Chapter Eighty One:     Thursday

Thursday began with a phone call at 5:30 in the morning. My cell phone was on the far side of the bed so Melly took it, shot a groggy glance to the screen and mumbled, "It's from Art," before she handed it to me and tried to go back to sleep.

Art's voice came on, "...this is a warning: you might be attacked at any moment. Which has just happened to us-- a paramilitary death squad just tried to KILL us --but we're OKAY, we're okay-- thanks to Daklakht and John Stinger..."

I rummaged around for the loudspeaker connection cable and plugged it into my phone so that everybody on the bus could hear it. If they were awake, that is. Melly was now after hearing that.

"...but we still don't know who they are. John Stinger suspects some Department of Homeland Security mercenaries..."

There was a very assertive knock-knock on our bus door.

"...and they could be in DC too."

Most of us were still sleeping or naked in bed, or stunned by the phone call, so we were naturally slow to respond. The second knock became heavier, more insistent. More authoritative.

"Who is it?" I called.

"FBI," was the answer. "Is Adam Leroy Forest in there?"

Melly and Lissandra were still groggy, Pokey and Maki were groaning, Mike and Masnia were still snuggling, but Magga was all the way awake and alert, her nostrils flaring. She hadn't understood all the English words in that telephone message but easily understood the tone of emergency. She could also hear and smell what was going on outside the bus. "Four men with noisekillers," she reported.

I flashed her the hand-sign for emergency protocol, she moved into position and blended with the closet niche. I pulled on my pants, no telling where this would end up. "Yeah," I answered, "Adam Leroy Forest is here."

One day we need to do something about the passenger door being the only way in and out of our bus. We've been in enough dangerous situations where a secret exit could come in handy: Mexico, Detroit, and here we were again.

Peeking out the front windscreen showed me nothing; whoever was out there was standing out of sight, which could be considered kind of suspicious. I sniffed the air and agreed with Magga's assessment: four men with weapons, but were they cops or robbers? I had to open the only door a slice to see men in government-looking brown suits standing ready with hands hovering near their pistols, still holstered, although just barely. At least they weren't wearing combat armor, but even at that distance I could smell that they wished they were. Fear has a special stink.

The man banging on the door spoke up, obviously the leader trying to sound unafraid, "All right now, either you come out or we come in."

So I stuck to my usual strategy: pretend everything's okay. "Sure guys, come on in." I opened the bus door all the way, but by shoving the door lever with my foot at an awkward angle, staying mostly out of sight, just like them.

Three of the agents came up the steps, slowly, cautiously. The fourth man waited outside our bus with an assault rifle ready, just in case. I stood where the men inside could see me, but also waiting until they were well inside before greeting them with an awkward question: "Are you here to kill us?"

"What? No! Not unless you try to kill us." I could smell that he wasn't lying, so I relaxed.

"Way too early in the morning for that," I assured them, just to lighten the mood.

That had been my strategy: of course, if I had smelled a lie Magga could have punched them from behind at any time, hopefully being careful not to knock their heads off. They had still not noticed her hiding in plain sight, that Sha-haka-ma trick she's really good at.

Unaware of the test he had just passed, the leading agent called out briskly, "Okay, time for everybody to wake up. Out of bed now!" Sounded like Summer Camp.

It took some scrambling to be ready for that sort of unexpected visit. There was much bumping and thumping from the bunk beds. The three agents were not politely waiting for anyone to put their pants on, but they did step back when Masnia rose up out of her bunk bed and faced them, hairy-naked and beautiful, but perhaps ferocious. Their gun-hands seemed twitchy.

But then Magga stepped forward, seemingly from nowhere. The agents were startled: Masnia at 6 foot four had made them nervous enough but Magga was a foot taller and a lot more muscular. A naked Bigfoot Amazon can be pretty intimidating. Actually, I suppose, so can I. The three agents smelled really scared now.

Looking at it from their perspective, they had been sent to invade a bus full of Bigfoot rock musicians: they had to be scared shitless. But at least they hadn't come with a SWAT team, as at the Hacienda. And their guns remained holstered as we all got out of bed and they could see how many we were. But they got jumpier with every person more filling up all the standing room in the bus: Mike, Melly, Liss, Pokey, Maki.

Considering the flack I'd gotten from those "Federal Agents" during our press conference the day before, I wasn't sure what the FBI's intentions were toward us. Were we in trouble because our secret document had been posted online?

