Once again, the authorities tried everything in their power to remove the body, to no avail. Scores of men came togther attempting to lift it, but it did not budge so much as an inch. It sat there, next to its reeking companion, swelling and stinking in the Los Malos sun. The flies buzzed around the massive hole in Gator’s forehead and lay their eggs inside it. The residents covered it with the same tarpaulin under which the other corpse sat.
The month rolled on and the young men continued slaughtering each other in a string of retributive killings. And every morning, the residents of Los Malos would be greeted with a fresh body, posted up on The Block with its companions, fixed and immovable.
They sat there, rotting in the open air, swelling to obscene proportions until they would burst. The drain at their feet became black with a putrid mixture of offal and bodily fluids. The thing was becoming a public health risk, with several residents falling ill with vomiting and diarrhea, and even one case of cholera. The group of bodies continued to grow, packing the pavement and walls around The Block.
Eventually the authorities had had enough. They leased a backhoe from one of the local contractors and drove it up Los Malos hill. If the bodies wouldn’t move, they would take the whole damn pavement.
They picked a spot near the outermost body and began to dig.
The bucket of the backhoe dug into the earth under the body and began to lift. There was a loud rattling as the large machine shook and shuddered. Clouds of smoke began to emanate from it as is engine roared and raged. With a final shudder it broke down and fell silent. As the people looked at it in fear and dismay, the driver emerged from it, coughing violently. The police and the DMO looked at each other.