a direct attack at the other player,’ replied his friend, with the broken nose that almost went in a zig-zag pattern.

‘He kicked the guy in the damn knee! Where else was he aiming?!’ Emilio finished his drink and ordered another. ‘Both you and that referee need glasses, Jorge.’

Jorge sighed as he ran a hand through his light brown hair. ‘It only looked like a foul because of that one specific camera angle, on the rest, it looks like a legit interception.’

Emilio didn’t even bother thanking the barman before he took a swig. ‘I don’t care if it looked legit, that one angle got it right, even if it looks okay in the rest the fact is if there seems something fishy from just one angle then it’s clear that something’s up.’

‘But what if it truly was accidental and that shot is incorrect?’ Jorge finished his drink and promptly asked for another. ‘Plus you’re trying to act as if you’re delivering an unbiased opinion, but you’re just bitter that you’ll be losing the bet.’

Emilio gave off a small growl. ‘I am being unbiased, and of course, I’m pissed that I’ll be losing money, but it pisses me off, even more, knowing that it’s because of some half-assed referee.’

Cervantes looked at his glass feeling it between his fingers.

There was cheering coming from the TV as Real Zaragoza scored another goal against Barcelona.

‘¡Me cago en la madre…!’

‘You better not make any excuses when you lose you know,’ Jorge noted coolly, hiding his smirk behind his glass. ‘A loss is a loss you know.’

Emilio didn’t reply, instead, he mumbled a list of obscenities under his breath. ‘Oi cantinero, change the damn channel!’

Jorge blinked. ‘You don’t want to watch the rest of the game?’

‘Whether we watch it or not doesn’t change who wins, plus football gives me a headache.’

There was a buzzing sound of static as the barman clicked through channels, on some there was no reception whatsoever, and on others, there were blurred images but no sound, on others no images but a strong buzz which at times vaguely sounded like a speech.

Finally, he came to a stop on a channel that worked. It was one of those political debate channels, with around five people, sitting around each other as they discussed different matters.

‘It’s utter hypocrisy on the Canary islands,’ said a stout man with large glasses. ‘They ban bullfighting and all other spectacles regarding animal cruelty but cockfighting…’

‘Ah damn it! Turn the thing off!’ Emilio slammed his fist on the bar.

The barman gave him a nasty glare. ‘I’m not your waiter, make your damn mind already!’

Emilio didn’t even blink at the glare the man gave him. ‘If we’re gonna have politics on, then it’s better having nothing at all!’

The barman puffed on his cigar as he turned off the TV. He then promptly left through the backdoor at the bar.

‘I hope they don’t ban bullfighting everywhere,’ Jorge said, sadly. ‘It’d be a shame. I remember going to see one with my granddad.’

‘You actually condone how they torture those animals?’

‘It’s not really torture, if anything it’s better than what most will ever get in life.’

Emilio scoffed. ‘You mean getting taunted and then forced to fight as they slowly bleed to death?’

‘The bullfighters are also in danger you know,’ pointed out Jorge. ‘Besides if the bull lives through it, they treat it well afterward.’

‘But that’s ‘if’.’ Insisted Emilio. ‘The fact is there’s still more chance for the bullfighters to come out alive than the bull itself.’

‘Naturally,’ conceded Jorge. ‘But it’s still a more honorable death than what all the other cattle get. Most get either punctured in a blood vessel or shot in the head.’

‘What difference does it make whether it's ‘honorable’? Death is still death!’

‘But it’s not just death, it’s also life,’ Jorge took a sip from his drink. ‘The cow and bulls who are just bred to be eaten spend their lives trapped in pens as they are pumped with hormones to make them grow bigger. Fighting bulls, on the other hand, get to live in ranches and are allowed as many cows as they want to allow them to breed more high caliber fighting bulls.’

Emilio sneered as he took a large swig from his drink.

‘So despite what you said, the fighting bulls have a better life and a better death. At least in my opinion.’

At this point the barman walked back in with a beer can in his hand, drinking it heftily, he then noticed Cervantes still hadn’t taken his drink. ‘You planning on drinking that today?’

He got no reply.

‘I still say it’s a load of shit,’ Emilio huffed. ‘Death is still death regardless; personally, it’s better to get a quick death than an honorable one.’

‘Is it Emilio Vaca?’

‘Hmm?’ Emilio leaned back to look over at Cervantes. ‘What? Yes, that’s me.’

Cervantes sighed as he took a hold of his glass and leaned his head back as he took it in one go.

There was a bang. A splatter. And a clink as the glass was placed back on the bar.

Smoke wisped from the barrel of the Smith & Wesson No. 3 Revolver with ‘Espada’ carved along the barrel.

Jorge had fallen off his stool and crawled away backward from the bar as quick as he could, while the barman had his back pressed against the wall on the other side of the bar.

Both had pale faces and wide eyes as they looked back and forth between Emilio’s corpse with his head blown apart, on the floor and Cervantes’ outstretched hand holding the revolver gun which was still pointed at where Emilio’s head used to be.

There was no movement for several seconds. The only sound was that of the roaring wind outside.

Eventually, Cervantes withdrew his gun and placed it back within his jacket. He stood up from his stool, picking up his hat and placing it on his head.

He then walked to the corpse of Emilio, the blood spreading from the open wound, and knelt down.

Jorge and the barman stared in silence as they saw Cervantes dig through Emilio’s pockets and pull out his wallet.

Cervantes looked through the black leather wallet, till he found what he was looking for, two ID cards with Emilio’s face on them, one had the name ‘Emilio Vaca,’ the other had ‘Juan Armas’.

He stood up from his place next to the corpse and placed a hand in his pocket. Jorge and the barman flinched before they saw him take out some money and leave it on the bar.

Cevantes looked at the barman.

‘Perdon por la inconveniencia.’ He turned to head towards the front door, giving a tip of his hat to the still cowering Jorge. He walked past him and out the door.

The roaring winds outside died down.