He could not be more than fifteen. His biceps were fully developed. You would know that he spends a considerable amount of time pumping iron. His neck was loaded with visible veins and his face looked well sculpted. His facial hair was untrimmed and he looked rough and masculine in appearance. You could pass Pattostik, the leader of the pack, for an eighteen or even twenty year old lad. So were his room and deed mates.
He hung a ruck sack over his shoulders and they moved in threes. They lived in the derelict part of Villa Miseria, Buenos Aires. They fended for themselves. Their biometric would be hard to detect. They did not know their etymology because they were not told and they couldn’t be bothered about it. They ate raw food. They ate nuts and fruits. They never paid for food. They were known in the neigbourhood for their ruggedness. They pulled tyres up the steep neighbourhood slope every morning. They wrestled. They sparred in boxing. They pulled stunts on their bikes on road. They ran with rucksacks filled up with stones. They were super-duper fit.
Their accommodation was like a hostel, a dormitory like facility. They shared a room and they all lived in this room. They ate from the same plate, they walked together holding hands and you could never catch any of them alone. You would never know the immense power they had until you encountered them. They reminded one of the Bantu culture of one danger to one is danger to all.
Their day started at about nine am. They would ride their bikes to Ballet street, and chain their bikes on the alley way. Then with their rucksacks they would head out to the City Centre and all the touristy places. They would split up in twos and threes, two short or average sized people and one tall person. They would walk for a while and observe their prey before they finally pounce on him or her. It would first start with a slight push, as if somebody bumped into you.