#anti sicario

[juanabaloo]

ugh watching Sicario: Day of the Soldado and i do not recommend it. i'm only watching for Isabela Merced, who plays Isabel Reyes in it.

Anyways it's very bad and I realize it's sort of like the Elon Musk (most derogatory) fantasy version of that King of the Hill episode where Peggy accidentally kidnaps a little Mexican girl.

this movie is sort of like they decided to remake True Lies, but make it WAY MORE racist (which is REALLY saying something), and also less diverse, and also no comedy at all. i'm only *checks* OMG i'm only half way through it. Ugh.

[kaneabal]

Hi! I'm chiqui but you can call me maui I'm your average chronically online,conspiracy theorist/9/11 truther who has a moana hyperfixation

THIS IS WIP

Interests

Movies: the godfather,scarface,mulan,aladdin,moana,coco,the road to el dorado,emperors new groove,american psycho,psycho,they live,terminator series,matrix trilogy,the dictator,Prince of egypt,Joseph King of dreams,aladdin 1992,sicario 1 and the contraband ,hercules,dances with wolves and zero day

Tv series: breaking bad,better call saul,murder drones,villainous,el cartel,pablo escobar el patron del mal,the sopranos,kung fu panda legends of awesomeness,the Sarah Connor chorincles, adventure time,jojos bizzare adventure,helluva boss and hazbin hotel

Books non fiction:mafia republic,gomorrah,Kings of cocaine,stalin,ebola ,pablo escobar my father,virus hunt,murderous contagions,pandemics,the invisible enemy, the fever,saddam hussein a political biography,gestapo and putin vs the people

Books fiction: the breadwinner series,the hot zone,ebola the rage,terminator books,1984,brave new world,Fahrenheit 451,the invisible man,naruto novels,bird flu,nowhere boys,the godfather,the sicilian,the epic of gilgamesh and ebola 1995.

Comics and manga: jojos bizzare adventure,naruto,batman,matrix comics,terminator comics,junji itos manga,higurashi, puella magi madoka magica and jihmmy the homicidal maniac

Music: disturbed,twiztid,blaze ya dead homie,lo key,ghost,hold,godsmack,nirvana,tech n9ne,jeffree star,krizz kaliko,system of a down,serj tankian,payday Monsanto,odd tv and boondox

Dni

Fatphobes,neo nazis,under 13,anti tcc,zionist,trump supporters,el sisi supporters, pro ana,moana haters and transphobes

[anchesetuttinoino]

Io non sono un sostenitore del premierato, ma quello che è stato appena ammesso da Bruxelles (e ovviamente rilanciato acriticamente dai pennivendoli anti-italiani) è di una gravità assoluta. L'UE non apprezza la riforma perché impedirebbe l'instaurazione di eventuali governi tecnici in Italia. In pratica vi stanno dicendo in faccia che l'ideale, per questi criminali, è che l'Italia possa tornare da un momento all'altro in mano a un macellaio come Monti o un sicario dell'alta finanza come Draghi.

Questa dichiarazione arriva a poche ore dalla perdita di un commissario italiano e dalla critica feroce alla riforma della giustizia Nordio.

L'attuale Governo, come i precedenti, non mette minimamente in discussione l'appartenenza dell'Italia alla gabbia europea ma a Bruxelles non basta: l'adesione al vincolo esterno, per l'Italia, deve essere TOTALE.

Chissà quanti altri pesci in faccia dovranno ricevere certi geni prima di capire cosa significhi tentare di cambiare l'UE da dentro...

Matteo Brandi

[psionotic]

My Favorite Culture 2023

It's New Year's Eve, so time again for my annual post to this platform! Here are the things I experienced for the first time in 2023 though of course not all of them are from 2023.

—Books—

Tell Me I’m Worthless. There’s something rotten in the haunted house of Albion, and it’s British fascism and increasingly normalized transphobia.

Station Eleven. The world ended, but a small troupe of survivors travel the wasteland, performing Shakespeare and making music.

Friday Black. A collection of science fiction stories that nibble at our social and racial conscience. “Through the Flash” has become one of my favorite short stories.

Klara and the Sun. Another Ishiguro novel narrated by an insightful, sensitive outsider? Check. Sad robots and sick kids? Ow my heart.

Piranesi. A stately, somber fantasy about truth, memory, and identity (re-)formation.

I also enjoyed: Kaiju Preservation Society, The Many Deaths of Laila Starr

Classics I read for the first time: The Scarlet Letter, Billy Budd, Bartleby the Scrivener, Clotel, Little Women, The Awakening, Immortality, Assassin’s Apprentice, Man’s Search for Meaning, The Witching Hour, ‘Salem’s Lot, The Remains of the Day, Between Two Fires, The Leftovers

I was mixed on: Fairy Tale, You Died: An Anthology of the Afterlife

I was bummed out by: California

—Movies—

Godzilla Minus One. Yes, the best movie I saw this year is about a giant nuclear-powered monster. It’s also about found family, redemption, and reckoning with a nation’s trauma—and shame.

Barbie. The anti-Fight Club; an all-singing, all-dancing Jewel of the World.

Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse. Come for the visual and auditory wonderlands, stay for the kinds of character stakes that more literary films can only genuflect towards.

Nimona. An adorable sci-fantasy queer allegory anchored by the punk rock snarl of Chloë Grace Moretz.

The Menu. The world’s most feted, reclusive chef (Ralph Fiennes @ maximum menace) throws an invitation-only dinner for some jagoff 1%-ers. Things get weird and then very, very bloody. Also Anya Taylor-Joy is in this and she’s maybe my favorite working actress..?

I also enjoyed: Polite Society, I Tonya, Elemental, The Marvels, No One Will Save You, Two Distant Strangers, Guardians of the Galaxy Volume 3, Dungeons & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves

Classics I saw for the first time: The Haunting (1963), In the Mouth of Madness, Escape from New York, The Warriors, Lady Snowblood, Stalker, Sicario, Hanna, Insidious, Devil’s Pass, Edge of Tomorrow

I was mixed on: Creator, Last Night in Soho [though AT-J does her best!], The Invitation

I was bummed out by: Totally Killer

—TV—

Reservation Dogs. Succeeded Atlanta and Derry Girls as the best show about loveable weirdoes living in fraught circumstances. Now all three are over and I don’t know what to do, except say, “Love you bitches.”

Poker Face. Natasha Lyonne in a Rian Johnson-channeling Knives Out-by-way-of-Columbo joint with fun mysteries, a delicious visual sense, and delightful guest stars playing against type.

Scavengers Reign. Spacefarers separated during an emergency land on an alien world. An alien alien world with a complex, baffling ecosystem. Each is transformed by their experience. Alternatingly beautiful, horrifying, and profound.

Cunk on Earth. In this very British documentary series about the rise (?) of civilization, comedian Diane Morgan (as Philomena Cunk) asks some of the smartest historians and critics some of the dumbest questions imaginable. We’ve watched this maybe ten times this year, and it just keeps getting funnier every single one. Best line: “…they’d probably have a stroke, wouldn’t they?”

I also enjoyed: Silo, Fall of the House of Usher, The Last of Us, Harley Quinn, Scott Pilgrim Takes Off, What We Do in the Shadows, Cyberpunk: Edgerunners, Castlevania: Nocturne, Star Trek: Lower Decks and Strange New Worlds, Last Week Tonight, Taylor Tomlinson’s Quarter-Life Crisis and Look at You, Game Changer

I was mixed on: Star Wars: Ahsoka. Apparently the only nu-SW I can really enjoy is Andor and The Last Jedi…? Sad, this is.

—YT—

Folding Ideas. The best video essay channel covered the Metaverse, BlizzCon, and the GameStop stonks phenomenon this year.

Hbomberguy. The best video essay channel put out only a single video this year, the nearly four hour “Plagiarism and You(Tube)” which broke the internet and ended at least two careers.

Jacob Geller. The best video essay channel put out a half dozen videos this year, covering horror games, “Art in the Pre-Apocalypse”, the non-evolution of execution methods, and more.

Double Fine PsychOdyssey. A 32-part making-of documentary, following an indie game developer trying to build the at-long-last sequel to their most iconic game. During the seven years of development they face personality conflicts, staffing issues, artistic disagreements, the implosion of their publisher, angry fanboys, COVID, near-bankruptcy, a buy-out attempt, and a thousand other obstacles. If you’re interested in game development this is a must, but it’s also highly recommended to anyone involved with or fascinated by making collaborative art under capitalism (theater, film, etc).

—Games—

Baldur’s Gate 3. This was an incredible year for games, but nothing tops Larian Studios’ masterpiece. As good a simulation of an excellent D&D campaign as is possible in the medium, they’ve done just about everything right: deep character creation, memorable side characters and relationships, decisions with consequences that really matter, epic story moments, and satisfying tactical combat through some clever simplifications to the Dungeons & Dragons 5th edition ruleset. People will be talking about (and re-playing) this for a long, long time.

The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom. The follow-up to one of the most creative and joyful open-world games ever made is even better than its predecessor, with a more heartfelt story and an unsurpassed physics and building system.

Alan Wake 2. Remedy’s Stephen King-meets-Twin Peaks classic got its loooong-awaited sequel. One half survival horror, one half hallucinogenic crazy train, all disturbing surreal goodness.

Marvel’s Midnight Suns. A little X-COM, a little Fire Emblem: Three Houses, marrying satisfying card- and turn-based tactical combat with some lovely character work. I never always knew I wanted to go stargazing with Illyana Rasputin, or watch movies with Nico Minoru, and this year I did both of these. (I also went fishing with Blade and joined a book club with Wolverine, so…).

I also enjoyed: Remnant 2, Dead Cells, Marvel Snap, Dead Space (2023), Resident Evil 4 (2023), Spiritfarer, Ratchet & Clank: A Rift Apart, Super Mario Wonder, Mario Kart 8 (booster courses)

Classics I played for the first time: Psychonauts, Portal 2, Rayman Legends

I was bummed out by: Diablo 4 [congrats to my once-favorite developer for earning this spot two years in a row!]

—Albums—

boygenius: The Record. Supergroup of queer indie-rock darlings put out their first LP and it’s top-to-bottom majesty. “Leonard Cohen” and “Not Strong Enough” might be my favorites now, but “True Blue” was my song o’ the summer and I must have spun it up a hundred times.

Mountain Goats: Jenny from Thebes. The first concert I’ve seen post-COVID was the Sacramento leg of the Goats’ recent tour. “Fresh Tattoo”, “Clean Slate”, and “Great Pirates” are highlights.

Susanne Sundfør: Blómi. I think I prefer the more europop-centric installments in Sundfør’s arty europop oeuvre (Ten Love Songs is still my fave), but there are some lovely songs here in art-music land, including the title track and “fare thee well” .

I was mixed on: Janelle Monáe: The Age of Pleasure, Paramore: This is Why.

—Podcasts—

If Books Could Kill. Michael Hobbes and Peter Shamshiri vivisect nonfiction bestsellers about politics, dating, manifesting, getting rich (quick!), and weight loss. Remember kids: Gladwell is a hack.

Just King Things. Two cultural critics who loved Stephen King as teens take up the Roland-ian task of reading and discussing every King book, once a month, for as long as it takes (the current schedule goes through 2028, but Uncle Steve is still pumpin’ ‘em out, so could be a while).

Triple Click. Kirk, Maddy, and Jason’s weekly non-cynical discussions of games and pop culture is my mood-enhancer. They’re gamers, but not Gamers, you understand.

I also listen to: You’re Wrong About, Hard Feelings with Jennette McCurdy, WTF with Marc Maron, The Besties/The Resties, Strong Songs

[3132971]

This is the scene from the famous film Sicario, the silhouette of the anti-drugs force who wear the night vision integrate into the horizon, the position of each make a perfect ratio.

