Pablo was in good shape, respectively, but the men standing next to him were massive. Standing about 5'10 and 200 pounds, the men next to him had to be 6'3 or 6'4 and close to three hundred. Not only that, but they had guns. The lock inside slide open, and the heavy but decrepit door opened. The room was dimly lit. Dingy curtains that allowed minimal lighting were the only thing stopping the sunlight. Curtains that looked as though they hadn't been washed in some time, or even moved for that matter. The door which they came in through was falling apart, crooked on its hinges but the lock was sturdy. One of those old locks, almost as if from the middle ages, that made a loud latching noise and was almost as heavy as the door itself. The old house was in the middle of the jungle, away from everything. Weeds were growing almost up to the windows, and the front step was chipped and falling apart. It was clear that this house hadn't been lived in for quite some time, if ever.

"Llegas tarde" the man inside almost spat, his eyes staring through the three men. Yes, they were late, but it took what felt like a day to get out here. Jungle roads are not a pleasant drive in nice weather, not to mention it had been raining for most of the previous week.

The two men accompanying him said nothing, just light nods, and all three walked into the old apartment.

A couch sat in the room, ripped and holes covering it, and rats ran across the floor in the corners. The couch was the only feature in the room. Did these men live here? There were no cars, how did they get here? There was a small TV in the corner, no more than 11 inches, and it had rabbit ears twisted into odd shapes. Reception most likely wasn't good way out here.

The kitchen was just as barron as the rooms. Only a few plates with food scraps and a few empty bottles with tobacco spit in them. Pablo's eyes shot around....this was the perfect place to kill someone. Nobody would ever know.

These men didn't want to kill him, though. They needed him. Pablo was hand chosen. Years before, he took a dealers product over state lines and had passed several police check points to do so. He had earned his stripes and had been able to live his life normally, until now. In a white tee, stained a yellowish tint from sweating in the tropical heat, and a pair of Salmon colored shorts with flip flops, Pablo looked like an average joe. Nothing spectaular about him, but nothing super out of the ordinary either. Just a middle class dude from one of the poorest countries in the western world.

He was motioned by the man who answered the door to sit down on the ratty couch. The TV had some news story on about the recent batch of arrests in Colombian Airports on people trying to smuggle drugs out of the country. The man turned and looked at Pablo, his eyes were like razor blades. In perfect Spanish, he said, "you are going to do a favor for us. We have connections in America, and we need to make sure the connections get taken care of."

Pablo didn't know what to think. Sure, he shared a name with Colombian Drug lord Pablo Escobar, but he was no drug mule. He never got into that life, and had no interest to. The only reason he carried the product over the country line all those years ago was because that dealer was a friend of the family. These men of course didn't know that.

Or did they?

They made Pablo watch this news story on the grainy, static TV. They all smoked cigarettes, assumingly hand rolled. The house (if you could call it that) had a musky smell, like sex and old booze mixed with the ingrained smell of chain smoking. A single stained mattress lie in each room, no sheets or pillows. The stains were a mix of colors. Pablo thought he would gag, but his head was jerked forcefully away from the room--he could only see through slightly ajar doors anyway--and back towards the television.


"¡Presta atención!" The door man barked at him to pay attention. He had weaselly hair, obviously affected from the humid climate, tied behind his head in a pony tail. Jet black. He had a Colombian flag as his bandanna.

The sweat stained it darker than it should originally be. The man, whose name he still didn't get and wasn't in a rush to ask for, smoked at least 3 cigarettes before the newscast ended. When the television went to a grainy commercial about some plantine flavored yogurt, the nameless door man spoke again.
"Pendejo"......real people person he was.

"Yu get all tha mayne?"

Pablo knew instantly what the strange smoking man wanted from him, and he felt sick to his stomach. Pablo had a fiance, pregnant at that, back home. She had gone to the market early to get some fresh fruit and he woke up to these two mammoth men pointing guns in his face. He was living a normal life until this morning.

"N---n0" he stammered out.

Instantly the two guns clicked, and they were pointed at his head.

"Stand up, pendejo".

Did he have a choice?

The floor boards creaked under him as he stood. One man came out of what appeared to be a closet--a different man than the others. He had what looked like a vest in his hands. It looked like it was Velcro that was turned inside out. Pablo felt the put of one of the guns on his back, and he shuffled foward towards the approaching vest man. Smoking door man stood there, watching through narrow eyes.

Pablo was fitted for the vest.

