The pig farmer

The pig farmer was already in bed. His last customer had been hours ago. He was settling into his bed when an insistent knocking came. “That has to be a noble”, the farmer told his wife. “Stupid nobles always want to start a party late at night a few drinks in. He’ll probably want me to slaughter it and take it to his cooks, too.”
- “Quickly”, he said, “your pigs”
- “How many pigs do you need Sire?”
- “All of them”, Cortés replied.
- “But Sire, there will be no meat for Cuba..”
- “Do not question me, peon!”, Cortés cut him off, and ripping a gold medallion from his chest - he had already spent all the cash for the expedition - he threw it on the table, saying “this should be payment enough. Now go load them on my ships at the Docks immediately. Someone will meet you there.” And with that, he left.

He came back into his bedroom, still in shock. His wife was crying, worried about their fate once word got out there would not be any meat for the banquet at the Palacio de Gobierno to be held in two days.
- “How am I going to explain this to governor Velazquez?”, muttered the farmer.