[asightsodivine]

anti and neo westerns are the coolest genre of fiction. I love the romanticism of those old John Wayne and Clint films but a brutal and realistic depiction of the old American west is enthralling, and that is usually done as well with these neo westerns with the addition of modern weapons, settings and values. in stuff like no country for old men, sicario or even el Camino you see that wild west tang put forth but with more modern contexts and twists which is always fun. playing dirty in a duel, using the cartel as the new kind of bandit, having to overcome the obstacles of modern technology and forensics when committing crimes makes for some interesting tales. and the grittiness of both makes it all the more appealing

[fuckyeahisawthat]

Thank you! This was a great ask.

Yeah Gurney sticks out SO much among the Fremen. And, like you said, he hasn't changed at all! It's our POV on him that's changed. Gurney was always the member of the Atreides crew who was the most hostile to Arrakis and the most suspicious of the Fremen. And we can see that that suspicion is driven by love and protectiveness toward the Atreides family. But now we are seeing him from a POV closer to that of the Fremen and he looks like an obnoxious outsider who doesn't know their ways and doesn't want to learn. It's also very jarring when he starts calling Paul my lord, because Paul has many names but no one has called him that since Duncan died.

I've been a Villeneuve fangirl for a long time and the thing he is better at than like, anyone is subtly controlling your POV to create distance or closeness to certain characters depending on what he wants you to feel in a given moment. (I could and probably will write a post about how every action sequence in Dune Part Two is from a different POV because it's brilliant.) I've been thinking a lot about Sicario, Incendies and Prisoners in relation to Dune Part Two and I'll probably write a post about that too.

And yeah Denis Villeneuve has made a lot of movies that not only contain violence but are about violence in one way or another and he definitely has things to say. Like I don't have any particular sympathy for Rabban and I don't think we're supposed to, but the fact that Gurney stabs him after like three moves instead of having a long drawn-out boss fight makes the whole thing feel anticlimactic and kind of anti-heroic and that was absolutely the point.

i rewatched Dune Part Two recently and one of the most striking shots for me was the one of the Fremen attacking the Sardaukar on wormback, while holding the Atreides flag.

Like, we just saw the Sardaukar forming up with their numerous flag bearers, even trying to maintain their flags raised after the nuclear detonation (in a shot that mirrored the famous "Raising the Flag in Iwo Jima" statue to me btw, nice nod to imperialism).

And then the Fremen arrive, but they're not bearing their colors, their flags, not fighting in their own names, instead it's the Atreides colors. The colors of their new, imperially appointed rulers. New pawns in the warfare between Great Houses, soldiers instead of freedom fighters. Urgh. Wish i could make gifsets.

Yeah yeah yeah it's horrifying!! You are watching a national liberation movement get successfully co-opted by a superpower and it's awful!

They did such a good job making it feel creepy and foreboding when the Atreides symbols and motifs start re-appearing in the last hour or so of the movie. The second Gurney shows up he immediately re-introduces the Atreides way of looking at the world, and it's disturbing how easily Paul falls back into thinking like that, seeing the planet and its people as tools to be used in an inter-imperial power play. (It's right after Gurney tells him about the family nukes that Paul has the signet ring out for the first time since the beginning of the second act and we're like OH NO.) This is before he drinks the Water of Life; he is already starting to think like a colonial duke again some time before he declares himself one.

After the opening montage where we see the piles of bodies being burnt, we don't see the stylized Atreides hawk symbol for most of the movie. The next time it appears is on a vault of nuclear weapons, which are never treated as anything but a curse. It's so important that Stilgar and Chani are with Paul and Gurney when they open the vault so we can see their horror at these weapons and the gleeful, casual way Gurney talks about them. Chani is also seeing an aspect of Paul that she hasn't really witnessed before--Paul, the Future of House Atreides--and she does not like it.

And then of course the whole ending battle is making the point over and over again with repeated imagery that Atreides and Harkonnens are exactly the fucking same. All the imagery from the initial Harkonnen attack on Arrakeen in Part One--which at least shows the Atreides as brave in the face of overwhelming odds--gets inverted into something that's supposed to make us shudder. That scene of Gurney hacking his way through the crowd of soldiers with someone carrying the Atreides flag behind him? Nightmarish.

All of this stuff is super important to what the movie is trying to say because it is very very easy for us to buy into the Atreides' propaganda about themselves being the good guys. If we're paying attention to what Chani tells us in the literal first 3 minutes of the first movie, we already know we should be viewing them with a bit of critical distance. And while I think there is plenty in the first movie to make us side-eye their noble image (Leto saying we will bring peace to Arrakis?? fucking yikes dude), it's easy to forget that because Leto generally seems like a good dude to the people close to him, and he dies tragically so we never get to see much of what kind of colonizer he would have become. And I think it's easy to start thinking well if only Leto the more reasonable parent had lived then things wouldn't have turned out this way.

But fucking desert power?? That was Leto's idea. This is Leto's dream being realized. The plan was always to use the Fremen as pawns in the power struggle between the Great Houses. Maybe not quite in the way that Paul does cause he definitely goes off with it, but the end result is just as much a product of Atreides imperialism as it is of Bene Gesserit religious colonialism. The Atreides aren't inherently any more noble or benevolent than the Harkonnens in their intentions, they just have better PR. But the end result is exactly the same: a pile of dead bodies being set on fire.

[ma-pi-ma]

Mentre andava in scena la conferenza stampa di Mario Draghi del 22 luglio, io mi trovavo a Via del Corso, a Roma. Camminavo con le cuffie nelle orecchie, sintonizzato sul canale di Palazzo Chigi, pronto ad ascoltare le peggiori scempiaggini.

Ma quello che sentii mi pietrificò. Ricordo che mi bloccai, letteralmente, in mezzo al marciapiede. Dovetti cliccare sul video e tornare indietro di qualche secondo per riascoltare ciò che avevo appena udito. Sì, Draghi lo aveva detto davvero: "Non ti vaccini, ti ammali, muori".

Il Presidente del Consiglio non si era limitato a mentire, non aveva semplicemente optato per la disinformazione. No, aveva scelto la carta del terrore. A milioni di cittadini italiani era stato detto in faccia, dal loro premier, che la mancata inoculazione del vaccino avrebbe comportato inevitabilmente contagio, malattia e morte.

Il vestito istituzionale era stato strappato e gettato via. Il sicario della Goldman Sachs ora prendeva per il collo un intero popolo e gli urlava in faccia una menzogna clamorosa, con l'intento di terrorizzarlo. Il Covid diventava la Peste Nera e il contagio ora equivaleva a decesso sicuro, in barba ad un anno e mezzo di dati inoppugnabili.

Quale Presidente del Consiglio degno di questo nome avrebbe mai agito in questa maniera? Quale?

Non contento di queste parole, Draghi ne aggiunse altre, ugualmente assurde: "il Green Pass garantisce di non ritrovarsi tra persone contagiose." A quel punto lanciai un'imprecazione, fregandomene altamente dei passanti. Ma porca puttana, come si poteva sparare una simile cazzata? I contagi avvengono anche tra benedetti dall'ago, lo sapevano anche i bambini!

Eppure, nessuno dei giornalisti presenti alzò un ciglio. Nessuno replicò alle dichiarazioni del dittatoroncolo del Draghistan. Perché San Mario da Bruxelles non poteva certo essere contraddetto, figuriamoci. Anzi, le domande dei pennivendoli in sala furono petali di rosa sul premier, che con la sua responsabilità aveva difeso la salute e Lascienza.

Il giorno dopo, come al solito, i draghetti della stampa e del web erano in estasi. Le dichiarazioni terroristiche sulla morte in caso di mancata vaccinazione? Orsù, si era trattato solo di una iperbole atta ad educare il popolino ignorante! La falsità sul Green Pass anti-contagio? Ma ha detto la verità, leggiti questo articolo dei fact-checker indipendenti di Open!

Siamo a pochi passi dalla fine del 2021. L'infame lasciapassare verde è servito solo ad imporre l'Apartheid a milioni di italiani: una punizione sociale inflitta a chi non ha rispettato una scelta politica, che nulla ha mai avuto a che vedere con la salute. Figuriamoci con la scienza, distorta in pantomima religiosa. Lavoratori minacciati, famiglie spaccate in due, esseri umani trattati come reietti. Settimane in cui politici, giornalisti ed influencer hanno fatto a gara a chi vomitasse più astio sulla minoranza disallineata: il nemico da odiare, segregare, abbattere.

Oggi, con percentuali bulgare di vaccinati, chi guida il Draghistan parla apertamente di nuovi lockdown. Arriveranno i tamponi anche per gli inoculati, perché la verità sui contagi non può essere più nascosta. È un fallimento epocale. La luce in fondo al tunnel era, ovviamente, una bufala.

Pensate che questo aprirà gli occhi alle persone? Ad alcune sì. Ad altre no. Perché il nuovo credo non tollera dubbi. A questi individui, trasformati in adepti incattiviti, verrà indicato il colpevole e promessa la salvezza. E vi crederanno, come hanno fatto per quasi due anni, con rinnovata furia.

Sono loro i malati di cui toccherà occuparsi in futuro.

Matteo Brandi

[imalloutofgin]

Even more films I've watched recently that I haven't had time to post about... Yes, I know, I'm bad at this...

Sicario: Day Of The Soldado (2018): I would sum this up as "they had me going in the first half, not gonna lie". A scathing indictment of the American war machine. 4/5 stars.

The Raid 2 (2014): Obviously the fight choreography is amazing, but this sequel had more plot and character development than the last. Very fun and suspenseful. Loved it even more than the original. 5/5 stars.

Top Gun: Maverick (2022): It is exactly what you expect a Top Gun movie to be. Does exactly what it says on the tin. 3/5 stars.

13 Assassins (2010): I liked this a lot! I especially enjoyed the horror elements. I found myself very engrossed all the way through. 4/5 stars.

The Lego Movie (2014): This was surprisingly good. I really enjoyed it's anti-capitalist messaging and over all I just had a really fun time watching it. 3.5/5 stars.

Midsommar (2019): The imagery from this film has stuck with me for quite some time. It was quite a harrowing film, deeply unsettling, and had me gripped from start to finish. 5/5 stars.

John Wick: Chapter 3 – Parabellum (2019): I think this may be the most enjoyment I have ever felt from a John Wick film. I did like the others but this had an even greater sense of fun and playfulness. The film knows what it is and leans in. 4/5 stars.

[exhausted-pigeon]

Thanks for the tag! I personally never like Phoenix or Flamebird for Jason unless you are doing something with him being Dick partner, and personally I'm not a fan of that idea for a post-Red Hood Jason, it feels it would be forcing him in to the standard "bat affiliate non letal vigilante"

But that it's just my personal taste.

I personally find "Sicario" kinda weird, but that it's because I'm Italian and that it's just the word for "assassin" (usually referring to a assassin working for the mafia) which gives a very specific vibe for a vigilante named that. Not opposed but I think it would need a very specific story to make it work.

Wraith and Ronin are anti-hero classic.

Reckoning I never encountered and I have to say it's an interesting option, especially with a Jason focused on avenging the forgotten victims and making the untouchable people of Gotham pay for their crimes.

Ohhh I love the alt new vigilante names for Jason, especially Vigil! I also think I remember someone making a tumblr post or a fic snippet with the name Guardian or something similar where he has retired but also where he's llike the last resort, the one the batfam calls in when things get bad? I can not remember where I read it though. Other names I have seen used for him were Phoenix (ref his resurrection), Sicario, Wraith, Shadowfox (Todd), Ronin, Nyx (night in latin), Reckoning and Outlaw.

Oh, there's some interesting ones here anon!

