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I drew to kill time.

I guarded a warehouse, like this one, day and night.

I'd watch the door so intently

I could close my eyes and still see it.

A few days after moving in,

I began to sleep holding my gun.

It was a 38 calibre with 6 shots.

There were 4 left.

To pass the time,

I started to play around with the gun.

I carved an inscription on the handle with my knife,

"This is my life",

like on Revenge's revolver.

The warehouse belonged to us.

We had several like it.

Rented to companies or left empty

for our own activities.

I joined the group because I felt lonely.

We were many,

united by a sense of loss we felt in the world.

There was a guy we all respected.

He was considered our leader,

we called him "father"

even though he was as young as us.

Father was our voice and our conscience.

He knew how to talk to us.

He told us we were at last living the love we had so longed for.

But we all knew

we had not come to the group for love,

but because of the hatred we felt for society.

The sum of all our hatreds,

father turned into love between us,

by telling us what we wanted to hear.

All that existed

outside our group,

things,

other people,

we called "the world".

The world existed for us.

The world

was like matter that we could use at will,

because we, "the chosen",

we were the only ones who knew how to mould it.

Kill,

steal,

dominate,

all this

was nothing more than the force needed for transformation,

like striking iron to forge it.

Over time the group grew,

and money ran out.

We began to set up small businesses

that served as cover for other business

less honest but more lucrative.

Most of the people in the group were good people,

men of faith.

True believers in God,

inclined to believe in anything.

We obeyed father's orders docilely,

convinced we were acting for justice,

even if it was with violence.

Father led us in a subtle but firm way.

He did not allow for doubt

so we had to close our eyes on our own barbarism.

From the moment we entered the group

we were ready to sacrifice ourselves.

For the good of all and for father.

Soon we became one body.

A surprisingly large and powerful body

whose arms and legs

struck those who questioned its unity.

A body whose mouth, eyes and ears

constantly monitored individual acts

that might put the whole at risk.

A body whose organs were connected

by the faith that we had in the group,

in father, and in God.

A faith that empowered us all with self-confidence,

and a feeling we had been miraculously saved

from a world that had always seen us as worthless.

Mister,

can you pay me the days I worked?

I don't know anyone here,

I need some cash to pay for a room.

It was just what we wanted.

To live the illusion of being chosen people,

chosen by father and through him by God.

"The chosen".

Encouraged to eliminate the first person who disagreed.

It's the last one I'll take from you.

Take another and I'll kill you.

I've been told you're a fucking junky.

Take your stuff and clear out.

Where did you get these t-shirts?

Ok, kid. First off, they're fake.

Second, I'm sure you stole them.

I should call the cops.

But I will be nice.

Take 20,000 and piss off.

One day something happened.

I found myself somewhere I shouldn't have been.

From there, I saw him,

him,

father,

doing something that I do not wish to remember.

You'll tell me it's nothing.

We are so used to hearing such horrible things.

But you had to be there,

and see him,

to understand that we had lost the little goodness we had left.

I suddenly felt great disgust for him,

for me, for the group.

As if I had suddenly regained my humanity.

I understood that to be "chosen" was to cease being human.

That day I realised I was the only one who could do it.

Because I was the only one who knew we had to stop all that.

I had to wait for the right moment and seize my chance.

I was one of his trusted men,

one he allowed to work alone in our warehouses.

I knew he would come to give me another mission.

For days I'd been staring at the door, the walls

Dragging my heels down corridors,

Waiting for him to turn up.

How long would the others look for me?

Maybe not long

if someone used the situation

to become a new father.

In a warehouse in Southern Bogota,

a group of delinquents broke into an abandoned warehouse.

When the alarm went off,

they tried to escape over the roof.

One of them fell.

He was already dead when the police arrived.

There were three of them:

the father and his two sons.

The father's name was Bolt.

The children: Nut and Baby.

They were on TV every Sunday.

They went to working-class neighbourhoods,

to measure holes in the roads.

Each of these holes,

represented as much public money diverted by corruption.

They dropped giant tape measures into the holes.

They laughed hysterically at the number and incredible size of the holes.

Their living was making people laugh

about these holes, thefts, and corrupt politicians.

They were considered crusaders

but they were just a group of clowns.

They said the holes were so huge

that cars fell in

and drove down parallel streets to ours,

then fell through other holes

to resurface from time to time

on a road

that overlooked all others.

One day,

people learnt Nut had been a drug addict since he was 7 years old.

Shortly after this revelation,

Nut ended up on the streets,

ravaged by drugs and reduced to begging.

A beggar that everyone knew.

The most famous of beggars,

one who embodied the very image of failure

and moral decadence

that threatens society.

That's what his life was.

Until the day he was stabbed four times by a dealer.

