JOHN BENGAN | Higher Orders

JOHN BENGAN

Higher Orders

THE AUTHOR HOLDS THE COPYRIGHT TO THIS STORY. THIS IS POSTED WITH PERMISSION FROM THE AUTHOR.

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“Here’s our man,” Lorejo declared, pushing a 4R photograph across the table.

I stared at the picture and thought I was in some kind of a dream. But you coughed aloud beside me, and I knew that it was all real.

Lorejo glanced at us sitting there like his pupils. “The Above just sent me this one, I didn’t like the first they gave us. Who would recognize him in his high school portrait, anyway? Stupid Ramirez.”

You were sitting right by my side and I didn’t know how to act. Beside me was the city’s top gun, its most ruthless professional. And who was I but an amateur in the field, a bony, five-footer who just got out of UM Criminology.

“Are you sure you got enough?” you asked Lorejo and smirked.

Sweat filmed under my shirt and I was beginning to get sick of the place we were in. A ramshackle of a house somewhere in Catitipan, centered amidst weeds and trees, far enough for bodies to pile and rot and never be smelled by anyone. I didn’t understand why we had to meet there. But I satisfied myself with the fact that I was the new one and my questions didn’t matter.

“How about his luncheon meetings at a Davao five star,” you said and lifted the photo to your face for you to see clearly, looking at the back, perhaps to check the kind of photo paper that was used. “Clients to attend to on Monday, grocery with the second wife, or his kids. He picks them up at Matina around 3:30, you know?”

It was indeed the man’s picture, taken by an acquaintance of his; it could have only been taken by someone he knew. The man wore expensive sunglasses, grinning at the camera. Behind him were people blurred by the fierce light of the sun—they were having a party in a white sand resort, Paradise or Pearl Farm—one of those places that not everybody from Davao could afford. The man’s smile seemed genuine. A weekend off from work, the beach and his loved ones were perhaps the perfect break. Surely, a friend or a family member took the picture. Yes, I decided, it must have been the one who squealed on him to the boss.

“Hey, new guy! Speak up,” you said and punched my shoulder. It hurt a little.

“You’re so quiet, I’m already doubting your loyalty.” You laughed hard and I suddenly thought that maybe it’s really in your personality to be so frisky.

I looked at Lorejo. His face hardly moved. Maybe, I thought then too, he was so used to being with you.

“I already have everything planned, the schedule patterns, changes, and his routines. Monday has been cleared. The maid’s going to fetch the kids. The info is all in the folder I gave you. I already have everything planned, Ely.” Lorejo took a pen from his shirt pocket and started doodling on the table. I could tell that you had pissed him off, deeply.

I was very tense, glancing at the open door. The sun was high outside but I was sweating cold sweat.

“Not that I don’t trust your abilities, Lorejo. Don’t get me wrong. You’ve known me for years and I don’t want any spills. Besides, it’s our new guy’s first job. I want to teach him only the best way how.” You looked at me and raised your eyebrows a couple of times, soliciting affirmation. Your smile was starting to annoy me.

I smiled at you and looked at Lorejo. He didn’t look at me.

“Okay, so you know the drill, Karlo. We’ve already gone through that. All I need now is your word.” I noticed that Lorejo’s shirt was also damp. The room was hot and I was with killers.

“Yes, I’m ready. You can trust me.” My chest started thumping. My heart felt like a heavy burn inside my ribcage. I couldn’t get out now. Not in my dreams. I knew it right from the start when you came to me and said I had been chosen. I could actually blame you for everything.

“That’s the spirit!” You laughed again and I looked at Lorejo. I couldn’t bear your eyes filled with deranged joy.

I watched your features shift and knew then that you were reminding me of somebody. The quick lines that cropped under your eyes when you smiled and the way those large teeth flashed in a sneer.

“You know, Karlo, this might just be the most interesting mission yet,” you told me and searched your pockets for cigarettes. Your fingers fumbled above your shirt and down to your pants. There was none left. You threw the crumpled pack of Winstons at Lorejo’s feet.

“You idiot, wala nay yosi! You chain-smoking bastard.”

Lorejo just shrugged and looked away. He looked like he was too tired to argue.

“Here,” I offered my pack and you immediately snatched a stick, lighting it with a shiny sterling Zippo. The few luxuries you had were now enticing me. That was why I agreed to join, anyway, for the money. You wouldn’t be written about on Time and not have a bonus like that. Tons of money, one mission’s worth was more than a cop’s salary in five years of service.

“The boss himself picked you, Karlo, you know that? You won’t disappoint him, right?”

