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The gauchos who staff the Argentinian club in Williamsburg were frustrated by the young people who only pretended to tango and who giggled that the animal lying dead in the middle of the dance floor was a chupacabra, when it was clear to anyone with an education that it was a velociraptor. It molted short, broad feathers; they stuck to the beer spills on the floor. I chose that moment to hit on the girlfriend of Francisco Real.