These guys? Amateurs. Hired numbnuts who should be fixing pipes or installing cable. I’ve been working this shit since before their daddies left their mommas. The dog’s the only cat with any sense. Maybe he’s ex bomb squad or something, but he gives me the look. Right in the eye. He knows I’m packin’; he smells it. But he stays clammed. Maybe he’s as sick of these assholes as I am. I give him the nod, one old timer to another.

I came back to Chile in ’62, a low grade G-man, pumping CIA funds into the ‘right’ areas. I was ideal. Born in Santiago, my parents had emigrated to the States when I was 14. I’d mooched around Chicago for a while running interference for the families. An ‘incident’ meant I’d had to clear out so, joined the military 3 years later. I was a sharp-shooter, and a crease-smoother. They spotted me early and bounced me from dept to dept till I found myself working black ops. For a while I was Millhouse’s dirty hands in Central America. Never could wash that stink outta my paws.

Back in Chile they stuck me in the mob that helped take out Allende. One rail of Langley’s ‘Two Track’ policy. The track that they hoped to de-rail and provoke a  coup. Twisted metal on a suicide ride. I didn’t know what I was doing at the time; I was intoxicated. I was fighting the ‘good fight’, while living the good life.

These last forty years I’ve realised how much Kissinger had been using me to fuck myself over along with everybody else. So now I’m back, with a few scores to settle and maybe scratch myself a little honour before I kick this fuckin’ pile.

Honour. Dirty little word. Does it exist? Perhaps, but only among the poor. Sometimes it’s all they have to live on. The rich ate their share long ago, as a starter. Now they’re busy with the main course, always looking for the dessert. Dignity is a memory. A half-remembered belch that provokes laughter.


Yeah, that doggie was a smooth player. I’d met his kind before. You have an eye to eye and you both know: a language purer than words, an understanding clearer than a handshake; a truth shared. He sucked it up and carried on with the job. A professional.

Like I used to be.


[fotos taken in Santiago de Chile]


~ by Sixto on September 13, 2008.

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