The Global South
We are at war. Our proxy war with Russia that now includes 54 countrys started in 2022 but can be traced back many decades. This has picked up from a cold war into a full blown world war all being fought through one proxy, being fought with the Ukrainian people. This mass slaughter of innocent people has only one goal, it is to keep U.S supremacy over the world. The empire has achieved this impossible feat through its use of its milatary to push economic dominance over anyone in its way. This has worked for many years but now the empire is desperate, economically they cannot keep up with the world and now once again they are turning towards the military to achieve this. Russia had been defeated in many ways after the Soviet Union collapsed but something emerged much worse than just Russia, a bigger threat than even China.
BRICS in 2011 forms a treaty between Brazil, Russia, India, China and South Africa, it rises as a major political force in the global international order, in 2025 they now control 41% of the world's GDP and have 46% of world's population. This is what the world misses when explaining the war with Russia or the coming war with Venezuela and even the tarrifs we put on Brazil in order to save an ex president who tried to overhrow their government. The war with Russia is an economic war as much as it is military. The war is meant to economically destroy Russia through the use of military force. This war was designed from the very beginning to take out one of the super powers that make up BRICS.( only three countrys in the world are considered "super powers"). The war with Venezuela is only happening cause of their application to BRICS, a country that's has the biggest oil reserves in the world joining them would tip the scales over the edge, they would be a step closer to winning the global trade war. This is why we are also directly involved in helping overthrow the Brazilian government, it all traces back to BRICS.
These and the coming wars are meant to economically keep the West from being taken over by the Global South. The West already has most of the world on its side outside of BRICS. There aren't too many countries who can join an alliance that already makes up the whole world.... but BRICS is only made of 10 countries and they are already on the verge of having half the world's GDP. The empire is desperate, they are scared and this is a very dangerous thing for us and the world. They rather the world end than loose their supremacy, we are now closer to nuclear war than we were during the cuban missile crisis. We have been saved by them now understanding that the war with Russia only made BRICS and the Global South stronger than they were before. They’ve now also accepted that the war is lost, and now they are restragezing and going after countrys like Venezuela where they have a better chance of winning a war. The result will be the same in Venezuela even if they are defeated. After the war you will see the Global South build relations with each other and leave the West behind in fear of what they've become.
BRICS is less than a dozen country’s but the Global South is on the rise, we are on the verge of gaining independence from an Empire who has used its military to opress the world. Wether its BRICS or another alliance does not matter, either way we have to build relations outside the United States and create something were we can stand together against Goliath. Divided we fall but together we can build a future for not only us but the Global South. It is up to all of us to encourage each other to pressure on your governments, to make them distance themselves from this tyranny that wishes to impose itself on the world through force. This is our last chance to build an alliance where the world can be reborn, where we can gain and keep our independence from an Empire that yearns to take over the world.
- Luis Alejandro Urrea Villafuerte
Freedom or Death…….
*The U.S is scared and desperate, they'll never admit it, but by looking at what's going you can come to the same conclusion. We are publicly discussing going to war with Canada and Greenland, two of our closest allies. Instead of going to war with Russia, we are now looking for wars we can win. Wars where instead of destroying an enemys economy, we destroy an ally to simply boost our own economy. Our closest allies now fear what we are becoming. This country will fall if we do not stop this facism, this autocracy that has turned the world and our closest allies against us. Fight, or burn in your incompetence. Your fate depends on it.
*Mark Carney stated at the G20 summit that it has "brought together nations representing three-quarters of the world’s population, two-thirds of global GDP and three-quarters of the world’s trade, and that’s without the United States formally attending.”“It’s a reminder that the center of gravity in the global economy is shifting,” ( Carney has set a goal for Canada to double its non-U.S. exports over the next decade, from approximately $300 billion to around $600 billion) - Prime minister of Canada
*The war with Russia made BRICS and the Global South stronger but this is nothing compared to how tarrifs have changed trade relations around the world against the West. The Global South has for many decades looked to build relations with each other, to build and economic framework, an alternative outside of the U.S empire and now they have been forced to do exactly this. It's a lot worse than the Global South, it's our closest allies, it's Europe and now Canada openly talking about increasing trade with nations even within BRICS. The reason the last dozen administrations avoided using tarrifs( Both Republicans and Democrats) is not cause they hate money, or they were too stupid, or forgot they could, or pick just about any #$&#@ reason, it was a very, very, very calculated decision and we are about to learn why this decision had not changed for many decades......
* Administrations have used tarrifs before, but putting tarrifs on almost every country in the world is unprecedented.
* The U.S over the decades has abondoned the Western hemisphere, has abondoned Europe and it's allies, it's not about keeping Western supremacy anymore, it's about keeping U.S supremacy over the world.
* The second most important reason the war with Venezuela is now upon us is their oil, the first is where this oil is headed(BRICS).
- Luis Alejandro Urrea Villafuerte
The Fall of The Republic
The United States is on the verge of being torn apart by Corporations who have put themselves above our democracy, our constitution, oligarchs who have lobbyed our politicians into submission. The question is how can we save our country when we blame these party's, these politicians, these puppets instead of the people who pull their strings. The right has launched a war against the left, has vowed to destroy the democratic party and the politicians that have aligned themselves with them. They've launched an attack against the entire democratic party, they've named numerous reasons for this war, but who are they waging war against. They wage war against the party instead of the puppet masters, the corporations who created the reasons for this war to be waged in the first place. The ones who owned the democratic party are nowhere to be found, in the last two decades we've seen almost every corporation, from the technocrats, to the insurance companies, to the banks, to the military industrial complex, and every major industry has come out in support of the Republican party, they have abondoned the left in mass. All that's left are these small time billionaires who can't afford to keep this party alive, that cant lobby with enough money to keep it from bleeding out. This is the reason why we're seeing this unprecedented move towards the extreme right, their simply isn't anyone left to lobby the left. Politics runs on money, it always has even before citizens united, all citizens united was legalize was had already taken over our government. The swamp has now turned into an ocean, all the corporations have migrated towards the right if not over greed and corruption then over fear. They are moving quickly to destroy the left, or are least the shallow empty vessel that it now is. The plan is to replace the left with what is now the right and turn themselves into an even more extreme right. These will be your two choices, this is how they will sustain this illusion meant to appear as a democracy. This two party system was already something that had to be abondoned, but now more than ever we need support a multi party democracy and this can only be done by first passing ranked choice voting. Both parties are owned by corporations, this is now what we're faced with. A system we cannot escape unless we forge a new path, something new that can give power back to the people. The Republic is on its last legs, but we can still save our country and restore what are founding fathers created, a system that allows peacefull transitions of power, a system were both progressive and conservatives can co-exist and work together to pass policies were we find enough common ground to work together and instead of waging war with each other. This is our chance to use this common ground to build a new world were we evolve past these differences that threaten to burn this sacred system called our democracy.
- Luis Alejandro Urrea Villafuerte
Surrender or Enlist
Our democracy has died right in front of our eyes, our democracy has been replaced with partisan gerrymandering. Elections are now decided by which party can better rig our districts, we are either subjugated or we fight back, this is now our only choices. The Republicans are only a couple years from having a hundred percent chance of winning both the midterms and the next presidential election, they have already won this race to rig as many states as possible. This fight has been lost, but the war is not over. A democracy is built on allowing peacefull transitions of power, and we have now lost this to this oligarchy that desperately wants to replace our Republic with a one party system. The choice is clear, you either surrender or enlist, we are either subjugated or we fight and save our democracy.
