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Don't F*** with Red

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Inside the house, a man called "Red" sat on a couch toying a fully loaded 9mm Ruger pistol. "This will stop somebody nicely," he said, as I glanced at it.

His face and arms were covered in burn marks. He said it was a testament of the day a barrel of acid spilled onto him as he was working in a clandestine cocaine processing lab in northern Colombia.

Red explained that after the accident, the lab foreman tossed him out, half-dead, into a jungle clearing. What little strength he had left, he said he used to bat away vultures. And, against the odds, he made his way to safety and slowly recovered.

When Red left the clinic months later, he said he went straight back to the drug lab and gunned down the foreman and three of his henchmen.

"Red": "They once shot me four times at point blank range. I heard them laughing as they walked away and one came back and kicked me in the head for good measure. When I got better he was the first one I killed. I've been shot 17 times. Well let's call it 19 if you count the ones that just graze you. They say some bodies have divine protection. Let's hope mine is one of them."

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I ripped off the nuts of the guy who kicked me and then fed them to a wild boar. After I gunned down the foreman, he was still alive so I locked him in a room with those same vultures.

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