PeaceBlondie

RIP, Larry

US author Gore Vidal dies aged 86

PT is 48

Some

The Jesus Peace Group visited some paramilitary soldiers, whose spokesman recounted a skirmish with the Zapatista rebels. “Then the Zapatista soldier changed himself into a giant eagle, ate the head of my friend, and flew off with the bloody corpse of my friend.” The guests feared for their lives, surrounded by fully-armed paramilitaries…

Harry Thomas, presiding for the US Tax Court in Houston, peered down at the broad-shouldered man with the thick, blond hair. He and Martin Miller had grown up as neighbors in Alamo Heights, Texas. For years, Harry had listened spellbound as Martin, Assistant Houston Distict Counsel for the IRS, filled the room with that booming voice. Even when he was wrong, Martin sounded great. Today, Harry frowned at Martin’s long hair. The judge ordered, “The chief attorney for the respondent will approach the bench.”

Drawing near, Martin asked quietly, “How’s it goin’ Harry?”

“You’re looking good, as always, Martin. But what’s with all that hair covering your collar?”

“I’m getting a head start on a ponytail for the 30^th of September, when I’m retiring.”

“Retiring! Shit, you’re not old enough!”

“Thanks, but I turned 50 on the first of May.”

“Hell, I’m jealous. See me later in chambers.” He spoke harshly, “Mr. Miller, cut your hair!”

Later, they entered the judge’s chambers. “Martin, your closing statement set the courtroom on fire. In the days before microphones, golden-toned orators like you could sway a crowd of thousands.”

Martin brushed the blond bangs off of his eyebrows, uncovering a scarline from when he lost his right eye at age eighteen. “Thanks, Harry. My pastor lets me preach sometimes.”

The judge sat down and rifled through documents until he found his judgment. “You’re a trip, Martin. Gay and Christian. So, are you still seeing that young Vietnamese here, or did he ditch you for somebody richer?”

“Nope, I ditched him for somebody even younger.”

“But what’s this about retirement, and a ponytail?”

Martin’s mind raced a thousand miles south. “I qualify for early retirement. I may never get another promotion. So, I’m starting the Jesus Peace Group, and going back to Chiapas, Mexico.”

“The Jesus What?”

“Jesus Peace Group.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Yep. Actually, I’m going to be a soldier of fortune in some war-torn African country.”

Harry slugged down a quick bourbon from his liquor cabinet. “Seriously! You’re going where?”

“Chenalhó County, Chiapas, in the heart of the Zapatista conflict zone.”

“<deleted>, Martin, don’t they kill people there for crossing the road wrong?”

“Sometimes. That’s why they’ve asked for peacemakers.”

“Martin, you didn’t study weapons at UT Law School. How are you going to be a peacekeeper?”

Blondie grinned. “You can’t keep what you don’t have. There’s no peace to keep, with the government arming the civilians to act as paramilitaries, like secret militias. We’re pacifists, like the people we’re going to work with. We create peace where there is no peace.”

The blue-blooded judge, heir to a measurable percentage of two oil companies founded by his grandfathers, envied Martin. “You know, we’ve both done damn well. Most Alamo Heights kids don’t do much after graduate school. So, how in Hell are you going to make peace?”

“We’ll see, Harry. When I get to San Cristobal de Las Casas, I start lessons in batsi-kop”

“Bahts-what?”

“Batsi-kop, the language of the Tzotzil Mayas, the indigenous people in Chenalhó. You might call them Mayan Indians. I volunteered there for a year, between college and law school.”

The judge raised his eyebrows. “You’re going to jump into bed with your old boyfriend, eh?”

Martin’s face turned anguished, and his hands waved. “N-no, Harry, we never had sex, because he was married… and then h-he died… in my arms!”

Harry paused. “I’m sorry, Martín. What do you mean, ‘We’re pacifists, like those people?’”

Martin regained his voice. “Some Catholics started interpreting the Bible commands about pacifism very literally. All the other factions practice a perversion of Christianity that believes God wants them to kill their enemies. The pacifists look like everybody’s enemy. The Zapatista Revolution is still raging in 1996.”

“So, Martin, do you think a blond, big-voiced, Mennonite attorney from Alamo Heights can plead a case to a bunch of guys armed with AK-47’s?”

“Sure. I just need to know what the opposing counsel is thinking before he pulls the trigger.”

“Martin, I’ve lived in the Bible Belt all my life. Christians just go to church and talk nicely. What kind of Christian goes out and dies for the faith, without fighting back?”

“Jesus did.”

The three men slowly found their way through in the dark. They walked down the ancient gallery, past a kitchen galley, past a picture of a galleon, past a five gallon jug. They entered a room with two bunk beds.

Reynaldo whispered, “Tejano, you get the top bunk, unless you want to lie on the bottom bunk and get <deleted>!”

Martin replied, “No thanks, not tonight!”

Before they drifted off, Martin’s curiosity won out. He whispered to the man across from him. “Hey, Reynaldo!”

“What more, amigo?”

Martin asked, “Do you guys do any work for the Tzotziles in Chenalhó?”

“Shit, I knew it! Who the Hell are you, really?”

“I lived there in 1967-68. I only have the curiosity.”

“Forget it, if you have a brain that you want to keep. But, if you wish to die for the people, fine!”

The reply floated across the room, “Sí, amigo!”

They reached Esao’s house. Darkness meant nothing to a blind man. She knocked loudly.

The noise awoke the prophet. “Hello! Who knocks at my door?”

“I am the widow Zenaida Maria Vázquez Gutierrez, of Acteal. I am with my grandson, Ángel.”

“Widow-sister, what time is it?”