Lorejo fished a cigarette from my pack, stood up and smoked by the door.

“Where did you park the Honda?” he asked you.

“It’s at the back, asshole. I wouldn’t scratch Ramirez’s wheels, would I?” And you looked at me waiting for an answer.

“Yeah, I’m good. I’ve never been a disappointment.” As soon as it escaped my mouth, I started to doubt the truth in what I said. I kept saying the wrong things.

“I like your attitude, Karlo. I think we’re going to get along just well, after all.” You dragged deep from the cigarette and blew smoke into my face.

“Did you hear that, Lorejo? I think I’m finally getting rid of you.” This time it was him who laughed, and it was obvious that you were caught off guard.

“Let’s see, Ely, let’s just see.” He flicked his cigarette onto the dirt, squashed it under his steel-toed boot. Now I was getting afraid of him more than of you.

“Karlo, what kind of gun do you fire?” you asked, staring at Lorejo. I started to feel like your guinea pig, your piss contest toy with your comrade.

“Anything. I learned most kinds in school.”

You stood and dumped a black sports bag on the table, unzipping it right away. “That’s not what I mean,” you said and held a Magnum in the air like a prized trophy you’ve recently won.

I was quite astounded. It was only the second time I ever saw a Magnum.

“We’ll be using that?” Lorejo smiled behind your back, amused perhaps of my attitude.

“Why, haven’t you handled this before?” you asked, jokingly pointing the gun in my direction. For a moment I thought it fired and blew my 22-year-old face, a face that still quivered at the sight of a gun.

“No, it’s just that…it’s too powerful, don’t you think?” I said and felt like a student asking my teacher an insipid question.

“Exactly,” you beamed and mimicked the ricochet sound of a gunshot, your lips forming a small wicked o. The shot was for me.

A Magnum always reminded me of blasted skulls, the graceful swift second of a head splintering into bits. I had to blame my younger brother for that. He had this video game where you shoot zombies’ heads off with sophisticated weapons. There was the handgun and a grenade launcher. But my brother’s favorite was always the Magnum; he had only to point at their heads and pull the trigger and brains would instantly splatter like cat food on the ground.

“So you graduated with a criminology degree, right?” Lorejo asked, “But I heard it wasn’t your first course in college.”

I glanced at him. “Yes. I used to major in fine arts. But I shifted to criminology after my second year.”

“Good choice, Karlo. An art degree can’t even feed dogs these days. But I assure you this job would!” You laughed and handed me the Magnum; I was reminded again of my brother. He died of a heart attack two years ago. He was in his friend’s house sniffing too much shabu when it happened. They were all still high when they found his limp body on the kitchen floor.

The metal felt cold on my skin. It was heavier than I thought. I gave the Magnum back to you.

“You want to be sure, huh?” I asked, the second stupid question.

“Not really, it’s just that it’s the kind they always send,” Lorejo said and walked toward the table. He took a box of bullets from the bag.

“You aren’t scared, Karlo, right?” you teased and I was thankful my face wasn’t drawing much sweat than my body. Lorejo seized another Magnum and loaded it with fresh bullets.

“No, I’m not. I’m just a bit surprised, that’s all,” I said, feeling the dryness in my throat.

“There’ll be more surprises, kid.” You spoke as if you were saying something full of wisdom. “You just have to wait and watch so that they won’t pass you by.”

I didn’t clearly understand what you meant by that last statement but I took it anyway. I was too nervous to even care.

“Here, you keep it.” Lorejo offered the gun loaded with bullets, “It’s a part of your body from now on. You need it, especially since you’re with this lunatic.”

I accepted the Magnum and tucked it into my jeans. My belly’s skin almost froze against its touch.

The order from above was that I stay with you over at Ramirez’s place in Juna. Lorejo had to be home with his family in El Rio. Right after we dropped him off at this house, you said that we had to bring home lechon manok for Ramirez. He had to get something for letting us borrow his car that day.

“Lechon is his favorite. I’m not sure where he buys them, though.” Your hands were firm on the steering wheel, looking at the street while you talked to me. There was this radiance that you emitted like you just had your first baby boy.

Inside that white Honda, I felt strange. I stared at the muted scene through the tinted window: men and women, young and old, walking down the road, unmindful that bombs had exploded recently and ruined lives, gone into the skies like black smoke; that only miles away, a town in a nearby city was being crushed by a futile war. Here I was, trapped inside a car with a dangerous man, and I myself was eventually becoming one. We were passing by the streets of the world’s biggest city, unknown to its inhabitants’ eyes.