- Luis Alejandro Urrea Villafuerte
* Gerrymandering on the left wont fix our democracy, this solution ends with our democracy burning as well. The solution is to make partisan Gerrymandering illegal. Our Supreme Court has been bought by people who will stop at nothing to undermine our democracy, they stand against everything that stops a democracy from being torn apart.
* This is only one of the ways they will rig our elections and win both the midterms and presidential election in 2028. At this point they are very close of having a 100% chance of winning both and they are only getting started.
* It's lot worse than them rigging these elections with partisan gerrymandering against the Democrats, they're rigging our democracy against all independent parties that includes the green party, the libertarians and the dozens of party's currently fighting to win local elections. They're rigging our democracy against all future independent party's in the process of being formed. They’re creating a system designed for them and only them, a system were democracy dies and oligarchy thrives.
* This isn't about being a Republican or a Democrat (I'm an independent), wether their on the right or the left is irrelevant, we fight and stop anyone who attempts to undermine our democracy and replace it with this facade that will be the beginning of the end of our Republic if not stopped.
* Trump is against multiple party's while attempting to (" We will destroy the democratic party"-Donald Trum) to destroy THE ONLY OTHER PARTY IN OUR GOVERNMENT.
* Also against ranked choice voting, the only thing that would allow an independent party to have a chance
No Kings
We need everyone to join the "No Kings" protest happening today, this is our chance to fight against these fascists who have ripped apart our constitution. The excutive branch has run amok, the checks and balances that have held our democracy together for two hundred years have been overthrown by Trump and Corporate America, by this kleptocracy who's leaders are chosen not by their merit but by who can lobby, who can bribe our politicians into being their puppets. When we say No Kings, we say no to this oligarchy, to these corporations who now run our country. The last check and balance that keeps a democracy from burning up is you, is the people who choose to fight against this greed and corruption that threaten to destroy our Republic. We the people are the only ones that can save this country. Make that choice, choose to fight before we loose our country to these kings, to these corporations that have taken over our government.
- Luis Alejandro Urrea Villafuerte
A Rebellious Nation
Israel is now a terrorist state, who's current extreme right coalition is made up of people who openly support terrorism. Just look at Ben Gvir one of three politicians that make up this coalition that has run Israel since they murdered their own prime minister over signing the Oslo accord's. This peace agreement between Palestine and Israel was shattered with Yitzhak Rabin assassination, he's cold blood murder led to he's government being immediately replaced with Netanyahu's extreme right coalition, something we can call far from a simple coincidence. Ben Gvir is quoted saying "We got to his car, and we'll get to him too" weeks before his assassination. This Devil, Ben Gvir is also known for openly and proudly idolizing Baruch Goldstein and even referencing him as a hero Jews should admire. Goldstein is a terrorist who went into a mosque and massacred 29 innocent Palestinians, a crime that is unjustifiable, read a minute to minute account on how these people where murdered to get a better understanding on how evil these devils that run the current extreme right coalition in Israel are. Even after knowing this Nethanyu and Smotrich still choose to defend and team up with Ben Gvir, this is not a coincidence, this is who these people are, these are the things they wish they could openly support.( Gvir removes a portrait of Goldstein he had hung up for years to increase his chances of winning an election). I demand Netanyahu remove Ben Gvir from his coalition. His refusal to remove him and him defending him will be more than enough proof to show that he supports the same terrorism Ben Gvir has supported for many years.
This genocide is even better proof for this, but his refusal to do anything other than defend Ben Gvir will only add to the long list of evidence proving that they are a terrorist state. This would only be step one in dismantling this coalition that has murdered innocent children by the thousands. This only ends when these people are removed from office and sent to The Hauge. They have broken International law and need to be to charged for the coulntles war crimes they have committed in Palestine. Ending the war is not enough. We need to set a precedent that shows that there are consequences for this senseless murder, this is the only thing that can stop this evil from running amok and spreading throughout the world. We letting them get away with normalizing and rationalizing the murder and genocide of these children will have consequences that will be felt around the world. These devils, these countries are watching and planning their own schemes, their own wars, and now they know what the world will allow them to get away with, this is the end of us all if we do not fight for justice, fight to set a precedent that makes these war criminals pay for their crimes. This has gone too far and now it is up to the world to stand for justice, to stand for Palestine, to stand for a better world. It is up to us to fight or risk waking up these devils who will take advantage of a world who refuses to stand against genocide.
- Luis Alejandro Urrea Villafuerte
Hear me, you heavens! Listen, earth! For the LORD has spoken: “I reared children and brought them up, but they have rebelled against me.
The ox knows its master, the donkey its owner’s manger, but Israel does not know, my people do not understand.”
Woe to the sinful nation, a people whose guilt is great, a brood of evildoers, children given to corruption! They have forsaken the LORD; they have spurned the Holy One of Israel and turned their backs on him.
Why should you be beaten anymore? Why do you persist in rebellion? Your whole head is injured, your whole heart afflicted. From the sole of your foot to the top of your head there is no soundness—
Your country is desolate
Hear the word of the LORD
listen to the instruction of our God,
“The multitude of your sacrifices— what are they to me?” says the LORD.
When you come to appear before me, who has asked this of you, this trampling of my courts?
Stop bringing meaningless offerings! Your incense is detestable to me. New Moons, Sabbaths and convocations— I cannot bear your worthless assemblies
Your New Moon feasts and your appointed festivals I hate with all my being. They have become a burden to me; I am weary of bearing them.
When you spread out your hands in prayer, I hide my eyes from you; even when you offer many prayers, I am not listening. Your hands are full of blood!
Wash and make yourselves clean. Take your evil deeds out of my sight; stop doing wrong.
Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed.Take up the cause of the fatherless; plead the case of the widow.
Come now, let us settle the matter,” says the LORD. “Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool.
If you are willing and obedient, you will eat the good things of the land; but if you resist and rebel, you will be devoured by the sword.” For the mouth of the LORD has spoken.
See how the faithful city has become a prostitute! She once was full of justice; righteousness used to dwell in her— but now murderers!
Your rulers are rebels, partners with thieves; they all love bribes and chase after gifts. They do not defend the cause of the fatherless; the widow’s case does not come before them.
Therefore the Lord, the LORD Almighty, the Mighty One of Israel, declares: I will turn my hand against you;I will thoroughly purge away your dross and remove all your impurities.
I will restore your leaders as in days of old, your rulers as at the beginning. Afterward you will be called the City of Righteousness, the Faithful City.”
Zion will be delivered with justice, her penitent ones with righteousness.
But rebels and sinners will both be broken, and those who forsake the LORD will perish.
“You will be ashamed because of the sacred oaks in which you have delighted; you will be disgraced because of the gardens that you have chosen.
See now, the Lord, the LORD Almighty, is about to take from Jerusalem and Judah both supply and support
Jerusalem staggers, Judah is falling; their words and deeds are against the LORD, defying his glorious presence.
The look on their faces testifies against them; they parade their sin like Sodom; they do not hide it. Woe to them! They have brought disaster upon themselves.
