They Tried to Bury Us, but…

I could tell that the cunts had found the deepfake video of Kunt “MIGRANT FISHING” hysterically fucking funny because their raucous, mocking, laughter was still ringing in my ears as we staggered outside, where Julio was sitting handsomely on the hood of his tricked out blue, Dominican-flagged, 2019 Dodge RAM 1500 HEMI Limited pick-up truck, undercover of a cool, red-orange-flamed, on-the-very-edge-of-insanity, I-can-see-for-miles, still-as-a-corpse, dusk.

¿ Qué lo qué? Julio asked like he was vested in the result.


“It’s a very simple game,” I replied with Bull Durham top of mind. “You throw the ball. You catch the ball. You hit the ball. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, sometimes it rains. And sometimes ---” I said giddily at Joy as I stumbled towards the truck “--- you walk away from a bunch of Kuntish Billionaires and two-hundred and fifty million dollars, without being consulted.”


Joy shrugged me off, clambered onto the truck’s brown perforated, hide-of-four-calves, rear bench and pulled me inside as Julio pushed and they pulled and they pushed until I was laying with my head throbbing on Joy’s chest, star-gazing through the truck’s panoramic moonroof, shaken and then stirred by her heart’s rocksteady beat.

A few bars later, the rhythm was disrupted by two loud bass beats, that had been — acoustically engineered to disperse comforting subsonic harmonics by some clever motherfucker in Auburn Hills, Michigan, as Julio slammed the back-right and then the driver-side door shut, and then overwhelmed by a deep-throaty-roar as Julio slid into the drivers’ seat, pushed the ignition button, stepped on the gas, and the HEMI growled to life causing the ground to quake.

Then he reversed the truck, churning up the gravel drive, yanked the steering wheel to the left, and moved us a couple of hundred yards closer to Rio Vista Drive and south over the bruised blue-black Hudson River to the dark sinister menace of Manhattan, before changing his mind.

“I’ve got something to show you,” he said shutting the beast down. “Something you are not going to like,” he added turning around to face us, his wide brown eyes begging that we let the messenger live as he flashed us the screen of his iPhone uttering: “ Pero necesitas verlo de todos modos, para bien o para mal:”

The news story Julio considered essential reading was from The Hill, a “non-partisan” investigative political website with an XXL muck rake.


Its XXL headline read: PROPUBLICA UNCOVERS FACEBOOK GROUP FOR BORDER PATROL AGENTS FILLED WITH DEROGATORY POSTS TARGETING MIGRANTS AND LAWMAKERS.[i]


There were two posts tucked under the headline by way of example. The first featured a deepfake video of Kunt holding Joy’s legs apart as far as they would go as she flame-threw a fart. The second featured a leering Kunt forcing Joy’s head toward his crotch to suck on his toadstool dick. The border patrol agent who posted the images commented: “That’s right bitch. A blow for Kunt is a blow for MAGA.”

Joy flinched.

I felt her heart skip one beat and then the next and then she shifted her chest a little to the right to ratchet down the warming effect of her heart, but her stoic Jenny-from-the-Bronx game-face endured, and she hollered back to the wind in fits and starts from a deep, dark, anxious, angry, melancholic place we’d never visited together before, without looking up, seemingly transfixed by the looped video of her Stila “Stay All Day” Beso-red lips sliding up and down Kunt’s dick:


“La jodida inhumanidad de los agentes fronterizos --- Yeah, the fucking inhumanity of the border guards is the result of the dehumanizing lack-of-culture they represent and a tweetstorm without end designed to agitate the desplazados y desposeídos and powerless propagated by Kunt and his white nationalist thugs --- apologist Lambóns like Tucker Carlson and Rush Limbaugh who have branded migrants invaders, a flood, a scourge, a subhuman race, perhaps not even a race at all, but mongrels or animals that threaten to replace the white race.”


It was a lot to say and she brooded a while after saying it, staring bleakly at nothing in particular with an intensity she maintained even after Julio restarted the truck, bounced it onto Rio Vista Drive, turning right at The Esplanade through the long ominous shadows of the tall, thick, and ancient American Chestnuts that hide the great estates of the Hip-hop stars and the big swinging dicks like Kunt’s-cunts that make Alpine, New Jersey, America’s most expensive place to live, from plain sight.[ii]

A few hundred yards later Julio rolled through a stop sign at the intersection turning right again onto route 9W/Sylvan Avenue where he tucked the truck into a fast rushing stream of red taillights speeding south towards Palisades Interstate Parkway and, on the horizon, the gloomy, gray fairy-light accented, George Washington Bridge, which towered menacingly above all else, except Joy’s next next storm surge, which came with tears:


“It’s a brutal, nihilistic, shadowy, culture that humiliates migrants and subjects them to cruelty every day --- kids separated from their parents wearing clothes that that haven’t been washed for weeks, drinking water out of the toilets they shit in and eating out of bowls washed in that same water. Women branded ‘cureos’ who are forced to exchange sexual favors for tampons, soap, filthy food and dirty water, access to their kids, STD’s and sometimes for life itself,” she spat sardonically spreading the fingers of her right hand like a peacock spreads its feathers as her tears sparkled in the headlights of the passing cars.



