Morir Es Vivir

Crackdowns have begun to curve offensive language, sensitive material, and any content that society disapproved and thought posed injury to the emotions.

It all started with the “Cancel Culture” in the early 21st century but after the Covid-19 epidemic, people were left in fear, anxiety, depression, among other psychological illnesses.

Perhaps it was the virus itself that researchers at Stanford provided “evidence that SARS-Covid 19 causes profound molecular changes in the brain.” Or maybe it was the vaccine but evidence here is limited. However, in all certainty after the pandemic people were more emotionally disturbed. This could be easily noticed as you walk the streets of major metropolitan cities, when you use public transportation or anywhere for that matter.

The news was bombarded with stories of violence, burglary, and oddities like people defecating in public, talking to themselves, and shouting like a lunatic.

Following this social chaos the government tried to control the situation by allowing the healthcare system to be more lenient on drug prescription. People wouldn’t submit so to counter the state started using military force to implement their laws.

It didn’t take much for the people to submit. With crime so rampant, desperation and their emotions hindering reason, Bill 4891 was passed. A law allowing MCTF (Mental Crisis Task Force) to implement a rigid enforcement of laws and policies in the work place, in public space, in the media, to be ultra sensitive to people’s emotions. Anyone disobeying could be fined, incarcerated, and if there’s no hope, lobotomized.

But in every enforced system there is opposition. This group, however, wasn’t secretive nor was it underground. It was in the open, right where the MCTF can see them, make their presence felt, and finding no infraction, disappeared away.

There were quite a few but were rapidly disappearing. Sometimes overnight, sometimes with no trace, sometimes with no question. One of them was in a popular park that was a haven for immigrants in a greener area of New York City. They called themselves Recocheros who met everyday after work.

A group of about fifteen people would meet daily but not all at once, depending on their schedules and line of work. They were all lead by Oink, as he was called. He was the beer baron of the pasture.

They gathered to vent, drink, smoke, and mainly talk shit behind the now authoritarian regime.

Cannabis had become legal all across the continent but not alcohol. At the protest of big breweries, they were forced to close because they said it caused confusion and prevented people from controlling their emotions. So in comes Oink who fermented fruit and sold it at a profitable price.

Yes, Oink, because when he was thinner he would squeal like a pig mocking Bigote, who had always been chubby, while they played soccer. But such was life there.

RBD is among the first to enter the park, walking straight a mile into the bushiest part of the area that’s surrounded by elm trees. They called it Field One. The MCTF frequented the area from time to time to make their presence felt but many times did not get close enough to overhear the garbage and trash-talking going on.

Around late afternoon RBD enters the park complaining “Damn it! It’s bad enough we can’t hit on a woman without alarming her senses but don’t you hate it when you’re checking out a female and another woman is scowling at you for doing so?”

Puma, a veteran, then responds, “Who cares we are here!” and takes a big swig of a Jack Daniel’s type drink that feels like it but definitely doesn’t have the corn and malted barley taste.

Soon, the rest of the day’s crew started to pop in. In came Paraguay, Cepillo, Omar, Tanke, and etc. Their names are not important, their reason was. That Freedom to express relentlessly like a quench of thirst in a warm and humid summer day in an island surrounded by water.

They talked, they disparaged each other basing on the other person’s nationality, eccentricity, even deformity. You would think people were affected and made emotional to the brink of tears. No! Instead people weren’t laughing at each other but with each other.

This was the hour of togetherness, displaying true human nature. Evolution had made us stronger, resilient, not only against predators but also against depression that had led many to suicide in the mid 21st Century.

It was Fall and as people worked knowing that daytime will start ending early come October, they became desperate to get out and feel a little bit free, to relieve stress and tension from work. It wasn’t even sexual as prostitution finally had become legal among the most powerful countries in the world; so a sexual tension release wasn’t the culprit of their anxiety. It was freedom in the most basic of forms: Communication.

