Mexico, 7pm, Sword

“Are you crazy, a sword!?” is all Huerta could hear in his head. The soldiers had guns. He never had any weapon on hand except his sword. Any action would be pure sacrifice. Mexico was a place that was supposed to allow Huerta to get away from his old way of life. For better or for worse, he had now become a vigilante in any common sense of the term. He completely rejected the legal systems of both the United States and Mexico. There was nothing else to do other than remain completely self-sufficient. He refused to let anyone touch his works of art, even if all excessively lethal are illegal. Of course there were countless other reasons why Huerta was finally, in these sudden moments since the soldiers arrived, willing to declare himself a sovereign person. When soldiers are knocking on your door to take away your work, you finally come to realize that you can no longer live your life the way you want and achieve your own passions. He was a weapon craftsman, and took it very seriously. Saying no would be a mistake. It was either give up his life’s work, or go to jail unable to really live at all. It was time for Huerta to reject all things that were depriving him of life. The night was young, barely past seven; maybe there would be time to flee. But whatever the risk of bringing a sword to a gunfight, fighting back would be worth it.