I'd spent the night with Melly, Lissandra and Magga, just innocently sleeping, if that matters. It had been a late night and now it was quite early in the morning, not much time for hanky-panky. It's just that the agents came in and looked around, perhaps making moral judgments as they observed who was getting out of bed with whom. We were a juicy racial mix: California Chicano, blonde Caucasian, brown mulatto, cute jap, native redskin-- and squatches.

I suppose that it could have been much more problematic for them to find me still lying in bed with Mell and Liss: those two pure & innocent human girls. I had no idea how racist these agents might be, but their hands were still hovering near their weapons.

I tried to break the tension, "Welcome to our home sweet home. I am Adam, in case you hadn't guessed."

"I had guessed, you're pretty recognizable. I'm Agent Dawson," he said, offering me his hand to shake, "Sorry to bust in on you like this."

Suddenly everyone relaxed and gun hands drifted from the pistols. This was going much better than I'd feared. I nodded and asked, "So why are you here?"

"We've been alerted that you-- all of you --may be in danger. Your parents-- who are quite unharmed, btw --have been victims of an attempt to commit homicide early this morning in Monroe, Washington."

"Yes, I know. They called me and warned us to watch out. Then you arrived."

"That's why you asked me if we were out to kill you?" Agent Dawson asked, "And I said NO, but how could you be sure I wasn't lying?"

"I can smell lies, so I was quite sure. But how did the FBI get involved?"

"We have an operative attending your language school, who happened to be present and was instrumental in defusing the attack..."

"Oh yeah, John Sti..." I started to say.

"Oh, no names, please. Anyway, he called, told me where you were and asked for us to check on you."

"Well, that's snappy service," I had to admit, "from coast-to-coast before six in the morning."

"We've been assigned to keep an eye on you and your friends while you're here in DC. We'll try to stay out of sight, but will be around."

"You seem to be taking the possibility of a threat pretty seriously," I said, "is there something I should know?"

Agent Dawson regarded me with an experienced eye. "There's not so much we actually know yet ourselves, but yeah, you can take it seriously too. There are some rogue agencies at work here, innumerable power-plays going on, so DC is kind of a mess right now. But I get the impression that a Bigfoot like you is pretty capable of taking care of himself." Then he looked over at Magga with obvious respect, "And especially her."

The Feds parked their unmarked Ford Mondeo in the campground just across the driveway from our busses, "keeping an eye" on us. Our girls would wave to them but the agents tried to play it cool, being undercover, you know. The Chrome Pie guys and roadies were nervous and suspicious about "the pigs" watching us (some of them being dope-smokers), but my parents had been attacked and I knew there were some bad guys out to get me, so I had nothing against the FBI being on hand.

Besides, I felt compelled to trust FBI Agent Dawson: he seemed like a good guy and it turned out that he was a personal friend of our own pet Agent Stinger at the Hacienda, who was establishing a Nokhon Commando Squad with my own biological father, the Alutna-jii Daklakht. So we were connected.

Also, he was exactly who I needed at that moment: an authority sympathetic to my agenda who knew his way around the Capitol. So I confided in him.

I had always known that Washington DC was where the shit was going to go down. In fact, I'd been planning for it all along. Ever since last November I’ve been aware of some nameless American Senator who wanted me dead.

That Senator had made a deal with Salvador deVega's drug cartel to kidnap me while the band and I were passing through Mexico in this very same bus. I got that information from Salvador himself while questioning him under hypnosis, but he had no name to give me at that time.

But I did have the name of a corrupt Mexican general also involved with the same drug cartel, Camilo Luiz Sanchez, disgraced and now imprisoned ex-commander of the 11th Battalion, Mexican Army. And we have a friend in the anti-corruption unit stationed just outside Mexico City, call him Lt Raf. We'd helped him get General Sanchez arrested, and he helped us get the name of that senator from his prisoner.

Senator Colin Matthew Carver, Republican, based in California. I Googled him: Fifty-two years of age, currently living and working here in Washington DC. He had supported several big anti-environmental bills in favor of the lumber industry, and although there was no direct evidence of any monetary payoffs, there are rumors. I've been planning on paying him a visit ever since DC came up on our band's itinerary.

