COLOMBIA

By David Victorson

The sound of a single engine Cessna flying low overhead, getting closer.  This plane violated the moist jungle air, its passengers were unholy.  They carried a cancer-causing pesticide to spray on us.  Eradicators, killers from another country.  Declaring war for profit, war on us, profit for them.  Full of bravado.  American law enforcement, destroyers of the land, animals, and plants.  They were compliant to the laws they made up for themselves and forced upon others without agreement.  Corruption and brutal force interlaced the loop holed design.   Yet and yet we were the outlaws, they wore the white hats, perfect, matched the color of their skin.

PILOT (wearing oversized black sunglasses, a starched white shirt, armed with a watch on his left arm)

There, over there. Look at those fuckers growing marijuana.

PASSENGER (could be his twin)

Spray those pricks.

PILOT

Jungle is beautiful what a day.

PASSENGER

Is this pesticide dangerous? Look women.

PILOT

Best hazardous pay I've ever earned. They have no weapons.

(laughter)

Meanwhile, for eight years we smuggled 250 tons of pot up the west coast to Seattle. Smuggled close to one billion dollars from the US to Panama and Colombia.  So, while these assholes were pleased with their hazard pay we beat the Coast Guard, AWAC Technology, the DEA and Interpol.  They caused cancer.  We got people high.