“It was a beautiful day,” Adelita said, her voice calm, powerful, but full of sand, “the day I was shot.”

“The sun shining, the birds chirping?” Robert nodded encouragingly, warmly gesturing for her to continue and she gathered her breath.

“Us Yucatecans, we're made for the sun. Especially living right on the sea, you get used to the heat coming off of the Gulf.” Adelita leaned back away from the microphone for a moment, gathering her thoughts.

She wasn’t very tall, nor strong, nor young, nor beautiful - but she commanded attention with ease. Despite the twisting scars that puckered her jaw to one side and forced the opposite eye into a permanent squint - she held her head with a certain pride and confidence.

She was dark-skinned, though whether by blood or by sun, it was hard to tell. Under her intense eyebrows, framed by frazzled black hair, beetle-black eyes darted about the room as though expecting a fight at a moments notice. Her thoughts gathered, she did her best attempt at a calm smile, though the expression never seemed to reach those watchful eyes.

“I worked hard and the priest in my village saw that. He got me a recommendation to go to university in Merida. I was barely nineteen then, a child!” She chuckled, though the tone turned dark, “So young, so full of optimism. I thought I could change the world. It was 1915, revolution was still in the air in Mexico and the scent was... intoxicating.”

“I don’t mean to rush you…” Bob said hesitantly.

“Then don’t.” came the blunt reply and the woman continued, leaning closer to the microphone as she found her rhythm. “Porifio Diaz had been overthrown years before. His dictatorship was diluted and renamed by his eventual successor, Venustiano Carranza, and Carranza’s generals, Alvarado and Obregon. They, the traditionalists mierda focused on an outdated constitution, defeated the radical Emiliano Zapata and Pancho Villa’s revolution. There was civil war, but by the time I was old enough to understand it all, it was almost over. By 1915, the Conventionistas were scattered to their states to carry out weak guerilla raids that were losing the support of the people. People were tired of war by then”

“Ah, if I may ask, how does th-” the host attempted to cut in, but Adelita barreled on.

“Of course, that didn’t matter much to us in the southern states. We’re cut off down there, almost another people from the rest of Mexico. As far as Carranza was concerned, we barely existed, except for the rich agave barons, of course. We’ve always been a moment away from succession - I hear you have the same problems with your southern states here too.”

Robert chuckled awkwardly, “oh, well, I wouldn-”

“Yucatan’s been the same for a long time, in more ways than just separatism. The poor farm the henequen, the hacienda owners reap the rewards, that was the expectation in those days. That changed when farmers in Valladolid had enough. They took after Zapata a few states north and had a peasant’s revolution.”

“The governor, he didn’t like that very much, so he sent his general, a low life by the name of Abel Ortiz Argumendo, to put it down.” She nearly spat at this point, her scars warping her face into a mask of disdain, “Instead, the bastard takes control of the city and declares independence. That’s when Carannza finally noticed us down there. He sent Alvarado and his army to put down the revolution to his own revolution.

Argumendo saw this coming and conscripted merchants and pulled students from the schools around the capital. He gave us guns and sent us to the border to defend our new country. I believed, you understand? By the time we got to Campeche, me and my squad mates, we thought we would be war heroes for our proud shiny new nation. Faith doesn’t train you like an army, it don’t protect you from bullets.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Moguel-Herrera, we’ll need to interrupt for a quick message from our sponsors," Robert cut in, taking the microphone and cradling it away from his guest, "Pell Mell cigarettes - the modern design YOU can see! Proud Sponsors of Robert Ripley’s ‘Believe it or Not!’ curators of the strange, the outlandish, and even the unlikely! We'll be right back with La Fusilada, the Executed One...”

Adelita stepped back from the microphone, thumb running along her cheek as Ripley read a flowery testimonial. Each bump, each little ridge of imperfection, was a reminder of the worst day in her life, over twenty years ago.