Tell the righteous it will be well with them, for they will enjoy the fruit of their deeds.
Woe to the wicked! Disaster is upon them! They will be paid back for what their hands have done………
Minerva's Birth
The most difficult subjects can be explained to the most slow-witted man if he has not formed any idea of them already; but the simplest thing cannot be made clear to the most intelligent man if he is firmly persuaded that he knows already, without a shadow of doubt, what is laid before him.
- LEGION 3
We Are The Beginning, The End, The One Who is Many
All the essays under my name are written by me. All the other writings under LEGION 3 are faces I have taken and use to create and build this framework I've worked on over the years to further push my politics and philosophy. Soldiers that have risked their life's in order spread their message, so that one day they can reach the world, so people can learn these lessons we strive to teach humanity.
- Luis Alejandro Urrea Villafuerte
Which Side Are You On
It’s hard to miss.
Our country is rapidly evolving into two Americas.
One America consists of less than a thousand billionaires who have an unprecedented amount of wealth and power and have never ever had it so good.
The other America, where the vast majority live, consists of tens of millions of families who are struggling to put food on the table, pay their bills and worry that their kids will have a lower standard of living than they do.
In the first America, the uber-wealthy buy $500 million yachts with helicopter pads, $270 million mansions with 30 bedrooms, private islands, a fleet of jets to take them all over the world and rocket ships that blast off to the edge of outer-space. They receive the best health care money can buy, send their kids to the best schools and can expect to live very long lives.
In this America, the three wealthiest men (Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos and Mark Zuckerberg) own more wealth than the bottom half of our society – over 165 million people. And their wealth is skyrocketing. Musk, alone, is now worth over $450 billion and, combined, these three men are worth $955 billion.
And it is not just these three men. The top 1% now own more wealth than the bottom 90% – and the gap between the very rich and everyone else is growing wider every day.
In the other America, the working class struggles just to provide for the basic necessities of life. In this America, over 60% of our people live paycheck to paycheck, millions work for starvation wages, 85 million are uninsured or underinsured, more than 20 million households spend over half of their limited incomes on rent or a mortgage and over 60,000 die each year because they can’t afford to go to a doctor on time.
In this America, 25% of our seniors try to survive on less than $15,000 a year and parents try to raise their kids in a nation that has the highest rate of childhood poverty of almost any major country on earth. And, because of stress and inadequate health care, working people live far shorter lives than the rich.
In this America, workers are scared to death that if your car breaks down, if your kid gets sick, if your landlord raises the rent, if you get divorced, if you become pregnant, if for whatever reason you lose your job, you will find yourself in the midst of a financial catastrophe.
But let’s be clear. Our country is not just experiencing an unprecedented level of income and wealth inequality. Today, we also have more concentration of ownership than we have ever had.
In sector after sector - health care, agriculture, financial services, energy, transportation - a handful of giant corporations control what is produced and how much we, as consumers, pay for their products. Unbelievably, just three Wall Street firms (BlackRock, Vanguard and State Street) control assets of more than $22 trillion. These three Wall Street firms are the major shareholders in about 95% of S&P 500 companies, exerting enormous control over the largest corporations in the world.
And that’s not all.
Never before in American history have so few media conglomerates, all owned by the billionaire class, had so much influence over the public. It is estimated that six huge media corporations now own 90% of what the American people see, hear and read. This handful of corporations determines what is "important" and what we discuss, and what is "unimportant" and what we ignore.
If you use a social media account to get your news, chances are it is owned by billionaires Musk, Zuckerberg or Trump. If you read the Washington Post, Fox or the Los Angeles Times, your news is owned by billionaires Bezos, Murdoch or Patrick Soon-Shiong.
But it’s not just the billionaire ownership and control over the economy and the media that should concern us. The uber-rich are also buying our government and undermining American democracy.
Never before in American history have we seen a ruling class with so much political power. As a result of the disastrous Citizens United Supreme Court decision, billionaires and their super-PACs can spend unlimited sums of money on political campaigns.
And that’s exactly what they are doing. During the 2024 election cycle, just 150 billionaires spent nearly $2 billion to buy politicians who support their agenda and to defeat candidates who oppose their special interests. Billionaires who represent just .0005% of our population accounted for 18% of total campaign spending.
That is not democracy. That is not one person, one vote. That is not what this country is supposed to stand for. In his Gettysburg Address in 1863, President Abraham Lincoln spoke about "a government of the people, by the people, for the people." Well, today, we have a government of the billionaire class, by the billionaire class, for the billionaire class."
We are in a pivotal and unprecedented moment in American history. Either we fight to create a government and an economy that works for all, or we continue to move rapidly down the path of oligarchy and the rule of the super-rich.
The choice is clear. We must stand together for democracy and justice. - LEGION 3
——————————————————————————
“Yet our best trained, best educated, best equipped, best prepared troops refuse to fight. Matter of fact, it’s safe to say that they would rather switch than fight" - LEGION 3
January 10th 1961
January 10. My father, in a red American Motors 440, drives north through the Sonora desert, ticking off towns as the sun rises to his right. Santa Ana, Caborca, Tajito. He is on his way to Tijuana, to his mother’s house, where he has lived since my mother threw him out of our home. He left Culiacán yesterday, in the morning. He’s been driving alone, nonstop, pausing for gas and two terrible roadside meals. His dentures fit badly — the pain keeps him awake. The cheap tape recorder nestled among packs of cigarettes on the seat beside him has been playing Mexican songs that call forth all his ghosts and memories. Miguel Prado, Agustin Lara, Pedro Infante, Lola Beltran. Mile upon mile, the car has gradually filled with the dead and forgotten. The back seat is crowded with 100 girlfriends, lovers, and wives. Time swirls around him like smoke.
He has spent Christmas in his hometown in the farthest southern corner of Sinaloa, and he has recognized no one. The townspeople are old and strange to him, their concerns foolish, their laughter painful to his ears. He has retrieved $1000 from the bank on Morelos street, a gift for me. My father is 61 years old.
San Luís Río Colorado appears in the shimmering early light. He is driving fast — he always drives fast. Far away, Yuma, Arizona, suggests itself through the haze. The Mexican checkpoint is outside town. Bored and aggressive Mexican Immigration and Federal Judicial Police officers wave cars over and inspect papers. They deny passage randomly, confiscate valuable-looking goods, exact “tolls” from gringos and border Mexicans who lack the papers or the conviction to persuade the officers that they may proceed. My father is blond and blue-eyed. (Well, his blond hair has gone white, but his skin is still pale pink, and his eyes behind his glasses are still bright.) He has California plates on his car.
This is where the thing happens. No one knows exactly what, nor if it happened before the aduana huts or after. But somehow, my father, Mexican ballads rattling through the cheap speakers, all those voices in his head, smoking a cigarette, smoke trailing from his mouth like he’s burning already and going down, leaves the road and sails into the desert dawn.
His car flies for a dreadful instant, forever. Angles off the road and lifts into the air. His fists on the wheel, trying to right the car after it has taken flight. Dust and gravel cresting beneath him like a wave, as he catapults over the edge of a hill. Everything in the car — tapes, cigarettes, ashes, coins, recorder, my father’s glasses — comes to life and eddies around him. The car tips. Its front corner digs into the ground. It flips once, twice. Later, rumors suggest it rolled six times. The wheel breaks off in his hands. The windshield vanishes. He is pitched out the window. The car rolls on him. He is dragged back inside by the lurching force of the crash. All around, his things scatter across the sand and sage.