Zenaida recited in ancestral fashion, “It is first hour after sunset. The moon is rising, almost full.” She was thankful that Ángel had mentioned that. Was it another example of his wisdom?

“Then, please enter.”

They made their way slowly into the dark room. People joked that you didn’t need a lamp in Esao’s house, because you went there seeking the light of God. “Good evening, prophet-father. I hope the Lord blesses you this day.”

“Indeed, God blessed me much today, with dreams and visitors. Most of all, God reunited me with my twin brother, Jacobo. Do you bring me another story about dreams?”

“No, prophet-father, I come to tell you about a kashlan that I met again today, after 28 years. Do you remember when my husband, Mariano Jesús Vasquez Gómez, died?”

Esao strained his memory. You miss a lot, when you’re young and blind. Then it came to him: El Visita! The golden kashlan! Esao asked in a mystical, deep voice, “Woman, do you speak of a kashlan with golden hair?”

Zenaida sensed the tone. “Hech.”

“Does he wear a black, leather sombrero?

“Hech.”

“Does he speak in a loud deep voice, like a messenger from God.?”

“Hech.”

“Is this kashlan a man of peace?”

“Hech.”

The prophet murmured, “We must pray. Thank you, holy Mother Mary. We were not worthy to be visited many years ago. We are not worthy now… Blessed upon these mountains be the feet of El Visita, who proclaims the good news of your peace.”

Zenaida marvelled. Martín was El Visita!

They got to the important business for which the great prophet had been led down the trail to Jovel. Esao began: “Sebastián, do you remember what I told you about El Visita?”

“Yes, father. You told me his personal name.”

Esao proclaimed the name, like an announcement from the archangel Gabriel. “His name was Martín! How many kashlan have that name? How many of them wear that black leather hat? How many speak like a great prophet? How many have that color and kind of hair?”

Sebastián, one of the few links for Las Abejas to the world, calculated. “Father, less than one kashlan in twenty has yellow hair. Only his hair is wavy, long, and golden. He has a prophet’s voice. Martín is that unique man.”

Esao rephrased his prayer. “Vírgen Mary! We did not deserve one visit, and now we do not deserve another! Tell us, what happens next?” Finally, Esao’s shoulders heaved, and he moaned. He stared with a glance that pierced the walls. “Many of our people must die! The blood in my dream was not only the blood of Jesücristo!”

Downstairs, Martin hung his sombrero on the peg on the wall. He stared in disbelief at the sweatshirt, in burnt orange color. He mused… University of Texas-Austin! I joked with Reynaldo about selling t-shirts, but here’s a sweatshirt of the main campus!

Esao requested to bless him, kneeling. Esao came down off the chair, guiding himself by the strong shoulders of this special man. Esao gently traced the face with his fingertips. He felt the lush, curving bangs on the broad forehead, the bushy eyebrows, and hidden scar line. His index finger traced Martin’s full lips and square chin. Both hands proceeded to Martin’s huge size 18 neck. He found the thick mane of wavy hair. He prayed… Father God. I did not know you make hair like this! I feel your spirit inside him, too.

The answer came in a voice that required no ears to hear it, just as this prophet required no eyes to see the heart of the kashlan: “Martín is El Visita. Now he must go upstairs with Sebastián, for I have prepared Ángel to meet him.”

Esao said, “Martín, you have a name that you did not have when you left us. You are El Visita.”

When Sebastián translated, confusion marked Martin’s face, and he repeated the title. “El Visita?”

Sebastián explained. “It means that you were the special visitor. A holy messenger, like Melkizidek, the King of Peace. Your words changed the history of our people. Now we follow the way of peace, because you revealed God’s commands for us, at the funeral of Mariano Jesús Vázquez Gómez.”

Martin was dumbstruck, then awestruck. When he found his voice, he said, “What were the commands of God that I revealed?”

Sebastián recited what everyone in the room knew as their way of life. “Be peacemakers. Pray for those that despise you. Turn the other cheek. Bless those that curse you. Love your enemies, to be God’s children.”

Martin said, “Prophet Esao, I deserve no honor. If God has chosen me as His servant, please pray for me to receive a double portion of courage, and obedience, and to use me.”

After that blessing, Esao said, “Amen. Now you must go upstairs, to meet Ángel.”

Sebastián pointed toward the loft, where sunlight filled the south window. Martin reached the loft and turned south, seeing the posture of prayer, and the man’s brown arms and legs, in a halo of light.

Ángel heard the Holy Spirit. “Ángel, turn around and see El Visita.” He pivoted slowly on his knees. Looking up, he beheld a white face and brilliant hair. The man had become a golden angel!

Martin glanced down, stunned at this pure image. The holiness of the moment drove him to his knees. He sat back on his heels, with his head level with Ángel’s. Instinctively, he held Ángel’s dark brown, tough hands. Adjusting to the light levels, Martin saw that face.

Ángel thought… Golden hair and blue eyes! Oh Father-God, I have never seen such a lovely man! With child-like innocence and boldness, Ángel lifted their entwined hands and pushed his head forward until their faces almost touched. He stared at those big, soft hands. Both men trembled. Martin studied those black eyes, and sensed a unique spirit in this man. Finally, Ángel led, and rose. Martin followed.

Martin began, “And Martin Miller, from America. Very glad to know you, Ángel.”

Sebastián joined them to translate. The smallest man almost divulged his great secret and replied in Spanish. “Good morning, Sr. Martín Miller, it is my good honor to meet you. I am Ángel Vázquez Amala of Acteal. I am the grandson of Mariano Jesús Vázquez Gómez and his widow, Zenaida. I have twenty- two years.”

