The Master of Puppets

'Bloody Americans' Joaquin thought, as he crept out of the front door, switched on the porch light, and settled back on the wooden steps. It was probably the last squad of US army trucks for the evening. In a matter of a minute, the two-storeyed building regained normality. Joaquin could hear the beds creak again, as his mother and the other womenfolk pleasured their clients, and could smell the cigarette smoke waft out of the back room, where his brother and the other older boys discussed their routes, as he fiddled with the used condoms that had been left out to dry in the porch. It was an battered building, in the middle of nowhere, Nuevo León. Not a very pleasant place for a young boy like Joaquin, dystopian almost.

'Where was Carlos?' he wondered, searching the surrounding desert from where he sat. Carlos was his best friend. A year older than him, Carlos had already started working a route. Working a route was the local slang for delivering drugs. It was a dangerous job, but the only real chance at money for the boys and men in that part of the world. While there was no money in working a route itself, a promotion to a higher post was the dream of every boy in town. It was a tough life, messenger boys were hired in enormous numbers, paid almost nothing, and were made to compete for extremely limited jobs at the higher levels. It was like a sport, or an film industry. Everybody aspired to be up there. Few made it, very few in the case of drug cartels. Drug cartels grappled for control of regions, and the messenger boys of rival outfits would be regularly brutalized. Also, the US army fired indiscriminately at anything to do with drugs, and again, it was the messenger boys who faced the immediate risk. 'Bloody Americans' he muttered under his breath, hoping that his friend was not hurt, or worse still, dead, as he continued to play with the now inelastic condom. Deep down in his mind, however, he knew that Carlos wouldn't be hurt. He knew how to handle himself well, did Carlos.
In his world, the Americans were responsible for every bit of his misery, every inch of the Kafkaesque surroundings he lived in. Ockham's razor told him so. To start with, they were the reason a drug business existed, they were the largest consumers. They were the reason beasts like Felix Gallardo had been created. 'No demand, no supply, right?' uncle Juan would ask rhetorically, whenever the subject came up. His brother, Cesar, would shove a needle up his own hand and grunt his agreement. The market was so huge, that cartels would destroy competitors through any means possible, even if it meant cooperating with the US army. Spies in the messengers network would give away one gang's location to the US army, and the cartel would be torn to pieces. In the process, the other cartels would gain control of the region in its entirety. The market was also indirectly the reason why many locals had taken to crack themselves.
Joaquin knew that he could not fall into the same habits as those around him. He knew, that he was better than them all, that he would find his way out of this mess. He just didn't know how, yet. Still, he had already accomplished much more than most of the other locals. Along with Carlos, he had learnt basic English with the help of a tattered book that he had found in the old school building. They would spend nights trying to make sense of the script, with the help of Joaquin's uncle Juan, who knew some English from his days in Texas.
Just then, he heard a small sound to his left, and turned to see Carlos pedaling towards him in the distance.Carlos, or Carl as he asked everybody to call him, was the coolest person Joaquin knew. He was the only person in their group to kiss a girl, and the first to smoke a cigarette. In spite of that, he was smart enough to keep his distance from drugs, making him Joaquin's role model. In fact, the way he saw it, Carlos didn't do cool things, things Carlos did were cool. '¿Cuál está encima de perro?' he yelled from where he sat, inquiring about his day. 'I have news, Joe' came the reply, as Carlos hurriedly jumped off his cycle, and ran towards the porch even as it crashed into the unused post box . Even in an apocalypse, Carlos would refuse to speak anything but English. It was a style statement, and it served him well, so well that Joaquin would spend nights dreaming of an alternate universe in which he spoke English as fluently as Carlos.'What is it, why are you running, ¿Qué ha pasado?' Joaquin stammered and relapsed into the vernacular.
'They might . . . legalize drugs in America' Carl said, fumbling a little at legalize. Joaquin smirked when Carlos stammered and was shoved hard. 'You don't even know what that means, you dumb burro.' Joaquin, realizing from Carlos' tone that it was a serious matter, stopped smiling and looked at Carlos apologetically, 'Okay. What does that mean?' 'Its what your mother said, when she was under me yesterday' came the sharp reply, and Joaquin hurled himself at Carlos. They were back on their feet in under a minute, everything the same, although much sandier than they were when they went down.