I'm just gonna tag @razielim and @exhausted-pigeon here

[myradness]

Narcos Fic: i will follow you into the dark [chapter 5]

Pairing: Steve Murphy/Javier Peña

Rating: M

Word count: 8.9k

Tags: canon-typical violence, fluff and angst, slow burn

Chapter Summary: Tensions come to a head as Steve and Javier race against the clock to get to Escobar before extradition goes to vote. Steve struggles to stay afloat managing his marriage and work. 

link for full fic: 

Javi was back in Bogotá within the next few days, and nearly immediately they were sent off to Medellín to assist Carrillo in interviewing the girlfriend of the man who had been identified as the one who, seemingly unwittingly, had carried the bomb onto the doomed Avianca plane. They were making the grueling trek between the two cities more and more frequently these days, and Steve wondered when the higher-ups back in Washington might take a look through budget reports, see the massive inefficiency, and make their field office in Bogotá a field office in Medellín. He wasn’t holding his breath.

Since his return, Javi still hadn’t brought up the night they spent together waiting for Navegante. Steve wasn’t sure if that was out of embarrassment or if his partner was simply fine to let things lie, but he decided to follow Javi’s lead on this one. Although, he wasn’t quite sure if he was relieved or irritated when the subject was never broached. Like an itch needing to be scratched but is just barely out of reach— it’ll go away eventually, but it’s anguish up until that point.

Steve leaned up against the entrance of the home where the presumed bomber’s girlfriend had been staying with her young daughter and mother ever since the man had gone “missing”. The low ceilings of the houses in the comunas, built small to meet the needs of a dense and growing population, were much too cramped for his lanky frame to fit comfortably inside of. Instead, he took on a more observational role, listening in as Javi and Carrillo spoke in soft tones with the girl— a girl, really, she looked so young and so scared sitting there swallowed up by the chair she was sitting on— and picking up about every fifth word or so. “Sicarios de Pablo...podemos protegerte.” In the corner of the room, a small altar hung on the wall, complete with lit candles, rosary beads, pictures of family and small prayer cards. Above it, hung a painting of Pablo likened as a Saint. The irony of the image might’ve been funny if it weren’t so goddamn infuriating to see the grip Escobar still held over so many of the people here. To know that they were so forgotten by the rest of society that the man’s fleeting acts of monetary goodwill could overshadow his evil— even in the eyes of this family whose lives had been completely uprooted, destroyed, by Escobar. A week ago, this girl said goodbye to her boyfriend, the father of her child, forever, and today she sat, hunted down by sicarios, and still that painting hung on the wall with reverence. Despite it all, she held her tongue with Javi and Carrillo.

Steve huffed out a deep breath and watched as Javi turned on his heel and walked frustratedly out of the home back onto the street where the Jeep was parked. He followed along and came to a stop in front of his partner, waiting while he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, fished one out and lit it, taking a long drag. Steve could feel his own irritation thrumming just below the surface of his skin, and he shifted back and forth on his feet to try and dissipate it as Javi stood there leaning on his hip, quietly composing himself. He wasn’t sure if it was the difference in experience, or maybe it was just Javi, but Steve was constantly in awe of his ability to keep calm in the moment and remain unaffected by the shit they dealt with. He wondered when, if ever, his own blood might stop being so quick to boil.

“She’s lying,” Javi finally breathed out between inhales of smoke.

Steve stopped his pacing, stepping in near his partner. “He’s got this poor sucker to carry a bomb without him even knowing it.”

Javi shifted, looking around at their surroundings— the tightly-packed houses and steep hillside behind them. “Well, maybe he knew,” he offered casually, as if it mattered at this point.

“I don’t care if he knew or not,” Steve spat, breathing out forcefully through his nostrils. “It’s time we put a bullet in Escobar.”

Javi’s face shifted, eyes widening and eyebrows lifting in surprise and gentle amusement. “I like the intensity, Murphy,” he chuckled. “Very Hollywood.”

Steve sighed, letting out the tension that had been building up, and smiled despite himself. “You’re an ass, you know that?” He looked up at Javi, who flashed him a wink before stamping out the butt of his cigarette and walking past him toward the car. They would reconvene with Carrillo at the Carlos Holguín School later that afternoon.

“I agree though,” he called out over his shoulder as Steve turned to follow. “I’m getting real sick of this cat-and-mouse shit.”

 *    *    *

For all of their plans though, things were still slow-moving. After the Avianca bombing, the public rallied around Gaviria and he took the presidency by a landslide. He was understandably keen to respond swiftly to the public outcry over the increase in violence and so one of the first things he did after taking office was to call a meeting with all of the top American officials that were stationed in Bogotá— Javier and Steve included.

Javier sat alongside Murphy, once again both squeezed into their formal suits— ill-fitting in the way they stood as such a stark difference to their normal attire— and listened, powerless, as the President put a stop to nearly all of the work they were doing. He didn’t want American help, especially American funding, in his fight against the narcotraficantes. From that point, he and Steve’s involvement was to be observational and advisory only.

The thing was, Javier understood the President’s wariness. Growing up in Texas, of all places, to Mexican parents, made it hard as hell to not have at least some level of awareness of the dangers of US involvement. But he also knew that the CNP and Carrillo’s Search Bloc didn’t stand a chance against Escobar without their help. The money just wasn’t there.

There had always been a give-and-take of information between himself and Carrillo, even back when Pablo was just a name in a warning that fell on deaf ears. Leaving the man high and dry— even if ordered to— would just feel like betrayal after having worked so closely for so long. He and Steve would find a way to still help out, even if that way had to be much less conspicuous.

And so they did.

Javier couldn’t stand the Mil group and CIA guys, but he was more than willing to bury the hatchet if that meant access to their surveillance assets. Using aerial photographs and intel provided by the Search Bloc, he and Steve were able to work out that sicarios could be easily identified by the cars they drove— all of them expensive foreign imports that the rest of the people in the comunas they were driving through could never dream of affording. While the other American agencies were doing their fly-overs, which somehow escaped Gaviria’s cuts, if they spotted any of these cars they could contact the DEA agents, who would pass the information onto Carrillo, who seemed incredibly thankful to have it. Ever since the successful elimination of Gacha, there had been increased demand on the man to carry out more and more raids. But, their finite resources put up against Escobar’s billions of dollars and intricate web of informants would always be a losing battle. Not to mention that, in response to the increase of government raids and the President’s anti-narco stance, Pablo had begun a streak of public bombings and targeted kidnappings of the adult children of both wealthy and politically important individuals.

It was starting to seem like just a matter of time before Gaviria was forced to bend to some, if not all, of Escobar’s demands. Namely, the abolition of extradition, a reduction of the long list of crimes he had been charged with, and lastly— and probably the most infuriating— the ability to build himself his own jail. The absurdity of it all would be laughable if it wasn’t so angering, if it wasn’t the reality they were facing, if it weren't obvious that Escobar saw this as his gift to the country. That he was somehow acting nobly by putting forth these conditions. It was fucking reprehensible.

Since they knew the clock was ticking, Javier and Steve, along with Carrillo, were working double time to follow up with every tip they got, spending the majority of their days driving through the comunas in Medellín so they could quickly respond whenever a call from the CIA intercepts came through. It was a long shot, but if they could nail one of the cartel’s high-level sicarios then maybe they could catch Escobar before it was too late to do anything.

This was how Javier found himself once again sprawled out in the passenger seat of their Jeep, chain-smoking as Steve drove them around the city while waiting for a call from their eyes in the sky. When he first moved to Colombia, driving through the comunas had evoked almost a sense of claustrophobia the streets were so dense with people and cars. But now, as he looked out the rolled-down window while they meandered their way down main roads and through back alleys, these streets felt cosy. Familiar. It was good to see the mundane— the small moments of happiness carved out of everyday life. It was good to see the people grasping tight onto normalcy despite the war being waged around them.

Javier leaned his weight against the metal frame of the door, taking in Steve as he maneuvered his way through the narrow streets. The man appeared tense today, small lines creasing from the corners of his eyes where they were hidden behind his dark sunglasses, his shoulders tight. They were both stressed, wary from the increasing intensity of it all— Escobar’s attacks, their near-daily raids— it was like a wave that never crested. Swelling. He could feel their desperation starting to fray nerves.

They had already been out driving for several hours with nothing but radio silence, so Javier decided to play nice and motioned for Steve to pull the SUV to the side of the road near where a small grouping of food stalls had set up shop for the day, spilling out of a larger market.

As the car slowly rolled to a stop, Steve glanced over, eyebrow raised and annoyed by the change in pace. “Why are we stopping,” he grumbled.

Javier pulled on the door handle, sliding out of the seat and onto the street. He turned back, leaning in through the open window, and felt the hot metal sting against his forearm. “Gotta piss,” he announced, pushing off of the side of the SUV and walking off, not waiting to see the likely answering roll of eyes from his partner.

He meandered through the stalls, quietly reveling in the swell of life around him— the smell of several different foods competing for dominance, the distant sound of children laughing as they ran through the chaos, the low rumble of weathered voices of the old men sat sipping tintos on fold-out plastic chairs— before settling on a stall where a woman was selling almojábanas . Javier knew that there wasn't a simple fix for the worries furrowing Steve’s brow, but he also knew big American boys, and just how far food could go in soothing the soul. Cheese bread should do the trick.

Leaning over the short counter, Javier motioned for two of the small bags of bread, and laid the pesos near the till. As the woman prepared his order, he glanced around the small enclosure, eyes landing on a young child seated in a low high chair in the corner. The child squealed under his attention, legs kicking and hands grabbing in his direction. He smiled, cooing. “Hola, niñita.”

The woman turned back, holding out the food with a smile, and Javier reached back into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and added a small stack of money to the pile. “Para su ayudante,” he said with a wink in response to her questioning look, nodding his head toward the still-babbling child.

He turned on his heel, throwing one last wave of his fingers over his shoulder toward the girl, and began maneuvering his way back to the Jeep. Steve had his arm up on the windowsill, other hand tapping on the wheel, and he sat up, restarting the car when he noticed Javier approaching. “What took you so damn long? Gettin’ pretty for me, Javi?”

Javi opened up the door, slid into the passenger seat and threw one of the bags of almojábanas into Steve’s lap. “Here. Eat. You’re an ass when you’re hungry, man.”

Steve fixed Javier with an unimpressed look, but opened the bag and began quietly chewing on one of the small round breads. Javier followed suit, relishing the warmth and the smooth taste of cuajada on his tongue, keeping an eye on his partner all the while.

“Y’know, Connie has said the same thing,” Steve mumbled between bites.

“Your wife is a smart woman.” Javier paused, noting that Steve’s eyes had already begun to brighten. He chuckled to himself. Predictable. “How is she? Settled in finally?”

Steve sighed, abandoning his final, half-eaten pastry. “She’s been on edge ever since Poison left us that warning. She’s strong, but I think she worries about me a lot.” He shifted, turning his head to look in the rear view mirror. Always on guard. “I have a hard time separating work from life, too, which doesn’t help,” he murmured. He looked at Javier. “We’re just so close to catching him. And if Gaviria gives in before we do ...it’s difficult to not bring my frustrations home.”

Javier stayed silent, unsure of what to say. He also felt a rising sense of urgency. But at the end of the day he could meet his aggravation with a bottle of whiskey and hours of silence.

“How’d she like the dancing I taught you?”

He watched the tips of his partner’s ears blush pink. “Didn’t quite nail the ambiance, but she had fun at least.”

“You just need more practice then.”

Steve rolled his eyes, barking out a laugh, and moved to shift the gear into reverse. He placed his hand on the seat near the spot where Javier’s head was resting, and turned around to look out of the rear window as he backed up. “Yeah, well,” his voice faded off as he pulled the Jeep back onto the street. “Somehow I don’t think that would do much good.”

Javier didn’t bother responding, opting instead to look out the window. Christ knew he was far from the authority on wives.

