“Alumbro cantado dier fundo.” I said desperately. He wasn’t letting me out this time.

The loud man leered at us, his nose pockmarked like a rotten potato. “Um quanfo chun geerdo, pacha.” He rolled his R’s disgustingly, spittle forming on his lips.

I stepped up on a vegetable crate and raising my hands in the air dramatically cried out, “Chu pacha duerno, condo pintushta!” I knew the crowd would support me, and I couldn’t help egging them on. Not only was I a natural demagogue, I rather enjoyed it.

“Gor dumando lo sanchto caftenali pordundo. Siembre ortunocal doon.” It wasn’t looking good for the loud man. I could be louder. Soon the crowd was chanting, “Duchto mal! duchto mal!” and brandishing rusty farm implements.

“Whoch calambia gor lo mudo bala. Foon cheshto cantado bier? Havto callandar jesh fogoto.”

“Umpasa pacha?”

“Lo sierta.”

The way things were going, there was going to be a hanging today after all, and it wasn’t going to be me stretched out by the neck if I had anything to say about it.