'It means that Americans can buy crack without going to jail' Carlos said earnestly, staring at Joe to see if he understood. Joaquin nodded, as though in perfect comprehension, although it made little sense to him. How did fewer Americans suffering in jails help them? They deserved to suffer. 'It means we don't have to sneak it past the border. Some company will take over the business, and all the gangs will die. We will be free!' Carlos explained, as though he could read Joe's mind. 'Vamos a ser libres!' he translated, to drive home the message. 'Vamos a ser libres?' Joaquin asked, his eyes full of hope.It sounded perfect to Joaquin. Yes, crack was not good for people, but it kept them happy. The few Americans who died of it would be happy, high. Not like the Mexicans dying of real, painful bullet wounds. Also, he knew from experience that the number of consumers would reduce if it was . . . . legalized. His brother Cesar and his friends only stuck those previously used needles up their already inflamed veins, only because mother told him not to, and that it was bad.

'Lets tell uncle Juan about it' Joaquin said, trying to look as nonchalant as possible, as he hurried inside, switching off the porch light, just in case.They climbed up to the upper floor, and found uncle Juan in his room.'What is it now, Joaquin?' bellowed an irate uncle Juan. Joaquin was supposed to stay outside, and listen for sounds of trucks. His absence from his post usually warranted an earful from uncle Juan, but this was different. They were going to be free.

'Where did you hear that?' uncle Juan asked, clearly skeptical, once he heard the entire story. It had never even occurred to Joe that Carl could have been wrong. Uncle Juan was a smart man. However, if this was false, they had to return to their horrible lives. Was there no respite, no gods? 'Dora Fernandez' replied Carl confidently, cutting through Joaquin's train of thought, smirking like a cat that had solved the ball of yarn. 'I see' said uncle Juan, his forehead wrinkling with thought. How did Carl do it? Dora Fernandez was the beauty of the town. She was the daughter of Sergio Fernandez, the regional controller of the cartel. The man was a legend, one of the rare few who had gone on from being a messenger boy. Joaquin had heard people talk about how he had worked three routes simultaneously as a teenager. He was now a corpulent middle aged man, without half his front teeth. Being the regional controller had its perks. He owned nearly half the town, and was the only reliable source of information from the outside world. Joaquin felt the hope swell again, like those balloons he had dreamt of playing with as a child. 'It still doesn't make sense to me' uncle Juan frowned, pricking a hole in Joe's balloon. 'Why would the Americans do it? They don't gain .... shush.' he said, signalling both of them to keep quiet. Joaquin pricked his ears, and realized what it was all about.  US army trucks! If they made it past the blind curve, before the lights were shut off, they would stop to see what was happening. In other words, everybody would be killed. And he, Joaquin, would be the reason. He stood rooted to the spot, his muscles failing him, and his brain shutting down, even as he heard Carlos yell 'They're coming!' and jump for the main switchboard. In one feline motion, Carlos had pulled the main switch down, shutting off the building's electricity supply. It was pitch dark, and deathly silent.

The rumbling of the engine grew louder. Luckily, it didn't stop, and simply purred on until it could no longer be heard.

They were safe.

Joaquin felt himself regaining control over his muscles. He was about to switch the lights back on, when ... *SLAP*, he felt uncle Juan's bony hands across his cheek. 'Estúpido bastard. Do you want us all killed?' he heard uncle Juan's distant voice say, as the tears welled up in his eyes. He turned down, as if to pick up something. He could not let Carlos see that he was crying. Damn it all.

Bloody Americans.
________________________________________________________________________________

Its terribly vulgar, I know. Sorry. I'm not changing it, though, as the intention is just to portray what I imagine to be the ground reality there. Oh, and its a first! I came up with a name myself. Still, its weird, naming it after something Metallica created. Thanks for reading! :p