Starglow Basin Man from Sayula

The sunlight is filthy. Noxious. Filthy and noxious also describes Osiel– filthy, noxious, dirty and rank. It’s a long way through the desert.

The sky looks strangely red through rising dust. It’s a strange piece of terrain anyway. No-man’s-land. The desolate stretch of dry hills and deep canyons with a dearth of wolf.

Not what he left behind in Sayula.

Ocho. That was his sobriquet. Eight names. Eight bodies. Eight more casualties in the war on drugs. Best to get out before it goes down.

He heard plenty about the brothers, @Juárez and @Soto from Guanajuato. Knew competition would seek to divide this land.

But now Osiel was in Naaghai. And he wasn’t going anywhere.

there's a man too close to encampment. soto watches him from a spire of shale, his frame concealed by the sun's high glare and long casting shadows.

he's in no position for petty territory disputes. plus, making oneself known defeats the purpose of lying low. sangre's still half dead. he's hardly any better.

vigilance, anticipation, and feeling like the last thread of an unraveling yarn have all done their mark to soto. he's exhausted, and hopes to whatever long dead and twice beheaded mexican goddess that this stranger just keeps on walking.

And so the ocelote does– nearly.

Until over the rise in a crumbling bluff he finds himself statued in the sand. He hears breathing.

Someone’s hiding. “Salga, lobo.”

it's not enough to remain still.  his traitorous breathing gives him away.

he wasn't born yesterday. not even the sweet brogue of his natal tongue can lure him out.

not when he's in such a tight spot and has sangre to think of.

soto recoils as quietly as he can. the man may seek him out, but he may not. soto's willing to play conservatively until he knows what kind of deck he's facing.

It’s the wrong choice.

Now its become a game: who can outmaneuver the other.

“Él se esconde. Él esta asustado.”

Osiel’s out in the open. He has no need for caution and still his stalking is slow, methodic. Teasing out each lumbering step.

“¿Por qué, lobo?” He senses he is close. Now the man from Sayula ducks his head into hidden hovels, nosing for his compañía.

soto has many more enemies than friends.

he hasn't lived this long mistaking the former for the latter.

the man's step is languid and confident as he calls into the gorge. cocky.

soto wishes he wasn't beat half to shit.

el gallo's right. he's hiding. for good reason too.

soto wracks his brain. this could be a strongman from a rival cartel, come to extinguish guanajuato's final fragile branch.

soto's not taking chances. he holds his breath and waits for el gallo to come closer.

then he'll show him what a man cornered is capable of.

It’s all gone quiet now. The ocelote’s steps pool to the twisted trunk of a downed ironwood, breath slowing in kind.

He stops short of the hollowed depression, ragging scores with claws across the compacted loam. Baiting.

Then he pushes down into his withers, greeting the unknown man with a leering stare and grapple of teeth; making to unearth the stowaway.

so much of his life has been whittled away by passing seconds.

biding time.

the man comes close; soto can smell the sour mix of sand and salt on his breath.

he rises with teeth as his foremost weapon -- a restrained show of arms to dissuade this jaunty man from advancing further.

the unspoken lingers in his golden gaze: what do you want?

The man’s jammed himself into that cavity. And now Osiel can see why.

Copper, metal. Flesh, peeled and devoured. Rank with blood. It left no room for the tongue’s imagination. The ocelote would leave this man to his death…

If it were not for that scent. Seasoned with the bitterness of spice and the sweet rose. The blood eyes widened.

“Nombre a su proveedor.”

he tenses. waits for the blow that will undo him. 

instead the man’s demeanor changes; protracting as if fed some new knowledge. 

he could not know. soto’s eyes widen, then close. if this is how he goes, third-partied by some jackal from sinaloa —

he could almost laugh. juárez.

and now he waits for the lifeblood to be cut from him.

“Juárez. Hermano de Guanajuato,” he exhales and jostles his shoulders in mock-reverence. He hadn’t expected to rub shoulders with the brothers so soon. The state of this man told him their business was shaky– vibrating down the line. That– or he was a rebel, refusing to stay low and under the radar.

Either way spelled trouble.

