The Rodriguez Brothers
I was not aborted. I was born.
There had been 300 hot days in a row. The dirty air that filled the streets had driven most people inside their houses to one of the crowded little lakes at the outskirts of the City, where you would only swim if you felt like catching diseases, if the sun hadn't turned you into a cancer victim already.
It felt lethal, this sun, a killers' touch on newborn skin. Daylight was so sharp that hardly anyone risked going outside without glasses. Which was a pity actually, since the extreme PCB percentage in the air caused a beautiful green haze, that for some people killed their longing for nature.
I keep recalling. That day the rain started. People say this is impossible. Sometimes I wish they were right, but mostly I don't. Some people drown in the gene pool. I won't.
Pablo turned away his eyes from his brother Manuel , who was pacing up and down the room, making wild gestures, talking over his mobile phone. He himself, sat on a sofa in front of the television, straight as can be with a plate on his lap.
Their name was Rodriguez. The Rodriguez Brothers were my uncles. They lived in the capital of a narco state, the world's largest producer of synthetic drugs. Manuel had the hot-temper, while Pablo was gifted with tranquillity. They had come to the City from the South of Spain and their big business was designer drugs. Manuel was the dealer while Pablo was the designer of the world's most effective hallucinagenic "P".
"P" will blow your mind in .... "WANTED"