Not that I had any proof to use against him, he'd always been very careful to maintain a degree of separation between him and his criminal associates, like any well-functioning Mafioso. I just wanted to face him and let him know that a 500+ pound Bigfoot was his personal enemy and play it by ear from there.

To visit the Senate while the legislative body is in session requires a Galleries Pass, obtained through the office of a senator. I'd reserved mine from Washington state Senator McClusky's office, knowing that I would be in DC on exactly this day, Thursday, June 18, to perform a concert. I could only hope that Senator Colin W Carver would show up for work that day and not just go golfing, which I hear he often does. He'd been one of the famously corrupt President Trump's privileged cronies.

Agent Dawson turned out to be quite interested: he disliked Senator Carver for several reasons, both political and professional. I told him that the Senator had arranged for a drug cartel to ambush me in Mexico, during which operation several other innocent people had been murdered. Also that I suspected Carver for last night's attack on the Hacienda.

Ended up I went to FBI Headquarters with Agent Dawson, we did some research online, made an international call to my Mexican Army friend, Lt Rafael Dominguez in Puebla, and arranged for some documents to be transferred to the FBI. It was amazing how everything just fell together within a couple of hours.

After that Dawson even got me the information that Senator Carver would indeed be attending a committee hearing in the Senate Chamber at one o'clock today. Dawson wanted in on the bust, and I welcomed him. Seemed like it was meant to be.

We went together-- well, he drove, but his Government-issue Ford Mondeo was too small to contain me, so I jogged behind, but it wasn't far --to the north wing of the Capitol Building. He parked and led me to the upper chamber of the US Congress and House of Representatives, into the Senate Chamber itself.

We went in separately, him hanging back for the moment. Fine with me, I didn't want to put anyone else in danger, not even an indestructible FBI Special Agent. I was pretty sure Carver was guilty of more than what he'd tried to do to me, so I figured that his murderous nature was not to be underestimated. There was a little fuss getting into the Senate, me being a Bigfoot and all, until they quickly realized that I was the most famous Bigfoot in the world, Adam Leroy Forest Himself, celebrity and cultural icon, then they were honored to usher me in.

I looked around, studied the room, which was large with many seats in horseshoe rows, most of them empty, only about twenty people present at that time. Being the month of June, many senators are probably on vacation, I don't know, but the place seemed pretty laid back and relaxed. I saw that the proceedings were being recorded on video cameras, which I appreciated. At the moment some lady senator was talking about a bill to regulate how online sites may display and promote content.

I found the Honorable-but-evil Senator Carver sitting in a first-row seat. Little grey senior man in a suit. He hadn't noticed me yet, too busy checking out his cell phone. Which he continued to do all along, showing no interest in the proceedings. I couldn't blame him, it was pretty boring.

The lady senator wrapped up her statement and before they could move on to the next hearing I decided to jump in: "Excuse me, folks, but I would like to make a presentation to the Senate, if I may." Of course, I was not supposed to be barging in like that at all, being just some random guest supposedly learning how American Democracy works. But I'm big. And I'm famous. And I'm an Orator, people tend to listen.

Today's chairman, a senior Senator from New Jersey, was slightly flustered by my unexpected request, especially since he hadn't been informed that I'd be there, although he was quickly aware of who I was. "Uhm, well... since you are not a Senator, Mister...uhm... Forest, nor a witness called upon for a hearing, that would be most irregular..." He was trying to be polite. But I pushed on through anyway.

"Understood, but the subject I wish to address is in itself most irregular, or at least I hope so."

"Very well, then, you may address the council."

"Cool. I am here to accuse Senator Colin W Carver of conspiracy to murder, large scale drug trafficking, and international corruption, specifically in relation to the California Branch of the DEA and Holtz Lumber Company of Washington State."

Senator Carver was still studying his cell phone, unaware of any other thing going on around him. But others were looking at him now.

"Last night he sent a paramilitary death squad after my family, so I'd like that to stop. Affidavits have been forwarded to the FBI from the Anti-Corruption Unit of the Mexican Army, witnessing illegal business transactions between Senator Carver and ex-General Camilo Luiz Sanchez, and drug lord Salvador deVega, both currently incarcerated at the Penitenciaria Santa Martha outside Mexico City."

Someone tapped Senator Carver on the shoulder; he looked up from his phone screen, then up to where I stood talking. His eyes went wide with recognition, then panic: he understood why I was there. His shifty eyes were darting everywhere, looking for a way out. He started to gather his things and got ready to go. But when he took a step, so did I, to head him off. He shifted direction and so did I. Finally he just sat down, not willing to risk a physical confrontation with an angry Bigfoot.

