Inca Man

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I had recognized him from somewhere. He was hard to forget. He had a tall thin frame, with long black hair under a cowboy hat. His forehead and his chin jutted out, like the ends of a crescent moon. His face was slender with deep set eyes. He must have been of pure Inca blood.

He ran at me from two blocks away. He ran down the cobblestone street surrounded by stone walls. I was confused. I only recognized the man, we had never spoken a word. What did he want? When he was one length away from me, he made a fist and cocked his arm back. My mind went blank and I reacted. I dodged his punch and caught his wrist, twisting his arm behind his back. He bent over and screamed with rage.

Bryan and Clayton were yelling and police were now jogging to the scene. The modern Inca was trying to roll out of my grip and I didn't want to make the situation worse by holding him down. When I let go, he swung around, but not to hit me. He backed up to take of his jacket and roll up his sleeves. He was spewing with hate. I readied myself and bounced on my toes. I didn't want a fight, but I knew I couldn't turn my back.

The cops arrived before the formalities could take their course. The police were younger than I was. They didn't seem to be taking anything too seriously. They seemed more intent on seeing a fight than preventing one. They restrained the man reluctantly. The man lost the composure he had shown preparing to fight. He was being denied that which he had been assured. He kicked and screamed like a spoiled baby. He even managed to kick my shin between the pathetic line of police. "Leche de Gringo, voy a matarte!"

I walked away, but every time I turned the police would loosen their grip on him. They didn't want the confrontation to end, it was too entertaining. He must have broken free three or four times. Each time, sprinting at me with a racially motivated war cry. I told the police my opinion of them and they stopped fooling around. They dragged the Inca man to the station. I watched him flailing under the yellow street lights.

As it turns out, I had just got myself on the bad side of Ollanta's only violent criminal. The guy had served time for a stabbing. His victim sustained permanent injuries. He was also the same lunatic who dated and abused a girl from Awamaki and popped my friend Benji a few times in the face. From what I was told, he had been made to fight in bars as a child. He was raised to be vicious. He hated gringos, and I realized he probably had good reason.

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