The trouble started on a Tuesday when a green iguana delivered a message. (In Río Hongo, iguanas were more reliable than the postal service.)
“Same difference. Get the Lizard . We’re going to the Castillo del Rey.”
“I know, Mario. We’re plomeros . It’s different. We use actual wrenches.”
The Castillo del Rey was a crumbling pink stucco fortress that overlooked the dried-up riverbed. Every year, the village held the Fiesta del Hongo Gigante —a celebration of the one enormous, glowing, sentient mushroom that grew in the town square. This mushroom, named Don Seta, was the village’s good luck charm. He told jokes, predicted the weather, and made the best salsa verde anyone had ever tasted.
Their names were Mario and Luigi Hernández.
“Mario! Luigi!” the King wept. “You saved us!”
“Mario!” Don Seta whimpered. “He’s inside. The False King. He says he’s going to pave the plaza and build a ‘luxury eco-resort for digital nomads.’”