I know they’re coming for me. They’ll be here any time now. I can visualize them bursting into this pigsty, or, in a few days, into the next pigsty. Or it could have been any of the previous ones. I see them with bulletproof vests and shotguns, so fucking gutless they have to come in packs. They’re wearing helmets and have LED masks, because the cowards will come at night. I’m certain of that. When I manage to think of something else, to stop seeing them, then I hear them. Helicopters. A lot of helicopters. Flying in concentric circles, stalking me, enjoying the profile of my panic. They descend lightly, as if they were metal flies, come unbearably close, and then vanish at the last minute, only to take up residence in my head, where their blades sound with renewed fury. The din drills into my neurons. It can go on like that for hours. The only way to silence it is by getting off my head, as can be seen from the empties and the half-used packets of pills I’ve been leaving behind in the pigsties. Losing myself in video games the whole day long. Imagining that this time the bloodbath is justified by a noble aim, a mission framed by the eternal struggle between good and evil. Evil. Am I really the personification of evil they all claim? Bloody journalists. Always sticking their fucking noses in where they know they don’t belong. What do they expect to happen to them? None of the boys from my former realm are the sort to pussyfoot around. But it’s always me, me, me. We, the chosen few, were groomed to shoulder the burden of guilt for the weak, those people who need us to govern them with an iron fist, so they can turn against us, when we did nothing more than what, in their hearts, they were crying out for us to do. The Cuban santero prophesied it when the old man took me to the ritual handing-over of the baton, to prepare me to succeed him as headman of the clan, to become him: after anointing my face with the blood of a dead cockerel, the santero turned to the old man and, in that clipped Cuban accent, pronounced, ‘This kid’s got the balls of a ruler. He’ll choose between his enemies and himself. Many heads will roll. Many heads.’ Shame I had to travel with the old man, listening to his drivelling lectures. While he was training me, I was watching the hot little Cuban girls go by, well aware that for a few sticks of gum or a couple of tampons I could fuck any one of them. But the old man would be going on and on about the dangers of encouraging false hopes in the populace. ‘What use were the ideals of the beardies, my boy, when everyone, except for just a few, ended up in the same shit at the bottom of the heap?’ Naturally our lot paid lip service to their duty to the people, but during that interminable trip, the old man repeatedly warned against believing the stupid stuff I’d be obliged to spout if I wanted to become a distinguished member of the clan. I believe the bastard was jealous of all the possibilities my youth offered me, so he had no problem with fucking me about during our stay in Cuba, keeping me with him night and day, but it was also because he’d arranged that, as soon as we got back, I was to go to Europe with the sons of the faction. So we’d get to know each other, become brothers, go drinking and whoring together, prepare ourselves for the generational handover. I can hardly remember the details of all those cities with their decadent beauty, their boring museums, galleries and cathedrals, the terrace cafes where people spend hours sitting around looking superior, just because over there you can have a coffee or a beer while chatting in a civilized way with anyone who turns up. That’s why they felt sorry for us when we approached them warily, with our feral air, and it was much worse for those of my comrades burdened with the curse of dark skin, flat noses and thick lips. When I saw them, rat-arsed, trying it on with the dumb little princesses, even I’d have felt disgusted to be in those girls’ shoes. The amazing thing is that some of those motherfuckers got lucky, and ended salving the social consciences of the frigging compassionate airheads. I had no time for stupid stuff like that. The old man had trained me to watch the others carefully, to set them tests and lay traps to check who was loyal, who was a bootlicker, who was a fool. It would all come in very useful one day, he told me. And he wasn’t wrong. If I managed to escape by the skin of my teeth in the plane, it was because after that trip I was able to identify who I could rely on in a tough spot: it was my faithful lifelong subordinate that got me out. Thanks, frigging Humberto. You’ll see; when the mad dogs stop barking, we’ll get out of all this together. Just wait patiently and don’t give up hope. Like the time we left those snot-faces thinking they were Juan Camaney in the bar in Prague, playing the highbrows with some university girls while you and I were downing God knows how many litres of beer. I caught your eye, and we were outside in a flash, on one of those cobbled streets lined with buildings so old we were wetting ourselves laughing, saying that Dracula must have been born in one of them. You hailed a taxi and I’m not sure how, but you managed to tell the driver to take us to the whores. I still remember how elegant that brothel was, its heavy, red velvet curtains, and especially the goddesses walking around in their fine lingerie, so different from the ordinary pros we were used to. You chose me a skinny one with the face of an angel, the way you knew I liked them. She led me to a room with the sort of bed that looks like it belongs in a fairy tale. The sweet scent of her perfume filled me with infinite sadness, the sadness of knowing that for all we were able to get a glimpse at the luxuries of those worlds, we’d have to go back to our lives in third-rate reality. I thought about biting her, beating her up and fucking her in the ass, so she knew just who she was dealing with, so she had it clear that I wasn’t one of those Mexican hicks, so easily impressed when they let them off the farm. Luckily, something stopped me, warning me that it wouldn’t be as easy to get out of that sort of mess there. Trembling with rage, I grabbed her by the scruff of her neck so she wouldn’t even think about not sucking me off. I pulled that whore in so close she had to cough just to take a breath. When I was ready to come, we tussled to see which of us would win out. The bitch managed to pull herself away and I remember letting all my cum spill over her golden hair. She ran to the bathroom, shouting in her weird language, and I took advantage of her absence to dress and get out of the room as fast as I could, leaving on the bed a wad of that dull paper money they used to have in those countries. When I got back to the lobby you were waiting for me. From just a single nod of my head, you knew you had to find a taxi and not ask questions. Ah, frigging Humberto, I’ll be dammed if we don’t go whoring together again when this whole mess calms down. In the meanwhile, it’s a matter of hanging on