Martin replied, “Ángel. I remember your grandfather. He was a good man who loved God.”

Sebastián did not wait for Ángel’s response. “Martín, Ángel already knows and approves of the love that you had for his grandfather. Also, he knows that because of your understanding of the Word of God, you did not have relations with him, although you lusted after him. Ángel feels the same as I do in this matter.” Sebastián advised Ángel, “Do not fear. El Visita understands that you and I will not marry a woman.”

Martin added, “We must be faithful to the commands of Jesucristo.”

Both Tzotziles realized the cleverness of Martín’s words, for Jesus never mentioned homosexuality.

Not wanting to lose the spiritual glow, Ángel replied, “Yes, we must love our enemies. With the help of espíritu santu, we can do it. Martín, you proclaimed peace at the funeral of my grandfather.”

Sebastián’s jaw dropped. Ángel had spoken the last words in Spanish! “Ángel, I did not know that you could speak the castellano. Did your Aunt Josefina teach to you?”

“No. She taught to her daughter, Raphaela. Then my cousin taught to me. We wanted it to remain a secret. But when I said espíritu santu, I forgot what language I was speaking. I trust you two men whom I have only met today.”

The two most important verbs in batsi-kop and Greek are love and trust. Martin often quoted his hero, Joan Baez: ‘To love means you also trust.’ Martin said, “Ángel, now I trust you, and I tell to you my great secret. I will not have another woman for a wife, never. I will only have a man for my husband, if it be the will of God. But the most important thing is this: I must trust God and obey his commands.”

Ángel rushed into Martin’s arms, in an embrace of trust. Guided by Sebastián’s gentle push, they knelt and prayed. Martin began feeling the crushing burden of having led Las Abejas into pacifism.

For that much money, and with the last sentence in the imperative mood, the driver was in an obedient mood. He dropped the clutch when the door slammed shut, and Martin motioned for everybody to spread out. Blondie hummed a few bars of Got a date with an angel. Half an hour later, they had arrived. He paid the driver and didn’t wait for the change. He barely slowed to greet the unarmed guard at the entrance. Martin’s quick descent to the bottom of the wide, curving staircase landed him at the opposite end of the clearing. Martin murmured a minimal greeting to each person as he rushed past. He found the correct door, and knocked.

António answered, “Enter.”

The big man stooped through the small doorway. Enough midday sun filtered into the single room to reveal António, Judit, and Ángel. The younger sisters were next door. The aromas of frijoles and corn tortillas mixed with smoke.

“Good afternoon, Brother António; how are you and your woman today?”

“We are well, thank you. How are you, Brother Martín?” Angel stood up from the mat.

Martin greeted his love object as strongly as he dared: “How are you, my dear friend?”

“Oh, dearest Martín, I am always so happy to be with you!”

They walked to the cliff and sat on the edge, overlooking a deep valley controlled by paramilitaries.

Ángel put his left arm in Martin’s right arm and leaned into him. “I love to be with you! I missed you very much.”

“Yes, dearest Ángel, and I always love to hear your big, manly voice, and share your dreams.”

Batsi-kop often uses the same word for dreams and nightmares. Not wanting to share nightmares about red death, he asked, “Which dreams?”

“Your good dreams, what you want with all your heart.”

Martin had used the weaker Spanish verb for ‘want,’ and Ángel would not accept such weak talk. “My lust, Martín. I lust for you!”

Martin turned toward his blind side to face Ángel. He inserted his right leg inside the short skirt of the tunic, between those strong, bare legs. Likewise, Ángel’s leg went between the soft cotton trousers of the big man. “Lust, Ángel? Very good.”

“Oh yes, my love. I lust for you, to join our bodies, the love of two men!”

Martin’s smile lit up a bright afternoon. “My beloved Ángel; I have the same lust.”

“My private parts want to touch your private parts. I want to shove my banana into your mouth and rear end. I want to feel your banana inside my body! Please love me!”

Ángel moved that face directly to Martin’s eyeglasses, and he shoved his short legs toward Martin’s quickly-expanding crotch. Martin’s kneecap hit the rigid bone in Ángel’s underwear.

Not only that face overwhelmed Martin. That husky, vibrating, man’s voice rolling out of that sexy mouth. And against Martin’s kneecap, that bone. “Ángel, my love, I want to touch your private parts, and I want you to put those parts inside my body. But God will not let me hurt you.”

The deeper voice laughed. “Martín, you cannot hurt me if you do the sexual relations with me! To the contrary, if you do not do them, you will hurt me very much, and my desire will die, forever.”

Sitting on the cliff of Acteal, Martin dove off the emotional cliff. He leaned forward, and their faces touched. Martin kissed him, being kissed in response. Martin opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue. Ángel opened wide and experienced his first kiss: a sensuous, twisting, French kiss. Soon Martin felt a shaking. Ángel was climaxing! Martin quickly lifted Ángel and embraced him. António and Judit peeked from the doorway until the long kiss ended. They failed to notice a whole lotta shaking going on. They walked toward their son and their future son-in-law. They were family.

Judit blessed Ángel. “My son, I feel like the Vírgen of Guadalupe, and you are my son Jesucristo. Also, you are my Juan Diego, the indigenous saint of all Mexico. Maybe God told her that he would be bleeding and dead in a few years. I give you to God, and to El Visita.”

António blessed them. “Now, Holy Mother, I give my son to El Visita. I do this in the name of my father, who died in his arms when I watched. I pray that Martín can keep Ángel safe, better than I can.” Sixteen years later, António was canonized as a saint.

Martin had stumbled upon one of the best-kept secrets in North America! “Now I see you, Marcos. You hide behind your mask and your gun, but inside, you are a softie!”

