Rictor

Rictor hasn't slept in three days. He's barely eaten. When you turn snitch on one of the biggest arms-dealing conglomerates in both North and South America, you don't rest well. Last I heard, immortality wasn't a mutation. So why did he do it?

"Fuck if I know," he said, nervously tapping the ash from his cigarette. "So far, it's been the stupidest idea in a lifetime of stupid ideas."

We were in a safe house in an undisclosed part of the country. I had to be blindfolded to get there. We took a plane, two car rides and a helicopter to get here and I'm pretty sure two of those trips were just to throw people off the trail. Only two newspapers had been allowed to take his picture; mine wasn't one of them. Basically, I begged. I wanted to take a picture of this man who had such an interesting life story. I hope everyone can read about it before you read his obituary.

"My dad's in the business. His dad was in the business. The business fucking stinks and my dad was an asshole. Maybe this is all a big finger to his fat, fucking face." Rictor took a deep pull on his cigarette. "I don't know, man. I just... there's always fighting, y'know? Always gun shots. Always someone cleaning up blood from the streets. It's not pretty low in the ranks. It's only ever us down on the streets and the leaders up in their beautiful white fucking mansions in fucking, I dunno, Cancun. My dad and his dad worked their fucking asses off in smalltime shit and got next to nothing except maybe the right to stroke their dicks and consider themselves part of the brotherhood but it's bullshit. It's all fucking bullshit. And I'm going to die 'cause people believe in the shit."

I interviewed Rictor four years ago. I haven't heard about him since.