Good thing you’ve come back. How’s the old house, Ely?” Ramirez was shirtless. He looked like he was built for the kind of job that he was in, a little stocky and leaner than you, sporting a goatee. A cobra was tattooed on his left chest in black and crimson ink, the word Stella swirled at the black tip of the snake’s tail. Stella was inked in a vivid hue of blue.

“The old house’s fine, although Lorejo almost forgot the directions, that idiot. He’s really been getting into my nerves lately.”

The TV was on in that cramped room, an apartment space that could’ve been more spacious if not for the large boxes and piles of rubbish strewn everywhere. It was a Friday and a Philip Salvador flick was playing. Ramirez walked toward us by the small round table, eyeing the paper bag of lechon.

“Nice, Ely, nice,” he said and pulled out a cellophane sando bag, untied it, and started picking chicken flesh as if it was a casual business, a thing he always did day in and out.

“So, you’re the new one,” Ramirez said.

“Yes, they’d briefed me about the mission in the old house.”

Ramirez opened the fridge and fetched a jar filled with yellowish liquid. The heat had parched my throat; I was willing to drink the whole jar.

“Here, let’s celebrate,” he offered while you went to piss in the toilet right between the kitchen and the living room.

I didn’t ask what it was. I filled a tall glass and swallowed the stuff. It tasted familiar, like pineapple and alcohol and the phantom of fresh vomit.

“It’s farm-made, the best lambanog I ever tasted. A cousin at Bukidnon processes it.” It was only after Ramirez’s remark that I realized I had drunk a glass full of lambanog, farm-made lambanog blended with some powdered pineapple mixture, I supposed. The glass was almost the size of a beer mug.

“Like many things about Ramirez, don’t ever trust his lambanog. It’s a mean little fucker,” you said, coming out of the toilet, zipping up your fly.

“That’s the stuff that makes you feel real good. You won’t feel the punch even in the ninth shot. But it knows when to strike, like a trickster: when you’re at your lowest point, the deepest depth of the plummet. Then you’ll feel shitty in a matter of seconds.”

My stomach growled after you spoke, noting in my head those words like they were important codes I had to save for later. For a second I thought I was getting dizzy. I instantly fell in love with your words.

“Don’t scare the kid, Ely. And don’t you ridicule my booze, you pig. You were the one who finished up last week’s stock, remember?”

You just giggled like a schoolgirl, making the hairs on my arms stand.

“Oh, shit. I haven’t even introduced you yet. Ramirez, this is Karlo Velasco, Karlo Velasco, this is Ramirez, the bad-assed ex-army coming from Surigao.”

Ramirez grinned, gesturing a salute. “At your service, Karlo-boy.” I hated the way he called me Karlo-boy.

“Hi. How are you?” I said. The words coming out of my mouth were worthless.

“I’m fine kid. How about you? Are you ready to live the life of a hired gun?”

I knew I had no answer for that one. Even until now, I wouldn’t know how to answer that.

“It’s nasty, you know? You’d have to lynch a person at the release of an order from Above. No questions asked. All we know is that it’s some scum of the earth we’re scraping off. No different from being in the army, really.”

“Don’t worry, Ramirez. He’s fine, the best recruit we’ve had.” You bragged, rescuing me from my scarcity of words. “We’re good buddies already.”

You tapped my shoulder and looked at Ramirez. The three of us smiled like we had rid all of the world’s problems. Somehow by then, I felt a little sense of security.

At night, Ramirez taught me several army tactics and shared some of his stories while you cooked bacon and corned beef for dinner. We were rapidly getting along well; your plans were going quite smoothly by that time.

I was absorbed by Ramirez’s stories, the best storyteller I’ve heard so far. He told me about his days in the service where he encountered NPA’s and Abus. I listened to his tales of sleepless nights, of shitty military food, shitting in the middle of the pitch-dark forest while shooing away giant mosquitoes. They had to rescue the two foreign hostages that time. He also told me about his other army friends who also left the service.

“They were getting too old for it, that’s what they said,” and I believed him. I didn’t dare ask if he had gotten too old for it, too.

Ramirez was almost hitting forty, but he looked like he was still in his early thirties. Most men in the military that I knew looked younger than they should. But they always talked as if they had survived several lifetimes. With those moments when they put their young lives at stake, they literally threw their lives into the dark for the country. Who would have not felt a strong sense of maturity?