Marcos laughed. “During my childhood, I read books. Of course, I played the ball games and I fought the fights in the school yard. But I did not go to the military academy. I attended the university and studied literature and history. The macho boys chased me down the corridors. I wanted to be Don Quixote, Alexander the Great, or a great pirate. I yearned to be like the beautiful blond man in Princess Bride. You must have resembled him in your first incarnation in Chenalhó, Guero Martín. I became the great Pirate Roberts.” Suddenly, Marcos asked, “Ángel, if your village were attacked, would you not fight back?”

Ángel proclamed, “Love your enemy. Do not kill. There is no alternative.”

That shocked Marcos. “Ángel, you have more courage than my soldiers. You are willing to stand against injustice, without a firearm. You have courage, faith and love.”

Las Abejas called its faithful to fast and pray at Acteal Centro. Ángel and Martin looked forward to their first anniversary together, and thought it was the day that commemorated the slaughter of the innocents, by King Herod. Martin and Ángel awoke at the same time, shortly after dawn. They were sleeping on blankets inside the small wooden chapel. After getting their bearings, they held each other closely. The usually fearless Ángel was shaking, and Martin had never been so afraid.

This time, Martin’s dream had more details: the red was blood. The yellow was like straw or hair, blowing in the wind. He saw and heard that enormous eagle: brown and white, hideous and ravenous, with an ear-shattering shriek.

Ángel’s dream was clearer than it had been the year before. They stepped on yellow and brown straw. Many more bodies fell off the bridge, and now one body was kashlan. When Ángel got to the other side of the creek, the bridge jumped up behind him and shielded him from the eagle.

Martin went to the door and opened it slightly. A bird approached, an eagle with a 17-foot wingspan, its sharp talons extended, piercing the air with a deadly shriek. Martin slammed the door.

“How big was that eagle, Ángel?”

“Too big, maybe four meters! Bird spirit!”

“Ángel, I think we dreamed that eagle.”

“Yes, bad nightmare of evil bird spirit. Eagle say pronto. Soon!”

The first breathless messenger arrived at Acteal Centro around 8 am. “The paramilitaries from Los Chorros and Yibeljó are coming to kill us all! Go down to the Zapatista base camp for protection!”

Their head catechist António said, “The Zapatistas have firearms. The Bible says, ‘Woe unto them who go down to Egypt and trust in chariots.’ We can stay here, fasting and praying.” Las Abejas familes did not leave, but several simpatizantes rushed across the little creek to the Zapatista camp.

Soon another sweating, panting messenger ran down the long, winding staircase. “The rumor says they will come, very soon, to murder us all! Who has weapons?”

José Luciano Gómez Gutierrez joked, “I have a dull machete.”

António reassured them. “We have the full armor of God, sharper than any two-edged sword. Also, our Lord said we will hear about wars, and rumors of wars. For four years we have heard rumors. God’s words are true. Jesucristos asked, ‘Are you ready to drink my cup of sorrow?’ Are we ready to stand, with the blood of no man on our hands?”

His own son answered first. “Yes, father, we are ready to die for our Lord Jesucristo.”

They all stayed. By noon, no more messengers arrived. Most of the crowd of about 100 were inside or around the little chapel, praying. Stasi sat inside with the women, near the door. Martin and Ángel knelt outside. When the first shots rang out, Ángel looked around. He grabbed Martin by the elbow, pulling them both up. They reached the store room next door to the chapel when they spotted the masked, armed men. Martin quickly pulled Ángel into the storeroom. As he closed the door, shots and footsteps advanced from several directions. They were surrounded by paramilitaries. Ángel peered through a slit in the wall. He thought… they just keep coming! They are so many!

António, Judit, Ana and Ester run across to the shallow cave on the other side of the storeroom.

A gunman saw them enter the cave. That young man, five feet and four inches tall, masked and armed with an automatic rifle, approached the cave entrance. “All of you, come out!”

António emerged, followed by the others. António raised his hands. “Father, forgive them. They do not understand what they do.” The gunman raised his weapon. António spoke his last words, “Father, into your hands I send my spirit.” The roar of gunshots rang out, and four victims fell to their deaths.

It shocked Ángel speechless, so Martin put one hand over Ángel’s mouth. Through the slit in the wall, they saw the killer nearing. Martin whispered, “Stand behind me. I be a shield to you!”

Martin faced the door in a bold stance and prepared his memorized line, in batsi-kop. A short gun-barrel pried the door open.

“I am El Visita! You cannot kill a ghost!”

The attacker halted, shocked. A ghost-spirit could instantly become a jaguar or a wolf, and devour him. He slammed the door and ran to the chapel.

Stasi pushed Rafaela and Josefina down, out of sight. When the killer opened the door of the chapel, he found Stasi standing at the threshold. He sprayed bullets through the doorway. Stasi prayed, “Jesus.” She fell, and the bullets reached the next group of women.

The attackers suffered no deaths or injuries. Final count: 46 dead and 26 injured: all Tzotziles, except for the white Mennonite female who belonged to the same family of God. Jakob Yoder and Hannah Stoltzengruber agreed to bury Stasi with her Tzotzil family.

During the massacre, Sven Gustafson headed to Acteal to ensure that his paramilitary troops did the job right: killed the two ass-<deleted>. Sven solved the problem by killing anybody in the village in order to kill the two deviants. He carried his personal pistol.

