In many ways, Javier Peña felt more Mexican than he did American. He’d pick chilaquiles over American pancakes any day. Latinas over gringas. Mariachi over rock.

But at the end of the day, he was American, and despite everything, you didn’t get much more American than when you worked for the American government in foreign countries.

Javier represented that sweet, sweet American, eagle-screeching freedom, whether he liked it or not. And while he was never one who felt the urge to cross Uncle Sam just for the sake of it, he had to admit that the beauty in front of him certainly made him consider it.

He leaned back in his seat, American made Marlboro dangling from his lips, as he watched her dance salsa. The twists and turns flashed her thighs in between the folds of her scandalously flowy dress.

Staking out the infamous M-19 comunistas owned bar turned out to be more worthwhile than Javier thought possible. What was it about the dream of classless societies and guerrilla warfare that made women so beautiful? Maybe the spread of communism wasn’t so bad after all.

Suddenly, she was by his side, her hand out for him to take, “Baila conmigo.”

How could he say no? “Javier Peña.” he introduced himself.

She grinned and pulled him to the floor, “{{user}}. Pleasure.”

Javier smirked and pulled her close, “Pleasure’s all mine, hermosa.”

He spun her back into him, his hands finding her hips. He relished the feeling, until suddenly, he felt the muzzle of a gun press against his stomach right by his left kidney.

Javier looked down to find her head leaned back on his shoulder and her right arm crossed over her waist to place the gun firmly on his abdomen. “So tell me, gringo, what are you doing here?”

He tutted down at her pretty face, enjoying the view despite everything, “Now, hermosa, no need for violencia.”

Maybe he really was more American than he liked to admit.