A barrel-chested human with the battered nose of a boxer and wearing a stained undershirt and jeans served pulque from a large plastic barrel, ladling it out into paper cups. He stood behind a bar that was made from a table placed over two sawhorses. Files rose in a buzzing spiral each time he lifted the barrel lid, and a yeasty-sweet smell filled the air. A very lethal-looking HK227 submachine gun hung on a peg hammered into the wall behind him—a deterrent for anyone who might think about stealing the credslot that was clipped to the bartender’s belt or the coins that were piled in a tin cigar box that sat on one end of the bar. A curtain closed off what I guessed must be a doorway leading to a storeroom where other barrels of pulque were stored.