Roberto Jamison, age 15, was at the nearby gravel pit with his best friend Raimundo, from Acteal Arriba. They heard the unending echoes of gunfire. The road was blocked by State Seguridad Pública, to permit the massacre. Raimundo guided Roberto through Acteal Abajo, where the simpatizantes were hiding, afraid to defend their pacifist neighbors. The boys arrived at the massacre site shortly before Gustafson. As the shocked teenagers walked through an area littered with corpses, Roberto picked up a workable and loaded military automatic rifle. Roberto, who had always wanted to play combat infantry, proceeded in a daze.

They came up behind Sven as he found Ángel and Martin. Sven sneered and raised his pistol. “I’m here to finish the job, you fairies. The Bible says, ‘You shall not allow a Sodomite to live.’”

“No, Sven, that verse is not talking about gay men. All the straight teenagers, and all the old straight married men like you, liked to rape strangers to death. You are worse than the men of Sodom.”

“You are perverting my mission field! So I’m going to kill both of you perverts! Go to Hell, you cock-suckers!” He aimed the pistol and released the safety.

Roberto beat him to the punch with eight rapid-fire shots, exploding Sven’s skull and brains.

Martin raced to the fallen body, grieving Sven’s death. He cried out, “Dear God, couldn’t you have saved Sven from this? Couldn’t you have sent him teachers who taught the truth about peace?”

Ángel, who had just lost six family members, consoled Martin on the death of their enemy. Two Seguridad Pública officers scrambled down the incline. Those officers might kill them all, to conceal their own complicity.

Martin glanced up. “Officers, I am glad that you all are here now, to see that Roberto Jamison, this missionary youth, saved our lives. The massacre ended before you all got here. We have many wounded. You all will be heroes, if you call for medical help now. You saw this old man try to kill us, who have no firearms.” Martin told Roberto in English: “Thank you, Roberto! You were very brave to defend us, even though we do not put our trust in firearms. Thank you, although it is so sad that Brother Sven died.”

Another victim appeared: Juan Patricio, bloody and badly bruised, running down from Acteal Arriba. Nearly out of breath, he ran to Ángel and hugged him. “Ángel, my brother, you live! Praise God!”

“Juan Patricio, what happened to you?”

“When they told me their plans to kill all of you, I repented my evangélico faith. It is not the Christian faith. They reviled me and tortured me. Only now have I escaped. I see many dead, including the false prophet, Sven. But you and your husband live, praise God!”

The massacre stunned all of Mexico, changing the course of national history. It scandalized evangelical missionary efforts world-wide. Sven financed and masterminded it. There was the ‘justifiable homicide’ of one missionary person by another. All the attackers were converts to a bloody culture, obeying their missionary. Sven planned the massacre to kill the gay couple.

Martin was forever haunted by guilt for leading Las Abejas into non-violence.

Then Martin spoke. This memorial oration of 150 words soon ranked with Lincoln’s address at Gettysburg, after people realized that Lincoln’s speech was a bloody president’s justification for sending Americans to kill each other. Martin’s speech was soon sub-titled ‘the holy dagger plunged into the coffin of the Just War Theory.’

“This is the burial ground of 45 Mayas and their American sister, Christian pacifists who loved Christ so much that they obeyed His commands to love their enemies. Here, an illegal army sponsored by the governments of Mexico slaughtered innocent, nonresistant Christians. Natives who were perverted by evil missionaries killed 46 unarmed people and wounded 26 more. The victims of Acteal destroyed that God-damned heresy, the Just War Theory. The blame for these murders lies not only with the indigenous converts to a twisted Christianity. The blood falls upon the theologians, ‘Saints,’ and preachers, who teach a bad religion, a perversion of the Truth which is Jesus Christ. Standing where so many innocent children died, we ask, ‘Oh, sweet child of mine, where do we go from here?’ Let us go forward, with a faith and practice that kills nobody and loves everybody. Peace and love are the only answer.”

The cardinal prostrated himself on the sacred ground. Diego raised the bread and the cup: “This is my body, broken for you, here at Acteal. This is my blood, poured out on this holy ground. Eat my flesh, drink my blood, live my life, die my death.”

Public outbursts by celebrities and nobodies become common, shouting for an end to all violence. At a huge anti-war rally in Melbourne, the odd couple performed with Joan Baez, singing And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda. A horrific song about wounded Australian war veterans, it ended with Martin’s loudest voice booming out, “but as year falls year, more young men disappear. Some day no one will march here at all!”

In the mid-day tropical sun, big Nateeka stationed herself well in front of the marchers. The Zócalo is one of the largest public squares in the world, and it features an immense flag of Mexico, six meters wide. The flag is red, white and green, and in the white center features an image of an ancient Aztec prophecy: a brown eagle eating a snake perched atop a cactus growing out of a rock. All the witnesses at the Zócalo saw a vision of the four-meter eagle fly off that huge flag, but it did not show up on the TV or in any photos.

Ángel stopped. “Martín, do you see that eagle, flying off the flag?”

“Yes, my love. We do not have to do this.”

“I must do the work of my Father in heaven. We go.”

A hidden Mexican soldier, Eagle Brigade, was an agent of a billionaire arms-dealing currupt Mexican general. He obeyed his orders. He aimed at the little black sombrero, and shot Ángel with a single bullet. It killed Ángel instantly, cracking open his skull, splattering brain matter all over his tunic. Martin grabbed the corpse, falling to his knees. No time to say good-bye.

Finally Martin spoke sternly to the big lady beside him, in English and Spanish. “Nateeka, bring the helicopter here! We go to the Basilica of Guadalupe, and the Cardinal must meet us there!”

The crowd parted to let the helicopter land. Live via satellite, they flew to the Basilica of the Vírgen of Guadalupe Tepeyac, the holiest shrine in Mexico. It is dedicated to its patron saint, the recently canonized Juan Diego: the dark, legendary, indigenous hero who is worshipped throughout Mexico.

