Pedro Ávila


Goddammit, I hate Americans sometimes.

Every time I come back to this country I feel a rising disgust at being associated with these massive shit wads. The lack of worldliness, the fast food, the Coca-Cola, loud and exaggerated voices, the fat, superfluousness of everything. The percentage that represents intelligence, creativity, jazz, blues, explorers, independence and ingenuity is a very small number indeed. The rest of them, these twats, these ignorant and complacent gits… I can’t even form complete sentences around them, it’s just so many idiotic interpretations and faith in the wrong…….dammit!

And don’t get me started on the Christian right. Just don’t.

Breathe Pete. One, two, one, two, in, out, in, out…

That’s it. Easy, big fella.

Ahrggghhh! It’s no use, they’re everywhere, especially in Texas. God, I loathe Texas.

But not as much as these Christians. I sat there, entertaining dim-witted half-thought questions to fools with good intentions but not one original thought in the heads. It’s not a tragedy but it is ironic; horrible and hatefully so. The externalities of the ignorance of these people causes a rise in me that’s explosive and dangerous like sake and car bombs.

Anyway, I hate & I loathe, but I try to just sit there and not turn violent. That’s all you can reasonably ask of me in Texas. The swine across the isle…I snap occasionally when I hear them say things like “in Brazil it’s just easier to spread the work of God because people accept Jesus in their hearts when he tells them to,” or worse, “they’re not hampered by the stupid division between church and state.”

You think I kid.

“That stupid division is what’s kept this country running like a warm stove up until now,” I snap at him like a political piranha. But he goes on.

“people are so accepting and…”

“Ignorant?” I interject. He seems not to notice.

“…and nice,” he continues, blankly and uselessly. I have much to say but as usual, I try to keep it to myself. This doesn’t always work because things that need to come out, tend to. Nature finds a way, right? Look that up. It’s in Jurassic Park.

I look at him coldly. An innocent-looking child sits close by. His young, I assume, but something isn’t quite right about the look it’s giving me. I feel unsettled and uneasy. I prod a bit deeper.

“Has it occurred to you that religion, while it gives them hope and something to latch onto is also one of the greatest hindrances to their progress? People don’t need love, they need infrastructure. They don’t need god, they need health care. Your understanding of the causality of the situation is all wrong.”

“God made his children all equally lovable, but some need more guidance than others to find the strength in which to know Him.”

“You’re either absurdly tactless or tragically uneducated to say something like that,” I say, with malapert thoughts on my mind.

“Do you read the Bible, friend?”

Jesus Christ,” I blurt, not really jonesing for the reaction but glad to have it. His eyes swell with indignation at my impudent reaction.

That seemingly innocent youth next to him, a pupil faith assassin, looks at me curiously, obviously having caught more of what I so generously handed out. I look at her sharply and continue, now that the locks are flooding.

“I had loads of premarital sex,” I stab, gaging the small one’s reaction. “My favorite meat on Friday is red,” I continue, seeing the children eagerly identify me as a heathen who needs saving, their assassin’s eyes on me like a starving rotweiller, eyes fixed on the prize.

Let them come.

As they spring, teeth out and Bibles in hand I pull out my light saber and slice the first three in one burning motion. Their halves fall to the ground separated by mere moments of delay. I lay the rest of them spread eagle on the floor with the Necrominicon I carry with me for just these sorts of times.

At the climax of it all, looking down on the field of half-corpses and mortally stunned carcasses I realize that they were just children. Young, misguided, doomed children nonetheless, but it wasn’t their fault. If only their hypocrite parents could’ve thought for themselves long enough to teach the kids they would have had a more reasonable reaction to my powers.

Oh well.

Dammit, Every fucking time I re-enter this country, something like this winds up happening. Every TIME.

Houston International Airport, Terminal C – April, 2006

Pedro Ávila Pedro Ávila

For a reasonably sane & productive member of society (arguable, but let’s not complicate things), I’m far too mobile and unrooted. I travel quite a bit for a job that is simultaneously my greatest privilege and my worst burden.

So I write. And I write. Travel pieces, political journalism (a stretch from ranting but, still), short stories, poetry and other such riff-raff. I contribute to a handful of publications and will probably just keep going until something gives out, or someone gives in.


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