A Christmas love letter by a narco
My dearest, By the time you read this, I'll have become even more of a pig. I mean, I'll be completely mired in the mud, wallowing in filth; because this year, desperate, with no opportunities to move forward or even sideways; at the beginning of the year, I accepted an offer that was right there, waiting for me to reach out and grab it. I became a tough guy, and you know, you don't need to be big or strong for that, because a knife or a gun can easily take care of such petty matters. I started with small jobs, helping distribute illicit merchandise—those powders or weed that make people happy—and as part of the job, I also helped loosen up reluctant individuals or integrate new members, men and women, so that our organization could meet its commitments. Soon I found myself caught up in that vortex of unhealthy pleasure that comes from carrying out actions forbidden to most people, but applauded within our small society, which some like to call a mafia. In there, in...