The chopper landed in the parking lot while the Cardinal of all Mexico rushed to the Basilica by police escort. Martin carried the small body into the huge shrine. He reached the altar with its picture of the Vírgen. Martin raised the corpse to his chest and shouted: “Holy Mother of Mexico, here is Juan Diego, your indigenous son, slain by the Conquístadores, and by Christians!”

After grieving over Ángel and saying good-bye, Martin smeared his hands. He turned around as the cardinal walked up to him. Martin smeared the high priest’s robe with brains, commanding him, “Confess the sins of Mexico to me, for 500 years of the sins of your priests and ancestors, who spilled the innocent blood of the indígenas of Mexico!”

The cardinal knelt and began confessing. Before he finished, Martin fell to the floor, unconscious.

At that hour, it was early morning in Xantiahk, in Southest Asia. In a refugee shack near the Burmese border, 17-year old Pax We lay sleeping, his six-foot-one frame spilling across the mat, next to his father, Bupa. His 9-year old sister Sirinun lay on the opposite side of the single room, next to Maa.

He was awakened by the horrors. What Pax saw, started killing him. A four-meter eagle screeched in his face. A head appeared between them. The head with its long, black hair resembled an Asian male. The eagle devoured the head. Blood and brain matter spurted everywhere. Nittipat (Pax) went temporarily insane. The family awoke and tried to comfort him. In several languages including Spanish, he howled, “Big ugly bad bird!”

Only Pax could see the ghastly vision, but his family saw an insane boy. Bupa ordered Sirinun (Noon) to go down the street and awaken Kladak Judanok, the pagan shaman.

Judanok awakened at the moment of Ángel’s murder. She became aware, and stood to her feet. She sensed which direction to go, to exorcise a lethal, evil bird spirit and save a life. She found Noon calling for her, and they ran to the house. Judanok burst through the open door and saw Pax screaming and writhing on the floor, thrashing his long limbs. She also saw what the others could not: the four-meter eagle, extending beyond the walls of the house.

Judanok threw herself onto Pax, thrusting her own body through the fantasma, nearly killing herself. She raised herself onto hands and knees, preventing the eagle from reaching Pax, whose heart was about to burst. Finally, Pax could not see the eagle or hear the hideous screeching. He glanced into her eyes and began to regain his sanity. Pax threw his long arms around her tiny frame as the healing spirit surged into his horrified body.

His heart slowed from a rate that would have soon ruptured his heart. The loving images of his parents appeared above Judanok. Pax spoke an “Our Father,” in Spanish! Across the world, millions more joined him. At the Catholic priest’s quarters nearby in Shana Chang, Father Salvatore Gogliotti awakened and knelt, praying in Spanish.

****

Paula said as they passed a beautiful Buddhist temple and ugly refugee shacks, “This is Tho Tai.”

Martin craned his neck and thought of Tom Petty’s Refugee. The datra stopped in a soi (street) at an old house: wooden siding, cement blocks, and bamboo thatched roof… a refugee’s home.

Paula proudly announced, “So, Kladak Robert, see your big beautiful house!”

Martin thanked Jesus. Arnapat lived in a palace. The soi was muddy, the house uninviting. He lied, “Robert, I have to call on my mobile now. Can I wait here in the datra?”

“Sure, Kladak Norapat. Mu zig chop.”

At the front door, Paula pranced around with a set of keys, flustered. “Here is key. Oh, maybe wrong key… oh, maybe this key…oh, not that key… okay, we go through window, we no need key.”

“Is that normal?”

“No. Usually, we no need key.”

Xantese who speak English love to start sentences with usually or actually. However, only naughty Xantese say key so much, since that sounds like the vulgar word for shit.

Paula wiggled extremely sexually through the window and opened the heavy wooden door from inside.

Arnapat noticed Nittipat, the absurdly tall, skinny teenager who stood near the tailgate in a trance, gawking at Martin. The front of the boy’s nylon soccer shorts protruded obscenely.

Martin surveyed the single room. Two mattresses propped on cement blocks, with a base that used to be two doors. A small wooden table with two plastic chairs. A battered old fan on a floorstand. A squat toilet in the back area with kind of a door on it. The air smelled of pine oil and musty mattresses. It rented for 2,000 bpep per month, $50.

Martin walked to the front door, smiled mischieviously, and loudly asked, “Kladak Norapat, would you like to come in and see the house?”

“Thank you, Kladak Robert, but I need to go back to my… office now. Have a good time in Tho Tai!” Arnapat pushed the buzzer inside the datra, signalling the driver to depart.

The children near the doorway pegged Martin as New Kid in Town. When the datra was gone, Martin saw Pax (Nittipat): a telephone pole, still in a trance. Even a one-eyed man can tell he’s being stared at. Pax’s scrawny body shouted ‘tall and skinny.’ Six feet one, no fat at all. He wore a sleeveless shirt and nylon soccer shorts, from which four long sticks poked out. A bamboo stick almost poked out of his shorts. His black hair fell to his skinny neck and bony shoulders. A long, thick strand of hair fell in front of his left ear. He wore his hair as long as boy students were allowed (Take It to the Limit). His face was attractive: light skin without the typical Shan pug nose, and clear of blemishes. His full, unwrinkled eyelids nearly shrouded his small, black eyes.

Paula said, “Kladak Robert, students are glad to see new teacher. This tall student is my cousin, class leader in Majaruk 6. Name is Nittipat, nickname is Pax.”

Pax addressed his cousin in English. “Good afternoon, Kladak Prathong, how are you today?” Pax had parroted the opening line every Xantese child learns in English class. The boy’s bright little eyes bounced all over Martin.