“I remember when we were in Compostela. The order was to strike an NPA cadre spotted hiking down the hills near the rice fields. We caught them by surprise when we trooped around them and started firing. There were only about ten of them and we were almost a whole battalion. We too were surprised at their number. The order was so urgent and sudden that we thought there were many of them. It didn’t take an hour for us to pin them down. Everything was going smooth for us that time, you know. Most of them were killed instantly, some were wounded badly, and God I saw that they were barely out of their teens! Their thin bodies lay there on the dirt as if they just got tired of running around the mountains. We were up against kids who could barely carry their rifles. It was definitely a young batch of recruits. I don’t know why they were easily spotted or where their superiors were at that time. They must have committed a mistake and were lost from their band. They were a lost pack, that’s for sure. We gathered the dead bodies in a pile and the live ones we commanded to stand beside their fallen comrades. Among them, there was only one female, and I couldn’t seem to forget about her to this day. She knew one of my men. They used to go to the same college together. It turned out they belonged to the same activist group before and were even lovers. I couldn’t blame my man for shooting her right in the head out of the blue. She had spat in his face how much of a traitor he was to their ‘revolution’ and the country.”

Our conversation was interrupted by your hooting. I suddenly felt the urge to hurl a glass at your head.

“Ramirez and his war stories, the melodrama. Hurry, Karlo, write it down for ate Charo to read!” you jested and I couldn’t believe you could say something like that to your friend. I should’ve known by then how cruel you were.

“Fuck off, Ely. Cook dinner and shut up,” Ramirez said. “I couldn’t forget her face, so pale and young, lacking sleep and good food. And those eyes, even in death, were filled with fire and conviction. I think she was only nineteen. When her body fell to the ground, one of her companions started howling. He howled like a madman. And he threw himself onto her and hugged her. I saw his face stained by the blood from her forehead. The others watched him wail like a part of his body had been amputated. I told my men to force him to stand up. At first he wouldn’t budge. But he was too weak and flustered and we were too many. We lined them up, about ten steps away and fired. That didn’t disturb me. It’s the way we deal with those things. But my man, the former lover, was never the same again, like he himself had been branded, a deep one that would never be healed. And that young woman in the hills never escaped my mind. I had strange dreams about that particular scene when she was shot.”

Ramirez was suddenly quiet. I imagined the female rebel’s face swimming in the pools of his mind.

“I don’t know why I had those nightmares. I don’t feel guilty at all.” I strongly felt that he was lying.

I swallowed an amount of spit. I was starting to dislike Ramirez. But his eyes bore the sadness of that event, I could tell. The thought that he had even left the army was a comfort. But you sat down with us at the table, putting the platters of rice and the bacon and corned beef.

After supper we started discussing the mission, how we should approach and strike. Ramirez would supply the goods and vehicles, Lorejo had mapped the locations and time frames, and you were the expert in sorting out the moves. I was fascinated how you treated it all like a chess game, moving us your pawns, evaluating the enemies’ towers, guarding the queen, and how to check mate our target.

“This is your first mission, Karlo, and we want you to learn fast and good. You’re going to hit him,” you said. I wasn’t prepared for anything like that.

“But I thought I was just the apprentice? I’m all for observing,” I said and saw Ramirez’s eyes glaring in front of me. I had no choice.

“What did you think we took you for, to be our official photographer? We hired you ‘cause we know you can do the job clean. The boss picked you himself, remember? It’s important for you to learn at an early stage.”

But I don’t know if I’d deliver, I thought then. What if I fail, mess everything up? The wall clock appeared like it had come from a surrealist’s canvas; it sagged down like rubber, sloughing itself off from the wall. I blinked a couple of times and saw it back on its place, perfectly round and normal.

“Now that’s the difference in this line of work, Karlo-boy. There’s no room for mistakes.” My bones trembled after hearing Ramirez. There wasn’t any room for regrets either. I needed the money and only death by my companions’ hands could get me out of the situation.

“Okay I’ll do it. I will shoot the man,” I said and took a huge breath. In my head, a loud You-fucking-idiot! went off.

“That’s the spirit!” you roared and landed your fist on my arm. This time it hit me strong, like you actually meant it for almost disappointing you. I placed my hand above the muscle you hit, trying to ease the pain.

“Don’t worry, Karlo-boy my kid. We’ll be there to back you up,” Ramirez said and gulped a shot of his famous lambanog.

“Right, Karlo, we’ll be doing it together as a team. I’ll be the one to drive you,” you declared eagerly as if it was of any help to my position.

“What did you think Lorejo gave you the Magnum for?” I wanted to kid and answer that it’s to keep you from messing with me. But I would only fool myself with silly jokes. I was in really deep shit.