From where it was sitting upright in one of the cupholders in the console between them, the radio began to crackle to life. Javier leaned to pick it up, holding the receiver loosely against his chin. “Hammer. Go ahead.”

The tinny voice of the field station lead rang out. “Hammer, we have calls originating in Manrique , from known sicario satellite phones.”

Javier sat forward and pressed down the transmit button. “Do you have a location?”

There was a beat while the man on the other end listened to the conversation they were picking up. A conversation that was happening at that moment, somewhere in the city, between the few men who could lead them to Escobar. Who could make this whole illegal operation worthwhile. “Campo Valdés. That's in the central-eastern area, bordered by the Comuna Popular.”

Campo Valdés. They were close. Javier felt the adrenaline rising in his chest. “Roger that,” he confirmed, the danger of what they were about to undertake only distantly present in his mind. He turned back toward Steve and locked eyes with his partner. “Campo Valdés.”

Steve nodded and turned off on the next side road, picking up speed.

Here went nothing.  

*    *    *

Steve pulled up to the small neighborhood and almost instantly spotted a known sicario car parked alongside the road near an entrance to a group of houses. He brought the Jeep to a stop a few yards up the road and engaged the emergency brake, letting out the deep breath he had been holding in.

The drive to this location had been just long enough that the initial rush of adrenaline from the positive-ID radio call had worn off and a clarity had set in. This was stupid bordering on suicidal. They had no backup, they had no tac vests. They had no fucking clue how many men they were about to engage. Steve felt immediately out of his depth. An uncertainty rising to meet his desperation to catch Escobar. His mind flashed briefly to Connie, and the shock she might feel at his idiocy. Or, maybe she had come to expect this type of bull-headedness from him by now.

His mind then flashed to Javi. He turned and found that his partner was already meeting his eye from across the console. Javi nodded once, and because the man was somehow all-knowing, added: “Just keep your head on straight, Murphy. Let’s catch these assholes.” Then he shifted to grab at the door handle and slid out onto the cracked blacktop. Steve steeled himself and followed suit.

He took point, and together they made their way toward the entrance of the building, taking small steps, their pistols loaded and ready to return fire. In between the sounds of his own breath, an argument echoed from inside of the house closest to the street. Steve looked back at Javi, who nodded, confirming the sound as their target, and continued inching their way toward the source.

For a brief moment, there was silence, before a cacophony of shots firing and glass shattering rang out as bullets started to spray from inside the house.

The men inside the building began to flee and without thinking, Steve gave chase, rounding the building just in time to see them exit and take off down the winding alleyway. Suddenly, the two split off, and he followed the one that broke to the right, trusting that Javi was right behind and would take care of the other.

They were moving too quickly for Steve to get an ID on the man he was following, but knowing that they were within reach of catching someone who was likely one of Pablo’s top sicarios was enough to keep him running. It was enough to stave off the exhaustion threatening to set in from running in the Colombian heat.

The man ducked into an apartment building, weaving his way through the corridors and staircases, and taking brief cover behind walls to fire pot-shots in Steve’s direction. He returned the fire as best he could, but there was little luck of getting a clean shot at the target until they made it back out into the open.

At that moment, Steve pushed through a flimsy metal door that opened up to an equally flimsy metal rooftop and continued scrambling after the man. He ducked his way under hanging laundry, avoiding patches of aluminum that had corroded, giving way to the unforgiving earth an untold number of stories below.

Finally, blessedly, they reached the uppermost level of the patchwork roofs, his feet touching down on concrete. The stretch was long and flat, and Steve knew that if he could work up enough of a sprint he’d be able to get close enough to incapacitate the man.

Typically a hassle in the low-ceilinged homes of the comunas, Steve gave silent thanks to his long legs as they pumped in double time, quickly bringing him within range of the target. They were rapidly approaching the edge of the building, reaching an end, and Steve fumbled as he sprinted to ready his gun for the shot that would soon open up.

Instead of slowing, however, the sicario seemed to increase pace as he neared the end of the roof, and then suddenly, impossibly, he was jumping.

Steve snorted bullishly, the sweat that had been near-pouring down his face spraying out, half in anger and half at the absurdity of what he had just witnessed. Moving too quickly to slow in time, he resigned himself to his fate and attempted to lengthen his stride the best he could. Then he jumped.

There was an ever-brief moment of weightlessness, the thrill of which Steve knew he could all too easily fall victim to. It was the same sort of rush of blood most people might get from a roller coaster, from a fast car. Which Steve got from the chase.

And then there was concrete. He hit the rough surface of the roof hard, his knees buckling underneath, limbs spilling out, and pistol coming loose from his hold. He tried to scramble to his feet, but the man had already rounded on him, gun drawn. Steve squinted to look up at the face of the man he had been pursuing, blinking against the sun.

Poison.

He reached out his hand, placating, and dragged himself to his knees. There wasn’t a way out of this one that he could see, but he wanted to die standing. He looked Poison in the eye, took in the smirk painted across the man’s face. Taking out a DEA agent. He’d be paid handsomely for this kill.

Steve thought briefly of Connie. She would get his pension, wouldn’t have to worry about money for the rest of her life. He wondered if, beneath her sadness, she might feel relief. Relief that it was finally over— the shoe she’d been expecting to drop finally had.

He thought of Javi again, and even though he hadn’t been to church in years, said a silent prayer that he wasn’t enduring the same fate. He felt sorry that his partner would have to find his body up on this fucking rooftop, would have to file that awful report. That he’d have to do it alone again. He felt a fleeting sense of sympathy for whatever new idiot they sent down here in his place, for the short leash Javi would undoubtedly keep.

He hoped that Javi would miss him terribly.

What a selfish final thought. Connie really did deserve better.

Steve held his breath, meeting Poison’s eye, and waited for the wash of nothing that was sure to come. There was a dull click as the sicario pulled on the trigger, but found the gun empty. Instinctually, Steve reached for his own discarded gun and fired off a shot in the man’s direction, but he had already thrown himself over the low wall on the roof into a pile of debris below. Rushing to look over the side, Steve watched in disbelief as Poison emerged from the scrap and ran out onto the crowded street before pulling a man off of his motorcycle and riding off. Desperate, Steve raised his pistol and took aim, but the street below was too crowded and his gun was too unwieldy to take the shot with any confidence.

“Fuck!” he screamed in frustration, disengaging his weapon and scrubbing a hand down his face. Fuck. He leaned over the half-wall and slammed the heel of his palm against the brick, feeling the defeat wash over him. Suddenly, there was the sound of shuffling boots behind him, and Steve shot up, drawing his gun and aiming toward the sound.

“Murphy,” came a rushed breath.

Javi.

Steve let his body slump, the anticipatory tension of a fight draining from his limbs.

Javi took a step closer, placing one hand on Steve’s shoulder and the other just under his jaw, at the point where his pulse beat strongest. Steve could feel the tremble in his fingertips. “Are you alright? I heard you yelling.”

“I’m alright,” he lied. He looked up, taking in his partner’s face— the curls plastered to his forehead with sweat, his furrowed brow, his heaving chest. Javi didn’t need to carry the burden of knowing how close Steve had come to tasting death. “I’m alright. Poison got away”

Javi dropped his hand, stepping back, but still eyed Steve with an unreadable expression. Evidently, he hadn’t passed whatever internal checkup the man was running. “Sureshot also got away, with help. Apparently, Escobar is recruiting children from the comuna now.”

Steve tilted his head, waiting for more, but Javi turned around with an air of finality. “Let’s go see what the hell they were doing here,” he called out over his shoulder.

Looks like they were both keeping secrets. Steve followed him closely back through the maze of apartments and narrow corridors to the home they had found the men in, still feeling dazed by the events that had taken place. He had the urge to reach out and grab onto Javi’s wrist— anything that might help ground himself. He kept his hand at his side.

Somehow they made their way back to the little house— Javi quiet, and Steve thankful that his partner had paid well enough attention to the path they had taken during the chase to remember a way back. Javi pushed the flimsy door open, barely hanging on its hinges, and stepped aside to let him through. Ducking, Steve stepped inside of the doorway and was instantly overwhelmed by the smell of blood in the air. Thick, sharp. Fresh.

Moving through the entryway, the source became clear— the body of a young woman strewn across the ground, a bullet hole in her temple. Next to her, just inside the living room, was a second body. The girlfriend of the Avianca bomber. Steve’s stomach roiled— they had tried to warn her of exactly this. And they had shown up mere seconds too late. He moved into the small room, taking care to maneuver around the sprawl of limbs. His heavy boots made the thin wooden floor groan under his feet, and at the sound of his footsteps came a cooing from the corner. Steve’s head shot up. In a low chair sat the daughter of the bomber and his girlfriend, quietly babbling and smiling up at himself and Javi, completely oblivious to the destruction around her.

Steve wandered over in a daze and sunk to his knees in front of the girl, the hard ground sending shocks up his already aching frame. He looked back at Javi, who had perched himself on the corner of a chair and was scrubbing his palm over his face. Steve turned back to the child, reaching out cautiously to grab her tiny hand in his own. She stared up at him, curious, her brown eyes open wide.

“I can take her home,” he murmured, hating the way his voice wavered. “Yeah. Connie would know what to do. She’s a nurse.”

He heard Javi sigh from behind him. “A baby isn’t a cat, Steve.”

Javi stood, brushing against Steve as he shifted past and bent to pick up the child. He watched as Javi lifted her gingerly to his chest, quietly shushing her cries of protest as he tucked her under his chin. “Tranquilo, nena,” he whispered into the soft tufts of hair on her head. He looked at Steve, gesturing with a small movement of his hand. “Come here.”

Steve stood and stepped in close to Javi. He took in the slight sway of his partner’s hips, the protective swell of his arm around her body. “You’re good with her.”

Javi met his eye over her head, keeping his voice low. “I’ve got lots of little cousins,” he smiled, small and private. “You end up learning quickly. Hold your arms out.”

He stood for a moment, blinking. “What?”

“If I’m letting you take her home to Connie, I’m making sure you can at least hold her. Now hold your arms out.”

Dumbfounded, Steve watched as Javi maneuvered her small body around and held her out, tiny wriggling limbs and all. He grabbed her under the arms, unsure how to proceed.

“There you go, now hold her against your chest,” came Javi’s voice, encouraging. “You don't have to be so careful. She’s a fighter.”

Steve did as told, tucking her in close, and felt her calm near instantly. He could feel the heat of her body through the fabric of his shirt, balmy from sitting in the stagnant heat of the room for so long. He watched as she snuggled against his shoulder and began to blink heavily to fight off sleep; instantly overwhelmed by the trust she showed him. A trust that he had not earned— certainly not after the events of the day. He looked back at Javi, who had stepped in close and was rubbing slow circles into the girl’s back, and the surge of emotions he had been holding back rose up under his partner’s careful gaze. Panic and despair made for a potent cocktail; he choked out a singular sob that surfaced unbidden.

Javi stopped his petting, reaching out reflexively to grip his arm. “Steve?”

“I dropped my gun, Javi.”

Javi’s eyes flitted down to where his holster sat on his belt. “It’s right—”

“On the rooftop. I dropped my gun and Poison had me pinned, Javi,” he forced out, trying to stem the flood. Javi’s fingers dug into his skin, and he was thankful for the pain. “He pulled the trigger. But he was out of bullets.”

Javi didn’t say anything, and Steve didn’t need him to. They both knew he had been lucky, stupidly so— they both knew this time right now was borrowed. Instead, he gathered Steve in his arms as best he could, and Steve let himself be maneuvered to sit on the small couch, tucked in against his partner’s side until slowly, aided by the girl’s steady breathing and Javi’s hands grounding, he finally calmed.

“Y’alright there, Murphy,” Javi asked quietly, the low rumble of his voice soothing against Steve’s skin.