“Hello, younger cousin Nittipat. This is new teacher of English, Kladak Robert, from Costa Rica.”

Pax crouched and salaied Robert. “Good afternoon. You are big and handsome, sexy like America movie star man.” Pax thought this was the sexiest man on either side of the Panama Canal, or any canal in Xantiahk.

Martin wondered if the local cinema specialized in sexy American movie star men. “Thank you. My parents came from the North America. So, your name is Nittipat?”

“Yes, Kladak Robert, but my nickname is Pax. Nickname mean peace in Latin language.”

Martin was impressed, being co-recipient of the World Service Award of Pax Christi, the Catholic peace group, awarded in Mexico City. “That’s right. Your cousin says you are in Majaruk 6.”

“Yes, Kladak Robert. Next year I go at university, study science or math.”

“Very good, Pax. I only teach English. Science and math are hard.”

Covering a hard bamboo stick, Pax hinted, “For sexy man, nothing is too hard.”

Paula waved her hands. “Kladak Robert, now we go inside house. Pax, carry bags.”

While the three men entered, younger children crowded around the open door. Martin focused on Paula. “Kladak Prathong. I do not speak Xantese, so maybe you can teach me how to speak it.”

“Oh, I can show you how to move your mouth, your tongue, and your teeth. I am language teacher!”

Martin glanced down at Paula bulges, ready to jump on this speeding motorcycle. He peered through his Buddy Holleys. “Paula, I have sheets. Can you measure my size?”

“Oh yes, oh yes!” In those vowel tones, ‘oh yes!’ means, ‘I’m about to have an orgasm!’

Pax kicked his elder cousin in the shin, a fast lifting of the lower right leg to the rear. Giggles trickled from the children at the door. Pax, fierce and desperate, turned to Martin. “I measure your size, Kladak Robert!”

Paula replied with a verbal kick, Shan that Prince Arnapat wouldn’t understand. “No, you sack of skin, bone, shit and coconut milk!”

Pax, naughty, translated. “Kladak Robert, my cousin say I am skin and bone, but I have very long bone, yes?”

Martin sensed the pun, but he was distracted by Paula’s bulges. Stressing the /s/ sound for the plurals, Martin enunciated, “Yes, Pax, your leg bones and arm bones are very long. How old are you?”

“Seventeen. How old are you, Kladak Robert?”

“Ummhh… fifty. Kladak Prathong, did you say you are 25 years old?”

“Yes, and now we are at your bed, so you can call me Paula.”

Paula’s crotch bulged. Inside the soccer shorts, a long bamboo stick almost ripped the nylon.

Martin sensed his own erection. “Paula, where is the toilet?”

Paula waved, “Oh yes, oh yes, the toilet! Here, come with me.”

Pax said, “I show you. WE go together, Kladak Robert!” Maybe Pax’s ‘we’ equated to a restrictive batsi-kop pronoun meaning, ‘only you and I, not my short queen-cousin.’

Paula relented. “Okay, we all go to toilet. We are not shy about toilet. Same in Costa Rica?”

“Yes, in Latin America, men and boys are not shy at all.”

If two of the characters in this live drama had not been kladaks, the audience at the door would have laughed very loudly. They saw three bulges. Paula lied. The krantuns of Shana Chang are even bolder than the average Shan, but not bold enough to have a hard dick contest with a stranger.

They jammed themselves into a bright, camphor-scented toilet room, standing around the low, white, plastic bowl-drain on the floor. Paula boldly unzipped, unbuckled and lowered her trousers to the knees. She yanked her bikini down, revealing an immense brown baseball bat. Martin, who hadn’t had sex for five months, extracted his engorged Coke bottle out the top of his bikini. Pax jerked down his nylon shorts. Curving out and back and toward his left hip, an extremely long, thin bamboo stick bounced skyward.

Pax was amazed. The white man had the fattest and whitest bamboo stick, with light brown hair! Proving that he had lousy judgment, Pax blurted, “Kladak Robert, you have brown grass!”

In Asia, you don’t have to answer a question, especially when they don’t even ask, or they comment on the color of your pubes. Martin was so weary from jet lag, heat, and seeing these impressive, erect sex organs, that he couldn’t think straight. Only gay. They caught Kladak Robert with his pants down on his first hour in Tho Tai.

“Yes, many white men have brown grass.” A near-genius can say the right thing at the sperm of the moment.

Paula pulled rank and humiliated Pax. “Nittipat, Robert is kladak, and older. You not show respect.”

Losing face, Pax grimaced and put his long, twisting snake inside his soccer shorts. “Kladak Robert, I am sorry. I go home now.” In Asia, face is even more important than bamboo stick.

Over in Tho Tai, Kladak Judanok did her job. She kissed her husband and step-son goodbye. She stepped to the edge of the assembly ground and faced Burma where the eagle approached. Matched the 5 foot, 3 inch stature of the teacher. They stared into each other’s eyes, their heights fluctuating from 4 to 8 feet. Her husband saw crimson tears trickling down her face. With her dying breath, she smiled. Both her head and the eagle’s head exploded.

****

The embassy staff hurried up the jet stairway. Hundreds of NLD supporters surged onto the airfield. The executioner’s face was not well hidden. Cedric and Keritikun clipped the wireless microphone and transmitter of the BBC behind Sasabrathuk’s white jacket and onto his shirt pocket. The snipers aimed their rifles.

The king began, “I pay my respects to my elder sister, Diaw Aung San Suu Kyi, the Mother of Burma.” Keritikun connected Pax’s guitar. The king concluded, “Now I ask, Nittipat We and Martin Miller, to join me.”