We agreed to stay awake through the night, consume most of Ramirez’s lambanog and bond with each other like we needed it for the success of the mission. You said we deserved a celebration for the beautifully constructed plans we made that night. Not every time do people come up with the best ideas, you said. So I drank with the two of you, thinking maybe that I could do this, that I was in perfect shape and my youth wouldn’t be a factor. I made myself think that I was one with you now, that I had finally belonged to your underworld.

You were the classic I-person, a true megalomaniac, wanting all the credit for your own at each end of a situation or an argument, the hero in every macho bravado epilogue to your version of the stories. I didn’t care much then. But don’t get me wrong. I learned a good deal of shit from you and it was in itself a sort of hold on power, too—knowing that you were all yackety-yak and hot air. It was strange, really. I was both disgusted and beguiled by you.

“You shouldn’t feel guilty about anything, kid,” Ramirez had been telling me this all throughout that night like he was paid to do so.

You swigged your shot down and smugly said, “We are ridding this city of its menace, its enemies. Eliminate those who corrupt our lives. We’re defenders of peace!”

“I wouldn’t join this if I’m some junkie-lover. I saw how drugs destroyed people I know,” I said but I didn’t know if you paid attention. I was sure that Ramirez was all ears when I said something. I rarely said anything that night. But it didn’t matter anyway. I felt like I was a phony myself. The money, I thought, I wouldn’t ever be paid that much in this lifetime. If I weren’t in that room with you and Ramirez, I would have been training to be a police officer, apply as a pawnshop security guard, or worse, go back to school and study nursing. It was a plan. But I was too lazy for a second try at school. Besides, I didn’t have money to pay for tuition anyway.

True enough, the lambanog proved compelling. The night approached twelve and we were already drunk. Ramirez drooped on the beaten sofa while I pretended to watch the midnight news. You were in a chair, sitting in your throne, the main conductor of all our conversations.

“I heard about your brother, I’m sorry about that, man,” Ramirez condoled. I thought about people like you doing your homework before letting someone like me in. Even if Ramirez was already two years too late, I still hated it when people I hardly knew apologized for somebody’s death like that. Like they could make a difference or change what had already happened.

After hearing what Ramirez had said you turned to me and patted my back, giving me that Fuck, man!-I-sympathize-with-you look.

“That’s why he’s here, Ramirez! He’s also a victim like many others. And he’s surely going to do something about it now. Right, Karlo?”

Ramirez didn’t say anything, staring blankly at the floor. Probably his lambanog was now scrambling his brain.

We were never really close, my brother and I. You see, he was a year younger but I admit he was the tougher one, bossed me around when he could like I was his little sister. There was one time that I walked inside the house, after coming back from school, and he and his friends were shooting drugs right in our sala. There were four of them, pseudo-punks from New Matina, and my blood froze when I saw the look on his face, a cool composed look that almost frightened me, like there was light hovering around his face, a bright halo. I had never seen him very happy before.

“Come on, Karl. Tira sa bay,” my brother said, gesturing to me to join them, his eyes glowing like white embers.

His friends cocked their heads and smiled their drugged smiles. I dumped my bag into the corner and nodded at them. I wanted to pass, not really up for trying shabu with my brother and some complete strangers. But until now I don’t know what came over me that I managed to sit down with them and started inhaling the smoky stuff that ran on those flaming pieces of tin. The room suddenly grew wider, larger, everyone looked like angels with wings big as the walls. These creatures talked among themselves in their own strange language while I, the little demon, stared up at the ceiling, a stranger in this assembly of high angels. Everything was spinning so fast like a disc and I was being left behind. I remember some of his friends trying to start useless, incoherent exchanges with me but it really didn’t work.

There was not a hint of panic or fear in my brother’s eyes when I opened the door that day, like he was so sure I wouldn’t tell on him. If he hadn’t overdosed, a gunman would have finished the job later on. If he was still alive, chances are it would probably be the likes of Lorejo and you who would get to finish my brother off. Come to think of it, if he hadn’t died and I still got to be recruited into the group, I would be the one who would get to kill my own brother.

That same night was slowly reminding me of being with Ramirez and you: a shabu trip suddenly gone bad.

“Hey, Karlo, I think you know how to turn a VCD on. I want to watch some porn.”

You stood and went to puke in the toilet; I suddenly felt relaxed.

Your presence was the kind that sucked the air out of everybody. Breathing was certainly easier without your performances. I was surely drunk by then and was reminded of the wall clock; I didn’t need shocks this time to see it in an odd way. I wasn’t sure if it was past one or two in the morning. Ramirez was sweating profusely and was very quiet. He still wasn’t wearing a shirt and his cobra tattoo seemed to burnish on wet skin.