He sat up, mindful of the girl now asleep on his shoulder, and wiped a hand across his face, suddenly embarrassed by his reaction. He was a goddamn DEA agent— he’d watched his last partner die and didn’t have this bad of a reaction for fucks sake. “Yeah. Sorry, I—”

“Don’t. I get it, man.” He reached over and ran his hand through the short hairs on the back of the child’s head, and despite himself, Steve mourned the loss of contact. “I’ll call Carrillo to have his men come take care of all this,” he said, glancing around the room. He looked back at Steve and it was like a balm for the fray. “Let’s get you two home.”

Steve smiled, grateful as he met Javi’s eye. He felt a surge of emotion rise up in his throat, his limbs. It was the same rush he had felt the night with Javi waiting for Navegante. It made him want to move, to act, to do... something. He opted for a breathy, rushed, “thank you.” It didn’t satisfy the urge, but the moment was over all the same.

*    *    *

Tensions finally reached a head mere days later, when one of the hostages that had been taken by Escobar, a popular newscaster who was also the daughter of the former president, was killed by crossfire in a raid ordered by Gaviria and led by the CNP. Javier heard the news on the radio on his drive into work, and when he arrived at the embassy, found that the Ambassador had called an immediate meeting with himself, Steve, and the new Vice Minister of Justice.

He quickly walked to the small DEA office, throwing his wallet and keys onto his desk. Steve was hunched over his own desk, fingers tapping wildly as he thumbed through CIA maps and reports.

“You heard we’ve got a meeting with Sandoval, right?”

Steve scoffed and tossed the papers down. “Yeah, I heard alright.”

Sandoval, the new Vice Minister, had been Gaviria’s head of security prior to his election. He and Steve had apparently butted heads over several aspects of security plans, especially when it came to protecting the candidate against Escobar. Javier remembered listening to his partner bitch about the man— Steve found him arrogant. There is no way this meeting would go well.

“Glad I wore my suit today at least. Come on, they’re probably waiting.”

Steve sighed, heaving himself up, and followed Javier out of the room. “I’m tempted to put my jeans back on,” he whispered conspiratorially.

Javier smirked despite himself. “Be nice.”

They pushed their way through the heavy wooden doors to the Ambassador’s office to find Sandoval and Noonan already chatting quietly on opposite sides of her stately desk.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Sandoval said from his seat.

Javier nodded, trying to get a read on the man. “Buenas.” Steve stalked quietly to the other side of the room to lean against the bookcase.

Not wasting any time, Sandoval launched into his delivery. “Thank you for meeting on short notice. This is to inform you that our government has approved Escobar’s proposal to build a prison where he will serve a minimum of three years. As a part of the agreement, no police will be allowed within two miles of the jail. Search Bloc will be disbanded, and extradition will be put up for a vote in Congress again.”

Javier instantly bristled, feeling a protest rise up in his chest. This had to be a joke— there was no way on earth this would be the end of all the work they had done. In the corner of his eye, Steve had begun pacing, reaching up to pull at his tie. Javier stepped closer to Sandoval, taking a steadying breath. It didn’t help. “If your Congress abolishes extradition we lose our teeth. We’re a paper fucking tiger!”

“Everything we have done is lost,” Steve added, punctuating his words with a pointed finger against the desk.

“We have no choice,” Sandoval interjected, the calm politician exterior quickly fading away as his voice rose. “The people, the public— it’s tired of all these bombs and bloodshed!”

“Right,” Javier said, gripping the side of the desk. “And business goes on as usual, just runs it from that jail.”

“Exactly,” Steve shouted, still pacing.

Sandoval looked exhausted, frustrated. He ran his hand over his face. “Yes,” he conceded.

Ambassador Noonan sat forward, her hands folded neatly in front of her. “All things considered, it’s a victory to put Escobar in jail.”

At that, Steve stopped his pacing, a sneer on his face. “For public relations?” he nearly spat.

“It’s capitulation,” Javier agreed, eyeing Sandoval.

“You want Escobar. Why?” Sandoval stood, his heavy leather chair loudly scraping along the floor as he did. “Why?” He raised his arms, in question, in accusation. “Because you want to parade him in your DEA jackets?”

Javier’s face fell, those words a stab to the gut.

“You think this is a game, right,” Sandoval whispered angrily, his eyes dark as they bored into each of them. Javier fleetingly wondered if he, like Escobar, was not a man of always. If he too had fought for his place in the world. “This is Colombia, and our people want peace. This is not a fucking game!”

Thoroughly chastised, the Americans kept quiet as Sandoval turned and left.

Javier sighed, trying to reign in his frustration to a simmer. Sure, for the Ambassador all of this probably amounted to a matter of appearances. Protecting American interests. But he and Steve saw the true cost of the war. They too wanted peace for the people of Colombia, for the people on the streets of Miami. True relief wouldn’t come from this solution— the terror would just move to the shadows.

They needed to find Escobar before his surrender was scheduled to take place. Before he won.

*    *    *

Connie had invited Javier for dinner that night, and despite the news from earlier in the day that was still rattling around in his head, he kept the date. After all, they were likely just as upset as he was. The company would be nice, even if company from the Murphys brought along with it a certain kind of heartbreak.

Armed with a bottle of wine— pink, sweet and light, something that suited Connie— he climbed the stairs and found his way to their front door. He knocked, but there was no answer despite the audible activity, and so he let himself in. He opened the door to what had obviously been the last dregs of an argument. Steve sat in the corner of the living room, frustration painted on his face, and Connie stood over the stove in the kitchen, face flushed equally from exertion and steam from the pot she was stirring. On her hip was the girl from the comuna , crying loudly. They both looked up at the sound of him entering the apartment, and Javier nodded in greeting, immediately making his way to the kitchen.

Connie turned to face him, frantic. “Javi, I’m so sorry, things aren’t quite ready yet—”

“Don’t be,” he said, reaching for the child and settling her on his hip. “Here, let me take over. What are you making?”

“It’s just pasta,” she sighed apologetically. ”I got held up at work.”

Javier shushed the girl, whose cries had faded into whimpers, rubbing her back as he tucked her head under his chin. “That’s alright. Go, I’ll finish up.” He angled his head toward the living room where Steve was still sitting and took the spatula that was in Connie’s hand.

He watched as she flashed him a look of appreciation and walked off. Slowly rocking his body, he looked down at the child. “Hi, baby girl,” he whispered soothingly. “I didn’t expect to see you again.” He continued trying to calm her, occasionally stirring the food while trying to tune out the low voices echoing from the other room.

A few minutes later, Steve ambled into the kitchen sheepishly. “Hey.”

Javier reached to set the burner to low. “You alright?”

Steve sighed loudly, running his fingers over his lip to smooth his mustache. “Yeah. Escobar’s deal started another argument about going back to Miami.” He stepped close, shifting to take the girl from Javier. “Thanks for getting Olivia to calm down. Connie says she thinks she has colic.”

“Olivia?”

Steve adjusted her in his arms, smiling softly. “We’re adopting her. Connie liked the name.”

Javier leaned back against the counter, floored for the second time that day. Somehow this hit harder. “Jesus, Steve.”

“She’d been wanting to start tryin’ for a kid for a while now, so this worked out,” he explained, that goofy slow smile that’s so sweet, so earnestly Steve spreading across his face. “I’ve got a little family now.”

Javier met Steve’s eye, the happiest look he could manage plastered atop his face. There had been a hope, perhaps a foolish and destructive one, that he might be able to carve out a small something with Steve. Never so foolish to wish for more than this strange and intimate camaraderie they had built, but a life beside him all the same. Dinners with him and Connie, late nights at the embassy, stolen moments on the mountaintops. He had made do in the past with less.

But this was the Murphys, was Steve, looking ahead and planning for a future beyond Escobar, beyond Colombia.

Beyond Javier.

He turned back around, reaching to the cabinet where he knew they kept their bowls. “You’ll have to let me babysit sometime. Don’t want her picking up on your abysmal Spanish.”

There was a smack on his shoulder. “Hey,” Steve laughed, indignant all the same. “It’s getting better!” He shuffled close, tilting Olivia so her big brown eyes could meet Javier’s. “This is Javi, sweetheart,” he said softly to her. “Es tu tío.”

Steve looked up, searching for praise for his display of language. Like a damn dog. Javier couldn’t help the small smile that slipped out in response. “Yeah. Abysmal.”

*    *    *

A number of tense days, weeks— it was hard to say when they all started to blend together— passed following the announcement of Gaviria’s acceptance of Escobar’s demands and before the deal was to take effect. Javier found himself leaned over the expansive military planning desks in the joint CIA/Mil Group offices until the early hours of the morning most nights, listening to the crackle of Carrillo and his men through the radio while they trudged through the jungle hunting the narcotraficantes .

It was a last-ditch effort. Born out of a panicked sense of logic that reasoned that if they used all the resources available to them and caught Escobar before the deal went through, it would all have been worth it. It was foolhardy. They followed any and all tips they received, blatantly used military equipment, and wasted funds. The nights were a blur of whiskey, smoke, and ties thrown over shoulders— the only indication of time passing the scratchy drawl that would slowly overtake Steve’s voice.

It was ultimately fruitless.

The day that Escobar was scheduled to turn himself in, Javier and Steve piled into the Jeep and made the haul to the outskirts of Medellín to the finca the man had been calling home for the past months. A set of coordinates that, had they known a mere days earlier, they might be making this trip en route to a victory. Instead, they rode in near-silence, Steve white-knuckled in the driver’s seat, and Javier chain-smoking out the window from the passenger’s side. They were approaching uncharted territory. Once Pablo was whisked away, the head of the beast would be hidden away, and no matter how many limbs they severed, it would live on.

They pulled up to the edge of the massive compound just as the military helicopter set to escort Escobar to his luxury prison was touching down. Javier wasn’t a praying man, but he gave silent thanks to the Jeep’s four-wheel drive as Steve pulled off the gravel track into the steep grassy embankment to get as close to the fenceline as possible. He slipped out of the seat, and trudged over to where Steve had rushed to stand. From several hundred yards away, he watched dazedly as Sandoval emerged from the chopper, and in parallel, Escobar filed out of his home. They met in the middle, signed the treaty, and just as quickly, they made their way back to the helicopter and took off.

Javier stood still, unbelieving, as the huge hulking machine was soon out of sight. His limbs felt shocky, staticky with the need to move, to do something. Beside him, his partner glanced around wildly, seemingly looking for a fix to this problem. “Shit,” Steve yelled, looking up at the sky. He set to pacing, kicking at the long grasses that threatened to tangle his steps. “Fucker.”

“Come on,” Javier called out over his shoulder, turning back to the vehicle. There was nothing left for them here; jail or not, this was still Escobar’s territory. And they were still DEA agents. “Let’s get the hell home.”

It was dark by the time they got back to their apartment building in Bogotá. Cool and balmy, the air still as it is before the sky opens up. Steve pulled the Jeep along the curb, not bothering to use the underground parking, and threw the gear into park with a heavy hand and an equally heavy sigh. “Connie and Olivia are probably already asleep,” he murmured, glancing at Javier. “Do you have any alcohol?”

“Just guaro,” Javier replied, laughing at the grimace that graced his partner’s face.

“That shit tastes like licorice, how the hell d’you drink it?”

“Quickly.” He peeled himself from the passenger seat and climbed out of the car. “Take it or leave it,” he called out, starting up the stairs to the front door. He smiled to himself at the metallic thunk of the driver’s side door closing, and Steve’s audible grumbling as he hurried to follow.  

They ambled down the short flight of stairs to Javier’s apartment, unlocking and pushing through the flimsy wooden door. Javier made his way to the kitchen and fished his wallet and pistol from his jeans to place on the counter alongside his keys. Steve had booked it to the lounge and was methodically pulling one of Javier’s records from its sleeve and setting the pin to play. Javier anticipated the first chords of One of These Nights before he heard them but still rolled his eyes, exhaling a laugh. Predictable.

