Published: 2025-11-09
Rodolfo Cortés sat in the tall designer’s chair with his legs crossed, making his well-polished brown Oxford shoes shine even brighter thanks to the TV studio lights. His perfectly fitted navy blue suit and pink tie made him look like an authority, but his pink socks featuring a well-known starfish cartoon reminded the public that he was like anybody else.
The host, Alberto Álvarez, a man with white hair and thick glasses, sat across him, reading his notes while waiting for the signal that the commercial break was over.
“We’re live in 5,” said one of the crew members, “4, 3…”
“Welcome back to Politics Over Coffee on channel 4,” Alberto said, “Today we have with us Rodolfo Cortés from the Homeland First movement. Mr. Cortés, before the break, you talked about ‘the enemies of the homeland’, could you please tell us more about said enemies?”
“I’d be glad to, Mr. Álvarez. There are bad actors who have invaded — peacefully — this country. They’re part of our public institutions and cultural events, and have been transforming our values to their liking for the past 200 years. This will continue unless we stop them.”
“And what may be their goals, Mr. Cortés?”
“Their goal is to reclaim this land as theirs, to absorb our country into theirs; a fusion, if you like.”
“Am I to understand that these bad actors are in fact a foreign state?”
“That is correct, Mr. Álvarez.”
“That’s a very serious accusation.”
“Not at all, Mr. Álvarez. You see, at Homeland First, we have compiled a dossier documenting every person, group, and institution involved with these bad actors. You can find it on our website.”
“Could you, perhaps, give us an example of how these bad actors are plotting against our homeland?”
“Certainly. One of the plots that we have uncovered is the spread of fatal diseases as a weapon against our citizens.”
“Fatal diseases. And how may that be possible?”
“It’s very simple, Mr. Álvarez. Some of these bad actors disguise themselves as street vendors. They inject fruits and vegetables with HIV, making our population sick.”
“Incredible… We’d love to chat some more, Mr. Cortés, but we are running out of time. Any closing words?”
Rodolfo uncrossed his legs, leaned forward in his seat, and looked straight at the camera. His charming demeanor changed to one of seriousness, maybe even somber.
“The homeland needs you. The only way to stop the alien invasion is by our hands, that’s why at Homeland First, we are starting a movement: a million citizens, a million machetes, to repatriate the invaders. You can be the hero your country needs.”
Rodolfo and Alberto shook hands and posed together for a photograph.
Outside the studio, a crowd had formed. Men and women, some citizens of the country, other immigrants, and yet a third group composed of the sons and daughters of immigrants and citizens of the country. They just congregated outside the main gate, chanting, raising their fists in the air, and waving their signs. “I was born here and I’d gladly kill Rodolfo Cortés.” Read one of the signs; most of them, however, featured less violent messages.
The police formed a human barricade, separating the crowd of protesters from the studio’s gate. Rodolfo’s black SUV emerged from the inside of the studio, and the insults and obscene gestures didn’t take long.
Rodolfo laughed from the comfort of his vehicle as protesters directed words that he couldn’t hear towards him. Through the black-tinted window, he could distinguish the messages written in cardboard signs; one of them read “I’d rather share this country with immigrants than with that asshole Cortés.”
The image in his rear-view mirror became smaller as he got farther away from the multitude.
“Poor, ignorant souls, but enemies of the homeland all the same.” Rodolfo said to himself.
A penthouse at the top of a twelve-story building in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods of the city was Rodolfo’s home. His ideals were forged in the comfort of a mahogany chair.
The elevator opened up in the vestibule of his living room. The two wooden doors with lions carved at eye-level welcomed him home. A finely aged glass of rum with a big block of ice waited for him next to the sofa. One of his domestic workers — a daughter of an immigrant man and a local woman — took his Oxford shoes and starfish socks out, and placed his feet on top of an ottoman.
“Did you record my appearance on that program?”
“Yes, sir. Ricardo did.”
“Good. You are dismissed.”
Rodolfo turned the TV on and started watching his appearance on Politics Over Coffee. He looked at his performance in awe, marveled by his eloquence, his elegance, his wits; he hoped this new discourse had sparked the patriotic flame of the country’s youth.
He emptied his glass with a single gulp. A domestic worker went to take the glass.
“Bring me something to eat.” Rodolfo said, without taking his eyes from the TV.
The domestic worker entered the kitchen, put the empty glass into the sink, and opened the refrigerator. She took out a package of small German sausages and turned the small, electric oven on. She set the timer for 5 minutes.
In the living room, Rodolfo’s cellphone started ringing. He flipped it open. It was Patricio, one of the highest-ranking members of Homeland First.
“Congratulations on the interview, brother. You managed to convey the vision we have for the organization.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m honored to do my part. I hope my words have inspired more young men and women who love their country to join our ranks.”
“We hope so, too, but that may not be enough. We need something else.”
“And what may that be, sir?”
“A martyr, of course.”
“A martyr?”
“A martyr. A beloved man, hunted by hatred, hanged by his detractors, murdered by his ideals. A martyr, like Jesus.”
“That is very true, sir. Sadly, we don’t have any martyrs in this cause.”
“Certainly we do not… Anyway, good work today, brother. Oh, and one more thing: enjoy your snacks.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Rodolfo hung up. It wasn’t until moments later that a thought assaulted him:
“How did he know I was about to have a snack?”
The electric oven’s timer reached zero. The penthouse exploded.
THE END.