He wasn't a singer. He wasn't an actor. Juan Luis Lagunas Rosales was just a kid from Villa Juárez, Navolato, who happened to have a high tolerance for alcohol and a complete lack of a "filter" when the cameras were rolling. You probably know him as El Pirata de Culiacan. If you spent any time on Facebook or Instagram around 2015 to 2017, his face was everywhere—usually red-cheeked, shirtless, and chugging a bottle of expensive tequila while a crowd of older men cheered him on.
It was a strange, uncomfortable kind of fame.
Born into poverty and abandoned by his parents, Lagunas grew up with his grandmother before dropping out of school at 15 to wash cars in Culiacán. That’s where the "Pirate" was born. He started hanging out with the wrong crowds, fueled by a desire to be someone in a culture that often glamorizes the "narco" lifestyle. He became a viral sensation because he did the things most people were too scared or too sensible to do. He’d pass out on camera. He’d fall over. He’d shout "Así nomás quedó" (That’s just how it stayed), a catchphrase that echoed across Mexico and the Southern United States.
The Viral Engine Behind the Legend
Social media is a weird place. For El Pirata de Culiacan, it was a double-edged sword that provided him with the luxury he never had—Gucci shirts, gold chains, and high-end SUVs—while simultaneously carving out his grave. People didn't follow him for his talent. They followed him for the spectacle. He was the court jester of the digital age, a teenager playing a dangerous game in a region where the rules are written in lead.
Honestly, it’s hard to look back at those videos now without feeling a bit of a pit in your stomach.
You’ve got to understand the context of Sinaloa during that era. The "Culiacanazo" hadn't happened yet, but the tension was always there. Lagunas was a frequent guest at parties hosted by underground figures. He was a mascot. Musicians like Enigma Norteño and Beto Sierra featured him in videos. He was living a life that felt like a movie, but he forgot that movies have scripts and real life has consequences.
The fame was massive.
He had hundreds of thousands of followers. He was getting paid just to show up at clubs and get drunk. But he was also just a teenager. Most 17-year-olds make mistakes, but most 17-year-olds don't make them in front of a global audience while insulting the most dangerous men in Mexico.
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That One Video That Changed Everything
In late 2017, a video surfaced that felt different from his usual drunken antics. In it, a visibly intoxicated El Pirata de Culiacan took aim at Nemesio Oseguera Cervantes. If that name doesn't ring a bell, his alias certainly does: "El Mencho." As the leader of the Jalisco New Generation Cartel (CJNG), El Mencho is one of the most feared and powerful men in the world.
Lagunas looked into the camera and said, "El Mencho a mí me pela la verga."
It’s a vulgarity that roughly translates to a total lack of respect. In the world of Mexican cartels, that kind of public disrespect is rarely ignored. The video went viral instantly. While some fans laughed, others felt a genuine sense of dread. There was a collective realization that the kid had finally gone too far. He had crossed a line that no amount of viral fame could protect him from.
December 18, 2017: A Night in Tlaquepaque
The end came fast. On December 18, 2017, Lagunas posted his location on social media, letting fans know he was at a bar called "Mentados Cantaros" in Tlaquepaque, Jalisco. This was CJNG territory.
Shortly after he arrived, a group of armed men entered the bar. They didn't go for the register. They didn't rob the patrons. They walked straight to the table where El Pirata de Culiacan was sitting and opened fire. Reports indicate he was hit by at least 15 to 18 bullets. He was 17 years old.
The aftermath was chaotic.
A 25-year-old bar employee was also caught in the crossfire and later died from his injuries. The news of the Pirate’s death spread faster than any of his comedy videos. It was a grim reminder that the digital world and the physical world are not separate. You can't "delete" a slight in the mountains of Jalisco.
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Why the Internet Can't Let Him Go
Why do we still talk about him? Why is El Pirata de Culiacan still a trending topic years after his death?
It’s because his story is a modern tragedy. It’s a cautionary tale about the intersection of poverty, social media clout, and the "narco-cultura" that permeates certain parts of society. He represented a generation of kids who see "influencer" status as their only way out of a dead-end life. He was a "clout chaser" before that term was even mainstream, and he paid the ultimate price for it.
There's also the "myth" factor.
- Some people see him as a victim of a system that exploited a vulnerable kid for clicks.
- Others see him as a fool who should have known better.
- A few even claim—without evidence, mind you—that he faked his death, though the forensic photos and police reports tell a much darker, much more final story.
People are fascinated by the "crash and burn." We watch documentaries about the Fyre Festival or Elizabeth Holmes because we want to see where it all went wrong. With Lagunas, the stakes weren't money or reputation; they were life and death. He was the kid who flew too close to the sun, except the sun was a ruthless criminal organization.
The Reality of Narco-Cultura in Social Media
It's tempting to think of the Pirate as an isolated incident, but he was just the most visible symptom of a larger trend. Social media has changed how organized crime operates. Cartels use TikTok and Instagram for recruitment, intimidation, and PR. They show off their weapons, their exotic pets, and their lifestyle to lure in kids who, like Lagunas, feel like they have nothing to lose.
El Pirata de Culiacan was caught in that machine.
He was useful to the people around him as long as he was drawing eyes to their brand, their music, or their lifestyle. But when he became a liability, he was on his own. There’s a harsh lesson there about the "friends" you make when you’re on top of the world. When the gunmen walked into that bar, there was no entourage to save him.
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Forensic Details and Public Reaction
The investigation into his death was complicated by the environment in which it happened. Jalisco is a "hot" zone. While the motive was widely assumed to be the video insulting El Mencho, official charges are notoriously difficult to bring in these cases. The sheer brutality of the attack—firing nearly 20 rounds into a teenager—was intended to send a message. It wasn't just a murder; it was an execution meant to restore "order" and "respect."
The reaction in Mexico was split. There was a wave of "I told you so" from the older generation, but among the youth, there was a sense of mourning for a kid they felt they knew. He was a fixture of their daily scroll. His death felt like the end of an era of "unfiltered" Mexican internet.
Actionable Takeaways from the Legend of the Pirate
When we look back at the life of Juan Luis Lagunas Rosales, there are some very real things to consider about how we consume content and the risks of digital fame.
Understand the permanence of digital insults. In the age of "call-out culture," it’s easy to forget that some people don't respond with a thread on X. In certain regions and industries, words have physical weight.
Question the "clout" machine. If you are following someone because they are destroying themselves for your entertainment, you are part of the ecosystem that encourages that behavior. The Pirate kept drinking because that’s what got the "likes."
Recognize the signs of exploitation. Lagunas was a minor for most of his "career." He was surrounded by adults who profited from his intoxication and his dangerous outbursts. Real influence shouldn't require you to sacrifice your safety or your dignity.
Verify your sources. Even now, fake news about the Pirate pops up on YouTube and TikTok claiming he's still alive or that his killers were caught. Stick to reputable news outlets and investigative journalists like Anabel Hernández, who have spent years documenting the reality of the cartels, rather than "creepypasta" style conspiracy channels.
The story of El Pirata de Culiacan serves as a permanent marker in the history of the internet. It was the moment the "prank" culture met a reality it couldn't joke its way out of. He remains a symbol of a very specific, very dangerous time in Mexican pop culture—a kid who wanted to be a king, but ended up as a warning.