There was also a cop hovering over them in his Policia Fiscal uniform, and even though the Ford-From-Hell was in the hotel loading zone Walter didn't like the looks of him. "I'll park and be right back."

"If you make one more fuck-up….!" steamed Paul. His fists were balled tightly and the tendons in his neck were stretched taut in a grimace. Walter had not known Paul to be the violent type but actually, he didn’t really know Paul much at all. They were new associates, and learning much about each other.

At the moment Paul's eyes were bulging through his thick glasses. Maybe it was the long day they had just spent lost on the dusty logging roads on the flanks of the Volcan de Fuego, when they should have been on the Nevado de Colima. Maybe it was the hotel stay last night when one of the clients had simply opened the nearest door and fallen to sleep in bed- causing them to have to pay for an extra room this morning. Maybe it was from the day before when Walter had projectile-vomited bad oysters on Paul's wife's foot. All these were Walter's fuck-ups for sure. More likely it was just the cumulative effects of following the gringo and his crazy truck deep into Mexico for the past few days, but whatever the provocation, Pablo was pissed!

"No hay problema Pablo," Walter assured him. "We're all here now, safe and sound amigo. Our troubles are over!" Paul didn't look convinced.

In the last few days they'd been stranded, separated, rained on, took for their pesos, gotten food poisoning, puked, and been victimized by numerous other misadventures. Paul was convinced Walter was at fault and in fact was mostly correct. Getting them lost three hours up a marginal dirt road on the flanks of an extinct Mexican volcano was the latest outrage for Paul. He would have probably dismembered Walter on the spot except for the fact that he was even more lost than Walter. But then...Walter was the guide after all.

Walter parked the Ford-From-Hell in the secure hotel lot down the street, grabbed some clean clothes, and returned to the hotel. He was anxious to wash off several layers of Mexican road dust and hit the streets.

Walter'd settled on the Hotel Ceballo as the group accommodations because it was centrally located to downtown Colima and fit the most important criteria: price. The Ceballo is the oldest hotel in Colima, itself an old town on the Spanish Camino Real. The Ceballo certainly met their budgetary needs nicely. Two gringos could be housed at about $5.00 per night double occupancy. The rooms were cramped, true, and the air-conditioning worked on an occasional basis at best, and the plumbing made wild banging noises at night. But these gringos were here to fly hang gliders, not hang around some hotel. Besides, the Ceballo was situated on the main square or 'Zocalo' in Colima. Each room offered a tiny but elaborate balcony overlooking the 'Zocalo' and all the action. Across the square stood the stately Governor's Mansion. Out on the square an orchestra was tuning up and the sounds of tubas, trombones and violins floated up through the window. Yes, there would be a serenade this evening!

Walter could envision himself standing below one of these perches and serenading some fragrant señorita with Mariachis and rosas. And a hard-on. Yes, the Ceballo would do just fine thought Walter, feeling quite pleased.

Arriving back at the hotel, the bell man- such as he was - escorted the gringo through the narrow confines of the Ceballo to his room, where he found the shower occupied by Roberto. Roberto was a surprise guest on this the first ever Safari Mexico flying tour. He was a friend of Paul and Bev's, who had grown up in a tiny village in the shadow of the nearby volcano, and asked them for a ride to return and fulfill his dream- to fly the Nevado. He'd ridden the entire trip with Walter, since the Volkswagen Thing that Paul and Bev drove was loaded to the gunnels with them and their dog, and Roberto - a street-wise Mexican , had been a resourceful, necessary asset to the trip thus far. Roberto was scrubbing down and singing a Latino melody in the shower.

'No hay problema!' thought Walter again. 'Oh yes I'm even thinking in Español now!, turning to unpack some things.

"Walter!!" came a loud shout from the hallway. "Waaalllttteeerrrr!" Turning towards the door Walter saw Paul again; this time dressed only in a towel. His face was still grimaced, his eyes continued to bulge in anger. One fist clutched a hotel towel at his hips and the other looked ready to throw a punch. The tendons in his neck looked ready to snap.

Walter stepped back, aghast. Oh God have mercy!, he thought. This is supposed to be fun, Paul! What was my partner pissed about NOW?

"WALTER!" Paul repeated, only louder this time, like a volcano about to blow.

"Pablo" Walter offered, "What's up?"

"This place sucks!" yelled Paul. Some spittle erupted from his mouth and Walter took a step backwards. "This place SUCKS!" Pablo yelled again, as though with all his other faults Walter might be deaf too. " We can't keep our clients here! This place is a pit!"

"Pablo, Pablo! Settle down big guy. There's nothing wrong with this hotel." Walter defend himself. "Besides, the price is right, huh?"

"I don't give a damn about the price," hollered Paul. "I won't spend a single peso here." Something had sure gotten Pablo worked up. Feeling trapped, Walter took a giant stride past his gringo, brushing his bare chest on the way past. The tension in Paul's life was obvious.

"Settle down Pablo will you? And what's the big problem anyway?"

Paul took one giant stride stage right and pointed an accusatory finger at room 211; apparently his room and that of his lovely bride Beverly. Beverly was another surprise on this trip, having decided a the last moment that she could not let her man just dash off to go hang gliding in Mexico, without keeping an eye on him. Was she a guest, too? Wondered Walter. Or was she in charge? Usually a bossy, tyrannical sort, Bev could be seen now sprawled face down on a saggy bed, refusing to look at Walter or even acknowledge his existence. 'Oh Dios Mio, but I'm an unpopular gringo today!', realized Walter

Paul took two more giant steps and, arriving at the bathroom door, kicked it open. Now he pointed an accusing finger at the throne and suddenly Walter understood. For there, floating in the toilet bowl, was one of the most prodigious turds Walter had ever laid eyes on. This turd was about the circumference of a bottle of Dos Equis and the same color, too. It floated on end in the throne, mostly submerged, but with it's head above the surface as though gasping for air. Here was a turd to take on all turds, and for a gringo traveling in Mexico, a potential source of pride! Here was a turd to be PROUD of! A dense, thick, sturdy turd! A turd for all occasions! Montezuma’s Revenge be DAMNED, no loose bowels HERE! LORD of the TURDS! Walter didn't see the problem. His only question, best left unasked was: Who is the lucky parent?

But Paul was still apoplectic and showed no signs of seeing any humor, however scatological, however juvenile, whatsoever. Walter stepped into the baño and yanked the flush handle, which hung on a chain below the elevated holding tank for the ancient throne. A pathetic gurgle and swish of water was released and swirled into the bowl. The turd made a slow passage once or twice around the bowl, leaving a brown stain above waterline like some sick swizzle stick from Hell.

Walter turned once more to face Paul. " Ahhh..." he intoned, " Say, look Pablo…" Staying at arm's length as best he could, Walter reached out to the toilet with his toe and dropped the lid, effectively isolating the offensive apparition, if not it's shitty aroma. He couldn't stand to see Paul's twisted face either. The gringo appeared ready to tip Walter up on end and add his head to the vile cocktail in the toilet. "Ahh... why don't we just umm… leave it… for the maid, yeah… maybe she's got a plunger or… some… some salad tongs she can lift it with, or some… rubber gloves... yeah." Walter backed out of the room. "I’ll go find the maid!"

"Aaaaarrrrgggghhhh..." was Pablo's only response. Walter was anxious to make a timely exit. Paul allowed him a small opening near the door, and he made a dash for sunlight and fresh air. He hustled into his own room and slammed the door.