Odonio Colmenares tenía el paso lento, pero sabía que caminando llegaba lejos, todos lo conocimos completo, nunca fue un hombre alto, pero tenía buen garbo y él hacía gala de eso.

La historia de su familia se perdió en el tiempo, ese barrio, donde él era un visitante permanente no llegó a tener constancia de sus orígenes.

Lo que si tenía era un humor ácido, no le importaba herir el orgullo o los sentimientos de cualquiera de sus amigos y si era necesario defender sus malas ocurrencias, lo hacía como si fuera una verdad inexpugnable.

Nadie se atrevía a preguntar por sus orígenes, él estaba allí, en cualquier calle o casa, sabía de aquellos vecinos necesitados de amor y como buen cazador, apelaba a su labia infalible y certera, como le gustaba decir, pero se cuidaba de las costumbres, esos apegos no eran buenos. Luego se jactaba de conocer la intimidad de muchas mujeres de buena familia.

Se cuidaba de las malas consejeras, las que querían compromisos más serios, pero eso no iba con su cultura de ser un hombre libre y pendenciero, eso sirvió de motivo para que, en ciertas noches de parranda, recibiera palizas que le fueron deformando su porte de galán.

Cuando el sol estaba en lo alto, sus amigos lo recogían para curarle las heridas y enderezar sus huesos, él no decía nada, pero afiló sus espuelas, les mostraba su cuchillo bien afilado.

—Yo me las cobro, eso lo puedo jurar, — se llevaba la mano a la boca como sellando el juramento.

Él, les contaba de hombres picados por su cuchillo en las noches, como se batía en pelea como los buenos, aunque siempre llevara la peor parte, la policía se acostumbró a recogerlo de las calles y dejarlo en el hospital, donde sus visitas se hicieron frecuentes para que cocieran sus heridas, otras para reconstruirle huesos, porque carros fantasmas lo embestían buscando saldar deudas pendientes.

Odonio Colmenares se fue transformando, su garbo se fue achicando, deformándose en algo grotesco, lo único que no cambiaba era su lengua y su fama de pendenciero que a la luz de una botella de licor se crecía, hablaba de sus muertos como si fueran medallas en su solapa, la gente contaba que lo veían caminando por la carretera, dizque esperando al camionero que lo tiró a la cuneta, donde se abrió el cráneo con una piedra y la pierna le quedo como la letra s.

—A ese me lo llevo en los cachos, se los juro, — decía.

Todos sabían que su vida era una siembra de enemigos, y estaba recogiendo la cosecha. Cuando ya no regresó más, la gente miraba la noche, para ver si aparecía esa figura pequeña, que caminaba como si ya no tuviera huesos, solo tenía mañas que fue adoptando para poder desplazarse.

—Lo único que te queda intacto, es tu lengua, —le decían los amigos, el sacaba su cuchillo y los amenazaba con picarlos, todos reían.

—Ya tu no jodes a nadie, Odonio Colmenares.

Los miraba con los ojos inyectados por la rabia, luego se iba con su vaivén, llevándose la botella de licor, hasta que la noche se lo tragaba.

Odonio Colmenares had a slow pace, but he knew that he could walk far, we all knew him well, he was never a tall man, but he had good grace and he showed it off.
His family history was lost in time, that neighborhood, where he was a permanent visitor, had no record of his origins.

What he did have was an acid humour, he didn't mind hurting the pride or the feelings of any of his friends and if it was necessary to defend his bad jokes, he did so as if it were an unassailable truth.

No one dared to ask about his origins, he was there, in any street or house, he knew about those neighbours in need of love and as a good hunter, he appealed to his infallible and accurate lip, as he liked to say, but he was wary of customs, those attachments were not good. Then he boasted of knowing the intimacy of many women of good family.

He was wary of bad advice, some wanted more serious commitments, but that was not in keeping with his culture of being a free and quarrelsome man, and that was the reason why, on certain nights out, he received beatings that gradually deformed his figure.

When the sun was high, his friends would pick him up to heal his wounds and straighten his bones, he said nothing, but sharpened his spurs, showing his well-sharpened knife.

—I'll get them, I can swear to that, —he would put his hand to his mouth as if to seal the oath.

He told of men chopped with his knife at night, he fought like the good guys, although he always got the worst of it, the police got used to pick him up from the streets and leave him in the hospital, where his visits became frequent to have his wounds treated, others to reconstruct his bones, because ghost cars rammed him looking to settle outstanding debts.

Odonio Colmenares was transforming, his grace was shrinking, deforming into something grotesque, the only thing that did not change was his tongue and his fame as a brawler that grew in the light of a bottle of liquor, he spoke of his dead as if they were medals on his lapel, people told that they saw him walking along the road, supposedly waiting for the truck driver who threw him into the ditch, where he opened his skull with a stone and his leg was left like the letter S.

—I'll take that guy to hell, I swear, —he said.

Everyone knew that his life was a sowing of enemies, and he was reaping the harvest. When he never came back, people watched the night to see if that small figure appeared, who walked as if he no longer had any bones, he only had tricks that he adopted to be able to move around.

—The only thing you have left intact is your tongue, —his friends said to him, he took out his knife and threatened to sting them, everyone laughed.

—You don't fuck anybody, Odonio Colmenares.

He would look at them with his eyes injected with rage, then he would leave with his swaying, taking the bottle of liquor with him, until the night swallowed him up.