-Chapter 1

"The sheep demon enters his studio, sipping from a glass of water. As he sits in the leather-padded office chair, opening a cardboard box at the back of the furniture, he takes out an old typewriter. Making sure to place it properly on the table.

'It's time, isn't it? I'll write my memoirs.'

He starts writing after inserting an ink roll and a sheet.

'For whoever is curious and wants to read this, many of you don't know me or never did, nor do I expect you to. Many may wonder who the hell I am, but that's what this book is for—to tell my story.'"

"Look, I don't think you're interested in knowing the story of my life... or maybe you are. The truth is, I'm only writing this because I'm bored. Living off dividends and stock buybacks is pretty dull, so..."

He settles into his chair, trying to ease that annoying pain in his lower back.

"Let's start from the beginning, our space dirtball, a heck of a long time ago. Now, we all know the story, right? God creates the Earth in a week, Adam and Eve munch on an apple, and everything goes to hell, and I don't have to keep explaining all that to you. It's not like it hasn't been told more times than we can remember. Now let me tell you something, God is incompetent.

"According to what the book tells me, he told Adam and Eve 'Don't eat from the fruit of those two trees'—the one of wisdom and the one of eternal life, an apple tree and that other thing that I have no freaking idea what it was, maybe a peach or a guava. Now... why an apple? Wouldn't it have been better to use a DURIAN? A stinking, malodorous mess that they wouldn't crave or how about explaining to them why they shouldn't eat the fruit... OR THAT TALKING SNAKES DON'T EXIST... that's what the book dictated to me back in the days when I was still a stupid kid, and alive, by the way. But since then, I knew that God was somewhat incompetent."

He adjusts the knobs of the typewriter roller, checking that the keys haven't jammed, adjusting the page carriage.

"Now, what's the point of all this? Why am I talking theology here in hell? The truth is, I want you to keep in mind that in this life, there are many idiots; incompetent, uneducated, ignorant, clueless, stupid, intellectually challenged people who are of no more use or benefit than being a nuisance, wasting air, or being a danger to others. This is the story of my life, dealing with so many people and personalities, learning to separate the people who are useful and beneficial—those you want close to you—from the metric tons of human crap out there."

"Alright, here comes the good part. October 4th, 1900, a poor neighborhood in Mexico City. Born under a roof... that more than a roof was a bunch of palm leaves and hay arranged in such a way to shield from the rain."

He pushes the typewriter carriage to jump to the next line.

"I don't remember much of what happened during those times, or rather, I don't remember a thing. Let's face it It's not like I had the best memory in the universe as a baby. My parents were Mariana Martinez Sanchez, a woman whose past I never knew more than she wanted me to. Many times, I asked her about my grandma, but the answers always ended with me 'not being ready to know that' or 'the past wasn't that important.' Honestly, I never cared too much about what she had lived beyond what she told me, like being born in New Orleans... something we never delved into."

"My father was Martin Xicotencatl Jimenez. Yes, he was indigenous, Nahua to be precise. My father was a hardworking, responsible person, and quite strict. Although it was clear he cared a lot about me, the reason for his demeanor was that his family had a reputation for being a bunch of freeloaders and opportunists who lived off bleeding others or engaging in wrongdoing, except for him, his parents, and grandparents. They were the only ones who really worked and earned their bread by the sweat of their brows. The unfortunate thing was that my father had been expelled from the town where he was born because when he was baptized, there was an earthquake that cracked the bell tower of the church and broke the bell. The villagers thought it was a message from God and, fed up with the licentiousness of his family, they expelled him and his parents, even though it wasn't his fault."

He takes a break as he changes the ink roll "Guess I thought this roll was going to last a bit longer... it was about time I changed it, huh?" he goes back to typing.

"Now, we were poor... I mean really poor, the most destitute in the neighborhood. My parents worked tirelessly to put food on the table every day. My father worked as a mechanic, fixing carts and machinery on request. This provided us with a more or less constant income. He spent almost the entire day working on rich people's cars, carts, and other mechanical things. He always came home with his clothes smeared with motor grease and his tools dirty, yet he did his job with passion and a determination that stuck with me. As a child, I helped him at home as much as I could."

"My mother, besides helping at home, was also a witch. She did cleanings, bindings, sweetenings, and other things related to both white and black magic. Superstitious people paid her for amulets, herbs, and other magical knick-knacks for protection or to make someone's life difficult. She also did laundry for others at the river near our house. Anything to scrape together a few extra cents for the family."

"Personally, I always set the goal of trying to get the family ahead. They didn't want it because I was nothing more than a child, but I didn't care. What mattered to me was that our family was okay, and I had my reasons for that. Despite my parents earning a decent amount of money to live, my father's payments to the corrupt parish priest in his old town to repair the bell and maintain the church, plus relatives always borrowing money, and debts to shopkeepers who liked to overcharge for things like rice and beans, were a constant strain. I still remember having to steal corn to eat."

