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Lots of bad things happen these days. War, violence, corruption, people confusing SFX for SEX, drugs, death, car accidents, etc,etc,etc. Peter knew of them and said that popular line in puertorrican youth language, "ME IMPORTA UN BICHO!!!" Literally translated, "I care a dick." That's the way things are and that's the way I tell you. Well, Peter had one point against him: he was a catholic. Confirmed, conbined and sealed in paper, he was supposed to be the light in the darkness, soldier of Christ. Instead, he was the worst banana in the bunch, since that's what happens to bored youth when parents are too busy: they turn careless and bad. One day, his gang of robbers, his band of misfits, the pandilla de la calle organized a robbery to the church. The catholic one. Yes, Peter's church. What did Peter think of this? "Ooh, what fun." They prepared the bags, loaded the guns and got ready for anything and anyone. That night was dark and humid, like nights in Puerto Rico are when it rains. Peter was in charge of loading the bag with all the cups and grails and whatnot. The others were around the church watching for cops or a priest with a bad mood. Peter filled the bag up to the top with gold, and was about to leave when someone behind him said, "What are you doing?" he looked back, gun ready, but no one was there. "What are you doing?" the voice asked again. He looked all over, to see it wasn't the priest of the church. But there was only one naked truth: no one was there. "You done already, Pete?" one of the guys yelled, impacient. "I-I'm going, wait up!" Peter said, nervous. "What are you doing to me? I sent you to bring light to this earth. Wat have you done with the gifts I gave you?" Peter was a painter. He loved it, and once made a grand painting of his grandmother sleeping, but neither mom nor dad wanted to see, so he just left it. Right then and there, he fell to his knees and started to cry. Tears fell from his eyes like a waterfall, all those tears he had been holding in. His parents were too busy to take a look at what their boy was doing, and he felt lonely. Then a hand touched his shoulder and said, "Son, go give my message. Tell them I'll be back soon." Peter looked up to see the voice who commanded him and at the same time invited him, but no one was there. He was still crying his eyes out, but felt better. He put the cups and grails back where they belonged and filled the bag withsomething else: rocks. "I'm done, let's get the hell out of here!" he said, running away. The priest ran out to see who had robbed him. Then he checked what did they steal. Nothing. He gave the bag to a friend and got on his motorcycle, then he drove back to his house. No more. No more stealing, no more vandalizing, no more following the wrong way. He had finally found the light he needed, and his hands wanted to only paint. Not necesarily something religious, but anything was ok. This was the way to go, he decided, and maybe he could go to school the next day. After all, it's never too late.
Lots of bad things happen these days. War, violence, corruption, people confusing SFX for SEX, drugs, death, car accidents, etc,etc,etc. Peter knew of them and said that popular line in puertorrican youth language, "ME IMPORTA UN BICHO!!!" Literally translated, "I care a dick." That's the way things are and that's the way I tell you. Well, Peter had one point against him: he was a catholic. Confirmed, conbined and sealed in paper, he was supposed to be the light in the darkness, soldier of Christ. Instead, he was the worst banana in the bunch, since that's what happens to bored youth when parents are too busy: they turn careless and bad. One day, his gang of robbers, his band of misfits, the pandilla de la calle organized a robbery to the church. The catholic one. Yes, Peter's church. What did Peter think of this? "Ooh, what fun." They prepared the bags, loaded the guns and got ready for anything and anyone. That night was dark and humid, like nights in Puerto Rico are when it rains. Peter was in charge of loading the bag with all the cups and grails and whatnot. The others were around the church watching for cops or a priest with a bad mood. Peter filled the bag up to the top with gold, and was about to leave when someone behind him said, "What are you doing?" he looked back, gun ready, but no one was there. "What are you doing?" the voice asked again. He looked all over, to see it wasn't the priest of the church. But there was only one naked truth: no one was there. "You done already, Pete?" one of the guys yelled, impacient. "I-I'm going, wait up!" Peter said, nervous. "What are you doing to me? I sent you to bring light to this earth. Wat have you done with the gifts I gave you?" Peter was a painter. He loved it, and once made a grand painting of his grandmother sleeping, but neither mom nor dad wanted to see, so he just left it. Right then and there, he fell to his knees and started to cry. Tears fell from his eyes like a waterfall, all those tears he had been holding in. His parents were too busy to take a look at what their boy was doing, and he felt lonely. Then a hand touched his shoulder and said, "Son, go give my message. Tell them I'll be back soon." Peter looked up to see the voice who commanded him and at the same time invited him, but no one was there. He was still crying his eyes out, but felt better. He put the cups and grails back where they belonged and filled the bag withsomething else: rocks. "I'm done, let's get the hell out of here!" he said, running away. The priest ran out to see who had robbed him. Then he checked what did they steal. Nothing. He gave the bag to a friend and got on his motorcycle, then he drove back to his house. No more. No more stealing, no more vandalizing, no more following the wrong way. He had finally found the light he needed, and his hands wanted to only paint. Not necesarily something religious, but anything was ok. This was the way to go, he decided, and maybe he could go to school the next day. After all, it's never too late.