“Don’t worry, Karlo-boy. Everything will be all right. The first time’s always the hardest one,” he told me as I plugged the VCD and connected it to the TV. The alcohol had definitely crept to my head and I felt brave now.

“Who’s Stella?” I asked glancing at his tattoo, all-confident that we had formed a strong enough bond it was okay to ask about the legend behind a tattoo.

There was no answer from Ramirez. I looked away, pretending I didn’t say a word. Maybe it’s an ex-girlfriend, someone he must have really loved, his first fuck, I even pondered. He wouldn’t have her name burned on his chest if she was just some lousy cunt. I hated the thought that I might have pissed Ramirez off.

“Do you have any more cigarettes?” he said and I thanked the fact that I was a smoker.

I reached for my bag on the floor and took a new pack. “You smoke reds?”

You came out of the toilet singing some lines from Nirvana’s “Lithium,” rummaging through your stacks of pirated VCDs beside the TV set.

I'm so horny, but that's okay..., you grumbled with your throaty baritone over and over again and slid a VCD into the player, humming the rock song; you didn’t know the rest of the lyrics.

“Oh come on, Ely. Porn at dawn? Jesus,” hissed Ramirez, scratching his belly.

You threw your ass into the sofa and said, “‘Live and Anal’ brightens up my day.” Then you grinned at us like a true cold-blooded goon. Goose pimples ran down my arms. The TV screen turned sky blue and soon the fuck flick began. A rose-skinned Asian schoolgirl, probably Korean, was being screwed from behind by a large African man.

“That’s Ely’s dream, you know, being fucked in the ass,” Ramirez guffawed, feeling really clever with what he said.

You scowled and gave him the finger. I was sleepy and my back felt like it had been run over by a bulldozer. But I was suddenly awakened when I noticed you nodding at the screen, as if agreeing with Ramirez yourself while enjoying the exhibition. So you like anal sex, big deal. I lay on the floor, watching you watching your porn. Sooner than I expected, I fell asleep.

Monday. It was the day of reckoning. The place was the Davao Doctors’ Hospital along Quirino Avenue. Our man had booked an appointment with his physician, hyperacidity or something like that according to the files Lorejo had. This man badly needed to die, according to the boss from Above. Our man, as was written on Lorejo’s records, controlled the largest drug operations in the southern region. He also managed hectares of land breeding high-grade cannabis. My mouth flooded when I read that part. I surely missed smoking pot. But I had long stopped, forgotten that I even had a good taste of it, right after my brother had overdosed.

Lorejo was to wait somewhere within the Quirino area undercover, in some café or diner in close proximity to our mission. He was the “watch”, the scavenger who would operate as back up if something would go wrong. Maybe that was why his codename was “Vulture” in your handheld radio. And not surprisingly, yours was “Eagle.” We rode a black Yamaha newly bought from a store in Bajada. It was part of the budget, you had informed me. As planned you were to drive and I was to shoot the bastard’s head off. We wore dark-tinted helmets, the thicker and heavier the better. You were clad in leather jacket and jeans, very traditional of you. I was wearing nothing special except for my lucky polo, the one I wore underneath my toga on graduation day.

Ramirez was to stay in his Honda, located somewhere inside the hospital’s parking lot. Like Lorejo, he would be there to stand by and wait. He and Lorejo would follow us after the mission was completed. I thought about it and wondered if something would indeed go wrong. But I dismissed the idea the moment we approached the area, riding past hardware stores and an ice-cream parlor. The wind whipped the frame of my helmet; I could feel its steady force colliding against my well-protected head. In a flash, I felt like I was inside a cartoon strip, an alternate world washed with bright colors, peopled by strange characters. Anything that would happen in the following moments, bad or good, was just in accord with the cartoonist’s framework, his plans and visions for the strip. Everything would be in their proper order. Someone had to die and somebody had to do it. There would be people whose lives were going to be messed up and somebody had to do it to them. Somebody had to correct wrong things and let life run its course. Action demands reaction. The drug lord would die a miserable and shameful death. Higher orders would be carried out. Balance when disrupted must gain back its equilibrium.

You stopped the motorcycle right in front of an ice-cream store fronting the hospital. Our man would soon come out and you told me to be alert and keep my calm. I leaned my back against the air; I didn’t want my body to be so close to yours at that moment. Cold sweat broke out of my skin.

“You know the plan, Karlo,” I heard you saying from inside your helmet. “If it makes you feel any better, the mission relies on all of us. You’re just the first one to do your part.” I didn’t know if it was to my comfort. I didn’t know what would comfort a man in my position at that moment.

