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KYLE – Uvalde native Bowie V. Ibarra’s third book, “Pit Fighters: Baptism by Fire” is breaking new ground in sports fiction.
A book-signing event by the Uvalde author with a live wrestling presentation is scheduled for Feb. 14 from 10a.m. to 1p.m. at El Progreso Memorial Library.
Ibarra says, “I own a lot of martial arts training books. There are also lots of martial arts movies. But I’m not sure how many Mixed Martial Arts themed fiction books are out there.”
“Pit Fighters: Baptism by Fire” follows a small and diverse stable of fighters from around the world who form a stable in the fictional south Texas town of San Uvalde.
The team competes in a fictional mixed martial arts tournament in Austin during the advent of the sport.
Ibarra believes MMA is more of a rebirth, or a kind of martial arts renaissance.
“The Greeks would have called Mixed Martial Arts “Pankration”.
“This ancient sport was a combination of punching, kicking, and submission wrestling. In the 1970’s, Bruce Lee advocated the study of all arts to avoid the limitations of one form. Today, his dream is a reality,” says Ibarra
The book is a culmination of Ibarra’s appreciation of combat sports.
“Growing up, I would join my father and uncle and watch boxing on weekends. From the matches on “Wide World of Sports” to the big Pay-Per-Views with Tyson and Chavez,” recollects Ibarra.
“Today, its Couture or Emelianenko who are making waves in the MMA fight world.”
“Pit Fighters”
is Ibarra’s third. His first two pulp-style zombie horror novels, “Down the Road: A Zombie Horror Story” and “Down the Road: On the Last Day”, have made waves in the zombie horror subculture.
His third story in the series, “Down the Road: The Fall of Austin” is completed and will be released later this year.
“Pit Fighters” is published by Swarm Press, an imprint of Permuted Press, a print-on-demand publishing house.
The publisher has been in business since 2004. Permuted’s books, including Ibarra’s first two, are available on the shelves at Borders and Waldenbooks, as well as online through Amazon and other online vendors.
Bowie Ibarra lives in Kyle and teaches at Lehman High School.
He is represented by Acclaim Talent in Austin. Bowie Ibarra has a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Acting and a Masters of Art in Theatre History.
For more information on Swarm Press or Permuted Press titles, go to http://www.swarmpress.com or http://www.permutedpress.com.
For more information on Bowie Ibarra and his other works, visit his website at: http://www.bowieibarra.com/.
When Medina Valley High School senior Jacob Allen isn’t stressing about excessive homework, he’s flying off the top rope and working on his submissions holds.
For more than three years, Allen has been training in preparation for his professional wrestling debut. That day has finally come.
“[The training] has been really physical,” Allen said. “People think this stuff is easy. I’ve got a huge bruise on my back right now. I’ve had to make a lot of sacrifices. I had to quit football this year, my senior year, to focus on wrestling. I had to choose something, and this is what I love.”
Allen, also known as “The Jakester,” made his professional debut last November at an event presented by Southern Championship Wrestling. Allen says that his alter-ego, “The Jakester” is not too far off from his regular personality.
Much of pro wrestling centers on the conflict between the heels, or bad guys, and the faces, the good guys. Allen had no doubt what role he would be playing when he took his first step into the ring; that of a face – albeit a “baby” face.
Allen has been training under the tutelage of famed trainer and SCW wrestler Rudy “Boy” Gonzalez at the Texas Wrestling Academy in San Antonio. The academy, co-founded by WWE legend Shawn Michaels, has groomed current WWE wrestlers Lance Cade, Brian Kendrick and Paul Landon.
“Hopefully I can put Castroville on the map one day if I ever get famous in the WWE,” Allen said. “That would be nice. Castroville is a good place, and it needs to be recognized.”
For Allen, pro wrestling is simply in his blood. His father, Don Holding, was himself a pro wrestler with the legendary, but now defunct, WCCW organization. However, Sandra Holding, Allen’s mother, gives herself some credit for Allen’s highflying acrobatics.
“From what I understand, he’s going to be pretty acrobatic off the ropes,” Holding said. “I think that comes from my side, I was in gymnastics.”