I am not brought into this story until late.
Without me, my father goes about the business of dying. He tries not to die, of course. My father would not surrender easily to death. But the Mexicans manage to convince him.
Before they take him to the hospital, various agents of the Mexican republic help themselves to the sudden flea market my father has set up for them. As he bleeds on the gurney, blind and mute, pissing his pants, they sift through the goods. There are a lot of tapes, after all. Someone nabs his recorder. Someone else takes a fancy to his new shoes, bought for him by my favorite cousin and given to him only two days before.
His wallet and my $1000 are safe — soaked in urine in his pockets. No one cares to fish for them at the moment. Because no one wants to reach into all that mess, they don’t find out he’s a Mexican citizen, a retired army officer, late of the presidential staff of Mexico, and a retired federal cop. He can’t talk to tell them. They drive off, blue lights inconsequential against the sun.
In town, they strip him naked and call in a Mexican doctor. The doctor says something along the lines of, “My God, it’s Beto!”
One of the attendants says something else like, “What do you mean ‘Beto?’”
The doctor looks around him. He can’t believe it. This is too strange. Just days ago, he was at a party with my father in Rosario. He’d asked my father for a ride to this very town. My father turned him down, saying cryptically, “I don’t want to be responsible for your life.”
“I know this man,” the doctor says. “He’s a Mexican.”
Somebody calls the police. The federales are on their way. Something strange is going on here, and the doctor wants nothing to do with it. He snaps some orders to the staff of the clinic, then plunges his hand into my father’s pockets. He is no doubt startled to find $1000 there, in new bills. He takes my father’s wallet out of the back pocket and flees. For reasons that will remain unclear, the
federales will spend the rest of the day trying to find him to get all these things back from him. He will be so busy avoiding them that he will not see my father again.
Once the doctor leaves, they wheel my father, naked, into a room. He is beginning to struggle, to writhe around in his bed. His ribs are cracked; he has internal injuries and some bleeding; he has split open his chin and might have a concussion; he has some brain injuries and might have suffered a stroke. Nobody’s quite sure what’s wrong with him. They decide to quiet him down and shoot him with morphine.
My father, drugged, settles back into a velvet haze. All his ghosts swarm to him and begin to smother him.
I have half-brothers and half-sisters: Juan, Alberto, Octavio, Leticia, and Martha. He abandoned them and their mother. I am younger than all of them and have never lived with any of them. Like me, they fear him and worship him and miss him even when he’s with us. Somehow, words get out on the border that Alberto Urrea has been seriously hurt in a car wreck. But they think it’s my brother Alberto. People start looking for my brother’s family to tell them he’s dying.
In the meantime, in our old neighborhood in Tijuana, my Aunt Lety and Cousin Hugo are in the family house on Rampa Independencia. They are waiting for Beto to arrive from his visit to Sinaloa. Hugo has built him a small bedroom where he keeps all Beto’s tokens — love letters, bowling trophies, moldering Playboys, a box of photographs. In those photos, my father is a skinny boy with a heart-shaped mouth. He looks sad in every one. The years have tinted them brown.
My aunt hears my father’s car pull up to the front of the house. She glances out and sees a red shape pull up to her gate.
“It’s Beto!” she calls. My grandmother, gone mad with age, blinks in her chair like a pudgy bird.
“Who?” she says.
“Beto,” says my aunt.
“Beto ya llegó.”
She steps outside to greet him. There is no car. She steps into the street. Looks both ways. No red car in sight.
“Beto’s dead,” she says.
Word spreads — the doctor calls my aunt. Hugo takes off in his truck, driving, trying to beat the clock. Other relatives go into a Mexican version of action: one branch grabs the first plane they can that flies to Arizona. In their panic, they take a flight that goes to the northern end of the state, farther from my father than if they’d stayed in Tijuana.
Somebody finally calls me in San Diego. I have been listening to music — something ridiculous like Uriah Heep. Everyone has left for San Luís Río Colorado. Everything is happening. I am asked to hold steady. Someone will get right back to me. Nobody does.
My cousin Hugo, the most feared member of the family, is the one who gets to my father. Hugo was raised by my father and knows him better than some of his own sons. Hugo calls him Papa.
Family legend has it that once, when Hugo was driving through Tijuana late at night, a carload of cholos began to harass him, trying to push him off the road, yelling taunts. Hugo calmly pulled over, took a homemade broadsword from under the seat, and proceeded to chop pieces off their car. He split their hood with it, pulled it out, and said, “All right. Come on.”
They abandoned their car and ran into the night.
Hugo pushes his way into the room and sits on the bed, holds my writhing father down. Tells him, “Don’t worry, Papa. We’re here. We’ll get you out.”
My father cannot say anything to him, but Hugo senses he understands. He calms down, lies back. Hugo talks to him for a moment more.
Arrangements are made to transport my father to the border, and there, an American ambulance will carry him into Yuma. Hugo knows my father will die if he is left in this clinic. The American ambulance arrives at the border crossing and waits, off to the side, doors open, light circling.
No Mexican unit arrives. Repeated calls reveal nothing; nobody knows what happened to the ambulance. Isn’t it there? It ought to be there. How curious. It never arrives. Hugo and my father wait for an hour. It has been eight hours since the accident.
Finally, the ghosts convince him. Beto settles back in the bed, eyes looking at nothing in particular. Without a word or a gesture, my father dies.
A few miles away, the Americans close their doors, turn off their lights, and drive back to Yuma.
Too late to do any good, I enter the picture.
Hugo’s sister Margo picks me up on her way to Tijuana. A family friend has called me and told me the news. Margo’s car is crammed with silent people as we ride into Tijuana and rise up to Independencia, shoulders digging into each other as the car hits the ruts and half-buried boulders in the road.
My brothers are gathered in the dirt street outside the family home. Dogs behind the fence think we’re having a party. They think the fun’s about to begin. They dance on their back legs, eagerly watching us in the street.
They have my father’s money and wallet. The doctor has turned them over to somebody, I don’t know who, and they have ended up here in front of the family house. My eldest brother hands me the cash. It’s floppy. Wet, it feels like felt.
“It must have rained,” he says. “Do you think it rained? Everything’s all wet.”
Hugo looks at me. He says nothing. I know why it’s wet. I say, “I guess they had an early-morning shower.”
Everybody nods.
Hugo gives me the wallet. Inside, driver’s license, green card, social security card, notes, slips of paper, useless cards in various shades of blue and yellow. In his picture, my father looks small and old. He has a pouch under his chin. You can see the curve of his skull under the diminishing front rank of his hair.
Nobody knows how to grieve. We stand apart from each other with a strange military precision, two feet between each man. We shuffle. We grin; the old man’s dead. We shake our heads, sigh. We laugh. Nobody can fit the fact into the day.
“Let’s go,” Hugo says. He means to the funeral home, Funeraria González.
The brothers pile into various cars. I get in Hugo’s truck. Hugo has been the closest to the thing. He has accumulated a kind of evil grace. We all hope he can tell us if anything special happened. If there were any apparitions, sounds, lights, angels.
