Now, friends, I’ll tell you how I destroyed the G2 agents of Placetas.
Claudio and I arrived in Placetas in our helicopter at noon, amid the cheers and jubilation of the inhabitants who until that time had suffered under the yoke of State Security. We asked where the home of our friend Antúnez was and took ourselves over there. On seeing us, a cop from the post that G2 had located on the corner ignored my Jedi powers and asked for ID so I levitated him 40 meters off the ground (now I remember that I never brought him down); the rest of the guard fled, terrified.
We then had a nice interview with Antúnez—the poor guy was a little skinny because of the fast—and we spoke for a few hours and he gave me the names of those responsible for the houses that were falling down in Cuba; there were a few such as Raúl and Fidel Castro who appear to be brothers. I said goodbye, promising I’d fire them as soon as I got back to Havana.
On leaving his house, Surprise! There were three trucks of specialized police commanded by the G2 captain Clavo de Línea [“railway spike” meaning “short guy”], with nightsticks and other equipment. I sent Claudio to confer to avoid bloodshed but he returned with a bump and then I was pissed off. Faced with a police avalanche I pulled out the light saber and cut off 10 heads. Spike then ordered them to fire the Makarov, but we made ourselves transparent and the bullets smashed into the front of the house and one blew up the Antúnez’s radio Selena. I was pissed off again.
“Whirlwind,” I shouted, and there was silence and anticipation.
But this new plug-in wasn't working well and only a fan caught fire in the house in front. Now they returned to the attack with fierce shouts and nightsticks but I made them fly into pieces with the wide sling the palm of my hand propels. All except one: Spike.
They’d captured Claudio and were taking him in a Ministry of the Interior taxi to the Santa Clara general headquarters (in Havana the MININT cars are Audis and Mercedes but in Placetas the G2 is shit). I assembled my helicopter in a jiffy and chased him until, by one of those twists of fate, I ran out of fuel on the very same G2-land and crashed against their fiber cement slab making the whole building fly up, nearly killing Coco Fariñas whom they’d just let go after a week’s imprisonment.
When Spike came I took him by the neck to the nearest railway line to make him honor his name. I don’t know if they’ve taken him off the rail. Soon we’re going to catch up with the pair of Castro ruffians and make them work the rest of their days on a micro-brigade.
This is an excerpt to a version of the song, Epitaph for Vladimir Visotski by Karsmarski Jacek (Polish dissident songwriter), which includes Ciro Diaz in his latest album, The Blue Slug, that I listened to compulsively for at least two months, especially on the street with my mp3 inherited from a friend who now has an I-pod. (Download the lyrics here) (Download the recording and album cover here) The song (in summary, which runs about ten minutes) is about a desperate artist going through the circles of hell in search of an answer or death, and at the end of his journey there is only loneliness and the weight of the supreme power above himself. So I found myself at times catching the bus across Havana at 12 noon in August under the perennial sunshine and with the distressing feeling of not going anywhere, or arriving too late, or going for pleasure ... I feel that I have already arrived at the eighth enclosure (this is the finale of the song) where there is nothing, and I feel useless and empty, and I look at people without faith who walk along the street and who have so much fear that they no longer know they're afraid, and who have seen so many Roundtables and so many news broadcasts that they no longer know what belongs to reality or just to the TV screen. They cannot discern that they no longer believe, but cannot disbelieve either, and just move along past me not going anywhere.