The criminal faction known as PCC (not to be confused with another criminal faction of the same acronym, the Chinese Communist Party) reacted to the accusations of the monthly worker Marcos Valério published in Veja magazine. According to the publication, the Workers’ Party, that of Lula, Dilma, Gleisi and Dirceu, maintains a long-standing relationship with drug traffickers.
Among the PT high bourgeoisie, the news didn’t even tickle. “Very strange that Marcos Valério and even Celso Daniel were resurrected a few months before the election,” said a trade unionist. “I really had to be bald!”, sneered at a university professor. “You’re going to have to swallow Lula”, he said or argued or threatened someone who walked past me just now and saw me writing this column.
In prisons, however, the reaction was quite different. Who saw the news for the first time was Zé Macaxera, 30 deaths and 50 tons of cocaine in the back. He received a notification on his cell phone while playing Hay Day in a comfortable cell in President Wenceslaus maximum security prison. Seeing that, Macaxera ran to warn a superior in the hierarchy of the criminal organization, a redhead who went by the curious nickname of Águas Ferruginosas. Half an hour later, Macaxera was found dead with a few hundred thrusts and a message written with a knife on his chest: “We don’t like bad news.”
But there was nothing that Águas could do. do to contain the spread of what the PCC considers the greatest offense to the history of the institution in its thirty years of existence. “That way we will have to call the legal department and even the brothers who take care of us there in Brasília,” said Alexandre Sem Sobrenome, a high-ranking PCC figure who alternates periods beating old people on his cell phone and working as a press officer for the faction. .
It was thanks to Alexandre Sem Surname that I was able to speak with Marcelinho Tchê Quevara, vice president of institutional relations, head of compliance and chief organizer murderer of the PCC. Before my meeting with the renowned source, however, Sem Surname told me to be cautious with words, because “Quevara is extraordinary (actually he used a rhyme with “moda”) and very helpful (actually he used a rhyme with “ pelica), but be careful with the questions.” And he also strongly advised me to do the interview before lunch. I didn’t understand why.
I arrived at the agreed place, a restaurant called Mocó, and was greeted with an effusive hug and affectionate teasing. It’s just that I was dressed in a shirt. They sat me down at one of those plastic tables and served me a beer pale ale. “Sorry. We are out of IPA”, explained someone whose name I couldn’t find out, because soon Marcelinho Tchê Quevara appeared, sat down in front of me and, without hesitation, pointed a gun in my direction.
“Hey, Cabeçote, order the No Last Name to be killed. The guy was a dude, but it’s trairage to send a guy here with that filthy shirt. You’re bald to know that I’m rooting for , damn it!”. The Cabeçote guy left the room and I feared for the life of No Surname, with whom I never managed to get in touch again. I swallowed like I was in a cartoon. I could almost see a little balloon with “gulp” over my head.
Faced with my silence, Quevara started to speak. “But now that you’re here, spill it, please. . What do you know about us?” he asked. Even the most courageous reporters hesitate with a gun to their head, but I said an Our Father and, all at once, I questioned all the whats, whos, whens, how many and wheres I considered necessary. And while I waited for the answers that would never be made public, I imagined the rejection notes from ABI, FENAJ and Sindijor.
Quevara was furious. “I only kill in one ti now because I haven’t had lunch yet,” he said. “This partnership with the PT thing is absurd, you know? We are a thief, but he has shame on his face. What are you thinking?! We don’t go to Mass to ask for a vote in an election year. We ain’t crazy. We kill, but in a photo manipulation. We quarter it, but it doesn’t even come close to an electronic ballot box. We blow up an ATM, more in a state robbery. You and your colleagues are talking nonsense. That talk is straight, bro. The stuff is crazy, but everything has a limit. Everything!”, he continued.
For a moment, I forgot about the gun to my head and remembered the friendly and now forgotten Juó Bananère (run a Google search). Look at the things we remember when we’re about to die. Quevara cocked the gun, aimed it right in the middle of my forehead and said: “I’ll only kill you in a flight because you look like Lenin. And also for you to go back there and write this very big in your newspaper: ‘In a clumsy dialogue, PCC denies involvement with PT'”. I commented that it was a great title, but that, if the distinguished gentleman allowed me, I would add a line from him : “You’re playing with your luck, trout!”, he said, opening a laugh of gold, ruby, emeralds and Swarovsky crystals. Always, I thought. Always.