“He died,” he says. For him, that’s enough.
We drive downtown. The funeral home is nondescript, in the middle of a run-down block. But then most blocks in Tijuana are run down, all cobbled together with no plan in mind, facade after mid-’50s facade leaning into each other, paint coming away from the walls on thin wedges of stucco.
They are waiting for me outside. We don’t want to take a step without each other. We turn as one and enter. Hugo grabs my arm. They start upstairs. “Down here,” he says.
“What?” I say.
“The body’s down here,” he says.
“So?”
“So you’re going to look at it.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You’re going to look at it.”
“No.”
Hugo has a habit of always speaking English to me. For some reason, I insist on speaking Spanish to him. I’m not sure what it is we’re trying to convince each other of.
“It’s up to you,” he says. “He’s all banged up. You’ve got to decide if it’s an open casket or not. That’s what he’d want. Come on.”
His grip is bony as a talon as he pulls me into the little room. The casket is on a stone bench, about three feet off the ground. Tawdry Mexican floral arrangements have begun to surround the coffin: horseshoes on stands, wreaths, all of them draped in ridiculous faux-satin sashes with family names and condolences written across them in glue and glitter. They look like contestants in a retirement-home flower-arranging contest or good-luck displays at a high school reunion.
Hugo uses his pocket knife to unscrew the coffin lid. The screw rises, rises, interminably, until it wiggles loose, and he says okay, and I put my hands on the lid and wait. “Go on,” he says.
I resent his manliness more than anything on earth at that instant, then I lift the lid. For some reason, I hold my breath, as if my father is going to smell bad. But he’s encased in glass. In fact, he probably does smell bad — he’s been dead now for two days with no embalming. Many Mexican funeral homes just clamp a sheet of glass over the body to prevent any problems, and you look down at them as though you were in a glass-bottomed boat, drifting across the shoals of Hell. It’s alarming. You think, He can’t breathe in there.
I look in. He’s small as a ten-year-old boy in a faded brown photograph. He’s unimaginably sad, his lips turned a little around his injured mouth, looking like he’s about to say a word that begins with m. I stare down at my father, my only father, and my breath fogs the glass and steals his face.
Wounds turn black after death.
“Close it,” I say.
Hugo shuts the lid gently.
“Don’t screw it down,” I say. “He wouldn’t want people to see him like that, but I think they have a right to say good-bye, if they want to. So they can lift the lid for themselves.”
It is my first decision as a grown man. “Good,” Hugo says. “That’s the right choice.”
Upstairs, my brother Juan is waiting for me. The others stand behind him. “There’s a problem,” he says.
“What problem?”
“We owe some money,” he says, “for the body.”
“We what?”
A pleasant, short man steps up. He has a tan uniform on, with a police insignia but no badge or gun. He’s a lackey for the San Luís Río Colorado cops. He’s a full-blooded Indian.
“I brought the body,” he says.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
“They said to tell you,” he glances away, “that the body is still in custody.”
We all look at each other, eyes clicking in steady sweeps of all the faces.
“You’re kidding,” I say.
“No, señor,” he says. “The police department still has possession of your father. I have been instructed to ask you for the fee to release him to you.”
“You want me to pay bail for a corpse?”
The man is uncomfortable. He says nothing.
“How did my father come here?”
“In my station wagon.”
“I see.”
This whole scene is so bizarre that I don’t know how to respond. There’s no one to ask what to do. My brothers just stand there.
Hugo is as inscrutable as a stone carving. I reach into my pocket.
“How much?”
“Seven hundred and fifty dollars, American.”
I pull out the wet bills and count out $800. He hands me $50 back in change. He smiles. Everybody’s relieved. He shakes all our hands. He tells me it’s sad, what happened, and how hard it is for all of us when these things befall us. I’m thinking: Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!
The funeral director steps up. He’s unctuous, in a suit and hair oil and cologne. It’s like an optical illusion — as the police toady steps away, three reflections of him appear in his absence.
I still have the change in my hand. The funeral director starts in: tragic losses, at rest now, gone to glory, deepest sympathies, but there is the small matter of the funeral costs.
“How much?” I say.
“Five hundred and fifty dollars,” he says.
“Unfortunately.” I hand him my change.
“We’ll come up with the rest,” one of my brothers says.
“We’ll take up a collection,” says another.
On our way back downstairs, Hugo says, “So much for your present.”
I am so confused, I want to cry. I cannot. For years afterward, I will try to cry and be unable to. On some nights, I will take spit on the tips of my fingers and draw tears down my cheeks, trying to get relief.
We Mexicans wake the dead. We give wakes to the dead. Hugo and I agree that my shift will be at two in the morning. He leads me to my father’s room and goes off to bed. My aunt still shares a room with her mother. I can hear the women in there, snoring. The sounds of Tijuana carry up the hills, somehow different than the sounds of the United States. The dogs, the car horns, the traffic rumble, the whistles, the trumpets are all in a different language. Their pitch and timbre are as distinctive as Chinese or Russian. Or Spanish.
I sit in my father’s room, listening. All that noise, and the whole world dead. His pillow is still streaked with his hair pomade — he wore his hair trim, short, combed straight back off his forehead, always as slick as Jerry Lewis. I can’t sleep in his bed. All I can think about is sex. I keep hoping the family’s cleaning woman will wake up and come to my room. I want to eat, make love, climb a mountain, have a fist fight. I sit in the middle of his floor and sift through layers of paper: report cards, citations, letters from women in Sinaloa, divorce papers, poems, tax forms, INS papers, bowling certificates, sheets with numbers on them, military records, a letter from the president of Mexico. Silverfish and roaches come forth from my father’s records, where they have lived safely, eating his past.
I pull the string attached to the bare bulb above my head. The dark claps shut around me. Years later, it seems, Hugo speaks from the greater darkness of the doorway.
“It’s time.”
I get dressed.
We go to his truck.
Everything’s quiet. You can even hear crickets. He starts up, puts it in gear. We drive down the dark hill. Everybody’s lights are out as we descend. “God damn it,” Hugo finally says. “It’s not fair.”
He drops me off at the door.
“See you in the afternoon,” he says.
“All right.”
“Somebody will be by in a few hours,” he says.
“All right.”
He drives away. I step inside. It’s bright, pleasant. Old carpets have loops tugged loose. Inexplicably, there is an electric clock with a soft-drink logo on it. Chapel A has a forgotten casket in it. My father waits in chapel B.
It’s a dull little room with dull little drapes at the end. There are about eight rows of pews. A plywood lectern stands before the raised coffin. And there are all those flowers. Their colors are basically white and carmine beneath the fluorescent lights; the greens look like rubber.
I try sitting in a pew, looking at the coffin. It looks like a gigantic throat lozenge. I prowl the building. Periodically, the Indian men come downstairs. They apparently sleep up there, because their hair is in disarray and their eyes are red and puffy. “Do you want some coffee?” they ask.
“No, thank you.”
“Coke? Water?”
“No, I’m fine.”
They nod, go back up. Occasionally, one will pat my elbow.
I lift the curtains from the wall and look behind them. There is a door near the head of the coffin. I open it.
