Light My Fire.

Prologue.

1971, Brazil.

Jaundice eyes and skin. Lament for a dying world.

His skin, his flesh, had been dug into by his own nails.

Bite marks, painted his forearm, his ulna ached of severe pain, his own wounds.

His stomach, it wanted to spill itself out again, the entire wall heaving in utter pain, his body was on fire.

He, noticed that his cuff was loose, the entire suit was loose, it fit different.

The ring, did not firmly hug the finger, it fell and shattered on the ground.

He closed his eyes, his stomach aching, another wave of nausea.

He, had vomit dried near his lips. His chin, had saliva dripping down the curve and mount.

Blue eyes, and upturned eyebrows.

Wind, blew on the city below, the palm trees waving near the beach.

The yellow man, looked to the window, his ulna aching from the bites.

The blue man, laid on the bench nearby, his long blonde hair ran down the sides of his neck, curling and intersecting by the nape.

His eyes turned from the window to the other man in the room.

He, puked into the trashcan by his desk, his body shaking/

His eyes, kept moving, to the door by the entrance.

He spoke, the colours changing to a night filled with stars.

'Joao.'

His breath dissipated to the cold air out, his tie loose.

His eyes were stuck to the stars, not looking at the man beside him.

A ledge, a balcony overlooking the city.

'Rio De Janeiro.'

atlas, he spoke, fine fires in the distance, the slums certainly.

It was a celebration.

'Palma.'

These two led the wars in the Brazilian southeast.

one, was president, Palma. The other was his boss, 'Joao.'

They saw the riots below.

Waited, was the sunrise in hours.

----

At the camp of nothing, it was rotting wood, that was what housed the children.

Cuffs, chainlinks, guns and keys littered the floor. Firewood was in the second shed to the right, that is where the meals were given out- mice and wild boar cooked in shrapnel. The soldiers, were kept on their knees, their eyes blinded and gouged already. They, kneeled, side to side, staring into the nothingness of the rotting yellow walls in front of them,

They, dug their nails into the wood.

Green, dark green uniforms, were covered in blood, the blood of the others around them.

They, they tried very hard to notice the thin sliver of light peeking out from a crack in the top corner, but one by one, they were plucked off and killed- they smelt burning from the back.

Children, men and women, they tried to cross into Brazil from their east, ending up in an endless jungle.

They, were killed in front of a child who ‘was’ them until he spoke his truth.

the whole thing. It was seen by him.

-

One was Brazilian, and that saved his life.

'Trem Dedoido' an eleven year old runaway.

The rest of the children, were the offspring of the Argentinian soldiers,

And they were all killed in front of him.

He ended west, waking up in Ponta Grosso.

His eyes were burned by the sun rising off the coast.

A figure approached him.

—-

It was all fake, and it was made up by the sinners and the sooners.

The war, continued in the east.

Argentina, was at the end.

An economic collapse, was acoming,

And for Brazil,

It, had decayed.

The eyes of the children were different from the generals, and more different than their fathers.

The eldest woke.

—

‘Slyvia’ stood next to Palma.

His cheek was bruised and gashed.

They-the group- looked around.

Jungle, hidden by even deeper trees.

On the ground, was the leader.

The argentinian rebel-led a group to start revolting in the far east region of Argentina a month after the war started.

He, caused trouble for them, but he killed some soldiers near the border.

Palma, let the time pass, and his bleeding stopped.

He, spoke,

“Let him live.”

And he will join us.

‘Riquelme.’

He will be given his own army.

The rebels, were all dead, he was the exception.

But, he was going to be given a new chance.

East border, he met his group,

A strangle of child soldiers.

Their mission, was to make the country collapse.

—---

Chapter 1. Light my fire.

Riquelme. His eyes- were unrecognizable to his wounded, widowed mother.

The wind, blew, slicing and hurting the pupils that were open, he shut them.

His men, were dead, childhood friends brought up in the same school, in the same small town south of the border, he, was an argentinian native.

He, remembered the thoughts of his dying friend. A native like him, the same school and all.

Some sort of ‘engineer.’ brought in by his rebel group,

Tears spilled, he kept hearing the wind roar.

Now, he was dead, and in front of him was the man who killed him,

He, had no true name but,

‘Slyvia’ fit him well.

