A revolution is not a dinner party, or writing an essay, or painting a picture, or doing embroidery; It cannot be so refined, so leisurely and gentle, so temperate, kind, courteous, restrained and magnanimous. A revolution is an insurrection, an act of violence by which one class overthrows the other. - Mao Tse Tung
In these parts, death followed you, no matter where you went. Mind you, in life, death followed you everywhere, but down here, oh, it was more treacherous than usual. Only the lucky few were quick enough to escape. That's what a countless number of unsuspecting ants on a mound learned all too late when they were drowned in a burning wash of Juan Miranda's urine.
Of course, Juan never looked at it from that angle. He was desperate, he needed a spot, this was it. He didn't care what was on the mound. What mattered to him was, it was there.
He buttoned up his pants, when a shot rang out in the distance, or at least he thought it was. It could have been an explosion. It was loud enough. He looked around for a moment, to see where the noise was coming from.
There, off in the distance, a stagecoach was coming down the road. He looked curiously at it, and smirked.
He was a Mexican, an ordinary peasant, who grew up in poverty. He was on the stocky side, bare-footed, and dressed in worn brown clothes. He had no real home, so he figured a stage might be the closest thing he could acquire.
It was mobile, and this one looked like a big brass-bound treasure chest, so it was perfect for him. To someone of royalty it may not look like much, but to him it was a beauty, pulled by six fine chestnut horses. Three men sat at the front of the stagecoach; one driving it, two shotgun guards flanking him on either side.
Juan plodded down the hill to the road, and leaned lazily against a post, waiting for it to reach him. As soon as it was near, he took off his hat and half-heartedly hailed it. The thing drove right past him. He thought he'd lose it entirely, but a broad grin came to his face when the stagecoach halted to the side.
"¡Señor!", he cried, running up after it. "¡Señor! Señor, I must go to San Felipe. My mother is dead."
"Straight down the road, about fifty miles," said the driver, adjusting the saddle on one of the horses, not even looking at him. Juan tapped him on the shoulder, causing him to turn around and face him.
"Please," said Juan desperately, his eyes brimming with tears. The driver was not convinced. "Get outta here", he growled, pushing the sweaty nuisance away from him. Juan staggered back, then continued to walk away sadly.
Wait a second, thought the driver. Of course!
"Hey", said the driver behind him. "Hey, amigo. Come here."
Juan plodded back towards the driver, handing him a small sum of money in his hand. The driver took it, and Juan kissed the man gratefully on either side of his head. The driver gave a confused Juan a turnaround, and gasped in awe.
"Perfect.", he muttered. "You're perfect".
Juan chuckled. He'd never been complimented before. This meant a lot to him.
"I swear to God, boys, he's just right", rasped the driver to his buddies. "I'm gonna put you on that stage, and watch those faces when they see you come in!", he added as he suddenly grabbed Juan on the arm and lead him to the front of the carriage.
Juan looked warily up behind him. A shotgun guard was boring down on him like a hawk. He was made to lift up his arms, and the driver patted him down, feeling him for any weapons.
Juan yelped suddenly, causing one of the guards to cock his gun. To a casual watcher it might have appeared that Juan was ticklish there. But the driver felt something else. Ripping open Juan's shirt, he felt inside and found a small piece of bread, chuckling triumphantly. Juan laughed nervously with them, until the driver callously tossed the bread onto the ground.
"Move", growled the driver, and Juan had no reason to object. He nervously picked up the piece of bread, dusting off the dirt on it and stuffing it back in his shirt.
He opened the stagecoach door, looking curiously around the interior. It was dark, but it was comfortable looking, decorated with wood polish and red velvet. Inside the stagecoach were three gentlemen (one with a luxuriant mustache, one sort of square-jawed and burly, and one clean-shaven one wearing glasses who resembled Manuel Mendoza a bit), a lady, and a preacher with a fuschia cap. The Mendoza-looking one was chewing loudly, and looking at Juan like he was some sort of animal. The second, the one with the mustache, turned around to face him as he glanced meekly around.
The first gentleman, the one with the mustache, saw Juan's bare feet, and following their gaze, Juan hurriedly took out some old leather shoes from his jacket, and slipped into them.
"By God," started the mustached gentleman, "are you-"
"Now, dear", said the lady, gently setting him back down.
Shutting the carriage door, bowing politely to the preacher, Juan quietly and passively made his way through the carriage.
The gentleman with the glasses coldly tossed his hat onto a chair, which Juan absent-mindedly sat down on. Tutting, the preacher ordered Juan to sit "over there", at a place by the door.
"There?" indicated Juan wordlessly.
"There", the preacher nodded.
Straightening out the hat, Juan went over to what he assumed was the door the man was pointing to, when the stagecoach began to move. He opened the door, which led to the lavatory.