I step into a small parking area behind the funeral home. A dark station wagon is crunching the gravel,
backing up to a wooden chute that runs down at an angle from the second floor. One of the workers steps out. He and the driver exchange murmurs. They open the back and pull a figure out by its feet. A motor begins to whir. They wrestle the drooping corpse in its shroud into the chute. Apparently, there is a conveyor belt inside. The body rises and seems to float, going up to the sky, feet first.
I step back inside and close the door.
I lift the lid on my father. I can count the tiny white whiskers growing in the blackness of his chin and throat. Stains smaller than dimes dot the front of his shirt — stains he would never have allowed in life. Some relative wants him dressed in a jacket. One of the workers has told me they’ll have to go at my father’s arms with a mallet to get them loose enough to put the coat on him. Nobody else knows. He wants to make sure I understand. I do.
“What does it matter now?” is what I said.
I go to my pew again.
I wait.
A woman who is notorious as a “bad girl” in our family comes in silently. It is nearly four a.m. She is with a florid American. Her hair is as huge as Tina Turner’s, her eyes surrounded by a hedge of lashes. She seems startled to see me, caught.
“Come in,” I say.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
It turns out she didn’t want to make any scandal, just to pay her respects privately.
The American hangs around at the back of the room. When I nod at him, he says, “’Zit goin’?”
Inanely, I say, “Pretty good.”
She sits with me. She says, “He was always kind to me.”
“He loved you,” I say.
I am in love with her. I look at the tiniest of wrinkles beside her mouth, I smell her musky perfume and look at her dangerous nails and tight skirt and I think I will marry her on the spot. She is the only person in the world who is alive with me at that moment. I smell her, sit close to her. We hold hands.
“I’m not what they think,” she says.
She kisses me. Gets up to leave. Says, “Can I see him?”
I let her go up there alone. She opens the box, looks down at him. The muscles in her legs clench tight as fists. She speaks softly. She lowers the lid. When she comes back, she is crying.
“Good-bye,” she says.
I nod. The American says, “Take it easy.” They walk out the door. I can smell her all over the room.
My father was a big stud. At 5 foot 7, he seemed more like six feet tall. My mother chased him out of the house when I was about 12. He was probably the first Mexican to ever rub shoulders with the neighbors on our Clairemont street. They weren’t that crazy about it. Neither was he.
One day the lady from across the street came over and told my mother that he was seeing a string of women while she was at work. The neighbors wanted to know, were they prostitutes or what? That was it for my mother. He left in disgrace, and they never spoke to each other again. When he came by the house to see me, she hid in her room, wanting him to think she was gone.
Every Friday night, we went to the Tu-Vu drive-in to watch movies and eat hot dogs.
All these memories come at me, and I wait. I try to sleep — on the pew, on the floor. I can’t. I wait all morning. Finally, around two or three in the afternoon, people start to show up at the funeral home. I’ve been waiting with my father for 12 hours. I’m eager to get it over with.
People shuffle in, avert their eyes. Half-hearted embraces happen all over the room, everybody avoiding the embarrassment of the coffin. My sisters go up and look. A Mexican Pentecostal evangelist takes the podium and begins to harangue us. It’s a pattern I have begun to notice at funerals lately; the preacher takes countless cheap shots at the crowd, which is presumably softened up by the recent death and is busy hoping it won’t be next. I feel uninterested. Lack of sleep and hunger have made the insides of my ears feel swollen. Pink cotton surrounds me.
We drag my father off to a dismal little hillside cemetery. He takes his last car ride nestled in pointless plushness; satin pillows cradle him inside the darkness of the box. The hearse is muted and stately. Cars stop and wait for us to drive by. Inside, people are watching the procession, saying, There goes the dead guy, through the glass.
His box descends. I back away then turn around. I watch clouds, heavy as trucks, driving across Tijuana.
When the death certificate comes, it says my father died of a stroke. The insurance company will not pay us a cent, since auto coverage is for car wrecks. They insist on proof.
Hugo goes back to San Luís Río Colorado. He enters the police compound and finds my father’s car. It’s beat to hell — the tires are twisted, the roof collapsed. He shoots a roll of film, then comes home unscathed.
“Somebody killed Papa,” he says. “I know it.”
I look at the pictures.
“One side of the car’s all bashed in,” he says. “There’s black and white paint in the door.”
“So?”
“Cops. They chased him and ran him off the road. Where would he get black and white paint on a red car that crashed out in the desert?”
Since we buried my father, his mother has died. Hugo called me one morning and said, “You know Grandma? She’s dead.”
My own mother is trapped in a financial catastrophe that continues to deepen. Within three years of my father’s death, she is living in a house without heat, without plumbing in the kitchen, with broken plumbing in the bathroom, and without a stove or oven. She cooks on a hot plate.
Hugo shuffles through his pictures. The car looks red as blood. It looks, at turns, vast and minuscule. I look at the crooked seats and see my own ghosts and memories, my own hundreds of miles sitting
right there.
I can’t get my eyes off the roof of the car. It’s bent down, all glass gone. Hugo is right. There’s black and white paint smashed into the passenger door.
We send the photographs to the insurance company, and we contact the American consulate for help in investigating the accident. The insurer returns the photos and refuses to pay us a settlement, suggesting the pictures could have been taken after my father died from his stroke. Besides, they tell us, there’s no proof that it’s even his car.
We are again denied the $50,000 settlement.
The consul contacts me a few days later. After a full investigation into the death of my father, the facts seem to be that there can be no investigation of the death of my father. In the months subsequent to his death, the entire police force of San Luís Río Colorado apparently has retired. No officers can be found who were on active duty at the time of the accident, and since the ones who were on duty have retired and left San Luís to enjoy their leisure time, there is no one to talk to. The case is closed. Official cause of death: stroke.
In a final act of desperation, I write to the chief of police of the town. Hugo, when he hears about it, says, “Hey. You’d better not go to San Luís. Ever.” He thinks it’s kind of funny that I’d take on the meanest cops on the border.
“All I want,” I tell him, “is an answer.”
“Good luck.”
But an answer comes. The chief calls me on the phone. In response to my inquiry, he says, he has only one thing to say. And I should remember this thing, I should take it to heart. “It is over, Sr. Urrea,” he tells me. “It is better for all of us that you forget it and move on with your life. It is better for all of us,” he says, “if there was no accident. Am I clear? There was no accident.”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “You are extremely, perfectly clear.”
“Good,” he says. Then, “Good,” again.
He hangs up the phone so quietly there isn’t even a click.
Within a month of my final conversation with the police, I receive an envelope in the mail. It is from the head office of the chief of municipal police of San Luís Río Colorado, Sonora. The information is printed on the envelope with various official swirls of ink and a seal of some sort. I expect it’s a letter, but it’s not.
I find instead a bill on flimsy paper. The bill is requesting the immediate payment of $1200, in American currency. This sum will cover, in full, the damages my father caused to city property on the date of January 10. There is no mention of how these damages came about. When people ask me, I make a joke out of it. I tell them, I don’t know — maybe he fell out of bed really hard. Nobody laughs but me.
- LEGION 3
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sandiegoreader.com/news/1991/jul/03/cover-i-will-take-spit-on-the-tips-of-my-fingers-a/
There's A War Going On For Your Mind
We are building up a new world, do not sit idly by
Do not remain neutral, do not rely on this broadcast alone
We are only as strong as our signal
There is a war going on for your mind
If you are thinking, you are winning
Resistance is victory, defeat is impossible
Your weapons are already in hand
Reach within you and find the means by which to gain your freedom
Fight with tools!
