That night, as the fireflies flickered over the Sierra Champiñón, Luigi leaned against La Lagartija and looked at his brother.

Luigi’s eyes widened. “Ay, no. Not the digital nomads.”

The False King was tied to a cactus and forced to listen to an endless loop of “Despacito” on a broken iPod. The village celebrated with a three-day fiesta. Don Seta made his famous salsa , and the brothers were given the key to the town—which, as it turned out, also opened the municipal liquor cabinet.

The trouble started on a Tuesday when a green iguana delivered a message. (In Río Hongo, iguanas were more reliable than the postal service.)

“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.’”

Mario took a long sip of horchata, wiped his mustache, and smiled.