In the twixt of the twilight of magic and metal, when steel machines rule where pixies once plotted and twisted, and the rule of law surpassed the rule of the gods or YHWH, there on the beach, the truth is spoken every second in the onslaught of The Voice, relentless against the rocks splashing equality from above and below, bringing stone to its knees with the piss of sea giants and krill the same, the greatest equalizer. There on the rock stood El Presidente's house, an effective ursurper-king, with a stolen throne, a tyrant, selected not by God or man but by machinations and chance and luck and greed, night-time executions and mass graves, the devil standing in the flesh above the waves, surveying as his what clearly can not be owned.
His children playing on the playa below, the smell of dead marlin, old crab shells molted on the rocks, like forgotten toys, their friends coming in from the city, the peasant children who's fathers El Presidente would send to war to die, and who would die for their country soon enough themselves, satisfied, the city bells ringing in the distance as supper is served in the main hall, high above the sounds of the mariachi in the city.
Vieja, said his doorman, loud, as she spat in the servants face. Her wares strewn across the porch toward the fallen angelic fountain in the center of the courtyard, her face red from the strike, where the foolish man landed his iron glove when she defiantly called him a fool. El presidente stared down for a second, hearing the scream and the slap and the bells and feeling honestly nothing but hunger and the desire for a cigar and chocolates, he decided to capture the moment there to break the boredom of kingdom building with the sting of commotion. Coming down the stairs he heard the woman yelling louder and louder at the servant who was about to draw his weapon when El Presidente stayed his hand.
"What's going on here?" he said as though coming to the rescue of the poor woman who, turning her attention from the problem to the source of the problem, began to glare and pour out curses from hell onto the aging politician who did not recognize her, his mother, who had hated him from birth, born in a brothel, set loose to his father's brigade during the revolution, and finally a "self-made man" El Presidente, a hero by all accounts except this one.
The woman ravaged by old age and poverty, the mistreatment of a mulatta among the mestizos and conquistadores, a waste of a human by all accounts except the demons that inhabited her eyes and voice that carried it soaring above the waves like a hunting pelican, not quite coherent except as she caught El Presidente's attention she said:
"When you were born the devil took you and he should keep you." She screeched as his steel-toes hit her face.
El Presidente only saw an old woman falling off the cliff into the ocean as he booted her down the wasting granite into the sea of crabs waiting eagerly to finish what El Presidente had started.
Dinner was served at 5:30 as usual and the servants gathered around to ensure El Presidente's wine glass was full, that his wife's plate was full of pork, that his children's table had flan and that his concubines were satisfied in the south porticulus. His guests, the minister of finance, the general and the arch bishop of San Pedro, laughing, drunk and full on a roasted pig and the delicious gorditas served as dessert wearing the lurid clothing of their profession. The mix of mullatta's smell
ed sweet to El Presidente's now seasoned taste.
He raised his glass of Cognac and boasted:
"Gentlemen, who can compare what God has given us today, we are the earth's kings and nothing can stop us."
That night, out of the watery grave the old woman crawled, half-eaten, animated by hatred and justice and the devils of the deep, crawling over walls, slipping through windows, where the poison of a generation of fouled citizens celebrated El Presidente with a final curse, the water welling up in his lungs, instant pneumonia pretending to be karma, the coughing and spitting intermixed with the laughs of those lives he'd wasted on his climb up the rocks to the president's palace.