Reprinted by permission: Castroville News Bulletin
In our last edition, we ran an excerpt of Ray Scott’s new book. Almost immediately, there was an intense amount of interest in the book and many LaVoz readers asked how they could obtain a copy. The best way to obtain a copy is to call Mr. Scott. His number is (830) 278-6738.
Due to the large amount of attention to the book, the author was amenable to allowing La Voz to publish a second excerpt.
The following is the second excerpt from Ray Scott’s “The Greedy Gringos of Uvalde County.”
Enjoy!
(Editor’s note: The following excerpt contains harsh language and semi-censored expletives)
During the 1980’s and l990’s, the thieves from Houston and Dallas started paying big stolen bucks for ranches in Uvalde and surrounding counties. These thieving bastards are mostly big-mouthed lawyers from the big cities with a pocket full of booty. Then you have the wormy-headed pricks that stole their fortune in the fuel business. These sorry sons-o-bitches added more fuel to the fire. The big shots in Uvalde County welcomed them to the greedy gringo clan. Of course, the first thing on the agenda was to keep us peon gringos off of their river.
One of the greedy weenies was a thief named “Con Man.” They say he stole his fortune being a tobacco lawyer for the people with lung cancer. In other words, a buzzard on a branch waiting to glutton down on that last dollar. Most of the old greedy gringos died off, leaving their greedy little turds to keep up the legacy. Most of them failed at following in the footsteps of their prick daddy because daddy was gone. So, they sold out to the thieves. The ass kissers of Uvalde County were sucking up to the thieves knowing that they had more stolen money than they had. Con Man is just another son of a bitch of the SS along with his hoard of thieving gringos.
The other maggot that looks like someone picked him up and shook all the sh*t out of him is the ‘Big Culero” of the thieves. His Gar-mouthed name is “Blow-his-Stack Blockhead.” What the bigmouth bastard needs is a good country thrashing! He had his own swimming hole dredged out below his place in the middle of the state riverbed! This little worm with his stolen money likes to show how weak he is by opening his gar mouth with threats like “the people of Uvalde County don’t have enough money to keep me from getting these peons off my river!” The worm has shot into the water around swimmers and fishermen. He must have some of the deputy sheriff’s officers paid off because they have been successful at running some young kids off and a few grown-ups. He paid a fine for trying to run some true friends of mine off the county road that he wants to steal.
Bubba Chisum and his wife and their kids had canoed down river fishing, picnicking and swimming. When they got to the assholes “county road water crossing”, my friend’s son loaded his canoe on top of his pickup and loaded up his family. When he pulled out of the riverbed onto the county road, “Blow His Stack” pulled out from his entrance to his property onto the county road and started trying to run them off the road! He then passed them on the narrow gravel road at a high rate of speed with his spinning tires throwing rocks and gravel onto the sides of my friends pickup! Then the Red Wiggler with the sh*t slung out of him slid his pickup sideways blocking them from getting onto the state highway! When Bubba got out of his pickup, Blockhead was standing outside his pickup. Bubba was hotter than a fresh-fired cannon. He walked up to the worm and got him by the neck and slammed him across the hood of his pickup. He was fixing to receive something he apparently had never had before! When you are the first cousin to a jungle rat like this Houston pile of sh*t, he did what all cowardly bastards do. He had called the sheriff’s department before he tried to run those kids down. He is one lucky prick!
A sheriff’s deputy drove up and kept this worthless son of a bitch from spending a week in the hospital sucking blended sauerkraut and weenies through a straw with help from a nurse because his bruised swollen eyes haven’t opened for a week! This bad-mouthed thief was whimpering like King Rat. Saying to my friend’s wife, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” That’s the only truth this no good bastard has ever told! He is worse than sorry. He forgot to say that he was a sorry, no-good, thieving son of a bitch from Houston! His bloated mouth will get him in a heap of deep sh*t someday. If my Dad was alive, he would say, “Don’t you know that his flapping mouth would look good wearing a fist?”
