There is a man in front of me. I was about to write 'an old man' but I realized that the deep wrinkles on his face are a result of inclement weather exposure rather than age. He speaks a rural sort of Spanish in an affable manner. Although he uses 'patron' to refer to me and the others, he is not condescending, nor patronizing. His whole stance perspires an aura of self abandon.
— You know patron, 'la mula no era arisca, la hicieron a palos.' I used to be one of the best in the wood household furniture business. People from the Capital came to my workshop and ordered dinning sets, living room sets, the whole thing.
— I learned from my Tata; my father got no time for teaching us kids while trying to get the frijoles for the family. So I sat with the old man learning how to carve the wood, how to understand its flow, how to see beyond the trunk into the chair, the bed or the door.
— Ansina es, those were good years. Hard but good. The town was peaceful. You could close the workshop after a long day and walk to the plaza to see the muchachas while sipping from a glass of aguardiente. That's how I met my wife, Dios la tenga en su santa gloria.
— Those cabrones came one day, with their rifles and trucks. They went workshop by workshop, visiting all the craftsmen in the Pueblo. They said that we had not to worry about the crime and the war as far as we help them helping us. We were peaceful hard working men, the mayor and the authorities were there, seeing all of this and they did nothing, thus we collected the money they asked and waited for them to come back.
— And they came back, three days later. With more people, more trucks and more guns. Even though we gave them the ten thousand pesos they asked, they took some of our muchachos and muchachas. We never saw them again.
— Si, that's when we decided to arm ourselves. You see patron, we didn't want any trouble. If we had to eat just tortillas for one month to give them the money they asked, it was okay; we were peaceful before that visit.
— My boys? One of them lost his wife, those ojetes took her. He and his brothers started sharpening their machetes. I went to the Capital and signed in the oficina of Sedena to get a shotgun. We didn't want to loose our beloved ones again.
— El indio es ladino, we have to be cunning to survive in this country. We have learned to be strong and patient. So we cried our lost and prepare; watching posts were constructed on the two entrances to the Pueblo and we sat down to wait.
— And they came, six months later. So confident, so regal, like they were the dueños del pueblo. Ahi mesmo se quedaron. Those that were not caught dead ran away like shamed dogs. We thought they would learn that 'el valiente manda hasta que el cobarde quiere.'
— That's when the face slap came. The army came, three days after we repelled the bastards. We were happy when we see the convoy coming. We thought our prayers were answered. What a foolish thought it was. The army sweep the Pueblo that day, house by house, workshop by workshop, and they took with them everything that could be used as a weapon. By dusk the army left...
— Si patron, not two hours after the army left, those cabrones came back. They collected all of us in the plaza, raped our girls and wifes, beat our old to death, they took all of our youngest, assassinated the mayor and our union leaders in the kiosko in front of everybody else. And then, while those cabrones... while those culeros took turns with our wives... while everything happened there, in front of our miserable eyes... while they beat the soul out of my body... then I saw the jefe de policia with them, ese puto, taking a beer and having dinner with the capos like nothing happened.
— I survived; my pobrecita gorda and sons didn't. When the cabrones left, I crawled to su humilde casa and then out of town into the sierra to gather my forces. I don't know how long I was there, in the sierra, thinking, planning, waiting, the pain eating at my mind and my entrails.
— Then I found the other cabrones. I was deep in the sierra tracking a venado that I was hit early that day when I stumbled into their sembradio. The guards found me when I was leaving with the beast in my shoulders.
— I realized this were the others. I told them my story and asked for a chance to help them. They smiled, they smiled a lot at my despair and thirst for vengeance. Again, they beat me until they were tired, and refrain from killing me just because they were in need of men.
— They took me as servant, I would clean their clothes, cook for them, do all the menial tasks. They kept me chained the whole time. After a few months of asking for a chance to show them my hatred towards the other cabrones, they saw my rage and need of vengeance. They gave a gun and a machete and left me in the outskirt of the Pueblo.
— Mi Pueblo was a sad view to already sore eyes. The place where I grew up, always colorful with the shinny facades and the well kept gardens, was no more. Half the houses were empty and most of the faces were new. I managed to find some of those that I have met and they told me how the survivors left at the first chance and how the cabrones came and took their houses. We talked in hushed voices, we drank aguardiente, we planned and waited...
— It was hard to do, but we had our hearts and souls rotten with rage. As silently as possible we visited each and every one of the occupied houses to slit their throats as they slept. As dueños del pueblo they were overconfident and unprepared. It was not easy, but not many of us died. When morning came, we got together in the plaza, sip some aguardiente and said adios.
— I started my way to the sierra, when the other cabrones picked me up. They had seen everything from afar and were delighted with our work. They took me back to the sembradio as one of them, I cooked a guajolote for them and they brought out the whiskey bottles. In their borrachera, nobody realized I was not eating, just serving more and more to all of them.
— Midnight came and they all were on their way to the infierno, where I might see them again if God in his righteousness is unable to forgive me.
— When Monseñor and The Damned came, all the corpses were still warm like drunkards dozing after a long party. I was sitting in the middle of all them with a bottle of aguardiente in one hand and a handgun in the other. They took the weapon out of my hands. Monseñor offered confort, not forgiveness, and questioned me while the others secured the sembradio searching for more cabrones.
— By the time the place was alight in flames I was a corpse walking the sierra behind The Damned, I was one of them...
— I am one of them.
(Again, I'm waiting for simulations to finish, so I decided to keep building the story behind The Damned, now I went to picture just one of them and give hints as to the background of another. Let me see if I can get more socio and psychopaths for the whole bunch of The Damned.)