"Not that door, the other one", said the third gentleman. "There." He pointed to what looked like a drawer in the middle of the carriage. "Pull".
Juan pulled at what looked like a drawer knob in the very middle of the front of the stagecoach, and a seat folded out.
The bespectacled gentleman chuckled condescendingly. "There. Now you just sit down there and watch like a good little boy."
Feeling a little embarrassed, Juan sat down. He noticed that the others were staring at him, again like he was some sort of animal.
"You see?" sneered the one with the glasses, "He does understand. Who knows? Perhaps he can even talk."
"Now, now, even the peasants- a bit of mustard- thank you- Even the peasants are entitled to their rights.", chimed in the preacher.
Finally. A man of God.
"After all, they have won a revolution. Or at least, almost", the preacher added.
Or not.
The year was 1913. Mexico was in turmoil, and under the iron grip of General Huerta. Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata had made their mark on the world in leading the people of Mexico in a glorious rebellion, a historic fight for civil rights. That's what it looked like, anyway.
Of course, this was none of Juan's concern. He had no reason to fight for anyone but himself. Joining that bunch of fools would get him killed anyway. His hands were clean. Metaphorically speaking, anyway.
"Animals. That's what they are. Animals.", belched the third gentleman.
Well, they should talk, he thought. Some gentleman these were. They looked to him like a bunch of fucking cows chewing cud, that's what they looked like. But one slip of the tongue and everything could fall to pieces.
Juan could only wait patiently, just bear the shit that comes out these assholes' mouths.
"Let us not forget even animals can be tame at heart.", said one of the gentlemen.
"Personally, I consider them unfortunate brutes", said another.
"Yes, brutes, quite right", agreed the lady.
"Precisely, my dear lady, precisely. I hate saying it, but, um, you should hear them in the confessional", said the preacher.
Try hearing yourself in the confessional sometime.
"You would never imagine", continued the preacher. "Did you know that they-"
"I can imagine, Father. I can imagine.", interrupted the lady, "Living in such promiscuity. All in one room, male and female together. Lying in a heap, like rats in a sewer. At night, when the lights are out, all inhibitions disappear. You never know who is next. Mother, sister, daughter… goat…"
Juan cringed. These were the real brutes. They were talking about him like he wasn't even there.
The square-jawed gentleman uttered a comment in an accent that Juan couldn't make out. He was less of a gentleman and more of a yokel. "Every country has its own plague. Just like them niggers we got back home."
"Just like anyone's, you mean", said the gentleman with the handlebar mustache. "Because that's what they are."
"Exactly," said the bespectacled gentleman. "Which is why they're half-wits."
Juan glared. But there wasn't anything he could do right now. Anyway, on top of everything, these bigots were certainly anything but subtle in their conversation.
"Hey, you", said the bespectacled gentleman to Juan. "You know who your father was?"
Juan shook his head innocently.
"You know at least how old you are?"
Juan shrugged.
"You know how many kids you have?"
That one he didn't know the answer to. He never counted them. It would have been impossible for Juan to answer anyway. All he could do was stare at the way the bespectacled man was chewing open mouthed on his food. It was fucking distracting.
"Do you know how many kids your mother had?", pressed the bespectacled man, who was all but some sort of steer to Juan. Ate like a cow, and had no balls. He chuckled. "He doesn't know anything, you see? And it was to benefit scum like this that the Agrarian reform was imposed."
"And that ass, Madero, wanted to give the government and our land to idiots like this."
Well... Madero was kind of a spineless pussy, but he was a well-intentioned spineless pussy. Waaay too trusting of everyone, so Juan would probably have been able to understand why they were against him so much, even if he hadn't bothered to care.
"We are all pawns in the hands of Almighty God", blustered the preacher. "Fortunately, divine providence has disposed of that trash individual Madero."
"My dear Monsignor, let's be realistic", said one of the gentlemen. "What you choose to call providence, I call General Huerta. He puts the peasants in their place."
Bullshit! One wouldn't have to know politics to know that Huerta was an asshole.
"Which is the best place for animals, which is what they are", said the so-called man of God.
Juan lost track of the conversation at this point. All he was seeing was food being mashed inside people's mouths, while they talked more condescending bullshit about him.
"Animals", agreed the man with the handlebar mustache.
"I can imagine… I can imagine such promiscuity", the lady continued to complain.
What you, the reader, could imagine was a broken vinyl record. The same bullshit being repeated over and over. Juan seethed with rage. He couldn't hear full conversations, just the same insults again and again. But Juan could take a hit. He just had to be patient.
The stagecoach passed by a group of Mexican peasants lazing by the side of the road.
"Hey, you!" demanded the driver. "Come over here and give us a push! Come on and give us a hand, you lazy bunch of greasers!"
