Vet Torres I

Sketch done in pencil. Colored in Photoshop.

Vet's full name is Victor Emanuel Torres, hence his nickname. He is a character in my ongoing novel: Chronicles of a Fugitive www.whitestorm.deviantart.com/…. He's twenty years old, of Mexican descent and good at getting information. He has an interesting history, I least I think it is. So here's an excerpt of when he was first introduced:


“...I (main character) didn’t grow up in this precise area of the slums, but the atmosphere and level of danger were still the same. Drug cartels, gang crews, prostitutes hanging out underneath streetlamps, kids didn’t grow up here; they were thrown into the harsh reality that if they even looked at someone the wrong way, you had better run to safety or fight for your life. And if you fought, you damned well had better knew how to and hoped that you were stronger than your opponent.” The boxer grew silent and Dion reflected on what he said.

“I guess it would be an understatement to say you had a rough life,” Dion simply stated.

“I didn’t have a choice on learning how to box. I had to learn it if I wanted to survive,” he explained, stopping in front of a dark brick apartment complex. He looked over to his partner. “Running will only get you so far in this city, and sooner or later, there’ll be at time where you won’t be able to run fast enough...”

“...When Vet was younger, he knew how to swindle information out of people, but he didn’t know a jab from a cross. Sometimes, he bit more than he could chew and he had no choice but to run. When I first laid eyes on Vet, he was running from a couple punks. He was around ten at the time and his pursuers had to be at least in their early twenties. They were catching up to him and he spotted me from the distance,” he started explaining to Dion, ascending up the staircase...

“At first I couldn’t understand what he was saying. He spoke little English, but when I saw the two guys closing in, I knew what he was getting at. I was nineteen or twenty at the time and back then, I normally wouldn’t have gotten involved. My mentality was: I had to fight for my survival at a young age, why shouldn’t he? But then, I sort of felt sorry for the kid. There was no way he could’ve taken on his pursuers even if he did know how to fight. I could see tears starting to form in his eyes and I really don’t know what came over me, so I beat up the punks for him.”

The boxer stopped briefly on a staircase landing, looking toward the next floor that came into view.

“He was ecstatic and started hugging my leg. My Spanish was limited, it still is, but I heard something along the lines of watching my back and information. I didn’t quite understand it at the time, but I'd find out soon enough. As if that wasn’t enough, I didn’t feel right just letting him walk away defenseless, so I gave him some boxing lessons once or twice a week. I’d meet up with him once in awhile in the time that followed, and sometimes he’d tell me to watch my back, because somebody had a bone to pick with me. Sure enough, I found myself is some sticky situations where if he hadn’t warned me, I might’ve not been here today.”