“Juárez leave you to bleed out, too?”

instead of violence, it's mock-reverence.

soto's in no position to counter, though he's irritated by the gesture.

he knows his brother better than any - and he knows that if his brother is missing, he's dead. face down somewhere with a fang lodged in the back of his brain: probably orders from higher up.

doesn't take long to get noticed. takes even less long to collect enemies.

but this man -- soto wonders if he's the last face juarez saw.

he doesn't understand the second thing osiel says, but the tone and the body language are a big middle finger. he supposes the man can fill in the blanks. he doesn't need to say much more, and until this man makes it clear he's friend over foe, soto volunteers nothing else.

Flying low. It is hard for men. Particularly those with egos necessitating victuals. It complicates his business here, particularly if a reputation had already been set in the eyes of their clientele. Osiel is silent long enough to realize his companion lacks the common language.

“No voy a hacerte daño,” he asserts, backing off several steps. To his credit, this was mostly true. The leopard-man was his best link to commerce in the area– and he wasn’t exactly in a position to refuse.

“Soy Osiel. De Saylua,” and if it wasn’t enough to spur recognition–

“Y Los Zetas.”

i'm not going to hurt you, the man from saylua promises.

how many times has soto promised the same, holding the knife behind his back?

he licks his lips. it's good to be suspicious, but if this man is a friend, being too suspicious is a good way to ward him off. soto must find the thin line to walk between vigilance and camaraderie, knowing a single misstep seals his undoing.

but the man speaks things known to him. so soto relents. soto. he exchanges, deciding for spark-note summary of his current condition (read: proper fucked).

juarez y nino estan muertos. the second, soto had witnessed. the first was inferred by his atypical absence. nos estamos escondiendo, sanando. los enemigos del norte se movieron contra nosotros.

“Este es el famoso Soto de Toro,” a flare in the blood bleaches out to a look halfway between pity and disgust.

“Su enfoque aquí ha sido descuidado y con mano fuerte. Quieres arrancarle la cabeza al hombre antes de tomar las piernas.” Evident it was in the leopard-man's condition that his ilk employed a lack of subtlety. Those who survived were those who stayed small and flew low. Who grew quietly and laterally before ascending.

"Si murieron por ignorancia, merecían su destino."   The ocelote studies him. He cannot sense whether or not the brother desires death.

¿Te mereces ese destino, Soto?"

the look this man conjures is enough to curdle milk. soto sucks air in between his teeth.

it is easy for those on the outside looking in to make judgments.

incorrecto. he spits, rising. he would cut off his nose to spite his face if it meant putting this man from sayula in his place. ¿qué sabrías? no estabas allí.

and then, because he feels the ghosts of his brother and nino jostle within him, soto speaks again. seguimos el protocolo. trajimos regalos. atacaron.

And what had he to show for it? Blood? Graves? The ocelote is listening, seated as Soto rises to speak of systems and gifts. He sees a greater consumption of anger in the leopard than anguish.

Anger he could work with.

"Sí sí, el protocolo," he scowls, "En Sayula todo gira en torno al protocolo. Aquí no. Aquí se trata de relaciones personales," to his hips slides the agouti man, a play of interest in the gleaming eyes that level with Soto.

"Dirijo negocios. Puedo ayudar con los problemas, leopardo. Pero no estoy familiarizado con Naaghai. No puedo darme el lujo de hacerlo solo. Como estás dos abajo, tampoco te lo puedes, permitir."

Now, a curious eye, awaiting accordance. “Establezcamos una relación personal, Soto.”

soto has nothing to say.

he's right, this silver-tongued man from sayula. here in the desert, protocol matters fuck all.

there's no hiding the bristle of his fur as osiel slides close. soto's in no position to argue, or even counter.

heat emanates between them.

finally, soto looks away with a bitter laugh.

espero verte hacerlo mejor.

For long moments, the brother is only silent, but there remained that sharpness. Like everyone in Sayula, Osiel knew the stories of the de Toro temper when they were crossed. The golden eyes shine still with fire.

The ocelote steeped in patience. Great fields would be plowed and sowed, but it began with the yoking of two bulls.

“Vienes,” coaxes a smooth voice, “Hagámoslo mejor.”

what choice does he have, really? he’s half-crippled and sangre’s about to join the terrestrial dead; even if he put up a fight, this man could handily made two graves tonight. one for him, one for the red lady. 

best to do as he says. 

soto uncoils from his crook in the dark stone, limping after the ocelot. there would be time to think of other paths, but today his only goal is survival — even if it comes in the unlikely form of a rival holding out his palm for aid.