Sometimes people think they are in good company but there is always one rotten individual of the bunch who believes that the system works. They enjoyed only the camaraderie of the group, relishing in something secretive and taboo. Sooner or later that urge to revolt against his own group for a monetary or social status became too enticing.

Any member of society who turned in such group not only received a small digital monetary compensation but was viewed by society as a patriot loyal to the world mission of bringing order to society. Many no longer questioned this; their reasoning prowess was governed by laws and medication.

One day Rumi was pissed about something. Nobody knows, he arrived angry; saluted only his best buddy. He talked very little. He was the riot of the group who told jokes, did mock-comedy, satirized society, and made witty remarks on everyday life. This time, however, he sat a little far from everyone in another tree log far but very visible, drinking alcohol he made on his own.

It was getting dark. This guy named Rumi had drank too much and before leaving made loud remarks on the group. He was too drunk to be understood but it sounded like it came from pain and the alcohol had made him a bit angry. Someone heard “I am La Recocha!” before going into the deep side of the forest which was dark and cold. He could not have seen the road if not for an early Full Moon.

The group became worried. Something similar had happened before a decade ago. When for some reason or another someone had isolated himself, mixed that pain with alcohol and disappeared. The next day the area was raided. All disappeared forever except two. But they might as well have disappeared forever because they were never the same again. The next time they saw these two they had a large scar in the prefrontal cortex area of the head.

The rest of the Recocha had gathered one day to discuss Rumi’s issue. It was November, nearing the end of the year. Anyone, to be compensated for ousting such groups in January of the coming year had to do it now, or whatever treason done in one year had to wait for the following year to be compensated.

Tanke, RBD, and Paraguay gathered everyone one Friday evening. The November weather had become cooler than previous decades. So much so that sometimes the Mental Crisis Task Force were to cozy in their offices to make their rounds.

It was obvious. The crackdowns had become more prevalent. It could even be said that La Recocha and one other group a few miles at the end of the vast park were the last groups surviving this freedom suppressing onslaught.

They had agreed that for the foreseeable future the pond that some crossed to get to La Recocha would be the perfect area to hide the small bottles carrying ounces of alcohol, magazines, hard disks containing comedians the likes of Daniel Tosh, Chris Rock, and most certainly of George Carlin were to be placed in a treasure chest made out of steel and sank to the bottom to be recuperated at a later time.

To not raise suspicion only two were assigned to the task: RBD and Pikachu, the least menacing of the group due to their size and strength. This would not draw suspicion they said but It was too late.

Soon enough the MCTF made rounds to the families’ of la Recocha. Some members were caught while eating, others while bathing, and some doing their dirty deeds. They were swiped into the ban despite the wives and children’s wailing.

Tanke, Paraguay, Cepillo, Omar were all hauled away like animals; beaten, bloodied, cursed at. There was no mercy. More mercy was given to Islamic terrorists of the early 21st Century.

Pikachu and RBD had secured what seemed the last expression of Liberty deep down the pond river which flowed from the lakes of Queens down to the Atlantic Ocean. It was heavy enough to remain there. However, winters passed and nobody visited the area where La Recocha took place.

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One January winter, among the now overgrown shrubs and weed, a beautiful young lady walked her dogs across the barren fields. Not only was she handling her two dogs but by another leash was someone else she took care of. He smiled a lot. It was once said that he was very chubby and had great talent at fermenting alcohol.

His smile didn’t mean he was happy. His brain could no longer express accurately his feelings for the portion of his brain that made the coordination to act appropriately was no longer there. Inside, however, he felt the sad nostalgic emotion of being in that place.

A great woman once said, “Uno siempre vuelve a los viejos sitios donde amo la vida...y entonces comprende como estan de ausente las cosas queridas.” Chavela Vargas I think was her name.

After that several years passed by. Winter became harsher. The Lake where the taboo items were placed never thawed for as long as anyone cared. Nobody had visited the place. It had become a frozen Jungle. Outside, the rest of the world seemed happier, calmer. But here and there a small twitch in one eye, the brain alerted an innate reaction of a battle between moral responsibility and personal freedom.