Damn!

A few months ago, I started writing character profiles and back-stories for something that I hoped would become a story told through short stories. I was doing so trying to deal with the violence in Mexico, hoping that in extending reality into fiction I could manage to explore my mind—mainly my fears on that subject. So The Damned started and has stayed in hiatus so far. It dealt with one of my largest fears for the future of Mexico: What if some people, common folks, start taking revenge on their own hands?

Well, it seems like my country is walking towards that road. A few weeks ago, a paramilitary group announced that they will take on a certain cartel and claimed the authorship of some thirty something corpses left one of the most important roads in Veracruz—all this while the Judicial power was having a meeting at the place, ergo the city was overflown with military, navy and federal police.

There are many questions that circle my head: why, how, who, etc., but these question will remain unanswered. Something is clear to me, this is the second paramilitary group that surfaces in Mexico so far—the first one was the squad of San Pedro rounded up by their own Mayor, if I remember well— and paramilitary, guerrilla and cartels cost Colombia thousands of lives—something over the one hundred thousand—and thousands of displaced civilians and fighters—the armistice brought back into society some fifty thousand paramilitary.

Lex talionis is not an answer to our problems as a country. The jus gladdi belongs to Mexico's Justice and their enforcers in the streets and courts. Only through strong honest and transparent institutions people will trust in the institutions and not take revenge in their hands. It is not an easy path but there should be a way to reach that goal. There should be a way to get together society and government to build up stability, justice, honesty and, as ultimate goal, the rule of the law with dignity.

There are many examples to learn from as society and government, say Colombia to mention just one close to the country. Now, the question is can I learn and do something? Is there a sense in trying? As always, I only have questions... answers seem to elude me, all I can do is write and hope the squares will fall into place.

The Damned

I have always wanted to sit down and write some story larger than a couple of pages. At first, I wanted it to be something scifi or fantastic; but then the drug war in Mexico broke and there were enough stories running in the papers and tv that seemed out of an alternate universe. That's when The Damned came to my mind.

The Damned: Someone, are my socio/psychopath profiling notes on possible characters. They are presented as is. As a monologue taken from notes from an investigative reporter. They will all be first working draft, whatever comes to my mind out of the news I have digested from the news outlets or the stories I have lived or the stories that my friends have lived. No polishing at all.

So far, there's a story that has repeated in some rural communities: not so good guys come, ask for a price, people try to defend, they have their balls broken by the government disarming them, so the town is later taken by those guys and the inhabitants of the place are displaced.

The second history is about the "welcome to reality" that comes by dealing with working in something you like and then finding corruption, dishonesty, and everything else that is to be found in that real world where people do not strive to do a good job but rather want the money, fame and recognition just for free. And of course, how your balls get broken in the process.

I have never tried to write pulp fiction. I found it way too depressive and doomed. Doomed, not in the heroic sense, that's why I don't like pulp fiction. But I guess that, with time, I'm becoming more and more cynic. I guess my way to deal with the disenchantment of this part of reality is to write The Damned.

Now, I'm not a total cynic. I have the most wonderful friends and acquaintances that make everything easier. I still believe that selfishness and the joy of a job well done can change everything and I'm sure that this will find a way into The Damned sooner or later.

Cheers!

The Damned: El Capi

—Oh, c'mon. Don't give me that look. Surely, you were young and naive as well. I can bet a few bucks on the fact that you wanted to change investigative reporting and do things right just for the pleasure of doing things right.

—You see, I was right.

—I guess it came slowly, just like it may had happened to you.

—How? It started from afar. You are on the field and then you heard the stories of a certain unit that turned into the dark side for money or glory. Who cares? It is a story and you don't really believe it will not happen with this unit.

—Then? Well, one day you are transfered and the stories stop being of a unit stationed afar. Now, they are about your unit leader. How he made a sergeant take the fall from him during an assault, how he took the credit from another unit leader for an operation he was just providing with support.

—Yeah, of course you don't believe those. C'mon, is your unit leader! Your life depends on him. If you cannot trust him, then you are blind; you become a oars-less raft in the middle of the effing ocean.

But then, then you happen to be in a briefing where he shifts the blame for a failed op into a chap gone dod trying to do his best to get the job done.

—I mean, it may be ok... once. The problem is that all the stories start clicking and taking their place in the jigsaw.

Next time you find yourself taking a real good deep analysis of your orders. Sitting down with your chaps and realizing that either the highly polished brass or your unit leader has no idea of what is going on out there.

—I can understand, my rank required that I should be able to think and plan. What I didn't understand was how he always managed to avoid going into the field with us. When it becomes normal that things goes afu, something is wrong.

—Yeah, of course, I thought it was my fault missing something in the debriefing. But you sit down with your peers and start going over the briefing, the mission... You know, it is hard to forget something when your grunts are out there pinned down when they were supposed to be fighting an easy one.

Then, everything starts falling apart...

The stories you have heard... the lack of deep planning... the repetition of old and well known tactics... the shift of blaming on us or the grunts... suddenly, everything is very real and you know that the next op may be the last one...

—I think you are right, that's when the survival instinct kicks in. You start taking more time planning and trying to cover. It is not about him anymore, it is about you and the grunts.

—I wish it were that simple... Disregarding direct and specific orders of a superior is not something simple. Not when that superior is somehow acquiring a nice shine on his brass.

—Well, this is what made it.

We were sappers. You know, this bridge, that foundation, just leave it to us. Most of the time, even with the wrong data, we managed to complete the missions without any dod.

But this one time, it was too much. A few days ago we got this really wrong intel briefing. It was a simple hit and run, kidnappers. We were supposed to open a back door to get the vics out as soon as possible. We prepared as reported by our glorious unit leader.

We came to the place, rigged the back wall. Waited for the orders... and boom! it goes... but the wall was not as thick as we were briefed... the grunts closed down on the bad guys not fast enough to get the vics alive...

So, we have this really bad vibe... how the eff can you miss that simple and vital intel? Well, it happens that that lazy bastard was lazy enough not to go all over his brief and trickle down incomplete information...

—Yes, we thought in doing something. Then we got this call. A mountain road has to be cleared in the Sierra. Urgently! There we go! And the asshole decides to ride with us. We rig the place and go for it when half the hill comes on top of us. It took me almost a week to dig my way out.

I was not really in my best mood when I found a charge half the way up on that steep slope. Even in covering his tracks, that sob was a slop!

That's when I decided to go awol...

—I was a mess, I cannot remember when was the last time I was sober before Monseñor found me. He took me in and told me about the damned...

Now, I have not forgotten about that lousy sob but right now there are better things to do to get this place clean.

The Damned: El Indio

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.)