The men looked at each other nodding. He would be perfect for this job, and they all seemed to agree. Smoking, nameless door guy ran a hand through his greasy locks and ashed his cigarette on the crusty wooden table.

"Trae las cosas" he said in a gritty tone. Bring the stuff.....what stuff?

Pablo wanted to facepalm himself for asking himself that. He knew exactly what stuff. His eyes shot to the door. It wasn't more than 30 feet away. He could run, and make it. But as soon as he got outside it was a different story. He didn't know the jungle. He would be shot before he could even reach the tree line.

He swallowed down hard as the door guy lit another cigarette. The vest man came and began putting what looked like books wrapped in duct tape all around the inside of the vest. All he could do was close his eyes and accept it. Weighed down by the packages. He didn't need to guess what was inside.

1 HR LATER

The ride was rocky over the unkempt roads that headed towards the airport. Pablo felt weighed down, even sitting. They dressed him in a dress shirt and slacks, as if he was travelling for business. Smart move? A fake suitcase and some nice but scuffed dress clothes.

This is something they have done before.

The airport loomed in the distance. He could tell they were getting close when the traffic began to increase. There was always more traffic near the airport.

The men in the car didn't talk to him the entire way. He was left to his thoughts, which was a worse torture than if they were talking, honestly.

When they got closer, he couldn't help but notice the street signs were graffiti'd over. This was an omen to him. Something was going to go wrong.

When the car sputtered to a stop outside the airport in Bogata, he got out without saying a word. He knew that this was going to go one of two ways, but either way he didn't have a choice. Taking a deep breath, he took his fake suitcase out of the trunk and walked inside. People looked at him, as most people look at you when you enter an airport, and he tried to tell himself they didn't "know." Every time someone came within ten feet of him, his heart raced. He tried to calm himself down, but he could feel himself sweating. The scene was a blur and he continued to talk, not even really paying attention to where he was--zoning out--until a voice broke him out of his moving trance.

"Identificación" the security agent's voice was like cutting through flesh. It made him shiver. With steady, but not perfect, hands Pablo reached into his pocket for his passport. He handed it to the man in front of him. He felt himself sweating but it was summertime in Bogata and was over 100 degrees outside. He figured the sweating would be expected.

The man looked at the passport, then at him up and down. After what felt like about a month of eye contact, the man nodded and handed back his passport, stepping aside.

Heading to the actual security line, Pablo's faith was a little more restored. Nobody thought anything of him.

That is when it happened. Two agents in suits, white men, American's, approached him. They had stone cold looks in their eyes and on had a hand on the gun on his hip. Pablo's instincts began to scream at him.

RUN.

Even if he waned to his muscles were frozen. He couldn't move. The men got to him and instantly were up in his face. "Sir, we are going to have to ask you to come with us. We have had a lot of smuggling attempts lately, and we need to make sure that no narcotics are leaving Bogata, en route to the United States."

Pablo looked at him, he kept his eyes steady.

"Gentamen," he says, "I have a business meeting in Houston" (Houston was t he only city in America, besides Miami, that he knew the name of). "I nee' to catch plane, I no nothan' about no smuggling, no drugs......."

"They all say that."

The one man grabbed his arm, in an attempt to escort him to the back room. Pablo again, trying to keep steady, had a reply.

"This es my country. You come here, an' assume that jus' because I fly to America that I am smuggling. That es racist. I am important position at trade company. I go to America to improve relations."

The men looked at him, still trying to get him to move , a hand on his arm, without trying to make it look too obvious. They didn't want to cause a scene. Smugglers never try anything in places where scenes are made....its bad enough to damn news in Bogata wouldn't shut the hell up.

"What's the name of the company?" One of the American agents asked. He has a pin on on lapel that said DEA, and on the other that said ATF. His thick mustache seemed to be eating his upper lip and his eyes were piercing behind his thick rimmed glasses.

Pablo began to feel his brain racking. He remembered the talk the men had with him in the house. He remembered the story. He remembered the card.

He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card, handing it to the man. It was for a company in Houston called BioUrja Trading, LLC. Initially founded to supply the physical and bioethanol to the U.S. refining industry, BioUrja Trading has since evolved into a leading supplier of natural gas, LPG, refined petroleum products and crude oil, in addition to maintaining its strong presence in bioethanol supply and trading sector.

The agent looked at the card and put a finger up. He pulled out his phone and called the number on it.

"What is your last name?"

"Lopez."

