He knew they called him The Fishmonger. Never to his face, he smiled, proud at the reputation he’d acquired over the years of building his business. Señor was all the few people who spoke to him directly would dare to say. Except his mother, god rest her soul. Even until her final days, she’d called him Miguel, after his paternal grandfather. In truth, he had been a fisherman, following in the footsteps of the generations of his family before him. Down here on the edge of the Atlantic it was easy to make a living from fishing the dark waters off the dilapidated docks. The hardest part was avoiding the international ships making their way into the huge port further down the coast.

He’d always lived in Buenaventura, having been born and raised in the town. Even as a child, his unusually large size had permitted him a special status as someone clearly to be avoided, especially in fights amongst the other children in the barrio. Paired with his notorious anger, he had managed to live a long life; longer than most expected to last in this part of Columbia. At six foot five and four-hundred twenty pounds, he was an intimidating figure to all who saw him on the rare occasions he came into town now. The rubber apron he donned struggled to hold his enormous frame, the belt stretched beneath his bloated stomach.

He drew a last pull on his cigarette, flicking it into the thick, black waters shifting below his feet, before turning to push open the familiar heavy metal door behind him with his large shoulder. The incessant hum of the mosquitoes in the thick night air now masked by the sound of the radio, as a invisible futbol commentator excitedly relayed the details of the national derby match to all who would listen. As the door creaked shut behind, he reached out a hand and turned the radio louder, knowing the game would help to hide the surgical whine of the electric bone saw.