Blood for Blood

Around dusk we crossed the 28th parallel where a huge sculpture of a Mexican eagle hangs over the road at the border between the states of Baja California and Baja California Sur, about halfway down the peninsula. It was dark by the time we pulled into Guerrero Negro. The streets were half paved, half dirt, and pocked with potholes full of muddy water. The town survives because of a number of salt works on the Vizcaino Peninsula, named after the sailor who first explored the area. Nearby is the famous Scammon's Lagoon to which the gray whales migrate from Alaska each year to mate and calve their young. My friends and I decided to look for a place to camp near the lagoon, though we were a couple of months too early for the whales. First though, we had to take care of the battery clamp. We actually found an open auto parts store, no problem. I bought a clamp, and nothing went wrong! I went to the glove box to get the flashlight so I could see under the hood to put the clamp on. Oh, there was the electric tape. Doh! Could have used that back on the road when the asses where braying at us. I removed the old clamp and attatched the new one, and off we went to look for the lagoon. We found the turn-off, a washboard road that rattles your guts so much your muscles get sore. Fourteen miles we went down this road before we came to a pile of salt and a chain across the way forbidding entrance. We turned back. I took a picture of a nearly full moon between the arms of a big cordon cactus. We found a cheap hotel next to a little bar and got a room and went to the bar. The owner of the place came forward and shook our hands and said, "Welcome, racers." He gave us beers and told us how pleased he was to have us. Cool. I asked if he had any whiskey. "I have one bottle of whiskey seven years, no one has asked me for whiskey. Only tequila. For you, I open the whiskey. First time in seven years."
"I'm gonna finish the bottle before I leave," I said. Miguel and Carlos ordered beer and food. The owner's daughter served us. More gringos came in and the owner greeted them, "Welcome, racers." We soon learned the Baja 1000 was about to go off. THE BAJA 1000! The teams were scouting the course, before returning to Tijuana to begin the race in a couple of days. Anyone who thought we were in the race, we didn't dispel them of the delusion. I was sitting at the bar when the owner's daughter, Flor, asked my name. "John," I told her, and she asked me how to spell it, and she wrote it on a napkin surrounded by hearts and flowers and her name. Hmmmm. I spent the rest of the night drinking the whiskey and flirting with Flor, and she kept writing my name on napkins and drawing me pictures. Then all of the sudden she seemed angry about something and she wrote on the napkin, "Blood for Blood," and gave it to me and said something about her brothers and left. Blood for blood? Holy shit, what did I say? I staggered back to our room ready for her brothers to jump me. I grabbed my can opener from the truck and went to the room. I noticed that the door seemed to be made of cardboard. I curled up on a bed with my can opener and passed out.