"Many were the conversations I had with my parents about the future."

A small Asrael appears, running on the dirt floor of his house, chasing a rat that had sneaked in.

"I'll catch you right now, just as soon as you get distracted, and you're mine."

With a leap, he catches the rat. It squirms in his hands, feeling strange and somewhat disgusting, but it's something he has to do. Once outside his house and having thrown the rat far away, he goes back inside since it's getting dark.

While shaking off his hands, Azrael heard his father Martin calling him.

'Son, please come here, your mother needs your help,' he said while arranging the wicker chairs in the kitchen

'What happened, Dad? I got rid of the rat,' the boy said.

'As you know, we have to work hard to maintain the house, so help your mother feed the stove.'

'Alright,' said the boy, running to his mother's side and putting sticks into the fire.

"Honestly, I don't remember much from those times. I'm here next to my typewriter, an Olivetti M40 I bought second-hand about 60 years ago, trying to recall what happened in the past. I could use a spell, but that's too easy, and I want this book to be, as they say, real. Now, where was I... oh yes, I was writing one of the many conversations I had with my parents. Let's see, I threw the rat into the bushes outside the house, my father asked me to help my mother. So there I was, putting dry branches into the fire, and that's when my mother gave me the news that started the series of events that would end with me here... in the pentagram.

As the boy fed the fire, touching his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt, his mother said,

'Son, you're already 6 years old, it's time for you to learn new things.'

Azrael replied to his mother, confused by the prospect of having to learn more,

'Mama, I'm already learning what you and dad teach me.'

His mother responded,

'Yes, but you don't know how to read or write, and we want you to have a good future so that you don't struggle like we do.'

The boy processes this information,

'Alright, I'll go to school... but where? There's no place around here to learn.'

'You'll study at Father Severino's parish, the one in the square. The gentleman wants to teach reading and writing to the children in the neighborhood, maybe that'll make them less lazy.'

Now, Father Severino was quite a character in my community. The man was almost the perfect example of what it meant to be a good Catholic – smart, honest, compassionate, chaste; overall, a delightful man to be around. Everyone liked him. I had already attended Mass with my parents, Masses he officiated, and let me tell you, he preached with an inspiring and imposing passion."

"So, I had to introduce myself to him within a week. My parents were right when they said I needed to learn to read and write. Personally, I didn't care much; it was something I had to do to obey. However, I quickly realized that knowing these things would help me pull my parents out of the hole they were in. So, I set out to learn as much as I could, while Father Severino had his reasons for teaching us without charge.

All of us kids in the neighborhood were mischievous, innocent but mischievous. We liked to cause trouble, like releasing chickens or throwing stones at houses—many pranks. The only reason we weren't delinquents was that we were just kids, and the ugliest punishment that could be dealt to us was getting our asses beaten with a tree branch, belt, or bare hands."

"Furthermore, the father had hope that the word of the Lord, a bit of discipline, and the education he could provide would help change our paths. So, the week quickly passed with things happening normally. I continued doing chores and helping my parents as if nothing extraordinary was taking place."

"Then the day arrived; a week had already passed. I believe we started on a Monday or Tuesday, but it was very early, waking up all groggy at 6 in the morning, feeling all defeated and tired. I struggled a lot to avoid falling back asleep at that moment; the class would take place at noon. After the 8 a.m. Mass, which easily lasted up to 4 hours because there were people who just didn't want to leave due to their devoutness and Father Severino was like Vicente Fernandez. If the audience had wanted it, he would have preached all day, but you can't spend the whole day preaching. That's why he set a maximum of 4 hours per sermon, although it was much more common for him to preach only 2 hours."

"That frosty morning passed without much fuss. I didn't bathe because if I did, I would get sick or end up like an ice cube in the washtub where my mother bathed me. They dressed me in clothes: a little cotton outfit and a hat, you know, a white shirt and pants with your typical Mexican hat that half the world already knows, and a little bag with a notebook and a pencil... the notebook was made of old, hard tortillas stitched together with red twine by my mother."
"While he extracts the sheet from the typewriter, Azrael sips from his coffee cup, putting down the first pages of his autobiography, he sighs.

'This is going to take a while, even so... I have too much free time.'

A lady Gorgon dressed in a stunning gown peeks through the doorway of the study where the demon sheep is writing.

'Fixer, darling, it's Sunday. Don't you want to go eat seafood like every Sunday?'

Azrael, responding to the pseudonym Fixer replies.

'Alright, my love let me change into something more decent, please.'

The Gorgon nods and leaves.

'I hope people like my book.'"