Con Man and Blockhead were so concerned about the preservation of the rivers and environment that they drummed up a plan along with a hand full of their Uvalde County greedy gringos to keep the public off the state rivers, because the vehicles traveling up and down the river were messing up the environment each time a tire touched the water when crossing from one side to the other. These two sons a bitches made it look like the locals were invading their property. These two thieves along with some of the local greedy gringo landowners staged a photo shoot on the Nueces River north of Uvalde. I have a witness who saw the guttersnipes doing what they do best. The witness said he was camped out on his property above the Nineteen Mile Crossing Bridge. He said that about an hour or so before daylight, he heard five or more vehicles driving in the riverbed. They did donuts and tore the gravel up spinning their tires for a while. Then, they parked all around the mess they made and cut their lights off and killed engines. He said they never moved or got out of their vehicles. When morning came, he heard a helicopter flying towards where the vehicles were parked. It circled around the vehicles for a minute or two, then left. The vehicles started their engines and left the riverbed.
The following week, there was a big colored picture in the Austin, Texas newspaper showing the destruction of the riverbed and the 4×4 vehicles that did the damage. And, it was blamed on the peon gringos! It’s really amazing that it didn’t appear in the Uvalde by-weekly wipe or the San Antonio Express News. San Antonio is eighty miles from Uvalde. Uvalde doesn’t get the Austin paper. But the witness’s best buddy who lives in Lockhart does. You can tell that the picture was a set up! A person would be stupid not realize that these two ringleader bastards live just a few miles from where the pictures were taken. And one of the thieving bastards owns a helicopter! These thieves wanted to show all the crooked politicians in Austin and Governor Pretty Boy Prick how concerned the greedy gringo landowners of Uvalde County were about saving the 250 plus miles of rivers in Uvalde County from the wrath of the pillaging peons! These greedy gringos throw most of the trash that their trigger-happy hunters leave behind around the water crossings and under the bridges adding more trash to the trash that some dumbass picnicker left behind
This clan of thieves hired two lobbyist and paid out over $60,000 to the sorry bastards The He Coon was behind all this crooked sh*t Here he is, up to his waist in his grave with one hand on the jug and the other hand snatching grabbing up all the land he can get. After all, he is one of Texas’ largest single landowners.
I don’t give a sh*t how much money or property someone has., the rivers and streams of this state will be off limits to the peon gringo. In Uvalde County, this puffed faced old bastard is the “He Coon” with his sneaky tactics and glomming experience paid a visit to our state representative, who is a thieving bitch from the valley of Texas. This old bastard shook that green back poultice in her Javalina chomping mouth that immediately turned her into an environmentalist. The He Coon persuaded her to run a Bill through the Texas Legislature to ban the use of motorized vehicles in the river bottoms statewide that was sure to pass as long as the stolen money kept pouring in. The bill passed through the House and Senate and Governor Prick kicked the peon gringo in the nuts with the stroke of his greedy pen along with his chickensh*t grin. Now, all the greedy gringos from Uvalde County are happy, especially Con Man, the Red Wriggler and the rest of the sorry bastards and the bull dyke bitches who are supposed to listen to their constituents and do the job according to the constitution (that no longer exists). The Uvalde bi-weekly wipe supported all of the thieves by putting editorials in the paper sucking up to the greedy bastards. A turd that was backing and glomming on the stolen money was a state representative from Kerrville, Texas. He was raised in Uvalde County and it keeps the pressure off the local assholes that he does the dirty work for. Can’t anyone read between the lines!
Two of the county commissioners of Uvalde County were on us peon’s side and wanted to form a river access committee. Blockhead was the first asshole to be chosen to be representing the thieves along with a limping wimp rancher neighbor of his. The limping wimp is a Uvalde County native. Blockhead showed off his greedy thieving ass at the first meeting during the discussions by threatening one of the opposing committee members. The by-weekly wipe had it on the front page. Blockhead told the member, “That’s private property and the first time you go up there, you are going to get cuffed and I hope it is on my place, because I will press charges!” He should have finished his wormy performance by saying, “I’ve got enough stolen money to buy what my greedy gut wants!” Take a bow for all your greedy gringo compadres, you little wormy son of a bitch!
