Amigos, I am El Jefe, and you are my pupil. But listen, because there are Gallos de pelea engaging us in a battle of Wills. We believed that not a clucking would be heard again, that they’d cower before inbred farmers ridicule. But you can smell it—the odor of fighting roosters. We must warp that fucking mirror, give new reasons to peck and scratch, where open eyes lose their authority to say what they see. Use the Luchador methods while stealing the worm from their mescal.
Why have you become sterile like those half-breed Dalmatian-Chihuahuas of TJ?
Me estudiantes! The silencing of loud mouth sons-of-bitches doesn’t require removal of all back talk, it only demands the smack down of ideas that might grow. We must get ready for la pelea del año, the fight of the year. Remember los Rudos, the crass ones like us use it for its end game, which isn’t just money, but to inflame the passions of the ignore-ant for a larger purpose.