“The agents that patrol our borders and the migrant concentration camps are numb to their abuse because it is now so common. So, every la-de-fucking-da-day. Así cada puto día. And because they, like the migrants they brutalize, are underpaid and underappreciated for the dirty-work they do for masters that are using them to divide us to extend their il·le·git·i·mate rule. So, they lash out! THEIR MISTAKE WAS TO TRY TO BURY ME because I am not afraid of them and I do not believe that their circumstances excuse them. Yeah ---” she threw at me as if I was complicit, “ --- their attacks are counter-productive, because they strengthen my resolve to resist Kunt, his billionaire apologists, the MAGA ARMY that goose-step to his every tweet, and the rash of dictators that have seized the last few reactionary seconds before our brand new day. [iii],[iv]


“Quisieron enterrarnos, pero no sabían que éramos semillas de resistencia.” I mumbled, “cribbing United Farm Workers Union organizer, Cesar Chavez, cribbing the Greek Poet, Dinos Christianopoulos, who first published the couplet in 1978, which means more or less ‘They Tried to Bury Us, They Didn’t Know We Were Seeds’, to which I added ‘of the resistance’ to make our purpose clear.’[v]

“Por cualquier medio necesario “ Joy confirmed, relaxing her grip on my hand and then withdrawing the hand altogether. “You are right Degas, I shouldn’t have turned down the Kuntish billionaires bribe without consulting you first. It was selfish, porque 250 millones de pesos es un buen montón de lana. My mistake was to believe we were Bonnie and fucking Clyde — a team.”

“Somos un equipo,” I replied, whiffing off the back foot, ”The thing is that teams agree strategy together. And two-hundred and fifty million dollars buys a lot of resistance.”

Joy raised her thin eyebrows just enough that you’d notice if like me you were looking at them hard, and then thunder cracked and the storm finally broke, though outside the truck it was still:


“I didn’t think that selling out was a subject that required any fucking discussion between us. If I had understood that I would not be here --- you get me Degas? Estas escuchando Degas? Or are you too busy calculating the price of comfort and how much it would cost to take the edge off your various bumps and bruises?” She said bitterly, her right hand pacing the outburst like a baton. “How much of the two hundred and fifty million is Monica worth? How much for Beatriz? Your birthright? Nosotros? How much are you taking on behalf of the border kids? The 1 in 1000 black men who are killed by cops? My 2024 Presidential campaign?” She seethed sardonically, from up high on the mount. “Your generation, GENERATION GREED has turned Earth into an inequitable inferno infested with 40,000 nuclear warheads and yet only a few hundred of them are required to exterminate us all. So, given the stakes, no creo que lo tenga en mi corazón to forgive you, Jay-Z, Kunt or any other mama guevo that mistakes youth for innocence and takes for (and on behalf of) generations that have yet to really live.”[vi]


The punches stung as they were supposed to, even more so because the fourth thing I’ve learned in my business, is that the broken bones from sticks and stones, heal, but that words hurt to eternity.[vii]

So, once a mama guevo, forever a mama guevo, a cocksucker, and the smell clings to everything like the shitty sweet and sour stench of mendacity or anal sex.

I knew I lost Joy there and then.

The only question was for forever or a day?

I looked over to Julio who smartly avoided answering the question by tuning to ¡Viva Latino! the most popular Latin playlist on Spotify, where the #1 track was (as it had been for weeks and was to be for many weeks more), ‘Con Calma,’ Daddy Yankee’s sing-song, ‘four on the floor’ reggaeton-pop remake of Snow’s 1992 monster-hit ‘Informer,’ which features a dexterous new verse by Snow and Katy Perry, the unlikely ‘poom-poom, girl,’ reliving her Teenage Dream days with lines like, “You can be my Puerto Rican dream/I can be your California gurl.”

When the original came out in 1992, it became the biggest Dancehall hit in history but Snow, who is Canadian and white (as snow), was pilloried for his cultural appropriation. Now, 17-years later Yankee and Perry in spite of her “Ay Daddy… ¿Cómo te llamas, baby?/A little mezcal got me feelin’ comic book Spanish, are lauded for their cultural awareness (sic) entrepreneurism.

It took three plays of Con Calma to get us to the toll gates of the world’s busiest bridge, where the sun finally set into a kinetic, burnt-orange framed night, bursting like a fairyland with a golden full moon, a blanket of bright yellow stars of which the Newark Airport bound planes were blingest by far.

Hundreds of flickering white fairy-lights stretched along the span of the bridge, where a constant stream of thousands of head and tail lights flowed on the lower of the two levels of the bridge, though the upper level, where we were was curiously empty.