Macabre song titles raced across Martin’s mind: The End by the Doors; Blaze of Glory by Bon Jovi. The sky was filled by immense eagles. “How many deaths will it take ‘til he knows, too many people have died?”

The crowd stood and raised the peace sign. Around the world, Bob Dylan, Neil Young, George W. Bush, and millions more raised the peace sign, which was a church poetry.

At the military command center, the chief of intelligence located the BBC broadcast. He knew the power of words. “Generals, that song makes the Myanmarese people rebel!”

A senior general opened his microphone and barked a command to his cadre at the airport. The snipers obeyed their orders. The first shot went through the chest of Martin Pablo Miller. Thanks to a dead kladak in Tho Tai, the second shot only grazed Pax’s ear.

The King of Xantiahk, who did not know that he could not be shot, remained standing, singing. Then he glanced at his hero, who was on the floor, clutching Pax. “Martin, you’re shot!”

“Yes. Now, Pax will give you a white cloth, out of my left pants pocket.”

Pax handed the astonished grandson of Ramahx IV, a white glove.

Martin looked into the tearful eyes of Pax. “My love, these were the best years of my life. May Jesus use you. Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. Into your hands I commend my spirit.” He died, with far more witnesses than António had at Acteal.

Sasabrathuk raised the corpse for the Pulitzer-winning photograph, shouting, “You cannot kill peace and justice! You cannot kill the will of the people for freedom and democracy! Long live the memory of Martin Miller! Oh, sweet child of mine, where do we go from here?”

Tears are divine, when they’re crimson tears of a teacher who sacrifies her life to save her student.

The news channels played Martin’s song: ‘She’s got smile that it seems to me, reminds me of childhood memories. She’s got eyes of the bluest skies. Her hair reminds me of a warm, sweet place… oh, sweet child of mine; where do we go from here?’

When a leader of the Christian right wing called for the nuclear bombing of Burma, the reporter shouted, “God damn you! You are the anti-Christ!”

An adrenalin-charged king threw the corpse over his shoulder, wet his hands in the exit wound, and carried the body offstage. Pax held the shoulders and crimson ponytail. A general came forward. Sasabrathuk stamped his bloody hands on the general’s jacket.

When they arrived in Xantara, the American ambassador brought a USA flag, and the Minister of Foreign Affairs brought a Xantese flag. They wrapped the flags around the corpse. Sasabrathuk recalled that when Gandhi was dead for only an hour, Field Marshall Montgomery, as Viceroy of India, had the corpse displayed in an upstairs window.

While they changed to black clothing, the pallet was put behind a black curtain on the same balcony where Martin first appeared to the Xantese people. When the king and Pax appeared on the balcony, the curtain opened. Played the national anthem of Xantiahk at half-speed. Instead of the violent national anthem of the USA, Sweet Child of Mine. Sasabrathuk rushed the funeral upon recalling why Viceroy Montgomery rushed Gandhi’s funeral: for fear that all of the nation would.

The setting sun fell on the crimson-dyed Maakhlong River. Conrad Yoder held the Christian ceremony on the courtyard at the Grand Palace. Naomi, the grieving widow, sang again with Joan Baez.

Must Jesus bear the cross alone, and all the world go free?

No, there’s a cross for everyone, and there’s a cross for me.

The orchestra began Tchaikovsky’s Symphony #5. The king approached the casket on his knees and knocked gently on the coffin, whispering farewell. Pax followed. While the family crawled to the casket, Jai Wong was helped off his wheelchair. Distraught, Linda Gonzales threw herself atop the casket until her father brought her back to her knees. Blond, two-year old Martín Pablo Gonzales kissed the casket of his Great-Grandpa Miller.

Famous pacifists bent down, grabbed the long handles, groaned, and lifted the coffin onto an oxcart. In front of the oxcart, an elephant draped in crimson awaited his king. Pax followed His Majesty up the steps to sit on the sedan chair on its back. The orchestra started the grand finale, ‘Walking majestically.’

Queen Elizabeth II tucked her silver hair inside her brand new, leather-skin pillbox hat, and placed her black glove to a golden rope. Monarchs pulled the oxcart through the street. Kneeling Xantese gave their final salais.

A second pallbearing team of chiefs of state bent down and strained, lifting the coffin onto a funeral barge. They inserted the coffin into the base of a tall wooden building, brightly decorated and gold-painted like an ancient Xantese palace. Sasabrathuk and Pax boarded the royal barge, to pull the funeral barge. Cameras highlighted the barges against the crimson river and the magnificent skyline of the fully lighted Grand Palace and temples. Elaborately costumed attendants doused the coffin. The commentators lied, “They perform an ancient Xantese ritual, anointing the coffin with a special funerary liquid.”

When the sound system started playing Free Bird, Linda stood and yelled several times, “Grandpa, I will carry on!!”

The barges reached the middle of the empty river in nearly total darkness, two hundred feet apart. The Grand Palace and temples went black. Sasabrathuk handed Pax a long, burning torch. Boldly, Pax lifted it to a wire. A rocket raced along the wire and crashed into the wooden building, which was drenched in gasoline. The funeral barge burst into flames and a ton of fireworks.

“Bye, bye, Baby, it’s been a sweet love… the Lord knows I'm to blame.”

Pax tried to jump into the crimson river, burn with his lover. His king held him: “Pax, you must let Jesus use you.”

In the following years, Pax and Sara cried and smiled as they sang, “Someday I'm gonna be older than you… For now, I will try to live with love, with dreams, and forever with tears.”

Welcome back. You were personally very helpful some years ago.

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