As soon as you turned the motorcycle engine off, the world started to grow quiet, everything was still, very tranquil and fragile before my tinted eyes. Medical students clad in their white uniforms were leaving the building, a traffic aide standing in the center of intersecting roads, others busily poking around an ukay-ukay stand, hordes of people absently walking past us like we were two black ghosts.

My body began to tense up, my joints stiffened as if an unknown force had immobilized them. The man I was about to kill had just walked out of the glass hospital door, bringing with him a young boy. It must have been his son. At this moment, I should have known that something was severely wrong.

“What’s that? I thought he was going out alone?” I asked but you didn’t answer. Instead you started the motorcycle and without a word speeded toward our target.

A commotion was rising in my stomach, I couldn’t begin to bear the amount of torture I was undergoing. I felt the air smacking against my skin like crisp acid.

The motorcycle swerved behind a curb, the target’s BMW parked nearby. Now, as they had always described a moment like this, everything turned painfully slow. Like a machine suddenly running out of batteries. My hand had already caught the Magnum, almost weightless now in my grasp. The motorcycle swiveled and then turned, gaining back equilibrium. Your voice was the only thing I heard. Now, Karlo!

It all happened in a split second. I aimed at the man dead on the temple. I jerked the trigger. Silence fell everywhere. All the people had disappeared. I thought the gun didn’t fire. Then, like a fierce gulp of thunder, it came to me, staggering, the sound and sensation of my first kill, a moment so pure I thought I had also died myself, a superb reverberation flowing through my veins, the recoil of a powerful gun, and the muted but awesome sight of a forehead shattering, pale flesh spurting in a stun of red.

I expected for the black Yamaha to run. I expected you to take us away from that place as soon as the man landed on the pavement. I expected us to be rushing out of the crime scene by now, probably beating our way out of Marfori Village just as we had planned, head through a secret path to the old house, right back to the wastelands in Catitipan. But none of this happened in the next few seconds. We just stood there immobile. I was completely paralyzed, I couldn’t bring myself to hit you or run out of there. You let me see the man waste away, the gushing of crimson liquid from his cranium. People began to reappear around us. And what I heard next was the most excruciating sound: the childish holler of a little boy crying for his dying father.

“Go, you idiot!” I bellowed, releasing anger, confusion and fear all at the same time. I thought you understood me and snap out of the moment. But it seemed like you got the wrong signals. Your gun pointed to the father and child. I thought I would go mad as the odds of your action hit me.

Your gun fired. A man wearing a blue barong fell on the ground. But there was another one, appearing from nowhere, rushing toward us with a handgun. He was firing. Nothing hit us. A loud shot punctured the air. He fell on the cement ground. I saw Lorejo running out of the ice-cream parlor, holding his gun, face contorted in horror. “ELY, WHAT THE FUCK!” he shouted as he dashed toward us, his small handheld radio dropping into the street. You started the motorcycle engine, it grumbled and moved forward. I had no single clue how to function. I felt like a robot pulled out of my wires. People were screaming. Others were running in panic. Others were frozen, like they were stoned.

The motorcycle started. It was then I realized that you were leaving Lorejo behind. The other bodyguards were rushing out of the hospital with their guns. There were many of them all dressed in blue. You knew all along but you didn’t mention them in any of our plans. They were shooting at us but you managed to escape them with your twists and moves with the motorcycle, everything as it seemed had been rehearsed inside your head. Ramirez probably had known by then that the mission had taken a bizarre turn. I didn’t see his car leave the parking lot from inside the building.

When the motorcycle dived into the street, you released a parting shot. I followed it with my eyes, thinking it was for a bodyguard. Then I saw the child, the drug lord’s child, motionless on the ground. There was a red smudge on his uniform.

“What the hell was that for?” I asked, shaking you violently, but it seemed that you didn’t care at all what was happening outside your head.

Lorejo was so stunned that he just stood there watching the dead child. That was the last time I saw him. He was standing there with a frozen look on his face, the Magnum slack in his hands, blue bodies of bodyguards rushing toward him, surrounding him. The others tried to chase us, but we were out of there in no time. I insisted for you to get Lorejo back but there was no stopping your will. It was completely useless to jump out now. On the road to El Rio, we stopped. We hopped into a white Honda. Ramirez was quiet in the driver’s seat. The car drove away, leaving Lorejo, the newly bought motorcycle, and everything behind in a cloud of heavy dust.