The river ban for vehicular traffic had some stipulations. They were: The only people allowed to drive a motorized vehicle through the riverbeds were law enforcement, emergency vehicles and public workers. Of course, the greedy gringo and “others”, too. I understand all of this except for the last part. Who in the hell are “the others”? And why do the greedy gringos get to drive their vehicles wherever they want? Could the others be the Houston hunters that will pay the thieves a cheaper fee to kill a deer, buck or doe? The fee is around three hundred dollars a day for these poor dumb bastards.
The greedy gringos call hunting the river bottoms “a free roaming deer hunt” no feed, no blinds. This bullsh*t was picked up on the internet advertising all over the state to hunt free roaming Whitetail deer on the Frio River in Uvalde County. The greedy gringo doesn’t tell the dumb bastards from the big city that they can’t use their high-powered rifles. The firearm allowed to hunt with on the rivers is a shotgun. Buckshot or birdshot is all the peons are allowed to use. No slugs. He turns them loose to roam around in the river bottom looking for the free roaming deer with their high-powered rifle. The deer behind his twenty-foot high fence are his deer! The deer in the river bottoms are not corn fed pets like the deer that the greedy ones have penned up to be slaughtered just for the antlers and cape.
The big city shooters hang their big bucks in the locker places and pay for a few weeks and never come and pick up the deer because they killed a bigger antlered deer with a wider spread on a canned hunt later in the season. The deer left behind by these assholes could feed a lot of starving people that would appreciate the flavor of deer meat. Instead, the deer are hauled to the dump ground. The employees of the storage lockers get to keep the racks.
Crooked lawyers, politicians and lobbyist should all be shipped to Siberia. They spend their stolen money getting elected promising us poor dumb peons everything but the truth. The only truth I have ever heard was from an old man who wasn’t a politician. He said that the crooked bastards will get on their soap box and tell all of us dumb listeners what they would do for your vote. He will even kiss your ass for your vote and when he is elected, you can kiss his!
Uvalde County resident Ray Scott has recently published a terse collection of stories and anecdotes titled “The Greedy Gringos of Uvalde County.”
In it, Scott provides a multitude of stories he and others have experienced while living in Uvalde. Weaving characters, incidents, social, political, and economic factors together, he presents the perspective of many in Uvalde County who have dealt with a political system that is heavily influenced by wealth and avarice.
Writing in a vernacular and somewhat provocative style, Scott clearly presents the frustrations of the typical everyday citizen who sees their rights being slowly strangled by wealthy individuals whose only perspective is driven by egocentric desires.
Additionally, Scott notes how citizen’s rights have been taken from them over the years to the point that landowners along the river regularly claim public property as their own. Laws are passed under the guise of environmental protection, when in fact the protection that is needed is from the landowners themselves who greedily exploit its natural resources for self-serving reasons.
Abrupt and without reservations, Scott clearly communicates the manner in which local officials become obligated to wealthy campaign contributors who then use the officials to their benefit.
Numerous instances are included in which Scott and others confront the “Greedy Gringos,” and their political lackeys. What is made clear is that elected officials who are supposed to administer justice can be bought and sold much like common produce at a marketplace.
All the while, the wealthy keep taking and claiming more as the everyday citizen sees their rights continuously reduced.
Below is an excerpt of Scott’s book; it is an open, honest, thought provoking work that “tells it like it is.” There is no doubt that the “Greedy Gringos” against whom Scott vents will squirm in their shoes, while the everyday citizen will find Scott’s down to earth writings hilarious, yet valid and straightforward.
La Voz
urges its readers to contact Mr. Scott to purchase a copy. He may be contacted at (830) 278-6738.
(Editor’s note: The following excerpt contains censored expletives)
Over all the years, there were a lot of people found guilty in Uvalde County J.P. court for hunting doves in the riverbeds by a law that didn’t exist. All of these people would just pay the fine and not fight it out in court because his greedy boss might fire him. Besides that, these people had to work there ass’s off every day to make a living. Mr. Darley told us that we should file a class action lawsuit against the Texas Parks and Wildlife and Uvalde County. He said the more people you can get that paid fines and put up with the harassment from the game wardens big city lease shooters, and the greedy ones, the better. We never did it; us peon gringos couldn’t take off work to pursue it.