Fine with me. I might just harm the guy if I got started. And on TV, how embarrassing!

Agent Dawson and a Secret Service agent came into the Senate Chamber to gather Carver up. There was no drama; Carver followed the two agents out of the chamber. I thanked the Chairman for having allowed me to speak. Lots of murmuring as I left the chamber.

I walked from the Capitol Building back to the campground where our bus was parked, just an easy five miles, but right through all the chaotic mess going on in the streets of America's Capitol city today. Traveling around the USA, performing concerts in a new town about every other day, can become monotonous, same-same everywhere. But not this town, not at this time anyway. The current DC experience was different than anywhere else. It reminded me of last year's revolution in Aket, but on a much more extreme scale: several thousands of people instead of a few hundred squatches.

Those secret unmarked militias were still running around, continuing to attack and arrest protesters, journalists and random bystanders, in violation of actual law. They'd been doing that unhindered for a week without anyone able to officially identify who they were or to whom they were accountable. I heard there had almost been a shootout with the local Metropolitan Police earlier today, arguing about who had the actual authority. It has been assumed that the militia is covertly sanctioned by some branch of the government, but no politician, political party or military agency has as of yet accepted responsibility for their actions.

In the news, I saw that recently elected President Coronado denied any connection whatsoever to the various militias, seems that not even she has any idea who they are, although her Republican opponents accuse her of lying about that, as they so often do. They spew out all sorts of crazy theories painting her as the villain, although no one who knows her personally or understands her expressly humane political agenda can believe that she would be behind such lawless aggression and cruel atrocities. It didn't make sense.

But then again, all sorts of wild accusations and unlikely conspiracy theories are flying thick and fast: the Pentagon is establishing martial law tonight; the House of Congress is out to destroy the Senate, Russia is staging a coup, China has fabricated a new version the Corona Virus to infect everyone.

And now the Washington DC Municipal Police have just issued a cease-and-desist order to the militia, so far ignored.

I observed a lot of deliberate and unnecessary cruelty going on. I saw a nurse helping some protesters who'd been gassed, so a militia-uniformed soldier grabbed her by her hair, sprayed her directly in the face with tear gas, and left her blind and writhing in pain on the sidewalk. I took away his gas, pistol and billy club, then gently nudged him off to explain to his officers how he'd lost all his weapons, hoping he'd have to pay for them. I was trying not to get involved with any of that, but sometimes I just had to stop people from hurting each other.

I finally made it back to camp around 6:00 pm. Some of our band members had actually tried to be tourists, visiting the Smithsonian and some monuments, but the Capitol Building and White House were closed because of all the unruly demonstrations.

My cell phone battery had gone flat, so my friends had been wondering where I'd been all day, since they couldn't call me. I told them about my fun day with the FBI and the arrest of Senator Carver, who had also threatened all of their lives when we were in Mexico. They cheered.

We had no intentions of trying to go out on the town to eat dinner, it was too crazy out there, and besides it was more fun in the camp. Various protest groups invited us to come and speak or play music with them, we didn’t want to favor any group over others, so we played music for the whole campground. It wasn't a Chrome Squatch performance, but a jam with anyone interested in joining us. At least twenty guitars, whole bunch of drums, trombones, trumpets and flutes, accordions, harmonicas, kazoos. Chaos, but far less dangerous than on the streets of DC.

But later that evening I couldn't resist going out for a walk to experience that other chaos. I went alone, thinking it might be dangerous with all the violent behavior going on, both from demonstrators and the forces of unlaw and disorder. Luckily, none of my friends wanted to go into that maelstrom; certainly not Magga or Masnia, who don't like pushing through crowds of tiny humans under the best of conditions. Pokey thought it was unwise. Melly and Liss were more or less afraid of getting hurt out in the streets of the Capitol. Actually, so was I, but felt that I should see for myself what was really going on.

The only other person from our group actually interested in going out with me into the raging night was Benny Joe, looking for some action, and a riot was just his speed. I started out with him tagging along, as a kind of social experiment, but he soon ended up in a bar and I continued on alone.

