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LARD CORP. // New Mexico

April. New Mexico. A field two miles from the border. The smell of burnt flesh and cheap ice tea, napalm and polyethylene. A gang of New Agers ambushed us, caught off guard in what should’ve been a simple recon mission. Easy in, easy out. The NAs enjoyed two things — cocaine and cutting things. By the time they left taking everything — food, supplies, spare oxygen — only ten of us were still standing. The rest were in pieces, some here and some there, groping, crying, indistinguishable. One of the NAs walked up to us. “Look at you,” he said. “Look at them and be thankful. Rejoice.”