We spent the night at the old house. Ramirez brought with him some more of his lambanog, three tall bottles full. We ate lechon manok and drank the lambanog afterwards. Ramirez and I were quiet the entire time. I couldn’t begin to understand how you could act so jubilant after that show at Quirino, talking about how you were so happy that we didn’t have a clue about your other plans for the mission; that you did what you did for things to be much, much better. And what about the child, Ramirez asked, you killed that poor child.

“It was something personal. I worked for that bastard’s family for a long time and didn’t get what I deserved. Poor kid, he had to pay the prize. Now I guess the last laugh is mine,” and laugh you did, really loud and annoying, laughter clawing into my ears.

I stared at you. I wasn’t afraid at all. “Why did you leave Lorejo behind? The orders said nothing about leaving him behind.”

“You seemed to have a bleeding heart for him, huh, new boy. The higher orders are from up here, you understand?” You pointed at an invisible spot in your head with your finger. “It’s his time to go. The boss knew all about it. We had to get rid of him. That’s why you’re here in the first place, Karlo. You are his replacement.”

I balled my fist in my lap under the table. The anger I felt was so intense it was almost a pleasure. “I guess I had rid of that asshole, after all,” you said and gulped down a shot of lambanog. You were drinking more than us. We simply didn’t feel like celebrating.

Later that night, when Ramirez said that he would leave, you asked me to take him outside to his car. “See you tomorrow!” Ramirez just nodded behind your back.

The night sky was starry outside, a white moon hung high from afar. Ramirez and I walked toward the car, parked at the back of the old house. The car was half concealed in the darkness, and I suddenly remembered Lorejo. I stayed quiet beside Ramirez; he was looking up at the skies and lighted a cigarette. We leaned on his car and smoked.

“You know, Karlo-boy, I think you’re a good guy,” he said. “I really couldn’t lie to you.” I looked away, puffing smoke in the chilly air. “I hope you’d be happy with your new job,” he said, playing with his cigarette on his fingers.

“Tonight, I will dream about that girl again, the rebel. The one that got shot in the head by her ex-boyfriend, you remember?” His face looked even sadder in the dark. I took a drag from my cigarette, the warmth flowing through me.

“I’ll dream about her especially tonight,” he looked at me and patted my shoulder. Then he looked up at the sky.

“I sure do miss her, my Stella.”

I nodded and blew smoke. The coldness of the night made me shiver.

When I came back inside, I saw you almost lifeless, eyes already closed, your back hunched on the spine of the chair. I sat in front of you; two empty bottles of lambanog were on the table. There was another bottle that we hadn’t touched yet. I knew you were already drunk and very tired. I uncapped the lambanog, poured a shot, smelled its heady spirit and washed it down. I poured another one and handed it to you. You shook your head, refusing the drink this time.

“You know what, Ely? Since we’re going to be together for a long, long time, I think we should get to know each other much better.”

“I’m tired…I want to sleep,” you mumbled. I drank your unwanted lambanog.

“What did you say about Ramirez’s lambanog, Ely?” I asked you. You looked at me with heavy eyes. “Let me quote you faithfully on this, ‘It knows when to strike, like a trickster: when you’re at your lowest point, the deepest depth of the plummet.’ Right, Ely?”

I stood, took a few steps and pushed you hard onto the floor. You were caught by surprise. “‘Then you’ll feel shitty in a matter of seconds,’” I whispered into your ears as I mounted your back, warm blood rushing to my head.

“Feel this you sick fuck.” I tore your jeans off and grabbed you by the ass, felt the dampness of its cheek. You tried to swing your arms, hoping that you could get me off you, but Ramirez’s lambanog had taken you to your lowest. I was stronger than you and had a clearer head. I pinned your shoulders on the cold ground, unzipped my fly and pressed my body closer to yours. “This is what you like, right, Ely? The great specialist’s wish should be granted.”

I rammed myself hard into you, thinking about the people we had killed that day, the ones whose lives we had ruined to save others. I also thought about Lorejo. I wondered if the time would come when you would do it to me, too, now that we were partners. If you’d sell me out like you did Lorejo. Or you’d pop a bullet in my head like what Ramirez did to his Stella. People do things to satisfy themselves. Our head tells us lots of shit, most of them we follow, most of them we don’t. The big city needs people like us. So I decided to let this all pass by, something that you had to learn from me in our early stages as associates in this underground industry. I didn’t mind your bullshit before, your little tricks, or the curses spilling from your mouth while I humped you from behind. Calling me a faggot wouldn’t change the fact that I was inside of you. You felt so good around me and you couldn’t do anything about it. Pressing my face against your back, I groped for your tumescent cock, holding it firmly in my hand.

This story won Second Prize in the 2005 Philippine Free Press Literary Awards