Beyond the bridge, to the south, millions of lights of every imaginable size and color threw dark angular shadows over the streets, buildings, parks, monuments and people of Manhattan as far as the naked eye could see, and the Kunt brand Special K was burned into the psychedelic sky above Kunt Tower like the bat signal over Gotham City.


And I thought I saw Kunt howling at the golden full-with-a Swastika-moon. And then in a blink of an eye he was gone.


“Rapa tu mai,” rasped Julio snatching his gaze from the right wing-mirror to the rearview mirror and then back around the houses again and again as the identical twin, lime-green capped, Trinitarios, crept up behind us in their Bentley Continental GT Galene Edition Convertible poking their AK-47’s into night as they looked for a clean shot. At us I supposed.

Julio supposed the same and bobbed and weaved to avoid the bullets, and then suddenly slammed on the brakes and pump-primed the pedal until we skidded to a controlled stop in front of a line on New York Police Department patrol cars that was stretched across the road mid-span on the border of New Jersey and New York.

Behind us the Trinitarios spun 180 degrees and sped off in the opposite direction, burning rubber in the road as a marker.

Where they found themselves facing a firing-squad of New Jersey cops that had crept up behind them.

And when they try to run the line?

They are assassinated as had been meticulously planned and their car explodes and dives off the bridge into the dark still deep waters of the river Hudson as had been meticulously planned.


In front of us, Detective Inspector Diaz stepped out from the the center of the line of porkers, decked out in his go-to light gabardine cotton trench coat with a double-breasted closure, shoulder epaulettes and an oversized storm shield, topped by a matching Panama, wearing a fat master-of-the-universe scowl, accentuated by his prematurely drooping jowls.


Diaz was either a man who didn’t like to think about what he was going to wear when he woke up, or a man who’d thought about it long and hard enough to know that there was one perfect way to present himself.


He reintroduced himself with a shrug in the general direction of the Trinitarios and by lighting a 7-inch Montecristo Churchill cigar, which flamed obediently. He then placed the hot tip of the cigar a few inches from his ass and farted over it throwing a long blue flame towards Lady-cop Michelle Dowd and Man-cop Denny Tyrell, who had stepped forward to genuflect which involved applauding Diaz effusively.


Joy, anticipating his next trick, turned from Diaz to me, pulled down the zipper of my pants, and pressed her tongue against her cheek, “I’m a partisan whore Diaz, no le doy chupadas a republicanos o policias o KUNTS.”


Diaz chuckled, tossed the Churchill high over the side of the bridge, where it sparked like a dying rocket, accompanied by the cascading horns of drivers who had tired of the show, as it tumbled into the Hudson River, took his nightstick from his belt, rubbed his testicles with it, and then rested it on Joy’s chest, throwing flames at Degas --- "Se volvieron tozudos. Olvidaron que tenían como amo a un dios vengativo."


By which he was warning us that the Trinitarios like the Beasts before them had gotten headstrong and forgotten that they had masters.

“So, you shut them down?” I said as nonchalantly as I could manage with a dick in my face and a firing squad at my back.

“Word is we are shutting everyone down.” He barked authoritatively, to end a discussion that was endless.


“We get that you are a powerful man Diaz. We can smell it in your flatulence. Too many Tostones and too much Mangu,” I said turning a filthy glance around to face his, as Joy brushed his nightstick off her chest, which jerked him off balance and sent the nightstick to the ground, where it rolled drunkenly under Julio’s truck. “Not as big time as you imagine but powerful enough to do bad things for bad people if the reward is right. And I get that having ridden Kunt to grab everything they can, his Mercer, Thiel, Ross, and McMahon’s handlers want out as they see that Kunt is leading us beyond the chaos they endorsed to the brink of economic and environmental catastrophe and that his MAGA ARMY threaten to mess up their precious status quo. ONLY DICTATORS SELDOM GO QUIETLY, THEY’VE GOT TOO MUCH GOD IN THEM FOR THAT.”


Diaz liked that so he clapped, which Dowd and Tyrell took as a sign they should clap louder, which all the other cops on both sides of bridge took as an order to join in and for no reason any one of them could explain they cheered, which infuriated Diaz, who had momentarily lost control. So, he flashed the latest missive from Kunt. Which he happened to agree with wholeheartedly.


“Why don’t you motherfuckers go back home to the shit-hole you came from?”

“We come from the same shit-hole you come from Diaz,” Joy spat as she turned back towards Julio’s truck. “Only thing is that we’re trying to make things better, whereas you are on the wrong side trying to bury us instead sowing the seeds of resistance!“

Quisieron enterrarnos, pero no sabían que éramos semillas de resistencia.” I said for the second time that day, and with feeling, as the line of cops parted for Julio’s truck as if we were leading Israelites through the Red Sea.


Diaz watched us leave, punching his left palm with his right fist in time with his angry puffs.


As for me, I felt lonelier than I had at any time since Monica first walked into my life, but resolute that born of extreme violence robbed of his birthright. I was the bastard that was going to take the President down and save us from ourselves.


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TO BE CONTINUED: CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

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