in there. A few days ago I’d had it up to the eyes with the video games and I asked the slut who comes to do the cleaning if she knew anywhere a man could go to find a little female company. Since she didn’t understand, or was playing dumb, I looked her up and down to see if she’d serve for a bit of physical relief. Compared with some of the maids I’ve used when I’ve been super-horny, she wasn’t so bad. I told her to go to the bedroom and wait there until further orders. Then I went to the bathroom, where I keep the stash of medication, and hunted among the frigging tranquillizers for the blue pills that help me to ward off the stress in those complex moments. I waited the prescribed time, imagining the slut scratching and begging for her life, but when I was about to give it to her the noise of the helicopters returned, the kicks at the door, the drawers thrown to the floor, the lamps broken, the shouts of don’t make a move you son of a bitch, and there are no blue pills that are any use against all that. By sheer force of will, I set myself to finishing what I’d started, squeezing my eyes tight shut to keep reality at bay until I came. It was so dismal that I didn’t even have the strength to clean myself up. Just pulled up my trousers and went back to the limbo of video games, vodka, and the other pills. At moments like that, I’d almost prefer the arseholes to come for me, so we can all – the lawyers and the network of friends – get started on the next phase, the battle to clear my name. When I came back from the European trip, the old man had found me a place in the Ministry of Finance, in the Office of Public Works. ‘So you get to know every corner of the state, so you learn the reality they didn’t teach you in that frigging tight-arse university in the capital you decided to go to.’ He left me in the care of his former protégé, Ortega, a university man too, now minister of finance, whom the old man thought had what it took to become the next state governor. As usual, he was quite right. Those were the years of my real political education. Ortega crammed me full of principles and loaded me with responsibilities. I wasn’t aware, because I was still a dumb kid, but he’d been testing me from the very first. Look where I am now, Ortega, and tell me if I didn’t pass with flying colours. If I’m guilty of anything, it’s of having learned his lessons too well. Behind that affable exterior, the impeccable guayabera, the complexion weathered by so many battles fought under the sun, the bald scalp with its wings of wavy hair that made him look like a Greek sage, Ortega was a wily old bastard, the sort that are born to achieve whatever objective they set themselves. When we were touring the state, we’d stay up drinking until dawn, me listening, him speaking, sussing me out to see whether I was actually one of them. Which, of course, I was. Ortega’s teachings impregnated me as if I’d come into this world bathed in those waters. In fact, they were just a few sacred principles that all the others followed from automatically. Ortega was well versed in history. ‘Unfortunately,’ he told me in a paternal tone, ‘from the times of our earliest ancestors, our country has been populated by brown-skinned, bean-eating yokels. And just to make matters worse, we were conquered by a bunch of avaricious brutes whose only thought was to destroy everything and take the gold, always sheltering behind the shield of the cross. After five centuries of servitude, there’s nothing we can do but maintain the old structures. Don’t forget, my boy, that even before the conquest, the power of the Tlatoani rulers was a source of pride for the rural macehuales. They used to honour those Tlatoanis with one quetzal feather after another, never even thinking to wear those feathers themselves. And for a land of barbarians like ours, in politics, form is everything. So to make yourself respected, the cardinal rule is not to sink to the same level as the losers.’ The more pissed Ortega was, the more philosophical he became. ‘It isn’t the fault of this accursed race. When has it ever produced a Shakespeare? Or even a Frank Sinatra? Remember this, my boy, every peso invested in those of us in charge ends up benefitting them too.’ How those words have drilled in my mind during every single instant in the pigsties. Later, what the old man had predicted came true: Ortega was anointed as the chosen candidate. I became the youngest campaign manager in the history of the state. Rally after rally, promise after promise, hand-out after hand-out, we visited every municipality. Even though losing was out of the question, Ortega never allowed us to rest. The gears have to be oiled for those who come afterwards. Right, my boy? With a wink from him, I knew what the future would hold for me if I had the necessary mettle. Installed in the governor’s office, all I needed to complete my profile as Ortega’s appointed successor was a wife who would give me a family. Stability. Progeny. A shared future. And here’s the outcome of an overdose of future. I wonder where you are now, you miserable bitch. Do you think you’re above our present situation? Your loyalty was as short-lived as the coats you discarded by the dozen. In fact, it’s better this way. The children aren’t to blame for anything. I just hope you manage to keep them out of the picture. Protect them from the lies of those shit-shovelling journalists who were on the state payroll not so long ago. And your sagging boobs are past help now, no matter how many operations you have. God bless the women who have been capable of giving me what you refused through all those years. You were a disposable womb, interchangeable with any other, conceived to give me descendants, male offspring I too would mould in my own image. Until everything went up in smoke. It’s the rebellion of the barefoot Indians. They have no idea what a Pandora’s box they’ve opened. No one better than us for keeping things where they belong. No one like us for keeping the rats in the sewer. And now those sewers are clogged with their mutilated heads. That’s what you get for not believing in us. For not having understood that our imperfect order was as good as this damned country gets. And now I’ve had to go into hiding. I can sense them creeping stealthily towards me. Traitorous lizards, sent by people who don’t respect blood pacts. But I won’t fall alone. I know enough to pull them down the drainpipe with me. The helicopters are descending. I can see it all. The pigsty will shake under the whirlwind of their blades. They’ll soon destroy everything. They’ll take the photos they need to keep up the farce. And then that will be gone too. The hatching is inevitable. A new brood will emerge from the ruins, one that will make them yearn for our rule. I hope they will at least let me have one last match with the video games that have been with me to the end. The pills, the vodka, the sounds and images are all mixed together. If I could only find a way to make the commando I control with this remote come to my rescue.