And behind him, was his crew.

Riquelme, was not dead. He was spared.

He took what he got. Living and living, onward and outthrust- it was the best for his plans, but his men were dead, his friends, the people he had known, lived with, died with. They, were not spared.

‘Balls.’ he had to have them, or they would be chopped off.

The rest, was hazy for him, and he remembered the faint whiskey breath of Sylvia, and the men behind him stunk of the same cheap liquor illegally shined in the jungle, it was his family's old business.

‘Cais .’ was the name of his friend's life, the blueprints he engineered,

They were hidden, and he only knew of the space around, the exact location was something no one knew.

Riquelme, he prayed in his soul was the clue, but maybe he was.

Riquelme, looked to the stars, the night falling down the pristine, fragile marble stairs an egocentric created, a new city rising from their abilities.

Rio, and at the footsteps of the capital, his dream ended, being given a new soul by someone he least expected.

The president of the country who was at war with his, the same man who tried to assassinate his country's leader in the summer of 1968, when his sister was brought into this world by their mother, in that old blue house in the city.

‘Vacho.’

He knew why he was there.

He looked around, he smelt faint vomit, it struck him.

He, felt his eyes water.

‘Palma.’ Joao spoke for him, his lip curled, drool slightly dripping down from the rough dark red skin. Ashy, puss leaked, he scratched it too often, not handling the irritation.

He smelt like shit.

Riquelme, kept the vomit swirling in his mouth, closing it shut, letting the president speak.

Palma,

‘You.’

He, continued. Riquelme closed his tired eyes, a slight ache and burn behind them.

He hoped he would not learn.

“You will lead it” the death of his region.

‘Cais’ it revolved in his mind,

Cause it would change the world. That was what he promised, the man who died.

-

Riquelme, knew no time.

He kept his eyes on the child hidden, the one who remained and flaunted his own sort of twisted blood, one that splattered on his dark green shoes.

Long, bushy black hair, small eyes and curly eyebrows, he had already grown faint stubble around his chin, his lip had a scar on the bottom, it only showed more of it if he curled it up- a wince, a tear, he was a child.

He, asked for his name.

And for a second, they both made eye contact.

They shared hazel brown eyes, but his were a darker hue,

“Trem” the boy answered, the wind tousling his hair from both sides.

Riquelme, stood still in front of him as the air touched his sides, making him shiver.

He, was a pillar standing right in front of him.

And your last name?

“Trem Dedoido.” his name, the teenage boy who survived it.

Around him, were the bodies of his dead family,

They, were mistaken for the enemy.

-

In the sun, it hit Sylvia's eyes, but he kept staring back at it, just until the wind blew his eyelashes part, he, turned his attention back to what was at hand.

‘Palma .’ and ‘Joao.’

And, he was handed a pistol.

Palma and Joao spoke for each other, they, were each other.

“I see”, said palma.

“Go, go for the country”, said joao.

It, made him wake up from his dream,

And in the morph, hours and fire seemed to pass,

He, was back in Janeiro, Riquelme in the backseat of a pickup.

It, repeated, he kept seeing the rotting face of Joao, and the smirk of Palma.

The road, it seemed endless infront of him, the hidden peek of a window only he saw/

It rocked him back and fourth, gently tossing him up and down.

He, cried softly.

Dont, dont feel stressed, spoke his mother, shun from above.

He, kept crying, feeling it all.

And the vibrations, it made him only feel it more, unwavering.

-

In the same region, they were both unknowing.

They had different blueprints.

One, was a rebel, his blood ran with hate for the country he and his people had lost.

They were thoughtless immigrants in the region north of the Cascavel region.

One, was the leader of the pack. His name was tattooed into the skulls of those his men killed for him.

He did not get his hands dirty.

His name was Hernan Crespo.

Cascavel, they were marauders of themselves.

-

He, looked to the party, sluts and drinkers, both, they grinded on each other, blaring, nauseating jazz beneath, heroin and fentanyl, the rape of the drunk women in the corner,

The women protecting, they were asleep themselves, under our spell.

And after the party, some man came up to him.

-

Seriado.

-

Riquelme, Sylvia, they seemed to wake up at the same time.