Borrego Springs, California sashayed into the home stretch of marinating a fifty-pound batch of al pastor.
When the dark navy-blue van passed the road into their resort, one of the oilmen told the driver he had missed the turn.
The driver said nothing. The six oilmen began to mutter.
When one of them told the driver to turn around, the two men up front remained silent.
When another one of the oilmen asked where they were going, the well-spoken man in the shotgun seat said they would soon arrive at their new casita.
Down the road in Borrego Springs, California, incognito deities stacked thin slices of al pastor on a spit. The steel shaft pierced the delicate meat with medieval violence.
Then the pork surrendered to the cryptic juices of a slow roast.