The very next year in the Texas Parks and Wildlife game law book, there it was bigger than sh*t! “No taking of migratory birds on state owned streams in Uvalde, Zavala and Dimmit Counties”! We later noticed that the Texas Parks and Wildlife game law book didn’t have the taking of fur bearing animals listed as being illegal. The first time we were shook down by the game warden and he saw that we had furs he had to let us go.
The very next year, no taking of fur bearing animals on the state owned streams in the same three counties! We could still fish and camp out and put up with the greedy gringos threats. We didn’t take any sh*t off them either. The landowners blamed the river hunters for everything from shooting holes through their houses and having to hide in a corner ducking bullets every hunting season because of the river hunters. This bullsh*t was printed in the Uvalde Biweekly Wipe Newspaper by some wife of a greedy gringo. I believe I would have called the sheriff department. They would have caught their dumb assed lease hunters from the big city and their yearling sons shooting at everything that looked alive. “Shoot that Hawk, boy! You crippled him just like that horse you gut shot this morning that we had to run into the riverbed to die. Don’t worry, Boy, the blame will be put on a river hunter. Your doing better than on the shooting range! Now, take a shot at that windmill.”
It kind of makes you wonder who shoots bullet holes threw the highway signs? A friend of mine named Cliff Armstrong was shot out of a tree with a shotgun by a jellybean yearling kid from the big city. He thought all two hundred pounds of Cliff was a turkey! One young boy killed his Dad who was hunting in a deer stand. He thought his Dad was a turkey. Cliff still has pellets in the cheeks of his ass. To this date, the only hunters with gunshot wounds and being killed have been these ignorant trigger-happy fools from the shooting range in Houston.
Have you ever heard of a “sound shot”? This is no bullsh*t! My Dad told everyone who came into his beer joint that he had overheard a group of lease hunters from Houston talking about the hunt they had that day. One of the hunters told his buddies that he had took a few sound shots that day. My Dad asked what he meant by a sound shot. He told him that if he heard a sound in the brush, he would take a few shots in that direction! These are people that shouldn’t be allowed to even fart. What little they knew about hunting, you could put in a thimble and it would roll around like a BB in a boxcar.
One big hunter paid five hundred dollars to kill a wild boar feral hog that was in a cage. He was going to have his trophy mounted to show all of his hunting buddies in Houston. The hog was actually lucky to be in a cage. Otherwise, if it was running around in the wild, the no-shooting bastard would have blowed both hind legs off and let him run off to die.
• Ted Bridges was one of the very few landowners who wasn’t a greedy person. He was a big jolly giant who would let anyone come through his ranch to get to the Sabinal River and camp out and fish. He would tell anyone that the river did not belong to him and it belonged to the public to enjoy. All you had to do was ask him to cross his property to camp on his place or the river bottom. I asked a few times for permission to go through some of the greedy bastards property to get to the river not to camp out but to just be dropped off and paddle my canoe to a state highway crossing to be picked up. I was turned down every time. The first words out of their mealy mouth were, “Well, if I let you come, I’ll have to let everyone.”
One deer season, five of us went up the West Prong of the Nueces River hunting. Wild Bill, Walton Howard, Bill McEntyre, my cousin Howard Smith and myself. We were camping out for the night. It was a cold night. We had our trucks backed up by a huge fire we built. We were going to fix Shrimp Gumbo for supper. We had the tailgates down on our vehicles with lanterns on top of the cabs. The moon was full. You could see a hundred yards in any direction across the white gravel bar. We were having a good time drinking our whiskey and jacking with each other while preparing our gumbo.
About an hour after sundown, we saw the headlights of two vehicles drive up and stop on the bluff overlooking our camp. We heard doors slamming and saw flashlights coming down the bank towards our camp. They were over one hundred yards away when they started across the gravel bar towards us. Here they came like the gunfight at the OK Corral. Four abreast we kept our cool. We decided to let them come on in.