“The Eagles again, Murphy?”

Steve sat down heavily on the leather couch, kicking his feet up onto the low table like he owned the place. “It’s good music. This one’s got Take it to the Limit on it.”

“Who do you think bought the record,” Javier mumbled to himself with a smile, grabbing the bottle of aguardiente from the cabinet. Antioqueño. Carrillo had given it to him as a Christmas gift the year before as a joke— a reference to the inter-state regulations on aguardiente . Their own small-scale smuggling ring; the irony of opening the bottle for the first time that particular night was not lost on him.

He didn’t bother with shot glasses, breaking the seal on the lid and bringing the mouth of the bottle to his lips. He swallowed roughly. They made this shit strong in Medellín.

Moving to join Steve, Javier handed his partner the bottle over the back of the couch and rounded the corner to take a seat at the other end. He watched as Steve drank deeply, throat working desperately to keep up with the man’s desire for inebriation. He handed the guaro back with a cough, several inches of liquor missing from the container.

“Jesus, Steve.”

“I'm callin’ in sick tomorrow,” Steve choked out, his accent already starting to thicken.

“And stick me with all the paperwork there is to send back to Washington because of this prison stunt? I don’t think so, Murphy.”

“We’ll both play hooky then,” he said with a wink.

They sat there for a while, trading the bottle back and forth, Javier taking sips in between Steve’s gulps, and listening to the music filtering warmly through the small stack of speakers.

Finally, Steve broke the quiet. “What the hell are we going to do now, Javi?”

Javier took in his partner’s form. His head was tipped back over the edge of the cushions, eyes tired but sharp with a renewed anger. His fist was closed tight around the neck of the bottle. “About what?”

Steve sat up, accusation on his face. “About the prison. About Escobar. We fuckin’ lost extradition too,” he listed, tongue sounding heavy in his mouth.

“We’ll figure something out,” Javier consoled, only half believing himself. “Pablo is bound to slip up somewhere.”

“I jus’ don’t get it.” Steve shifted, looking restless, uncomfortable in his skin suddenly. He took another drink of the guaro. “We did everything right. We played by the rules. It was s’posed to work.”

“He hit them where it hurt.” Javier leaned forward, gently easing the bottle from Steve’s grip. Hooky or not, Antioqueño was too strong to be drinking like water.

“Don’t the good guys win? Aren’t we the good guys, Javi?”

No, we’re not. But that wasn’t what Steve needed to hear, so Javier held his tongue. The silence might have been enough of an answer.

He looked at Javier, the anger in his eyes turned frantic. “Am I a bad guy? Am I a bad person? Are you?”

“Steve, I—”

“Have’ya ever cheated on someone, Javi?”

That gave Javier pause. He studied his partner, trying to find some indication of what the hell was going on, but found nothing. He sighed, thinking back. Technically, no, but he certainly wasn't the standard of morality in relationships. “I never claimed to be a saint.”

At that, Steve went quiet, leaning on his knees to place his head in his open palms. The faint hum and clicking that signaled the end of the record filled the room, and Javier stood to flip sides. He shuffled across the wooden floor, before pressing the button to stop the turntable’s motor, lifting the arm, and flipping the wax. He restarted the motor, and just as soon as the needle was reset, hands were grabbing at his shoulders and he was shoved up against the wall.

The back of his head hit the hard surface, setting his vision to spin. “What the hell—” he managed to grind out, and then Steve’s lips were crashing against his own, craving, biting, set to bruise. He froze in shock before responding blindly, knotting his fingers in the wrinkled fabric of his polo, and taking simple pleasure in the heat of Steve’s mouth, the rasp of stubble against his skin.

Steve shifted, slotting one of his long legs between Javier’s and drawing a punched-out groan from the man. He pressed the whole length of his body against Javier, seemingly trying to crawl inside his skin. His lips moved to mouth at the junction where neck and jaw met, moaning against the pulse.

“Please Javi, please,” he whined, desperate.

The sound of his name shocked Javier from his daze. “Steve,” he said, pulling at the short hairs on the back of his neck, trying to gently extract himself. “Steve, stop.”

Steve didn't let up though, grasping at his chest and pressing impossibly closer.

Grunting, he grabbed Steve’s shoulders and forcibly spun them, pinning his back against the wall and wrists above his head. “I said stop,” he gritted out. “It can’t be like this.” He looked up, meeting Steve’s shifting gaze. His eyes were rimmed red and glassy, breath heaving. Despite it all, Javier still found him beautiful. “You don’t get to use me for whatever this is— as some sort of fucking morality test.”

To his credit, Steve straightened some, and Javier let his wrists fall. “What do I do, Javi,” he asked, sounding so young. So lost.

“You’re going to go upstairs,” Javier whispered, already feeling the loss. He reached to tuck an errant strand of hair behind Steve’s ear, trailing his knuckles along his cheek as he pulled away. Savoring this final moment. “To your wife. To your child. You’ll wake up in the morning and you won’t remember this. And you’ll still be a good man.”

Steve’s eyes were glassy and he blinked rapidly, looking everywhere but at his partner. He slumped against the wall, the adrenaline of the moment leaving his body and inebriation taking over.

Javier bent to sling Steve’s arm over his shoulders as support. “I’ll help you home.”

Slowly, staggeringly, Javier managed to maneuver Steve up the flight of stairs, coming to a stumbling stop in front of the second-floor apartment. He fished the keys out of Steve’s pocket and attempted to shove the key into the lock, but it proved difficult while supporting the full weight of his partner.

“Work with me, cabrón,” he gritted out.

The door began to cautiously open from the other end, and then Connie was in the doorway in her pajamas, eyes squinted against the bright light of the hallway.

“Javi?” she murmured questioningly, looking at the scene before her. “God, Steve.”

Javier steeled himself. “He had a few too many. Didn’t want to wake you and the baby.”

“Hi, Con,” Steve drawled, giving a feeble wave.

Together, they managed to get Steve into bed, and after, Connie escorted Javier back out. He shifted to stand on his hip, keeping his voice low. “Don’t bother waking him up tomorrow. I’ll call him in sick,” he instructed, unable to meet her eye.

Connie leaned up against the arch of the doorway. “Thank you,” she said softly, earnest. “We’re really lu—”

“Don’t,” he interjected, shame and guilt hot in his stomach. Fire on the back of his neck. He took a breath, recovering quickly. “No thanks needed. He’s my partner.”

She smiled, warm and appreciative. “Goodnight, Javier.”

The door closed softly behind her with a metallic clink, and he immediately rushed back down the stairs to his own apartment and the countertop where his lighter and pack of cigarettes lay. He fumbled with the container, finally fishing one out and struggling to light it. He took a deep drag when it finally caught, never more grateful for the nicotine.

He grabbed the carton and moved back to the lounge, settling heavily on the couch once again. Leaning forward, he grabbed the bottle of guaro left abandoned on the coffee table and finished off the last few mouthfuls. The alcohol was warm against the numbness that had begun to settle in his limbs.

The record had long since finished, and once again spun idly, but he didn’t move to turn off the machine. Instead, he sunk lower into the leather, fixing his gaze on the wall beside it while he smoked. Resigning himself to a sleepless night, he mourned.

*    *    *

Steve awoke the next day, heavy-limbed, head pounding, and with a crystal-clear recollection of the night before. Total sensory recall of the way Javi’s mouth had felt against his own, the grip of those rough hands in his hair, the heat and weight of his body.

Javi had lied.

Steve did not forget. And Steve certainly did not feel like a good man— personally or professionally.

So that night, when the CIA field unit called him at home with reports of an intercepted call detailing a party at a club in downtown Medellín where several tip sicarios would be meeting, he passed the information on to Carrillo and the Search Bloc, despite the cease and desist in place. And the next morning, when he was called to photograph the scene, bodies of narcos and civilians alike strewn across the concrete, he realized this was just a part of the war. That wars were won in shades of gray.

[alipaoli]

