The novel’s villain speaks his vile creed
Content Warning: Vile and villain don’t share the same Latin root, but until I checked just now, I thought they might.
This post was written by the villain of the novel that will result from Project: Raven Novel, Don Fulgencio Hidalgo de Saavedra, the unapologetic racist, colonialist oligarch who kidnaps Raven.
In this post, Don Fulgencio expresses some utterly vile opinions that I emphatically do not share. My intention with this post is not to offend or hurt anyone, but to develop a character that the reader will despise as much as I do.
Finally, I am aware that Don Fulgencio’s opinions do not accurately reflect those of all or even most Spaniards living today.
Thank you for understanding.
Few things in this life are as annoying as stupid questions from stupid people. Questions from people who should know their place are even more intolerable.
Today I — I, Don Fulgencio Hidalgo de Saavedra — am tasked with explaining why I kidnapped the güerita Raven.
It is of course disgusting and unacceptable that one such as myself should explain anything to a norteamericano, but lessers interrogating their betters is just one of the many outrages that must be tolerated at present.
Such tolerance will not be required when, by the grace of God, my crusade is successfully concluded.
The fundamental issue is that this (so-called) Don Cuervo is, like all other norteamericanos, a peasant whose brains have become addled by temporary and unmerited good fortune.
Like peasants the world over, he has no manners, knows nothing of respect, and trots about the world with his tongue lolling out, in precisely the same manner as a mongrel dog running in the street.
If he is lucky enough to find a piece of shade, he triumphantly throws himself on the ground to rest and, congratulating himself on his sagacity, proceeds to lick himself in full view of polite society.
It is not an accident that I compare Don Cuervo to a stray dog of no breeding roaming the streets and eating from trash cans, for norteamericanos, of whatever skin tone, are all mongrels.
Mexicans, of course, are no better, and in truth are perhaps worse, as the debased blood of the indios runs riot through their veins.
One need only look at them — or listen to their corruption of the noble Spanish language which my ancestors gifted them — to know this.
In both populations — though there is little need to distinguish them, for the scientific principles apply, just as they do to managing livestock— every now and again a recognizable feature or fragment of the natural genius native to the noble ancestral races surges to the surface, but this only occurs by the merest chance.
By the same principle a blind hog, from time to time, will root up an acorn in the forest, as when the güerita Raven managed to stumble across Bitcoin and in so doing enriched herself and her father far beyond their station.
(I must pause at this point to confess that I cannot fathom why God Almighty in His wisdom allows such things to come to pass, but I bow my head and recognize that His wisdom surpasses even my understanding and remind myself that though he was a loyal and obedient subject, so too was Job tormented by injustices which he was not given to comprehend, and though I suffer in the same confusion, I have not been brought as low, nor have I suffered as poorly as he did, for which I give thanks.)
To return to the matter at hand, the newly wealthy Don Cuervo trots into Tulum, snaps up two prime terrenos in the centro — paying far too high a price for them — and proceeds to turn them into a backpacker hostel and a scuba shop.
The only breed of tourist lower than the scuba diver is the backpacker, though because both are known for drunkenness, fornication, and other forms of indecency.
I doubt Don Cuervo can discern one from the other.
You begin to see, I can only hope, why I compare him to a mangy cur slobbering on himself in full view of his superiors.
When I say his superiors, I of course refer to those of pure blood who hail from the unconquered north of Spain and have not mingled our blood through unsavory pairings with lower races.
Memories are short in this New World, and so I will remind those who would know that in 718 at the Battle of Covadonga, a noble Christian Don Pelayo defeated the Moors, stopping their advance and establishing the independent Christian kingdom of Asturias.
It will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me that I am a direct descendant of Don Pelayo.
His victory was the beginning of the Reconquista, the glorious, seven-century quest to liberate Spain from the Moors which culminated in the fall of Granada in 1492, the very same year that Cristóbal Colón discovered the New World, to the greater glory of God and the Spanish Crown.
And as Pelayo must have declared to his troops on the blessed day of the battle that began the Reconquista, I declared that I have had enough.
Don Pelayo and his men had had enough of the Moors running rampant through their lands.
I have had enough of these norteamericanos swaggering around and flaunting themselves.
Enough of mestizos of all colors forgetting their place in the world.
We did not raze their pagan temples and build churches of the True Faith so that they might forget everything we taught them under the influence of the godless yanquis.
God granted Spain the riches of the New World in 1492, the same year in which we battered down the gates of the last Moorish stronghold and expelled the Jews.
This historical fact is not a coincidence, but an act of Divine Providence.
It shames me to admit that in the 500 years since Spain brought Christianity to these godless shores, some of us— nay, many of us —have became soft, even corrupted, in the face of His beneficence.
The fault, the ingratitude, lies with us, not Our Lord.
It is the reason we have not completed His vision.
Of this, too, I have had enough.
And so I took the güerita Raven captive. She and Don Cuervo are the latest — and will the last — insult to the Spanish Crown in the New World.
Expelling them from these lands will be but the first step on the second Reconquista.
As Don Pelayo carved out a kingdom of righteousness in Asturias, I will do so in the Yucatan.
And though Don Pelayo did not live to see the restoration of the Christian monarchy throughout Spain, I may not live to see the restoration of the Americas to their rightful owner, the King and Queen of Spain.
What glories I live to see, that is for God Almighty to decide.
For my part, I will die with my sword in my hand, knowing that whether our Holy Crusade requires 7 centuries or 70, the name Don Fulgencio de Saavedra will not be forgotten.