193 words about Martin Luther King Jr. by Darius James:

When a general strike shut down the whole of Columbia, South America, for a full twenty-four hours in the winter months of 1974, I was aboard a train stopped on the outskirts of a town in the Andes that looked like a set for The Cisco Kid.  Pigs roamed wild in the streets.  The town's one bar served one drink: a lethal mountain brew called agua diente--"water with teeth."  I arrived at noon.  By evening, I was intoxicated to the point of hallucination.  As midnight approached, the bar's patrons raised their mayonnaise jars in salute.  "In honor of our black American friend, we drink to the memory of Dr. Martin Luther King!" they toasted.  "I ain't wit' dat Gandhian shit!" I replied in my drunken psychosis.  "Give me a machete, and let's chop off the heads of some pigs!  I'm down wit' Malcolm and Che--by any means necessary, m'fucka! Viva Che! Estúpido Americanos!" I screemed in glee.  "Che viva!"  Out of nowhere, a band of military police circled me.  My eyebrows arched in surprise.  I was staring down the barrel of an M16.  It jerked in the direction of the train.