So these yahoos were shirtless, in torn pants and ostentatious gold jewelry. One wore a denim vest. And then there was me, in an overcoat, thick boots, gloves, ugly woolen hat, and a scarf round my neck like an amorous python. I'd've looked a fool if it hadn't been the dead of winter. What was left of my peace gift sat on the table. A nice Mexican dish with a dusky sauce, the four of them had scarfed it in under a minute without the least display of gratitude. They figured not beating me bloody was gratitude enough.

"Now that we've told you what you want to know, what makes you think we will let you leave?" The leader spoke in a growl.

"I love that Russian accent," I said. "Sounds just like the movies." The leader frowned. "Right, so, this is what'll get me out of here." I showed him my big, fuck-off revolver, the one that looks like I stole it from an Eastwood flick, and he laughs.

"Even if you loaded that with silver, we will tear you to pieces before you can kill one of us."

"Not if you're busy throwing up everything you just ate." He looked at his goons, who looked back equally bewildered. "Mole sauce is made with chocolate, and I upped the dose by a few thousand percent. Know what chocolate does to dogs? It ain't pretty."

He stood up and threw the table to the side like it was cardboard, and I almost marked my territory then and there. "We are not dogs!" He followed it up with something I think would've gotten him a dirty look from a Russian grandmother.

"Maybe not." I stood and started backing away. "But you sure as hell look like 'em when you change. Go ahead. Take the chance. Otherwise, take a couple days to digest first."

They were still wrestling with their confidence while I made my exit. Too bad, really. I wish I knew if it'd actually work.