Residente - Mis Disculpas

Letra de Mis Disculpas

[Verso 1] Antes de empezar te voy a dar un par de puntos válidos Tirarte a ti es como abusar de un inválido Tirarte a ti es como dejar sin aire a un anciano Es como jugar veo veo contra José Feliciano Tú no eres real, como una cirugía en la cara (no eres real) Como las tetas de Sofía Vergara ¿Tú quieres saber qué es real? Real es que en la isla nos están clavando con una junta de control fiscal Real son los estudiantes, los maestros, profesoras Los boricuas que trabajan a 4.20 la hora Real son tus hijas, que sin ti fueron creciendo Y a pesar de que eres bruto todavía te siguen queriendo Real son los obreros mezclando yeso Real es tu mamá aguantando mientras tú estuviste preso Que tuvo que usar el dinero de la sopa Pa' que tú te compraras jabón, comida, cigarrillos y ropa Y mira como le pagas, haciéndote el sicario A nombre de ella te voy a dar con to' el abecedario Tu cerebro tamaño ciruela Es la razón por la que el gobierno tiene que dejar de cerrar escuelas Y tú me debes una, ¿ya se olvidaron? En Querido FBI le tire a los federales que te arrestaron Llorando por once años y con el culo trinco Mi hermano Oscar López Rivera hizo 35 Por defender tu bandera en todas las esquinas Y tú estuviste preso, pero por estar vendiendo heroína ¿Qué ideal de qué carajo? Once años, que no supiste lo que es llegar temprano al trabajo Y ahora estas aburrido, poniéndote viejo Cojiendo moho en tu casa peleando con el espejo Hablando solo con las moscas, pasando el rato Sin hacer nada, jugando con bolas de hilo como los gatos Y yo estoy perdiendo el tiempo Tirándole a un rapero que no sabe lo que es seis por ocho y que se llama Tempo En una casa de empeño tú eres oro de mentira Tú eres la novelita de Instagram, mientras yo estoy de gira Tu porquería de rap de lucha libre Yo me la bajo con un vaso de leche y con galletitas de jengibre Ando comiendo raperitos con la barriga vacía Ya te almorcé y todavía no ha llegado el medio día Rimando resucito a Ghandi y lo pongo a hacer yoga Un master jedi te mato sin espada como Yoda Y de todos los terremotos, yo soy el epicentro Porque después de cuatro años todavía la tienes adentro No quiero ser duro con cada palabra que escupo A ti lo que te hace falta es que te den un buen abrazo de grupo Y perdón por el monólogo Pero es que quería que vieras una estrella brillar sin tener que llamar a los astrólogos [Hook] Llegó el loco como Don Quijote de la Mancha Aquí no hay revancha, hey El Residente matándolos en su propia cancha Llegó el loco como Don Quijote de la Mancha Aquí no hay revancha, hey El Residente matándolos en su propia cancha [Verso 2] Los DJ's baratos de reguetón pop, tomen nota Yo me crié en la Calle 13, siempre fui un tipo sencillo Frente al Lago Carraizo, allá en el pueblo de Trujillo De la 13 como Alex Trujillo con diferentes caminos Con Chezina y Franco el Gorila de vecino Escribiendo to' los días sin que nadie me respalde De chamaco fan de Vico C, MC Ceja y Tego Calde Fui a la Perla a rapear, abajo en el callejón Me descubrió Carli, junto a Elías de León Y con White Lion los matamos sin sacar una pistola Sin DJ, pero con banda explotamos las consolas Con lírica fuerte sin sonar en la radio Sin payola siempre llenando los estadios Me cerraron las puertas y me dejaron puyú Y al final yo fui lo que no pudiste ser tú Tú tienes los hits de YouTube que compraste en secreto Mi hermano, nosotros tenemos el respeto Pregúntale a Paul McCartney que llena los coliseos Y tiene 300,000 views en su último video Así que quítense la corona Las redes sociales no determinan el calibre de una persona Dices que fui reguetón Di también que fui tango, bossa nova, cumbia, batucada, mambo La fusión es el concepto Con Calle 13 les empujé la mitad y ahora con Residente les empujo el resto No es el género musical si no el artista Tírale un dembow a Rubén Blades para que vean como parte la pista Rapeando soy un deportista, practico to' los días Con una rima hago que llores y que después te rías El reguetón habla de unidad y cuando me gané las estatuillas Fueron los primeros en levantarse de su silla ¿Qué querías que pusiera? ¿la otra mejilla? Si joden conmigo les cae la fiebre amarilla Combinación de punchlines rematando en tu barbilla Conmigo a las pesadilla le tiemblan las rodillas Lo que hicieron fue joder el rap en español Ustedes mismos se echan mierda encima, un autogol Lo' más bravo, pero la realidad es que no tienen los cojones pa' salir a protestar junto a la universidad Hipócrita dice alguna gente Pero si soy un independentista que vive en países independientes Me tuve que ir aunque no quisiera Pa' jugar en grandes ligas tengo que jugar afuera Y como dice Corretjer Sin duda alguna desde la cuna soy boricua aunque naciera en la luna Y cuando llego a Puerto Rico, protesto y me manifiesto Porque sin vivir allí sigo pagando impuestos Para mi esto es en serio, no es pa' pasar el rato Yo rapeo aunque esté vacío el teatro Las rimas consonantes es lo único que idolatro Y ahora me despido en compases de tres por cuatro Soy un tren sin frenos repartiendo veneno del bueno Cada vez que sueno como trueno con versos obscenos somete el relleno En pleno terreno ajeno estreno tu cabeza con un barreno Entiendes lo pillas agarra la onda cachay como Chileno Estoy en la cima por eso se orinan encima color verde lima Cuando suelto rimas en cualquier tarima No me importa el clima y al que me reprima Y el botón oprima yo lo escupo la autoestima Lo hago pedazos, los matos sin darles balazos A los huevos un rodillazo Con palabras los traspaso Rompo con todo el retraso de payaso moralista Más cuadrado que un Picasso Con tu cerebro hago un lazo Abran paso pal bombazo Si tu corazón no aguanta Corre y ponte un marca paso Escucha como deletreo con mi palabreo todo lo que veo Con cada rapeo como Galileo pongo a creer hasta los ateos A los raperitos los boxeo, los golpeo Por el culo los pateo, los pongo a tirarse peos Miren como me paseo por la pista Residente el vocalista Mi lengua está lista va a cien millas por la autopista A los raperitos baladista, hip hoperos elitistas Los tengo cabeceando como niños autistas Documentalista de la vida Soy cronista, un guionista, un anarquista Proponiendo otro punto de vista Especialista Cuando me enojo soy tan rápido que me pierden de vista Speedy Gonzalez Mis vocales pegan más duro que los guardias estatales Mis rimas son síndrome de Down, son anormales Dejando a los MC's en coma como vegetales, yo (yo) [Outro] A los chamaquitos que se queden estudiando en la escuela, porque si no quedan como estos pendejos que no pueden hacer na'. Porque son unos pendejos, porque se salieron de la escuela Estudien, no se quiten, sigan estudiando. Pa' que tiren líricas de verdad. Y a los que son del género del reguetón, ya tú sabes que los llevo siempre. No hay más que decir. Que Tego Calderón, mi inspiración. De la Ghetto, Arcángel, que salimos juntos desde allá abajo ustedes saben lo que pasamos. Yomo mi hermano, no te veo hace tiempo, pero tú sabes que te llevo siempre. Y al mejor improvisador de Latinoamérica, Wiso G, nadie puede con él. Hey Nelson toma nota, Jeff you murdered the beat. Trooko aprendan de este cabrón, que sí que sabe hacer beats. Ivy te quiero, ya tú sabes que nos vamos a ver y vamos a brindar con un jugo. Ya tú sabes, te llevo de corazón, dale

[letterboxd]

How I Letterboxd #5: Will Slater.

Talking mullets and other manes with the man behind the internet’s definitive ‘exploding helicopters in movies’ catalog.

“Man cannot live on helicopter explosions alone. Even I need some occasional intellectual nourishment.”

A London-based PR man by day, by night Will Slater has a thing (and a podcast, blog and Twitter account) for movies that feature exploding helicopters. According to his Letterboxd bio, it’s “the world’s only podcast and blog dedicated to celebrating the art of exploding helicopters in films… as well as shaming those directors who dishonor the helicopter explosion genre”. As Will tells Jack Moulton, he also loves film noir, Wakaliwood, masala movies and much more. Just don’t get him started on the one action movie cliché that never fails to disappoint.

Sylvester Stallone takes aim in ‘Rambo III’ (1988).

First things first, have you ever had a ride in a helicopter? Will Slater: What, do you think I’m mad? Of course I’ve never flown in a helicopter! If I’ve learned anything from watching hundreds of films where helicopters spectacularly explode, it’s that they are a singularly dangerous form of transport. You never know when Sylvester Stallone is going to pop up with an explosive-tipped arrow and blow you out of the sky.

I’m going to say the words ‘the definitive action hero/heroine’. Who pops into your head first? No runners-up. Go. Snake Plissken, no question, for a number of good reasons. First, there’s the look: that eye-patch, the beaten-to-hell leather jacket and Kurt Russell’s lustrous mane of hair. Second, there’s the attitude: his contempt for authority, the drawled sarcasm and all-round bad-assery. And I also like that he doesn’t have any special abilities. Action heroes generally tend to be either musclebound slabs of beef—Arnold Schwarzenegger, Stallone—or martial arts specialists—Jean-Claude van Damme, Jackie Chan—Plissken is just a pissed-off, angry dude who’s trying to stay alive. He’s very relatable. Plus, I’d argue he pretty much invented the whole anti-hero formula that rules our screens today.

Kurt Russell as Snake Plissken in John Carpenter’s ‘Escape from New York’ (1981).

When did you start your podcast and which film got you into looking deeper into the topic? It was while watching the cheesily bad Cyborg Cop that I first had an epiphany about the weird and wonderful ways in which helicopters seemed to continually explode in movies. But the film that convinced me to start documenting the phenomenon was Stone Cold. If you’re not familiar with the film, it was an attempt to turn former gridiron star and mullet-king Brian Bosworth into the next big action star. It goes without saying that Stone Cold did not transform ‘The Boz’ into the next Arnold Schwarzenegger, but the film wasn’t a total failure as it features a helicopter explosion that is as brilliant as it is gloriously stupid.

And that was the prompt to start the Exploding Helicopter. I launched the website in 2009, and the podcast followed 2015. Since we started, our aim has been a simple one: to celebrate the strange and inventive ways that helicopters explode in films.

Motorcycle crashes into helicopter in mid-air, ‘Stone Cold’ (1991).

When did you join Letterboxd? What are your favorite features here? I’ve been around since 2013. As for the features, the stats are very cool. When you dig into your viewing history, you can learn some very revealing things about yourself. For example, I generally like to think I have a commendably broad taste in film, and watch only the most important and influential works from every decade, genre and country. But then you look at the data and find you’ve watched Thunderball nine times in the last five years, so maybe you’re not as cool as you thought.

We noticed that your profile faves are low-key and explosion-free, given your theme of choice. Why these four and not Die Hard four times? Man cannot live on helicopter explosions alone. Even I need some occasional intellectual nourishment, between watching whirlybird conflagrations. There’s a little bit of nostalgia tied up in The Ipcress File. I first saw it as a kid, and it made a big impression on me. It’s very stylishly directed, has a great John Barry score and a star-making turn from Michael Caine. I’m a big film noir fan and Sweet Smell Of Success is a beautifully sour tale of cynicism and manipulation. To borrow the words of Burt Lancaster in the film, it’s a “cookie full of arsenic”.

Jean-Pierre Melville is my favorite director and Le Samouraï was the first of his films that I saw. What Melville does so masterfully in this, and his other crime films, is distil the elements of film noir. Basically, he takes the genre’s iconography—the gun, the trenchcoat, the fedora—and familiar plot tropes—the betrayed assassin, the heist gone wrong, the criminal doing one last job—then elevates them above cliché into something almost mythic. And what do I really need to say about Taxi Driver, other than it’s a masterpiece?

Now you say you shame directors who dishonor the art of helicopter explosions? Which directors did you dirty? Well, one of the biggest names in our hall of shame is Tony Scott. For a man who specialized in hyper-stylized, pyrotechnic-filled action movies, he flunked every helicopter explosion he filmed. In our eyes, one of the most egregious offences you can commit is failing to show the helicopter explosion. And in both Spy Game and Domino, old Tony cheats the viewer by having the chopper fly out of sight before it explodes. Now, I can accept such visual chicanery in a low-budget film, where they presumably don’t have the money to stage the scene, but what’s Tony’s excuse? If you look at his filmography, at one time or another he’s wrecked trains, planes and automobiles in spectacular fashion. But for some reason, he repeatedly couldn’t be bothered to give us a satisfying chopper conflagration. At a certain point, it starts to feel like a personal slight. Tony, what did I ever do to you?

In your immortal words, “a film is always improved by a helicopter explosion.” When has this been especially true? When you see lists of worst-ever directors, Uwe Boll is a name that always seems to turn up. And, according to the internet, one of his worst-ever films is the video game adaptation, Far Cry. Now, I’m not going to try [to] convince you that the film is a neglected classic, but it does have a very imaginatively staged exploding helicopter scene. It’s too convoluted to explain here, but take my word that it wouldn’t be out of place in a Fast and Furious movie.

What about the unsung heroes; the stunt artists, the pilots, the pyrotechnicians, the VFX wizards who have worked on numerous iconic action moments, all of whom deserve a shoutout? Personally, I don’t understand why the Academy doesn’t have a stunts category. But if they did, I’d be lobbying hard for Spiro Razatos to get the first award. These days, he works as a stunt coordinator on the Fast and Furious and Marvel films, but I’d like to draw people’s attention to some of his early work. Back in the nineties, he did a lot of work with PM Entertainment films, an independent company that made low-budget action films for the home video market.

They might not have had much money, but they put every cent on the screen with glorious, raucously inventive set pieces that were often more spectacular than big-budget Hollywood offerings. And remember: this was in pre-CGI times, so every death-defying detail was absolutely ‘real’. Go back and watch films like The Sweeper or Rage, and you’ll can see why Super Spiro has now graduated to these more prestigious gigs.

Narrow this list down for us: which is the ultimate most spine-tingly epic “we got company” movie moment? As you may have gathered, I do like an action movie cliché. When you encounter one in a film, it’s like meeting an old friend. And one of my favorites is when someone uses this classic line of dialog to signal that a car chase or a gun battle is about to start. I’ve heard people deliver the line in all sorts of ways–funny, scared, angrily and often just badly. But if you want spine-tingly, then you can’t beat Harrison Ford in Star Wars. He drops the line during the detention-block scene after failing to bluff an imperial officer. As soon as he says it, John Williams’ iconic score kicks in. It gives you the ‘feels’ every time.

“Boring conversation anyway.” Han Solo and Chewbacca in ‘Star Wars’ (1977).

And which action movie cliché can you simply not stand? Stop it: my hackles are raising just thinking about it. For me, the trope that never fails to disappoint is the ‘reluctant’ hero being convinced to take up arms and join the fight. You know the scene. Invariably, the hero has hung up their spurs and is living a bucolic existence ‘off the grid’, when a gruff buddy shows up asking them to risk almost certain death by taking on ‘one last job’. Now, dialog is rarely an action film’s greatest strength, and these beefcake actors generally are not cast for their dramatic chops. Which means we get subjected to the same perfunctory and uninteresting scene over and over again: “I told you, I’m out the game”, “Goddamnit, we need you”, “OK, I’ll do it”. These scenes just never work and are never less than painful to watch.