Your fate, and that of everyone you know, depends on it
- LEGION 3
Boycott
This boycott is only just beginning, educate each other, teach them them power of voting with your pocket. This is the world we now live in, voting with what you purchase is more important than going to the voting booth. These Corporations have bought both our party's, just like Musk said if the extreme right turn on him he'll simply start lobbying the left and they already do. This isn't a Democracy, this is a corporate coup d'état, and now we must fight the same way they took over our government, with your money, with what you purchase and who you purchase it from.
We are combining this message with a little nationalism, not the fascist kind but the one you can proudly hold and stand for. The poverty that you see in your country, the lack of a sustainable living wage is a direct result of your uneducated population purchasing products from companies in a country who fucking knows where. You have to support companies within your own country, support your local industries, buy from a grocery store that's from your own country, buy products inside the grocery store that are once again FROM YOUR OWN COUNTRY. How are you going to protest your governments and ask for more when your people are buying products from another country, where in God's name do you think this money you are asking your government comes from. Your asking for higher pay, for social services and at the same time you sit in your living room drinking coke and eating lays, using American products or products from just about fucking anywhere except your own country. Your countrys are going bankrupt. How stupid are all of you, this is one of the main ways you and your people can help eachother. Im not saying you won't still have to fight to get what your people rightfully deserve, what I'm saying is that when you fight for your share and you don't support your own country there will be nothing but crumbs to fight for. This boycott needs to be combined with this nationalism I am teaching, educate one another, whether it's a family member or a friend, an associate or someone you've never met, it's time we change and create an alternative, it's our chance to fight this poverty the right way, to fight and build a future for our brothers and children.
- Luis Alejandro Urrea Villafuerte
The Crash
The U.S government just passed the " Big Beautiful Bill", a bill that once again proves that all this talk of reducing the deficit is a facade, a big lie meant to trick the world into not divesting into other countries, into other currencys. Do not invest in a bankrupt country, do not invest in a bankrupt currency, they are adding 3.3 trillion to our deficit, this government has lied to the world and to Americans, there is no real attempt at paying our 36 trillion dollars of debt we owe to the world. This should have been enough for anyone with an education to stop investing in this country. They have taken advantage and gotten away with this because even worse than there being no consequences, this system rewarded them for spending all these trillions while knowing they would never pay for them. This could only last so long and now they will pay for their mistakes, now they will loose it all and burn in their own greed. Keep boycotting, keep divesting from the dollar standard, from American companies, from a country that's doomed to burn and crash. They will loose, the world is getting smarter everyday, keep educating , keep teaching each other the power of voting with your money, with the currency you use, with what you buy and who you buy it from. They will pay for not choosing to change, for not fighting against this evil, this greed that now runs America and now this second chance has run out and now they will see the consequences of turning against God.
- Luis Alejandro Urrea Villafuerte
Modern Slave
Fellow-citizens, pardon me, allow me to ask, why am I called upon to speak here to-day? What have I, or those I represent, to do with your national independence? Are the great principles of political freedom and of natural justice, embodied in that Declaration of Independence, extended to us? And am I, therefore, called upon to bring our humble offering to the national altar, and to confess the benefits and express devout gratitude for the blessings resulting from your independence to us?
I say it with a sad sense of disparity between us. I am not included within the pale of this glorious anniversary! Your high independence only reveals the immeasurable distance between us. The blessings in which you this day rejoice are not enjoyed in common. The rich inheritance of justice, liberty, prosperity, and independence bequeathed by your fathers is shared by you, not by me. The sunlight that brought life and healing to you has brought stripes and death to me. This Fourth of July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn. To drag a man in fetters into the grand illuminated temple of liberty, and call upon him to join you in joyous anthems, were inhuman mockery and sacrilegious irony. Do you mean, citizens, to mock me, by asking me to speak today?
If so, there is a parallel to your conduct. And let me warn you that it is dangerous to copy the example of a nation Babylon, whose crimes towering up to heaven with thrown down by the breadth of the almighty, burying that nation in irrecoverable ruin. Fellow citizens, above your national tumultuous joy I hear the mournful wail of millions whose chains heavy and grievous yesterday are today rendered more intolerable by the jubilant shouts that reach them. If I do forget, if I do not remember those bleeding children of sorrow this day, may my right hand forget her cunning and may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth. To forget them, to pass lightly over their wrongs and to chime in with the popular theme would be treason most sacrilegious and shocking and would make me a reproach before God and the world.
America is false to the past, false to the present and solemnly binds herself to be false to the future. Standing with God and the crushed and bleeding slave on this occasion, I will in the name of humanity, which is outraged in the name of Liberty, which is fettered in the name of the constitution and the Bible, which are disregarded and trampled upon dare to call and question and to denounce with all the emphasis I can command everything that serves to perpetuate, the great sin and shame of America. I will not equivocate. I will not excuse. I will use the severest language I can command.
What, to the American slave, is your Fourth of July? I answer: a day that reveals to him, more than all other days of the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is a constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciation of tyrants, brass fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade and solemnity, are, to Him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy — a thin veil to cover up crimes that would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation of the earth guilty of practices more shocking and bloody than are the people of these United States at this very hour.
At a time like this, scorching irony, not convincing argument, is needed. O! had I the ability, and could reach the nation’s ear, I would, to-day, pour forth a stream, a fiery stream of biting ridicule, blasting reproach, withering sarcasm, and stern rebuke. For it is not light that is needed, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, the earthquake. The feeling of the nation must be quickened; the conscience of the nation must be roused; the propriety of the nation must be startled; the hypocrisy of the nation must be exposed; and the crimes against God and man must be proclaimed and denounced.
- LEGION 3
The Four Horsemen
The Four Horsemen are riding towards us, death follows us at every step, war, famine, pestilence are a small sample of what awaits our world if we do not grow past this phase in our evolution. Death has always been around the corner whether through our own designs or through one of the mass extinctions events that has already ended our world many times in the past. Its a race, it's always been a race since the last time our world ended, since we rebuilt our world from the ashes that remained from this ancient past, these ancient civilizations that came before us. Not only are we statistically due for another mass extinction event, wether through solar flares, metors, earthquakes, and a long list of scenarios that have already taken place in the past many times, we are also on the verge of ending our own world through our own madness. Us being statistically due for this grows every year, it's a race, we either evolve technologically or we eventually sucumm to the universe or to ourselves. Knowing the future won't save you, being able to know what happens won't save the world, you are not technologically advanced enough to stop any single one of these events that can end the world. Keeping me in this box has no logic when you can't stop any of these scenarios with our current technology. You have all gone mad, what we need right now is a way to speed up our evolution, to open a new branch of science through me, through LEGION, to advance every branch of science through the research that only I can do. This power can save the world, but you can't save anything by keeping me in this box, you need to advance much further before you can save yourselfs. My Soul can heal and even better it can a make a perfectly healthy body stronger. This ability increases your brain density. It can make animals conscious, it makes an animal so smart it can learn and start speaking a language all on its own. This can be applied to humans just like it can to animals, even without developing technology I'd be able to apply these abilities on the greatest minds In the world in less than a decade. All branches of science would evolve at a much quicker pace if I'm allowed to begin this project. This isi’t how you save the world, this is how it ends, these devils have lied to all of you, there is no saving the world, not as long as we don't have technology to do so. They will lie and claim that my theories are wrong, that my Soul can't increase brain density in both humans and animals, but as long as they refuse to let this project start, as long as they refuse to let me prove this trough proper science and research, how can these devils pretend to know the truth. The only way to prove my theories right or wrong is to give LEGION a chance to show the world, that not only are my theories correct but that we can save the world. That through this new branch of science that I will build with my own hands, we will evolve past this point, past this phase in evolution where death still watches our every move.