I was on H Street, heading for Lafayette Square, when a big swarm of protesters came around the corner, running from the army or police/militia/whatever, which was shooting pepper balls and flash-bangs into the crowd. I was recognized, and people began to cluster around me, chanting "Adam, Adam, go get 'em, Adam!" repeatedly, as if I was suddenly elected to be their hero against oppression. They were assuming I was on their side, although I had no idea which side they were on or what they were protesting. Suddenly all these demonstrators were expecting me to use my size and strength to take on the police. I mean, I didn't know if they were peaceful protesters or looters and vandals-- this might be a battle I wanted no part of.

The police -- or soldiers --impossible to tell, once again those unmarked tactical squads that have been causing more trouble than good, came following hard right behind them. Armed and dangerous, ferocious, hitting people with batons and seemingly out of control. Made me think of Viking berserkers. Only with guns. I really had no desire to stand against them or to get in trouble with the law. I was waving my hands and saying, "No, no..."

But they attacked me anyway. Of course, they did a double-take at seeing a Bigfoot in their way and hesitated for a heartbeat, but mostly they maintained their momentum and came at me with their clubs and flash-bangs,tear gas and taser guns.

Flash-bangs are just as effective against me as for normal human people; they're non-lethal but the flash! and bang! confuses and disorients me. The extremely loud bang is painful to my better-than-human hearing, the acidic smoke is blinding. Nasty stuff.

Then the billy clubs. Some of them managed to hit me, and yeah, it hurt, so I almost panicked and had to defend myself. I started snatching their batons out of hands and throwing them far away, up to rooftops. But I knew that would give them an excuse to draw their pistols and just kill me without compunction. That's exactly what this protest was all about: police brutality. BLM and all that. But hey, Squatch Lives Matter too.

I could see there was no polite way out of this, so I started disarming the soldiers as fast as I could, taking their weapons away, snatch snatch snatch. I ignored the tasers, which scared them. I sent the soldiers sprawling and rolling, trying not to hurt anyone, but not letting them shoot me either. Not easy to do, even for a squatch, there were so many of them and they just kept coming.

I had to control myself, this was too much like fighting those cartel gangsters in Mexico, when I had to let my Bigfoot Monster loose just to stay alive. I still have nightmares about that: slapping down crowds of tiny men, bones crunching, bodies tossed away. A big difference was that those cartel guys were murderous criminals, while these people were cops and/or soldiers. Although maybe just as murderous.

Then a shot was fired. As in Bang! It didn't hit me, in fact, I don't know where it went, and luckily nobody screamed. But we were in a crowded street; the next shot might not be so vague. So I held up my hands and shouted an announcement as loud as I could-- which is pretty loud: "All right, I surrender."

Everyone stopped, so I had a moment to clarify my conditions: "But I PROMISE to break the arm of any officer who shoots me or anyone else here. And for anyone who doesn't know it, I am COMPELLED to honor my promises, so some of you will definitely get squashed before you can kill me!"

I think there were about twenty guns pointed at me, but all activity had stopped while those officers considered if they really wanted to take the chance (I wasn't some unarmed black teen-ager, I was a real life monster) and the protesters waited to see what would happen. I stood there with my hands up, waiting for everybody's rushing blood-lust to cool down. Which it did, over 5-10 seconds.

That quiet spell gave me an opportunity to say more: "You officers who obey illegal orders to harm innocent protesters or blacks or Latinos or gays, all in violation of our well-meaning Constitution-- you might just ask yourself if you really want to be this kind of person." A real rabble-unrising street-corner speech.

A dour cop/soldier wearing a gas mask and carrying a submachine gun shouted, "Yeah, let's go talk that over down at the station! You're under arrest."

I could have asked "On what charge?" but knew that would only prolong the hostilities so I said, "Right, I'll come peacefully."

But an excited activist among the protesters shouted back, wanting to be the People's Hero, "We're not going to allow you pigs to arrest this...er...man. He didn't do nothing!" Then shoving his clenched fist into the air, Che Guevera style, he called out, "Who's with me?" He was ready to riot and others were about to hop on the glory train.

So I had to shout at everybody, "Hey, I said peacefully. Please allow me that instead of causing a riot." The crowd caught on and backed me up. I think the activist got the message too.

It worked: the cops/soldiers gathered to take me to jail, ignoring everyone else since I was the most dangerous and the crowd dissipated on foot instead of in ambulances.

