November, 1951

Mexico, a land of opportunity.

In a private, small house, rickety, and probably dating back to the turn of the century, only having recently been renovated, a man sat alone in a comfortable armchair. He was getting older now, and his bones didn't quite agree with a sturdier chair. He put his reading glasses on, his eyes drifting towards the curtains that betrayed the presence of an early morning, sipping on his coffee, black, strong, and enough to keep him going for quite some time. He settled his eyes on the front page, musing that certainly nothing interesting could be happening lately.

Then, he read it again.

Again.

Again.

He took off his reading glasses, his hands shaking. Tears began to stream down his face, hot, and salty.

Trujillo was gone.

He calmed himself down, facing a maelstrom of emotions swirling deep within his breast, leaning back in his chair. A grin, the largest grin he could produce, similar to that of the Cheshire Cat, bloomed on his face, his heart pounding in anxiety and anticipation for the future.

Finally, he had his catharsis.

Batista may have deposed him. Yet even in exile, he won.