Guerilla Warfare Doesn't Work in Castles

9th October 1967

We all knew I was going to die. I see in their eyes a hunger for it. They need to kill me, some higher up ordered it, I heard them. Fitting that I will die here. In a dilapidated schoolhouse, ruined, by years and years of jungle rain. They had me staying in a large open classroom. Half of a wall was destroyed by age and lack of care. Of course, I would die in the evidence of their greed.

I had asked to see the teacher of the school and they brought her in. A normal woman with dark auburn skin, one of the working people, but not me. I stared into her eyes as I talked, I knew that a man had to say something in these last days. Wasn't it right to die with at least something to say?

I am a man of one thousand cuts, my body is scorched and destroyed this and whole entire world has done it. Yet now, with bullet wounds, and lack of food, and so many parasites and diseases, I feel none of it.

One of the soldiers enters the room, he smiles and wobbles and walks to me. He's drunk on something. Maybe he took some of poor Isabel's wine. I remembered her talking to me about wine, it was amusing to think of a school teacher drinking but what else could they do. These soldiers would have probably taken it, shoved her to the ground and said it was all for the good of Man.

The soldier sits in one of the seats near me. His legs sprawl out over to the other desks, his uniform is loose, he must've just slipped it on.

"Guevara, Guevara, Guevara, what a beautiful name you have." A jeer, he was jeering. I haven't been jeered at since middle school.

"I am going to kill you Guevara and you are going to like it." He ended the sentence with a sexual gesture. Oh, soldiers never change just grown-up children, just grown-up children. I did not speak though to him. I will not speak.

"Come Guevara, or should I call you Che, let's take you for a little walk before the reaper comes." At that, he laughed although it was hollow. Isn't it interesting how even a horrible man, most likely a killer and a rapist still doesn't laugh at death?

So we walked, I did not have long and I might as well spend it in the sun not struggling in the abyss of a school building. We walked through the hallways and he whistled. I recognized the song but I did not know where it was from. Some dark recess of my mind it pulled up and I knew that unveiling it would be important but I couldn't.

We reached the sun after a minute and we basked in its glory for a second. The sun was the ultimate weapon of the revolutionary for it was there for everyone, they could never take it from us.

"Come let's have you parade like the dog you are." He jostled his gun as he said it. I could see what he meant. The band of soldiers sat out front basking on the benches where just a few days ago children had played. Though I suppose it was no different soldiers and children, one and the same. They looked haggard, they did not sleep much, my men made sure of that. If it was any solace.

They laughed as I approached. One of them shouted.

"Hola Che! Hola Che! Papi! Papi!" They laughed and laughed. Tears streamed from their eyes and this was not a hollow laughter. They had won. They had beaten oh great Che Guevara. They had him in their grasp. I was the dead one in their eyes.

"A picture with 'The Father of the Revolution!" They all burst into laughter again. The laughs echoing along the schoolhouse walls. One of the soldiers took out a camera, I recognized it, looted from the hands of Luna, oh moonfaced Luna.

They all gathered around me, my chains, my scars, my bullets, and their grinning faces. It painted a grim picture, one I think, I hope they would view with regret later on. But all they could do was laugh. To think I would die next to a pack of hyenas.

One of them eyes me and I know that stare. It's a stare I've given many times before, the stare of someone who is just about to kill. Someone who I know will do it. He hungers for it, his palms sweat as his hands reach for his gun. Something in that brain of his needs to do it. It is not a bad way to go I think, at least I fought, at least I never gave in.

Now they are drinking and eating sliced pieces of pork. From some poor farmer that they stole from. Their mouths covered in a translucent fat it glistens at each bite. I sit there in the dust, basking in the sun for probably my final time. A bird flies overhead, a brilliant red and green and it lets loose a terrible shriek.

The soldiers stop for just a second to look up. It is not just a single bird I notice, it is two. Two beautiful hummingbirds and I am reminded of the ancient Aztec god of war who came down to man in the shape of a hummingbird.

There's something in the air, this is it, this is the moment where it all happens. Where that man will take his gun and fire it. I know it. I look for the last time in this world. Trees and shrubs and the laughing men. I wish I had a book to ponder it all.

The laughing of the men dies out. Now it is almost silent except for the two hummingbirds in the sky.

"Can I get a smoke before you boys do it?" The words fall out of my mouth, my voice is not my own but the reapers coming out. It's guttural and it's dying. One of the soldiers, a big man, has a bloodstain against his chest, a murderer, he reaches into his pocket to get a cigarette but another soldier stops him.

They all look at me and for once in my life, I feel higher than them all. It feels like I am the light and for the first time, they are seeing me. They have realized that perhaps it is not a good idea. I see it in the way their laughter moves off into the distance. The hunger fades away. The wounds seem to recede and the noises seem to stop. I stand in the sun and cast a long shadow onto them.

A shot rings out, a dot of pain, maybe two, now I'm on the floor. Another shot, and then another, I must not scream, the revolution must not die in pain. I bite and a shot comes out, I move and a shot comes out. They must all be shooting at me. I don't even know if I am alive anymore, my eyes are shut, all I hear is blood and shots and blood and shots and pain.

The final shot rings out and the soldiers say something and the sound slowly drifts into my brain. It tries to worm itself inside of me, I try to hear it, but I cannot, I must've faded away, I think I must've died.