Mexico.
Capital.
In a basement of a slum in Mexico City, three people sit in a circle, smoke swirling around them. Three years ago, they were basking in glory, eating and drinking lavishly, with bundles of cash and women.
After the boss died.
They thought they could make a comeback.
But who knew.
Having taken over the business.
They realized the cost of everything. The most infuriating part was that the boss never revealed where the wealth accumulated over the years was hidden. They searched his residence from top to bottom and only found a couple of coins.
It really was coins.
Three of them.
Each person present got one.
It was the ultimate irony. Later, things got worse; fruit wine caused many to kick the addiction, and markets, whether in the United States or locally, were rapidly shrinking.
The good days.
Were gone for good.
That hatred.