Which up-and-coming action director are you most excited about? In terms of up-and-coming action talent, I’d pick the director Stefano Sollima. I first noticed his work on a couple of TV series: the fantastic Italian crime dramas, Romanzo Criminale and Gomorrah. The way he composed shots really stood out, and it was clear he had a very cinematic eye. He rather reminds me of Michael Mann. He’s now on Hollywood’s radar and got to direct Sicario: Day of the Soldado the other year. And he’s lined up to make a Tom Clancy adaptation with Michael B. Jordan. I can’t wait to see what he comes up with.

Have you witnessed the glory that is Wakaliwood—Ugandan DIY action filmmaking—three of which make Letterboxd’s official top ten films by black directors? Which international films do you feel out-match Hollywood? I love the Wakaliwood films I’ve seen. It’s fascinating to watch action films from around the world and see their different styles and flavors. Recently, I’ve been trying to investigate Indian cinema and, in particular, what are known as ‘masala movies’. These mix action, comedy, drama, romance and dance numbers into one big, crazy, entertaining mess. They’re a unique experience. If you want to check one out, I’d suggest Dhoom 2. It’s bananas.

Can you believe there are only two female directors represented in your exploding helicopter list? Do you believe that’s due to systemic or thematic reasons? You have to say it’s systemic. Men have dominated filmmaking for more than a century. Until women have the same opportunities to direct and make films as men, it’s impossible to know what their interest may or may not be in blowing up helicopters. [Will has previously written about the search for “true gender equality in the world of exploding helicopters”.]

To address the elephant in the room, how has Kobe Bryant’s unfortunate death earlier this year changed the way you look at these scenes? Obviously, I appreciate that Kobe Bryant’s death was very shocking and a tragedy for his family and fans. But basketball really is not a thing on these grim shores, so it didn’t register with us unenlightened Brits other than [as] a sad headline about a US sports star.

What was your most anticipated movie event of 2020 before Covid-19 pushed every tentpole back? That’s easy: No Time To Die. I’m a huge Bond fan and as soon as tickets were available, I booked myself in to see it on opening day at an IMAX. But if the Daniel Craig era is synonymous with anything, it’s lengthy delays between films.

Freerunner Sébastien Foucan in the opening scene from ‘Casino Royale’ (2006).

What’s a fond memory you have in theaters related to the Bond franchise? I remember going to see Casino Royale. I was excited, but also nervous to see it. The Brosnan era had ended with the risible Die Another Day: invisible cars, kitesurfing and, worst of all, John Cleese’s awful Q. Since that had come out, we’d had Mission: Impossible, Bourne and the Triple X films, so it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that Bond might be finished. Then the first ten minutes of Casino Royale happened. And while that outstanding parkour-inspired chase was terrifically exciting, it also hit me like cinematic Valium. I suddenly realised I could sit back and relax, safe in the knowledge that 007 was going to be just fine.

Are you planning on returning to theaters as soon as you can? When would you feel comfortable? I’m taking a wait-and-see approach. I’d love to see films back on the big screen again, but I want to know more about how cinemas are going to maintain social distancing inside.

Finally, what three Letterboxd accounts should we all be following? Why not give Todd Gaines, Jayson Kennedy or Fred Andersson a follow? If you’re interested in genre films that are a little off the beaten trail, they’ll likely all steer you towards some hidden gems.

[what2watch2night]

MONOS One Of The Most Complete Cinematic Experience Of 2019

Seeing Alejandro Landes MONOS this late might be "anti-climatic" considering the buzz died down - or maybe the anticipation/expectation is at apogee, which can be dangerous and leads to disappointment - nevertheless, it was one of the most surprising viewing experience if the year.

Especially now, it seems almost criminal to know that the film was not shortlisted for foreign/international picture, but it's not surprising considering how edgy MONOS is! It is the kind of movie that can make a lot of people (conventional viewers who are big portion of Oscars' voters) feel very uncomfortable because it involves kids and very sensitive subjects. It abounds psychological and physical violence among other evocative controversial themes.

The main cast is almost exclusively teens playing child soldiers for the guerrilla, guarding over a hostage in remote camps in the mountains or the jungle. In fact, MONOS is classified as thriller war movie type, which is absolutely right as a whole, but when seeing the movie viewers might not necessarily see it as a one (war movie), which is interesting as the film develops more into an adventure series of unfortunate events with psychological elements. If you're going in knowing nothing about it, in the beginning, you will get a sense that these kids / the child soldiers of sorts are brainwashed or definitely in some kind of cult, but we don't really know their purpose. And realistically we can imagine the kids themselves don't even know their purposes, but we clearly understand the motives behind keeping the "doctora", or the white foreign woman. Obviously we will figure this out a bit more scene after scenes, with hints here or there, and things said, but we also  don't really get a sense that someone knows what is happening as they seem to go with the flow. There's no endgame (***NO SPOILER HERE but up until the end nobody knows!!!) and at many points in MONOS, things change and surprise characters and audiences alike. This feeling of uncertainty adds to the atmosphere of dread, and exceptionally sad and dramatic conditions of the youngster on top of all the crazy responsibilities and pressure on their tiny shoulders.

MONOS is a hard one to judge because there's so much to like, there is so much that isn't like anything out there, and there is also so much that could've been better,  could've been G.R.E.A.T. To be fair it's already great in many ways, but it could've really been the best (well  it will be hard, again, to compete against PARASITES this year! But for some reasons, many of these films have the same vibes about people or the oppressed taking over (or trying to) power or things - or both - from the oppressor or the rich people!)

But let’s dig into few things that made MONOS one of 2019 best

SOUND AND MUSIC

The music was MONOS special ingredient, it was as powerful and as crucial in making it great. The score, by the great Mica Levi,  was actually playing sporadically and many will not notice that while watching the movie because it was incorporated in such a clever way. But reading, afterward, that it was only 20 minutes or so of the movie makes us realize how impactful and crucial it was. It is, of course, a "dread-inducing" score in the vein of SICARIO by the late Johann Johannsson or using specifics sound like Nolan movies and the famous Brammmsss" *there was actually a "Brammms" in MONOS, a very distinctive sound emanating anxiety. Although the songs were captivating in their own rights, it was more about sounds and notes rather than melody almost like in Micachu previous UNDER THE SKIN  or films like ANNIHILATION (well we will still remember those famous foreboding 5 notes forever and ever!) We might not remember or be able to hum MONOS score but we remember how it felt and THIS is a very important. That being said this is one of the best scores of the year along with Fatima Al Qadiri ATLANTICS (hey hey hey  2 women composers who did stunning work this year but who might, or might not be overlooked by the Academy... just like their directors’ counterpart! Are we not tired of this s#$%t yet!? #sorrynosorry )

This also brings us to the sound design that was like the movie’s visual and attitude, visceral and "all about the evocation of feelings". From the water flows in the river, tormenting mosquitoes, to torrential rain, to the tedious cutting of jungle plants, the walking/falling in the slippery mud, or children playing with noise because YES they are children. Everything was well done and even more mind-blowing when reading about the composer process. For example the use of the whistling and different types of whistles to represent different emotions, purpose or person. (interestingly, there was another movie using this same subject this year, well it was actually central to the films, hence its name THE WHISTLER! But strangely it was used to more effective degrees in MONOS as it felt very instinctive and ingenious, it's really hard to find another movie using this so well)

SCENES AND VISUAL If we have to talk about one absolutely incredible scene we have to talk about "the rapids scene". It totally blows mind, and it's amazing how they manage to film this - and that they actually filmed it with the kids in the water with the help of the national kayak team and the help of Peter Zuccarini as underwater director of photography couple with cinematography by Jasper Wolf and the whole direction by Alejandro Landes is quite amazing and most of all, it is very surprising. They filmed in the jungle in areas that were not explored before, or at high altitudes without water electricity or with very limited resources. So reading about the making-of of this film makes us appreciate all the crazy details and incomparable imagery. The closest thing visually available this year in terms of the intensity and feel would have to be WAVE with all the up & down and angst (like the teenagers at the centers of both films) and the way the camera and story really follows the characters in every frame, and, in an often very very focused manner, with thigh shots on face. To be honest from the beginning it's very striking how we witness a fresh and certain new style of film-making that is quite inspiring. It is also good to note that we have this new wave of films and filmmakers from all over the world reclaiming stories. (Considering the director was very familiar with these stories) In addition, since MONOS is also a survivalist story of sorts it might evoke films like THE REVENANTS with incredible/unbelievable things happening but rooted in hard-core realism without forsaking arts and technique.(well there is a trippy scene that went for "subtle trippy" and yet conveyed the appropriate response in a low-key MIDSOMMAR way...!)

THE ACTING Okay, we have to do it even if it's very redundant to talk about the acting for all those great movies, but truly here ALL the actors (Sofia Buenaventura, Julián Giraldo, Karen Quintero, Laura Castrillón, Deiby Rueda, Paul Cubides, Sneider Castro, Moises Arias, Julianne Nicholson, Wilson Salazar) did a TERRIFIC job. Taking into consideration that for all but one of the kids and Nicholson they had no prior experience. It was magnificent portrayals of fully formed characters especially for a story involving undoubtely hard themes with harsh violence, but, even if not shown the cast managed to relate horrific or devastating events with their facial expressions. It was striking and very strange how real it all felt, the closest movies involving child soldier is likely BEAST OF NO NATION which was a different beast, to say the least, all about that dark intensity and unlike MONOS we did not really get to see "kids being kids shenanigans" much (although they were younger...) MONOS also obviously took some inspiration from LORD OF THE FLIES and there are nods here in there, as well as APOCALYPSE NOW for the war/rebellion part, but contrarily there are only very few hints of mysticism on magic realism.

 MONOS can also bring to mind film like BEAST OF SOUTHERN WILDS - might be far-fetched you might say, okay! - and we also have WENDY by the same director coming soon so maybe with some LORD OF THE FLIES vibe so we might have a pattern here!

OBSERVATIONS ABOUT THE STORY AND THE ENDING

Many will appreciate  the fact that no country or group is mentioned, or specified. They always call it 'The Organization' or even if the group they are part of is called Monos, at some point, they even go incognito without a name... Without trying to spoil anything, but even at the credit roll we do not really know for sure, which is particularly very very frustrating! ( a-la Nolan, trying to leave it up to our imagination but surely we can guess more element  as this is not science fiction but inspired by grim events from Latin American countries like Columbia and  para-military groups -  it's good to mention that the actor playing the trainer was actually a child soldier who the filmmaker found in a rehabilitation camp where he actually spent time researching for the film. So this is why all the details felt so genuine) BUT what beautiful and powerful ending echoing the real-life situation about what is happening in this part of the world, the population and these kids are left without concrete solutions...

MORAL OF THE STORY: ***8/10

MONOS is one of the best films of 2019 and it will be a real shame not to see it for yourself. It is one of those movie that is a complete viewing experience. It has a great story that will keep you on the edge of your seat, some bonkerz details that will entertain you, some absorbing chase and "action scene", some dramatic moments that will make you think, and, of course, a moral and ending that will gut punch you like it should.

[1morey]

I like how everyone was basically like, “How can Ubisoft top Danish La Llorona and Commissioner Gordon?” And Ubisoft gives us Alejandro Gillick from Sicario and Peruvian Anti-Indiana Jones.

[dreamofhircine]

the problem w/ making a poignant anti-war (any war, really) movie in the modern era is that some asshole five to ten years late is going to mine it out for a series of awful sequels like Jarhead 3 or Sicario 2 which completely miss all the reasons that the originals were critically acclaimed in favor of appealing to a crowd of men in the suburbs who exclusively wear Diesel jeans & Ed Hardy shirts