uno, dos, tres: Rattison's bad day | [josé porrata]



Uno, dos, tres. Uno, dos tres.
Cuenta, porque no puede contar.
Duerme, por no soñar.
Vivir… es estrés.


No cree las leyendas
de los objetos portales
que entretienen mortales
prisioneros en tiendas.

El mercado es ley.
Din.ero el rey.
Pero los padres “can’t pay”.
Así que con hambre pasa “the day”.

Destierro, se convierte en detrito.
Si, así es que muere el maldito.
Recogido entre los cúmulos.
Celebra el derrumbe del túmulo.


Jack Rattison held the corpse of a young child in his arms. He was well accustomed to death, and even reveled in its glory. But times like these, he knew that he was truly despicable. A monster greater than him used the child as a shield, to no avail.

Pushing a man down the Styx was usually enough to put a smile on his face, but it could never wash away the elimination of the innocent. How could governments make it so easy? There are those who had no choice but to die certain days in such unfortunate ways. He cleaned the wound, closed their eyes, and buried them, a far cry from the scattered garbage around him. Another set of tears to hold down, another calamity on another day. But he was Jack Rattison, he knew comfort. He knew love. Perhaps, thats what hurt him the most.

She was Brown sugar. He was cream. But today, her Jackie was off. She knew what he did, and she hated it. But she was an accomplice most of the time. Cinnamon was home and she was throwing a bitch fit as always. Complaining about some petty thingamajig that Jackie was going to resolve ASAP. Cause Jackie loves them. Brown Sugar saw a tear in her Jackie’s eye and pulled him towards her with all her might. “Rough day?” He contained a barrage of sobs. “Yeah.” She pet him and rubbed his back. He quivered and let it go.

Cinnamon was never really ok. She didn’t like to snap at Jackie. She loved him a lot, but her situation was far from her fairy tale. He was for all intents and purposes, a monster. She was too. And for circumstances no one could control she ended up sharing him with Brown Sugar. She sometimes didn’t mind. Brown Sugar was beautiful and could work her way around the female body, but she wanted Jackie for herself. It’s just the way she was. No question about it. Jackie stumbled with a bottle of whiskey in his hands. Brown Sugar helped him up and placed him on the bed. Cinnamon failed to see how Jackie was hurt, but she felt he failed to see how uncomfortable she was. 

It… it was strange. 

But a maternal instinct guided her to get some water for the broken up man. She could address any issues they had later. Right now Jackie had to be taken care of. I mean, without her and Brown Sugar, he was totally useless.

Jack Rattison woke up to the embrace of Cinnamon and Brown Sugar. He knew he was an asshat yesterday. He was careful to make sure the ladies did not awake, and kissed each on the cheek. It was hard to not have his way with either, the warmness of each was the only remedy to a ghastly fate. 

He put on a shirt and made breakfast: scrambled eggs with chorizo, green pepper, Swiss cheese, and onion with a side of a bagel half with cream cheese. He ate his share and left two servings for the ladies. Jack made sure to dress snappy, for he was going to be on the clock soon. Before riding off into the morning sun, he left a note for the both of them, saying how he would be back by the afternoon and how much he loves them both. 

His first duty, upon reaching his destination, was to spit lead in the brain of a corrupt CEO. He checked his account balance, and it had enough to take the ladies on a trip to Germany for a month. He thought about the child he killed, and sent most of it to repair the developing nation that child lived in. 

It was still enough to at least take the ladies on a nice vacation a few days. It’s the least he could do. He was a monster after all.

Tres Dos Uno, no soy Unamuno.

Uno dos tres, para la maldad no importa el mes.

Cinco Seis Siete, La vida es cruel y miente

Mil doscientos, la tierra es ya cimiento. 

Ochocientos ochenta y ocho, esto no lo arregla un buen sancocho.

Noventa y nueve, por eternidad sangre llueve.

Infinito, la realidad es totalmente un mito.

Cero, por eso me desespero.
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