While growing up in the home of his impoverished but proud parents, Bandolero ate his meals at a wooden table set on a dirt floor of the one room cabin they called “home”. Notwithstanding intense pride in their heritage, Bandolero’s parents knew the advantages he would have if he learned English; and he did, often studying by candlelight far into the night after everyone else, except the mongrel dog whom Bandolero loved like a brother, or a sister, had gone to bed. Sometimes, though, Bandolero would tease his parents by calling it “casa”. “Oh, Bandolero!” his mother would say, “tu eres un payaso tan guapo!” And he would reply, “¿Cómo?” And they would all have a good laugh.
Despite the ever-present dirt, the meal table was always covered with a clean table cloth. His mother was very hygienic. Not personally, but when it came to meals. One day, after a fine clean dinner, Bandolero realized that the time had come for him to set off in search of his destiny.
“Bye, mom!” he cried, folding his napkin and setting it neatly beside his empty plate as he rose from his chair and reached for the sombrero hanging on a peg next to the door that was hung on leather hinges.
“Bye, Bandolero!” his mother cried.
“Bye, dad!” he cried.
“Bye, Bandolero!” his father cried. “But if you take my sombrero I’ll have to shoot you! Ha-ha!”
“Bye, dog!” he cried.
“Woof!” his dog cried.
And the rest is legend.
“He stole my sombrero!” his father told all the neighbors the next day.