The peasants, a bunch of them children, did nothing but stare.
"You'd think they'd get up off their asses to help us, the bastards, but no."
By the time the stagecoach passed by the kids, they were running along the back of it without the driver suspecting.
Inside the stagecoach, Juan was still suffering in silence, though he knew it wouldn't be for long, now. But just that moment, the stage stopped suddenly. The driver was yanked forward and dragged away screaming by the horses. He heard gunshots outside, and the dying grunts of the shotgun guards. It was his kids! And right on time, too.
They poked their guns inside, two of them pointing them into the windows on either side of Juan's head. Juan shut his eyes tight, bracing himself for the deafening gunshots, of the rifles that would put down these hypocrites.
The boys waited in silence. The gentleman with the mustache reached for his gun, and got a shot to the head.
Juan had nothing to fear at all. He stood up.
"Take him away before he dirties everything", he said to the boys. The guy was a shitstain anyway. Removing the body wouldn't have made that much of a difference, but he wasn't going to take any chances.
"And now, ladies and gentleman", he announced, "You will give everything to my niños and you will give it to them without any trouble."
"We kill them all, okay, papa?" said one excitable little boy, shooting at a window.
"How many times have I told you, Chulo, no shooting unless Papa pulls the trigger," scolded Juan, browbeating little Chulo.
He grabbed the bespectacled cabron and took him outside, striking him on the face.
"You wanted to know my family? That's my sons", said Juan. "Each one of them from a different mother, huh? And now you kneel," he ordered.
It was clear now that Juan was no ordinary peasant. He was a bandit and a highwayman. He wasn't anyone worth more than $2,000 or so. But the power he had now, he felt like a king.
Around the outside of the carriage, more members of Juan's gang, the ones who weren't his family, had gathered around and were stripping it clean.
"Kneel! KNEEL!" Juan ordered to the bespectacled man, forcing him to his knees. "PAPA!", barked Juan.
An old bandit hobbled over.
"This is my father, I think", Juan introduced to his victim.
"Pleased to meet-" started the alleged old Mr. Miranda, reaching out to shake the hand of Juan's victim. Juan slapped away his father's hand. The old man was either senile or too polite for his own good, Juan decided, especially in front of dirty dogs like the bespectacled gentleman.
"Go inside before Chulo kills everyone, huh?" demanded Juan. The old man meekly walked away.
"My mother, she had the blood of the Aztecs, which was before your people." explained Juan, pushing down the bespectacled man, before grabbing him again by the collar. "And now I ask you a question. Can you make a baby?" The man looked confused. "Can you make a baby?" repeated Juan. "That's sad," he said dropping the man again. "But we will fix that." He walked back over to the carriage. "¡Señora!" he roared. The lady was pushed to the door by one of the boys. She took Juan's hand as she stepped out, and he followed her.
He led her to a stone courtyard, leaving her there momentarily to check to see if anyone was inside the house next to it. He beckoned to her, but she refused to move. Such strength she had. Juan could fix that.
He shepherded the black-clad bitch into a barn with a long piece of straw he picked up. She was paralysed, despite herself, as he advanced.
Almost impassively, Juan unbuttoned his fly. The lady stared in morbid fascination.
"That's pretty good, huh?" drawled Juan.
The lady felt nauseous. Feeling helpless, she watched Juan advance towards her.
His body was close to hers now. She watched him, scared of what he would do next. Slowly, he took off her hat, and leaned in close to her. She could feel it now. She could feel it as his body touched hers. She placed a trembling hand on his shoulder. Juan removed the hand, firm but fairly. Their faces were barely an inch apart from each other. She could feel his breath now. It smelled horrible. She gazed into his eyes. Then…
"Oh, Jesus. I feel I am going to faint."
"No, no, no, no…" murmured Juan gently. "If you faint now, you miss the best part."
It wasn't helping his case against her claim of "such promiscuity".
The men inside the carriage were stripped of all their clothes, all their possessions taken. They had no idea what they did to deserve all of this, but the Mirandas knew that not only did these rich bastards have everything to sustain them for at least a week, they subjected Juan to excruciating verbal torture, not thinking of the consequences.
"You'll pay for this, you bastards", drawled one of the gentlemen. "I'm a citizen of the United States of America."
"To me, you're just a naked son of a bitch", said Juan's papa. "Understand, Yankee?"
Inside the barn, Juan was busy stripping the lady of all of her possessions. He chuckled as he took her necklace.
"Thank you."
The Mirandas stood outside, by a hill, armed and proud, while the passengers all sat in a wagon.
"Thank you for everything." With a gunshot, Juan sent the wagon rolling down the hill with the naked pigs and the bigoted womanrolling down a hill, landing in a field of pigs, where they belonged.
This day was only getting better.