The dial tone rang, and Pablo's future hung in the balance.

------Back at the old jungle house, the phone rang and the men sitting around playing cards smiled. They had been waiting for this phone to ring, it means Pablo had presented the card. The voice on the other end was surely American.

In the corner, his hands tied behind him and a sweaty bandanna in his mouth, was a white American business man named Chad. They dragged him over to the table and sat him down. Cocking the gun and putting it to his head, they made him answer the phone.

"Biourja Group" he said, his voice shaking ever so slightly.

----Back at the airport.

"Yes, this is officer Richard Hamlin with the DEA, and we are here in Bogata Colombia. We have a man here by the name of Pablo Lopez who plans to visit Houston, says he is working with your company. Can you confirm this?"

Without hesitation, the man on the other line gave the confirmation that Pablo so desperately yearned for.

The man hung up the phone and nodded at the other with a frown. The other agent let go of Pablo's arm and he shook it a bit, brushing it off.

"We are sorry Mr. Lopez. Mr. Swaritz at Biourja had nothing but good things to say about you. They are a reputable company, Fortune 500. You can go about your way."

Pablo Lopez nodded, walking towards even more security. He wasn't out of the woods yet, but he had probably reached the three quarter mark.

-=-=-

Just as the two agents were walking back to the lobby of the airport, Richard Hamlin was still thinking about Pablo Lopez. His eyes narrowed and he turned to his partner.

"Hey Gary...that little twerp said he was going to Houston, right?"

The other agent nodded.

"Aren't you from Texas?"

The other agent nodded.

"What is the area code in Houston?"

The other agent came back with a number, 713.

Richard pulled his phone out of his pocket and quickly checked the last number. Cell phones were still antiquated, but they could do some things. His heart sank when he called it. The number on the business card wasn't 713. It was 305.

Miami.

-----The plane took off over Bogata Airport and Pablo Lopez smiles, laying his head back on the comfortable padded seat as the two frantic agents ran back inside the airport.

22 Years Later

Carlos Lopez stood in front of two DEA agents in modern day Bogata. He was sweating, fumbling over his words, and his hands weren't steady. He couldn't think clearly.

He was nothing like his father. His father, the accident legend in Bogata who fooled the DEA because he could remain calm under pressure. Sure, it was the 90's then, but he still was able to do something nobody had done before.

Carlos felt his palms go greasy, like warm butter in his hands. His eyes darted around the airport to the masses of people, none of which seemed to be paying any mind. His eyes were a blur. Puddles were forming in his shoes. He didn't want this, this wasn't his life. This was his fathers life. He could never be as good as his father was.

The DEA agent grabbed his arm and Carlos knew he had no other choice. He took off.

The DEA agents drew their guns, giving chase.

Carlos knocked over a few trash cans and a few people as he tore his way through the airport. The same fight or flight decision his father faced last year, but he couldn't hack it. The men with the guns surrounded him, and he had no other choice. He opened the vest and reached inside....all of the guns clicked at once.


TBC...........

---

Joachim Bright hates his father because he is everything Jo can never be.

His father is successful.

---

"So if anyone had any doubt before, that window is pretty well shut. Joachim Bright is Engy's bastard child. Soiled from the loines of the XWF's resident maniac comes the whiny brat with the middle school bangs and clothes that are too tight. Loosed from the loins of a champion whose last major loss came at the hands of yours truly comes the most overrated, over hyped and least talented cocksucker this side of San Fransisco Bay. Yes, that's right, the kid who shares a first name with an NBA coulda-been-and the last name with something that he has no association with. Joachim Bright, this weeks face on the dart board. The next victim. A nameless face that will fizzle away with all the others.

You've had quite a bit to say about something not worth talking about. You have further proven my point that I am the best bad guy here......you HAVE to spew verbal excrement at me, you can't help it. That is how under your skin I am. That is why you can't and won't beat me, because I am in your head just like I am in Engy's. When I won the tag belts from him, I had him more crossed up than a trying to color within the lines. Now, I can hear the frustration in your voice and see the confusion on your face. You are not your own person, Jo. You are the embodiment of everything the Eningeer has given you. Your talk, your whole demeanor. You may not see it, but we all do. In fact, you are so much like him that you COULD BE HIM..............

Just then Bruce comes running in, out of breath............

"Chris.......come with me............"

Chris looks at Bruce, annoyed he was interrupted mid-promo.

"Its your father."

Chris got up quickly, running out the door.