The cops and I walked in a calm group without drama for a few blocks and then into the local precinct, where the unmarked militia had set up their HQ as guests-- obviously unwelcome --of the Metropolitan Police Department, Third District, on V Street.

The negativity was palpable, the local police resented the militia stepping in and assuming command, only to escalate the violence in the streets. The city police were surprised to see me under arrest, most of whom recognized who I was, since many of them were also aware that I was in town to perform a concert. But I was to be booked anyway.

"On what charge?" the desk sergeant asked the militia's captain, since he had to register my arrival. "We don't know yet," the captain said. "Then we can't keep him," informed the desk sergeant with a little smirk. So the militia officer said, "Charge him with resisting arrest."

"Better not, Captain sir," a lieutenant cautioned the officer, "there were about a million cell-phone cameras recording the whole incident and he clearly surrendered."

"But he did resist," the Captain argued, "by taking away our billy clubs."

"Yes, sir, while we were hitting him with them. Before arresting him. So he was legally defending his life-- remember all those video cameras?"

"Whose side are you on anyway, Lieutenant?"

"Yours, sir: this guy is famous, so any false accusation you make official will go viral on Internet. Your word will have to stand up against video evidence, and there's just too much of it out there."

"So what would you recommend?"

"Well, what did he do to make us attack him?"

"Nothing, he was just standing there. But he was BIG."

"Well there you have it: you charge him with being At Large."

The Captain pondered that, then said, "Aww, fuck it," and left.

I looked at the Desk Sergeant, who smiled to me, shrugged and said, "Looks like you’re free to go, Mister Forest."

The young lieutenant was still there. He smiled too, saying, "Just want to say that I really like your music, Adam."

"Oh, thanks," I say, "and thanks again for getting me off the hook."

"Yeah, sure, glad to be of help," the lieutenant says, then adds, "Besides, I had to make sure you are free tomorrow evening. I've got tickets for your Chrome Squatch concert."

"Hey, maybe I'll see you there."

"Yeah, maybe. Oh and by the way, I liked your street speech too. And no, I really don't want to be that kind of person-- a lot of us don't."

"Good. Then don't."

From the precinct station I headed back to Lafayette Square, where the demonstrations were still going on unabated. I felt I should do something to help establish peace. But there, the police were making a stand behind a barrier and the protesters were staying in polite groupings and speaking through megaphones, so it was peaceful and contained. A cheer went up when they saw me and started chanting my name. I guess it was common knowledge that I'd been arrested, so it had to be a victory for them that I was running loose again.

Megaphones were being passed to me, seems I was expected to give a speech. I repeated the "this kind of person" monologue because that was more or less all I wanted to say. Then I walked home to the campground where our busses were parked like Conestoga wagons against attack, figuring I'd gotten into enough trouble for this evening.

"I have to warn you," he said, "I've just learned that the American Senator is planning to have you assassinated while on stage in Washington DC. He wants the world to see it."

"I don't understand, Salvadorio, why are you warning me? You WANT me dead."

"Sí, es verdad... pero no, because of your pincha curse: if I let you die, I will be unable to breathe."

He was still afraid of my syssk, but I'd never thought to decree that he would stop breathing if someone ELSE killed me. Of course, it doesn't matter how I interpret things, what matters is how HE perceives the rules of our little voodoo mind-game. I had an impulse to explain that he had misunderstood the conditions, but then thought, no, let him go ahead and believe my curse is omnipotent.

He went on: "And besides, the Senator sent a hit-team to your Hacienda and threatened the lives of everyone there-- including my son Roberto."

"Roberto está bien," I assured him, "In fact, I've heard he behaved heroically to foil the attack."

"That's my boy." It was surprising to hear him sound proud of his disobedient runaway kid.

"Well, thanks for the warning, Salvador, I'll do something about Senator Carver."

"Oh, you know his name now? I still did not, but I was talking with ex-General Sanchez, he's a prisoner here too, and tends to boast about what he knows."

I wondered about something: "How can you have a telephone while in prison?"

"Officially, I can't. But we are many special status prisoners here at Penitenciaria Santa Martha, we are allowed some priviledges. It's not so bad here."

Oh crap, I thought, even the Mexican prisons are so corrupt that he's still running his drug cartel from inside. But as if he had read my mind he said, "Don't worry, I'm out of the drug business, I want to keep breathing." For a mortal enemy, he sounded almost friendly.

So okay, yeah, let him think that way.