We didn’t have any idea who was coming into our camp. We did know that they weren’t there to eat gumbo! Wild Bill said he would take his rifle and go behind some thick thorny brush that was next to our camp. When they stormed into our camp, the greedy gringo leasee of the property said, “Y’all put that fire out and get the hell out of here! Y’all are trespassing!” He began kicking gravel on our fire where our food was cooking, yelling at us and throwing a fit like some little spoiled turd kid that lost his sugar tit. His name is Karl. We all knew Karl. He had a bad reputation at being an assh*le. He was a schoolteacher for a few years. I think he was fired from that job for showing his ass by throwing books and chairs across the classroom when he was pissed off.
Two of the four in the group were Uvalde County Sheriff Department deputies. The other was a Mexican ranch hand. We knew the Sheriff deputies also. One of the deputies said, “Is that you, Ray?” I said, “It sure is!” Karl said, “Scott, you know you’re not supposed to be down here! I’m filing on every one of you for trespassing!”
We started walking towards the pr*ck with the big mouth and nose like an anteater that was on the other side of our fire. The deputy said we don’t want any trouble Ray! I told him to make him shut his mouth then! I also told him that they barged into our camp uninvited. The deputy told Karl to shut up! Dennis Ivy was the deputy’s name. We knew him when he was a teenager. Dennis did not like being in this sh*tstorm. He asked us if we would put out the fire and leave.
I told him we were cooking our supper and having our drinks. He asked us again if we would leave and we declined to do so. Dennis took all of our names and addresses down and vacated our camp with the titty-baby Karl shouting threats and kicking the gravel. Bill came out from the thicket saying he was watching the assh*le through his scope the whole time.
The next Monday I had to go to the courthouse on company business. I saw David White, our County Attorney, as I was leaving. He asked me, “What happened the other night on the river?”
I asked him, “Why are you asking me that?” He smiled and told me that Karl and Dennis Ivy were in his office that morning to file on us for trespassing. David told me that he asked Dennis Ivy if we were in the riverbed. Dennis told him that we were in the riverbed. David told Karl that if we were in the riverbed, he couldn’t do anything about it. He said Karl was really pissed when he left his office. Karl once ran for County Commissioner. He had his picture taken in a stock pen standing in the dried-out cow sh*t with gnats swarming around his mealy mouth his cowboy uniform on and saying “Vote for me! The best of the lot!” Walton saw his political ad in the Biweekly Wipe and the first words out his mouth was, “He’s the Best of the Lot alright! The Best of the Cow Lot!”
I’m not saying that all big shot landowners and ranchers are assh*les. There are a few who I’ve known that were not greedy gutted. Fifty percent are pr*cks. Forty-nine percent are thieves. I knew a rancher named Billy Hill. He let me trap the coyotes and bobcats besides the other fur bearing animals on his place. He’s a good man and so is his brother Tom.
Billy’s place was bordering the Dry Frio River. I had traps and snares set along the fence line that ran along the high bank of the river. You will think I’m shifting you when I tell you who had the riverbed leased for hunting…the greedy gringos whose land borders the river! They were from Houston too! These wormy bastards are taking over our world. Here I am on private property and they are harassing me! They told me one day that they wished I wouldn’t come down the fence line. I told those boys that I didn’t run that string of lines until late morning and it wasn’t messing up their hunting and that I didn’t rat out to Billy Hill about the corn the so-called hunters had thrown over the fence onto the private property of Billy Hill. The next time I ran my traps they were all gone! To say I had the hackass would be putting it lightly!
When I drove back where I started from, I saw four of the little cockroaches (Heh-Heh-Heh, pretty close…. No?) leaning over the fence grinning at me. I recognized the head assh*le. You can always recognize him. He’s the little midget bastard with the buzzard feather in his come-screw-me hat! He thinks it’s off the turkey he shot the ass off of the day before.
I stopped my truck in front of them and asked them, “You boys wouldn’t now happen to know where my traps are would you?” They just stood there grinning like a possum eating shit! I noticed they were driving a new 4X4 dual cab heavy-duty pickup with gumbo monster tires. I drove away and my mind was running away with me trying to figure out how to get even with the no good bastards.
I went to the lumberyard and bought the longest nails I could find. They were as long and big around as a pencil. I also bought ten feet of 1X12 lumber. I cut my lumber in half. I then took each piece of lumber and drove dozens of nails all the way to the hilt. That night, I went over to the ranch. I took my small army entrenching tool with me along with my gift that they were fixing to receive. I crawled over the fence and into the river bottom.
