You may have assumed that this would be a story of redemption. A story of how the youth of Los Malos, confronted with the sitting guilt of their actions, changed their ways for good and redeemed the community. Ahahaha… Well, the truth is that life seldom ever works out like that.
Sure enough, some of the residents, unable to bear the stench and macabre sight of the sitting dead, moved out of Los Malos, but the majority of them stayed. You see, the thing that makes the human race unique, the thing that has ensured its ability to survive in any of this planet’s biomes, however challenging, is its ability to adapt. You give people enough time and nothing will suprise them anymore. You give them enough time, and even the dead will smell like home.
So they carried on, the mysterious antics of their slain becoming a part of their monthly routine. So much so that they even made a ritual of it. Their conversations went something like this.
“Ey…Hakim now get shoot boy.”
“For real? Which part?”
“Lewwe go and walk him down the hill.”
And they would make their way to the spot, sometimes meeting the body already stiffly making its way down the hill. They would laugh and talk to it as if it could hear, walking alongside it as they had in life. When it got to the now severely crowded block, it would take its place among the scores of decomposed and decomposing bodies, never to move again.
The people stopped covering the cadavers. They had gotten used to the smell and it was quite frankly, a waste of good tarpaulin.
Among those who spoke of them on the outside, the legend of the Los Malos youth soared even higher, bathing them in a macabre fatalistic glory.
“Dem Los Malos men doh go to hell when they dead.”
They would whisper.
“They does just join the Block Party.”
And on Los Malos hill the Block Party grew and grew, a ripe and fertile field of corpses, the only crop that would ever thrive on that crumbling and barren hill, baking in the August sun.
Monkey break he back
On a peice of Pommerac
And that’s that.