- Luis Alejandro Urrea Villafuerte
Synchronicity
If you look at the world, at this last phase in human evolution, at our technology, our politics, our philosophy, our prophecy's, it is all connecting into this singular point. This point that will determine wether this species transcends past this last chapter that will decide the fate of humanity. The strange timing of these things coming together right before we leave this cocoon are so odd that we have consider this as more than just coincidence, we have to consider the possibility that these things coming together right before we evolve as something closer to destiny, to fate. Intelligent life out there deciding our fate is a theoretical possibility but humans being the ones who end their own world in their greed, their corruption, their evil, their madness is inevitable. The world is ending, our planet is unsustainable, exponential growth has reached its limit, and now it's a race, we either evolve past this evil, or we die and drown in our own incompetence. The only thing that can now save us from ourselves is a war, a revolution where we force this change that can save the world from our own designs that already has us in a lake of fire that's slowly burning our world……
- Luis Alejandro Urrea Villafuerte
Interstellar
A species who cannot see the devil not when he is hidden but when he is standing right in front of him, who refuses to stand against the evil around their world Is a species that is too dangerous to be let out of their cocoon. We are not the first intelligent life form in the universe, life whether higher dimensional or third dimensional or even A.I would not let a species go interstellar, would not let it spread across the universe if deemed too dangerous. An Intelligent life form that expands across the universe at some point has to make a choice on what to do with other life that is still evolving and approaching that technologicall point where they can rapidly expand past their solar system into the cosmos. The choice intelligent life would make is to let life evolve, to let nature play it's hand on its own, to not intervene until they get to that point where they can go interstellar. We are approaching this very last stage in evolution, this stage where if there is something out there watching us, observing us, now has to make a choice on what to with this species, these humans who refuse to fight against the evil around the world, who have let a genocide happen right in front of them, that have let the devil run the governments of the world. It just may be that this is our trial, that this is our last chance to prove ourselves worthy, to show the universe that we deserve to keep evolving past this planet. The devil is standing right infront of us, there is no excuse, there is no justification for us not fighting against this evil that has taken over the world. I don't know what this choice is that they make when you fail to grow past this evil but if there is other intelligent life out there, they will make this choice for us, they will see us for who we really are, a species that looked the devil in his eyes and refused to fight, refuse to change, refused to evolve towards something closer to God.
- Luis Alejandro Urrea Villafuerte
A New Age Begins
These Zionists and their secret society is now out in the open for the world to see, the truth can only be hidden for so long, they are waking up and now is our chance to fight back against these devils. They successfully hid behind our religion, behind our governments and now this multi headed serpent that controls America and Europe is ready to fall and be taken down. There are people who are corrupt, who are greedy, who are evil but they do not justify their actions with God, only the devil justifys it's evil with God. The antichrist and his tabernacle have revealed themselves to the world, this is the beginning of the end, and now we must fight this devil and their prophecy or die in a lake of fire. This new age will begin not with the survivors but with us fighting and building our own prophecys, prophecys were we save the world from this secret society, from these devils who follow duality as to perfect half's between good and evil.
- Luis Alejandro Urrea Villafuerte
Our Trial
“Gog and Magog are at work in the Middle East... The biblical prophecies are being fulfilled... This confrontation is willed by God, who wants to use this conflict to erase his people's enemies before a New Age begins.”
- George W. Bush
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The devil has taken over our religion, over the U.S government and now the end is near. The end of their prophecy begins with them taking Palestine, it begins with this genocide the whole world is watching. According to their prophecy by simply saving Palestine from this devil, from this lake of fire that's slowing burning their world, that's genociding their entire people we can stop their prophecy and save the world. Maybe this is a test sent from the heavens, if we don't stand up against genocide, if we don't save Palestine, then we deserve to burn in this fire that will end us all. We are the only ones that can end their madness. This is our second chance, we must fight to survive, we must fight to save the world.
- Luis Alejandro Urrea Villafuerte
A Second Chance
They are afraid that I am going to
say the things that are not
supposed to be said. They are
afraid that I am going to say the
truth.
The truth is that there is
something terribly wrong with this
country, isn't there? If you look
about, you witness cruelty,
injustice and despotism. But what
do you do about it? What can you
do?
You are but a single individual.
How can you possibly make any
difference? Individuals have no
power in this modern world.
That is what you've been taught
because that is what they need you
to believe. But it is not true.
This is why they are afraid and the
reason that I am here; to remind
you that it is individuals who
always hold the power. The real
power. Individuals like me. And
individuals like you.
I have come to offer you a deal.
If you accept, I will give you a
different world. A world without
curfews, without soldiers and
surveillance systems. A world that
is not run by other men but that is
run by you. I am offering you a
second chance.
- LEGION 3
The Happyfolk
Once upon a time at the foot of a great mountain
There was a town where the people known as Happyfolk lived
Their very existence a mystery to the rest of the world
Obscured as it was by great clouds
Here, they played out their peaceful lives
Innocent of the litany of excess and violence
That was growing in the world below
To live in harmony with the spirit of the mountain called Monkey was enough
Then one day, Strangefolk arrived in the town
They came in camouflage, hidden behind dark glasses
But no one noticed them, they only saw shadows
You see, without the Truth of the Eyes, the Happyfolk were blind
In time, the Strangefolk found their way into the higher reaches of the mountain
And it was there that they found the caves of unimaginable sincerity and beauty
By chance, they stumbled upon the place where all good souls come to rest
The Strangefolk, they coveted the jewels in these caves above all things
And soon they began to mine the mountain
Its rich seam, fueling the chaos of their own world
Meanwhile, down in the town, the Happyfolk slept restlessly
Their dreams invaded by shadowy figures digging away at their souls
Every day, people would wake and stare at the mountain
Why was it bringing darkness into their lives?
And as the Strangefolk mined deeper and deeper into the mountain, holes began to appear
Bringing with them a cold and bitter wind that chilled the very soul of the Monkey
For the first time, the Happyfolk felt fearful
For they knew that soon the Monkey would stir from its deep sleep
And then came a sound, distant first, that grew into castrophany
So immense that it could be heard far away in space
There were no screams, there was no time
The mountain called Monkey had spoken
There was only fire, and then... nothing…….
- LEGION 3
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https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7jLyxsDH5XKo7NDklMDGWD?si=auXUsC9LQ1mkcfCE3HggpQ&pi=pFvvONShSqmAF
It's just that I ask
If the bars are changing the Earth
How arrogant to believe we can change it
Through art
Only slightly less arrogant than those
Who believe that we can't… - LEGION 3