I found a nice spot in the road where they had been traveling. I dug into the ruts those big expensive tires had made. I planted my present to them on each rut in the road. You couldn’t see the nails protruding through the leaves in that Hackberry bottom. My two traps looked so good! It made me want to get down and waller on them myself! I never went down that fence line again. I gave the little bastards a taste of their own sh*t. They probably never drove down that area again either!
The curandero listened intently to the woman as she sobbed.
Covered in a multicolored veil typically used by older Hispanic women, she was telling the curandero her story of sleepless nights, of nights filled with nightmares. She then pulled back the sleeves of her loose fitting blouse to reveal arms covered with black and blue bruises. The woman lifted her blouse slightly to reveal the same thing on her stomach and abdomen, and assured the curandero that her entire body was covered with the bruises, including her face, which she revealed as she pulled back the paño.
The woman said she just couldn’t understand what was ailing her but that she had been advised to check with him because of her ailments.
The wizened curandero assured her that he knew what was ailing her – possession. In a serious tone, the curandero informed the elderly woman that someone was attempting to gain control of her soul. Seeing she was troubled by the news, he assured her that he would begin various rituals that would assist in releasing her from the grasp of whoever was attempting to capture her soul.
The old curandero knew the he was contending with the strong powers of a witch who was using a malevolent magic against the woman. He knew he had to be careful in confronting the powers of such a person; otherwise he himself could fall under the sway of such a powerful enchantress.
He sent the woman home with a poultice to apply to her bruises with instructions to recite specific prayers as she applied the mixture. Additionally, he told her how to arrange various religious icons throughout her sleeping quarters. He then took a lock of hair from the woman that he would need during the night.
His last instructions were emphatic and stern – do not answer should anyone call out her name. He told the woman to return in a week.
The woman thanked the curandero and went home to prepare herself and apply the poultice. After the woman left, the curandero began to prepare for the coming night, as he knew he would be battling a sorceress. As night fell, he began to recite prayers and a ritual in a room prepared with religious icons and candles.
After he had arranged in a circle all the objects he needed, he placed the locks of the woman within the circle. As he focused his prayers on the lock of hair, he could sense the approach of a storm. The wind began to increase, he could hear the whistling of the wind, the rustle of the leaves as the wind whipped the branches to and fro.
As the curandero continued with his prayers, always focusing on the lock of hair, he could hear his dog barking in the background, he could make out the squawking of the chickens even though they should be sleeping.
The pattern was repeated for five nights, with the curandero in prayer and ritual while the nightly storms blew away anything not securely anchored. The animals appeared each day more haggard than the next, the dog barely coming out from beneath the house, the chickens looking semi-plucked with missing feathers and not laying eggs.
On the sixth day there was a knock on the door. The curandero opened the door to a stranger with a wide brimmed hat that hung low over the face of the individual. The appearance was that of a man, or a large woman, the curandero could not exactly tell.
The arms of the stranger were folded over their lower chest while a cloak covered their body to within a couple of inches of the ground. The curandero invited the stranger into the reception area of the house and with some hesitation, the stranger entered only just beyond the threshold of the door. When invited further into the curandero’s personal study the stranger demurred, remained standing, maintaining a distance of approximately three feet from the curandero.
The curandero asked how he might assist the stranger. The stranger, with head semi-lowered, the curandero could only make out a shadowy outline of a face.
“Why are you interfering?” was the question.
“How am I interfering, asked the curandero?
“Her soul belongs to me,” was the reply.
“Her soul belongs to God, replied the curandero. “I am simply helping her with her current problem.”
With that the stranger angrily replied, “You are the problem,” at the same time opening the cloak revealing a huge black cat which lunged at the curandero with its front paws reaching out as though attempting to scratch.
The curandero bolted backwards as a sudden dust devil pasted the house carrying debris and dirt; causing the trees to sway violently; the dog cowered under the house; the chickens were scattered from their roosts, feathers and straw being picked up as the whirlwind disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared.
