The Padre lay on a dirty, bare mattress deep in the bowels of a dilapidated apartment complex in the heart of Monterrey. Outside, his men kept watch. Surrounded by stained walls and a single flickering bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, he actually felt at home. It reminded him of when he was young. He’d started in the business as a lookout and courier for the Colombians, not far from here. His training for the job was unique. After being raised by his parents in a small, devout home for a life destined for the church, an approach by a degenerate priest intent on abusing him in the most unspeakable and horrific ways had led him to question his faith. Beating the man who touched him to death with his fists cemented his decision to leave the church and his home. Fresh blood still on his clothes, he ran from the church. With no one to believe his story, he roamed the streets of Monterrey looking for work, for food. The Colombians always needed someone, and he was poor, young, hungry, and motivated. He’d placed his whole existence in the hands of the church. When it abused his trust, he swore he’d never serve God again. Now he served the South Americans. They were the new masters of his universe. He moved up the narcotics food chain quickly. He was smart and resourceful. He was only apprehended once, for allegedly killing a man his employers wanted dead, and even then he didn’t talk. After he’d spent a few months in jail, the local police couldn’t hold him anymore. The day he got out, an associate of his local handler put him on a plane to Cartagena. It was the first time he’d ever flown. When he landed, he was introduced as a young man who could be trusted. He’d killed for the Colombians and didn’t talk. The drug business was still in its infancy. The raw product came directly from South America. The hard part was moving it into the United States undetected. The Padre outlined his plan for using the loose border security along Mexico’s eastern border with the U.S. as a major delivery route. For some reason, they believed and trusted in him. When he flew back to Monterrey, his pockets were full of cash and his head full of ideas. He built his team from the street urchins of the mean city. He knew that some could be trusted and some couldn’t. So he ruled with an iron fist. Of all the young men he recruited, he ended up killing many of them himself. Soon the word got out. The Padre could be trusted to pay well, and he could also be trusted to kill quickly if he was crossed. He took the name “the Padre” because he wanted to set himself apart. Despite his young age, he understood the importance of branding. Even though he wasn’t much older than many of his soldiers, he did act as a “father” to them. When their families were sick, he sent a doctor. When someone’s sister got married, he paid for the wedding the parents could never afford. Over time, his success with moving product into Texas reached a point that the Colombians couldn’t ignore. He’d spent a tremendous amount of time and money in the States, cultivating relationships and distribution channels. He’d traveled as far north as Chicago to meet with gangs that dealt drugs. He convinced them to buy from him. He was charismatic, charming, and smart. Most gangsters had never worked with a Mexican before, but this one delivered on time. His employers kept paying him more and more money, but the Padre wanted more than just cash. He wanted a part of the business. After one fateful trip to Cartagena, he came home a bitter man. By that point, he was in his late twenties and tired of just being an errand boy, taking all of the risk and only being thrown the scraps. Over the years, on his trips to Colombia, he’d met a number of people involved in the manufacture of cocaine. They were weary of being strong-armed by their current employers. The Padre offered them better terms. Soon he was buying directly from the suppliers, and his financial take exploded. He hired more men and began purchasing guns in large quantities. He knew his former bosses would eventually come after him. The Padre was going to be prepared. Eventually, the war did come, and it was bloody. Both sides lost many men. During the wars, no one made much money. Then the miracle happened. The United States declared a war on drugs against the Colombians. His former employers were at the center of the bull’s-eye. It gave him and his men a chance to regroup, but their product was now at risk. Cocaine wasn’t easily coming out of South America anymore. He had built a massive distribution network but had nothing to distribute. One night, drinking mescal with a prostitute in a hotel room not that different from the one he was in now, it came to him. He needed a new product. Marijuana was cheap to buy in Mexico and move across the border. The margins were shit compared to coke, but he had money to invest. As he watched the Colombians over the years, it became clear to him that the only people who make money in the drug game were the people who controlled the entire process from manufacture to distribution. The margins might be worse, but the chance to head his own organization was intoxicating. The vast expanses of land in the Mexican wilderness made cultivating the plant relatively easy. In rural areas, a few
In the middle of the desert, headlights cut through the night. A Mexican farmer pulled his flatbed truck over to the side of the road. General X-Ray and his men dismounted from the back.
“
“What’s that way?” asked Private Foxtrot.
“The bus.”
“I think it might be more that way,” the Private replied.
“You’re concussed. Follow me, men.” The group headed out into the darkness. Dodging prickly cacti and scattered rocks, they made slow time. After two hours, tired and thirsty, the General held up his fist. The men all stopped and hugged the ground. “Sorry, boys, I may have been a little off.”
“What?” asked Fire Team Leader Charlie.
“There is some good news,” the General said. “Shelter, boys.” The General pointed to the bullet-riddled remains of the Padre’s abandoned farmhouse. “Follow me.” The group moved out. Within a few minutes, they were in the kitchen, cooking eggs and drinking copious amounts of the Padres’ cold beer and warm tequila.
“Who wants jalapenos?” the General asked as he flipped the pan and rolled out another perfect omelet.
“Extra cheese!” Private Zulu cried. The men ate in silence, too busy stuffing their faces to converse. After finishing their supper and another couple of bottles of the Padre’s tequila, the sleepy and happily drunk militia stumbled through the house, looking for bedrooms.
“General,” Fire Team Leader Charlie asked, “when are we going after that little fellow?”
“In the morning, Team Leader. In the morning.”
The sun was coming up in Monterrey. Avery slammed a warm Mountain Dew as the sounds of the busy city came to life. He picked up the morning newspaper and reread the headlines just to make sure. It really pissed him off…
To: The Chairman
Federal Reserve Board
Dear Chairman:
I’m writing today to express my explicit contempt for your lack of action in saving America’s, if not the world’s, favorite son. I know that the bailing out of banks and insurance companies is important (for you, anyway; those free lunches and conferences at swanky hotels are pretty sweet). May I ask a question? Do you take the towels or just the soap and shampoo? Myself, I like the bed sheets and linens. High thread count is hard to find these days, and it saves the maid’s time changing the bed out. I’m sure they’d thank me. I’m a giver, and taking the sheets gives them time back to use for rifling through guests’ belongings and spitting on toothbrushes. But we have business to discuss, Mr. Chairman. America’s culture is being savagely attacked. Without our culture, what do we really have, except expensive healthcare and high property taxes? Okay, you got me. We have good chicken wings, too, really good wings, but the co-pays suck. Are you following me? Trillions of dollars are being spent bailing out corporate America while the most important of our cultural icons is left to hang out in the wind. Twisting and turning, no home, no savior, slowly drying up from the inside out…ultimately it will die, contrary to