His father, Bolt,

told the doctors to let him die.

He said his son did not deserve to live,

because he was just a little crook

capable of anything to buy drugs.

But Nut did not die.

In agony,

he prayed for survival

and God heard him.

And since God was kind to him,

Nut quit drugs overnight.

Some time later, he reappeared on TV

and said:

The dealer killed the addict.

Four stab wounds freed me from my vices.

A dagger gave me back my life

and now I live for God.

Many wanted to kill me,

but they did not succeed.

Do you know why my name is Revenge?

Because those who try to fuck me, I fuck them.

This is the only law I respect.

The only light that guides me.

Soon the night will be so dark that no-one will see anything.

Except for beggars and bandits.

They will be the only ones to see,

because they are the ones who will plunge us into the dark

by spitting in the eyes of honest citizens.

Did you know that beggars' spit can make you blind?

Believe me.

They are cobra-men,

rat-men coming out of the gutter to attack us.

They scrape the walls of buildings

to mix their dose with brick dust.

Everyone fears they will scrape the walls into nothing.

That they'll send this shitty city up to heaven in smoke swirls.

Nobody knows who they are, if they are someone

They burn the past,

and live only to continue burning it.

They are dirty zombies.

One day they will die

stabbed by a dealer,

shot by mafia,

by the police,

or by a group of "social cleansers"

who patrol the area.

They are the copper mafia's little helpers.

A thousand hands that rip out wiring from street lamps

and from empty warehouses.

They are capable of plunging whole cities into darkness.

Go sell it at the dump.

Underneath it all lies a magma

in which matter loses its shape to be regenerated.

A star whose components melt together,

to produce new matter from the old.

A perpetual resurrection

that makes us forget what came before.

The world would be simpler if it remained formless,

without colour, without sound,

without one thing signifying another,

or being a memory of another life.

Nothing more than white light.

I've carried it with me for years.

Without it, my life would have been different.

It's time for it to be different.

Take it, it's yours.

I give you my life and I take yours in exchange.

Sit down, my brother.

I know you'd rather be a beggar than a murderer

but I'm not a beggar,

I am Revenge.

I have nothing, because I need nothing.

Nut!

It is 30 or 40 metres deep.

Wait, Baby. We don't have a tape measure long enough.

Listen. Can you hear? Something's down there.

No. You're hallucinating.

You should quit drugs.

There is a city rumbling below.

Now I hear it, Nut.

There's only one thing to be done: go down to the bottom.

Maybe there are cars driving

in streets parallel to our own?

I love music.

I would be sad without music. And you?

Where are we going, Baby?

You trust me, Nut?

Of course!

We are a family,

and families must stick together.

We're driving to the city heights.

But to get there,

we have to take this underground road

Look at that, Baby. More cars.

Surely the ones that fell in the hole.

Be careful not to fall into another subterranean world.

The condition of the roads is dismal.

Yeah, be careful! And pump up the volume!

I was right, wasn't I? It's wonderful!

Let's find some wood for a campfire.

Let's spend the night here.

Ok.

The lame devil was the first angel to rebel against God.

He was the first to fall to hell.

He was lamed by the angels who fell after him

crushing his leg when they landed.

Because he was smart, he managed to escape the flames.

But he almost immediately fell into a trap.

He was a prisoner for centuries,

until a young man freed him.

The young man was on the run. He had just committed a crime.

When seeking refuge,

he accidentally entered into the devil's prison.

When the man opened the door,

the devil didn't know it was a mistake.

He was sure he had come to free him.

To say thank you, the devil raised the young man above the city

to show him the world as it is,

as only God and the Devil can see it.

Once above it all,

the devil lifted off the rooftops

to show the young man the way people behave.

All the hypocrisy and dirt of the world were revealed to him.

The roofless houses appeared like a miniature theatre,

where crimes, sins and petty cruelty played out.

The young man's crime, seen from this perspective,

seemed of little importance.

But the devil's gift was poisoned.

Lifted above everything,

the young man felt he no longer had his place among the others.

And yet, his place was not in heaven either.

And his fall would not be long.

You know, Nut,

Dad was right.

A bum like you doesn't deserve to live.

No, Baby, he was not right.

It is he who deserves to die,

and I am the only one who can kill him.

Elegy to "Revenge"

The soldiers who executed him

seized his weapon.

On the handle of the gun an inscription

was carved with the tip of a knife.

It simply said:

"This is my life".

No man had had such a baleful life.

Standing by his grave, dug into the mountainside,

I ask myself:

when will Colombia stop killing her sons,

and make their lives worth living again?

If Colombia cannot answer this question

I prophesy misfortune:

Revenge will return,

and the earth will again be flooded with blood,

pain, and tears.

Gonzalo Arango.