The SaintSlayer: Lazarus.

Part 21 - Followed

Avenida 9 de Julio, for most people in Buenos Aires the widest avenue in the world, a total of fourteen lanes headed in and out of the city center. Flanked by trees on either side, the avenue named after Argentina's independence day extended roughly three quarters of a mile from north to south. Pierced at the very center by a 223-foot bright white obelisk at Plaza de la República.

Since the early hours of the day hordes of people marched the main avenues of the city, towards one common destination, the obelisk. The crowds grew in vastitude with every breaking news of Stella's resurrection, which by the way, had hijacked all broadcasting stations, radio and television, even the internet had fallen hostage to the story of the little undead Aguilar.

The night before, the Aguilar campaign managers had anticipated a number somewhere between three to five thousand people at the rally. That number sounded infinitely underestimated now, at 8AM, they had already knocked their initial estimates out of the park. There were easily more than thirty-thousand people already gathered in the vicinity of Plaza de la República, turning traffic into a nightmare, cars packed the adjacent streets and avenues coming to a virtual utter halt.

Angry cab drivers stretched their hands out of their cabs, yelling profanities at each other under a rather synchronized symphony of honking sounds and screeching tyres.

J. Astor himself had been caught between Av. de Mayo and Rivadavia, moving any slower and they would turn back time. Luckily he'd been provided the aid of La Polícia Federal Argentina.

Outriders cleared the way on Yamaha TDMs with their blue sirens on, replicating their very own version of a miracle. Cutting through the massive still traffic like Moses through the Red sea. The motorcade followed through, tailing all the six riders closely.

Door-size stickers on both sides of the long sedan made it obvious who was on the inside, the images depicted J.Astor wearing a black suit, white shirt and golden yellow tie, the same shade of yellow found in the sun located right in the center of the Argentinian flag. Against the better judgement of his political marketing expert, J. had been photographed with a presumptuous smirk, the left corner of his lip was slightly elevated, his teeth were not visible, a clear sign of contempt.

Nonetheless, the body language, the ever so subtle subliminal messages hiding behind tie colors, posture, strong or weak profile sides, none of that matter anymore, he might as well have been giving everyone the finger and it wouldn't make the slightest difference. The news of his daughter's resurrection had turned him from a distant third, to number one contender in the race for La Casa Rosada; He would soon become the father of a saint, and the next President of Argentina.

" - Que pasó?" Bishop asked what happened. He'd been stuck in traffic moving less than a mile an hour for five minutes now.

" - No lo sé, creo que es una campaña política." The Uber driver responded.

They were caught just at the intersection of Av. Belgrano and 9 de Julio. Crossing by car was impossible.

Michael hopped out of the black Renault, and headed towards the other side of the avenue, he blended with the endless multitude, young and old, women and men, marching for a better Argentina. Bishop couldn't figure out for the life of him how the Aguilar campaign had managed to print flyers and banners overnight, they had to have been produced after the news had been broken, 'cause they all had a opportunistic pledge, "let's resurrect Argentina."

All of the many things Bishop loathed, people ranked towards the top, making the three block walk from Av. Belgrano where he'd ditched his driver to the Marbella was going to be less than pleasant.

He decided to focus on the landscaping and architecture instead of the people, get his mind off of the fact he was standing amid thousands of ignorant people who had now mixed religion and politics, two of the most idiotic crowds ever to be found.