As usual, I was the “guy over there who looks like a cop,” so a shadowy gentleman approached and asked if I were a cop. I denied it. Then he told me I was a cop. Again, I denied it. He reiterated, “You are definitely a cop! I hate cops!”
Getting a little nervous but not wanting to leave without a story, I asked how I’d prove it. He said I’d have to drink six tequila shots in a row—the drink of his country, as he called it.
This was high noon Mexican style. Pulling out a girthy wad of U.S. cash, he bought the shots and placed them in front of me like he was loading bullets into a revolver. Looking into his doubtful eyes, I slowly placed my hand on the counter, winked, and in a blinding flash, whacked down all six like I was gun-slingin’ Tuco from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.
After the last shot, my face instantly fell under “the Ugly” category and my challenger burst into laughter saying, “Now we can be amigos!”
Salud to that.