The dirt raised by the whirlwind had caused the curandero to turn his head and squint his eyes. As he now turned back towards the door he noticed that that the stranger with the wide brimmed hat was no longer there. He looked at his arms and could detect three thin cuts on each of his forearms running lengthwise for approximately four inches. He applied an herbal mixture he maintained and placed light bandages over the thin cuts. He then set about cleaning and rearranging the clutter left by the whirlwind.
The following day the elderly woman returned carrying a burlap sack. She smiled as she was greeted by the curandero. “How are you buen Señor,” asked the woman.
“I am well,” was the reply. “I see you have regained your strength, how are your bruises?”
“They have disappeared, and last night I finally slept well.”
The woman proceeded to tell the curandero of the terrible nightmares during the week. Each night, in the darkness of the nightmares, a figure would appear calling her name.
Nevertheless, in the recesses of her mind she remembered the instructions of the curandero and refused to answer. The nightmares had ceased last night and she had slept profoundly.
“I wish to thank you for your help, but I am a poor woman.”
“I do not charge for my services,” was the reply, “besides it is not I that has helped you, but God, it is He who has interceded on your part, I am but one of many means through which his benevolence is provided.”
“Well, be that as it may, I am grateful for your help and as a token of my appreciation I want to give you my best laying hen.”
With that, she pulled the chicken out of the sack and handed it to the curandero. “Many thanks,” replied the curandero, “and may you live in peace.”
As the woman walked away, the curandero took the gift to the chicken coop and placed it with the rest of the small flock he had.
The sun was shining; it was going to be a beautiful day; he checked the chicken roosts and found some eggs – the first in a week.
He savored a breakfast with fresh eggs; yes, it was going to be a beautiful day.
• by Tonia Ollerton
The Apache tell a story about Coyote and the Bluebirds. Coyote admired the lovely blue that they are and wanted to be blue himself. He asked the Bluebirds how they came to be that way and they said they had a dance and ritual they performed to make themselves blue. Coyote asked them to teach him so he could be blue. The bluebirds laughed and said no. Read the rest of this entry »
• Short Story by Juan O. Sanchez
As she sat in the living room Jacqueline noticed the grass creeping up along the low brick wall that served as a fence between her parent’s house and the neighbor’s. Continuing to peer through the side window, she noticed weeds and grass making their way up through openings within the small hedge that grew along the house. Francisco, the yardman, would be coming soon. Jacqueline wondered how much longer. Read the rest of this entry »
Mauro Avila, manager of local acts Akeldama, Llorona and rap duo E.O.D, came across a poster of a California-based national metal act, State of Insomnia (SOI, touring the U.S with one of the stops being Corpus Christi.
Avila, after several years of supporting national acts (record label-owned) along with independent musicians in the ever-growing, popular heavy metal/rock music in Uvalde, Austin, San Antonio, saw it as an opportunity to bring the band to Uvalde.
He contacted the men of SOI in order to negotiate a brief stopover in Uvalde on its way to the coast gig. To Avila’s pleasure, the band agreed to appear.
He then negotiated with two other local bands to appear on the bill, with SOI giving their enthusiastic approval. Read the rest of this entry »
• by Louie Neira
In this issue of La Voz, we feature Uvalde native Margarito “Maggie” Chacon.
Chacon was born March 1, 1934 to Roman and Librada Chacon of Uvalde.
He began his education at West Garden School, then after completing his elementary education, he went to West Main School and later graduated from Uvalde High School in 1953. Read the rest of this entry »
by Andrea Z. Theisen
One of my earliest memories of Daddy is waking up to the sound of his voice, calling my name tenderly: “Andy….Andy, despierta, Mija.” I would sit up groggily and he and Mom would load my brother Nóne (Juan) and me into our old black car. We would then head out to say “Buenos días”, first to Buelita María (Mom’s mom) and then to Buelita Túles (Daddy’s Mom). Sometimes, Nóne’s dog, Reddy, would chase the car as far as Santos Drugstore, then he would turn around and go home. (It was very easy for Reddy to keep up with us, since Daddy would seldom drive over 20 mph.) After we’d kissed our grandparents and visited for a while, we would go back home and have breakfast. This daily ritual taught us that we must honor, respect and love our grandparents above anything else.
Read the rest of this entry »
