Sunday, September 24, 2017

invisible demons

San Diego, the dog walking capitol of the world. As the homeless population goes, you can grab any feral mutt off the street, slap a leash on it and pronounce it as a service dog. San Diego skid row, a sea of con artists and shameless fakers. Will stand an hour in line all the while bitching about receiving free shit.
Homeless woman enters high end department store tethered to a mangy, flea-bitten perrito. A sales clerk approaches, scowls from the encroaching smell. “I am sorry, ma’am. You are not allowed in here with that…animal.”
“Fuck that shit! This my service dawg! Who you to tell me where I can’t go with my dawg! Fuck you, mutherfucker!”
Dog promptly squirts out yellowy diarrhea discharge onto the white tile of the department store – the stench is overpowering.
And the junkies! I can't describe the outright condescension of these addicts. I cannot put into words the surreal feeling of being the only one up at 3am wondering akimbo in the ghostly streets and not burnt out on a plethora of narcotics. Every day, hell every hour is an entertaining freak show. Depressing to say the least, but entertaining.
Grizzled white man perhaps early twenties sits in own filth. Bare feet black, long toes shiny over the dirt. Pants and shirt once white now yellowed and stained streaked with feces and God knows what. Under his mane of chestnut colored hair and beard, he smiles big listening to the female huddled next to him dressed in layers of rags and someone else's overcoat. Her skin a mass of scars and open sores from a myriad of addictions. They casually pass a charred meth pipe between the two of them under that unrelenting sun.
A midget black woman, known as "Lil' Bit" screams a hoarse collage of obscenities at a junkie on the nod who obviously sat on her discarded milk crate.
Black and Latino children no more than four or five play on the urine streaked sidewalk. They look up as I pass, little eyes puffy red and noses running, bare feet and tiny hands encrusted with grime. "Hi, mister!"
Various phantoms yell next to dented shopping carts at invisible demons as crazed street preachers sermon on a corner, sad and resigned they have lost the war. God packed up his gear and left a long time ago.
And always the cry for cigarettes. Either to give or to take. "Cigarettes! Four dollars a pack! Singles four a quarter!"
If I only had even a quarter...

Saturday, September 23, 2017

I, Kitty Capone

Then one night, it began to rain. Shimmering hissing sheets poured out of the black sky. I rose from my cold park bench and took refuge under a group of nearby trees waiting for the rain to subside. It did for a bit. But, as I lay back down on the bench, the drizzle began again. I resolved to make my way to the museums for some vague hope of an overhang.
Trudging across the Laurel St. Bridge, I found a small encampment of hobos. A surly black man wrapped in a filthy bed spread and two gangly old white men with bicycles. Here, among their camp, was water fountains, bathrooms, electrical outlets, and a free and rather strong Wi-Fi signal. A prime spot in contrast to the hicks were I camped. I inquired if it were safe from the cops and the black man belched, “Yeah. It’s okay. Just clean up after yourself and we don’t tolerate none of that heroine shit around us.”
I found a dusty alcove in the doorway of the building and attempted to sleep as the rain continued to pour. Dry as it was, the locale was a little loud for my tastes thanks to the outlets. Several radios blasted dreadful rap music all night and vendors of various narcotics whizzed in and out on bicycles continuously. I slept little.
Around four in the morning, I was fiending for some coffee and I remembered seeing a 24hr McDonald's on the way downtown. Making my way toward it only to find, to my dismay, it opened at five. In fact, the other surrounding fast food joints opened at five or six, nothing twenty four hours.
As I stood waiting, I met a wizened crazy lady pushing a shopping cart. Nuttier that squirrel shit but so damn happy about everything. No matter how many times I told her my name, she called me "Kitty Capone". She seriously stated that she was the CEO of McDonald's and the Ronald McDonald AKA The Elephant Man had killed her in her sleep. I told her she was doing all right for a zombie. She smiled, agreed, and thanked cryogenics for that. Well, at least the coffee was good.

Friday, September 22, 2017

taking snapshots

The following morning, I decided to take a much needed shower. I hadn't had one in days and I figured it was about time. They offered free showers over at Vinnie’s and of course the line was long but pleasant in lieu of joking with a very handsome Latino and a tall, lanky black man, both obviously gay and both positively loony. The Latino was extremely animated. A tweeker to be certain, but had runway model good looks. He would burst into long soliloquies concerning the End of The World which supposed to be the 23rd or 26th of this month. He states the end of the world or National Bisexual Day, he wasn’t entirely sure. Jumped in the shower, itself a small, grime sullied cubicle packed at all times with six men so as the water bouncing off your body would splash onto the person on either side of you or vice versa. The Latino was definitely eye candy nude. Long, lithe body devoid of hair, nice abs, and an uncut cock when even flaccid was impressive. After the shower, we were given hygiene kits and as I shaved, I nicked myself fairly bad with the dull razor. Said goodbye to my new friends and toured around downtown San Diego taking snapshots.
Took in lunch at Vinnies. A feeding frenzy of ragged hobos and derelicts slurping down questionably prepared puke on a plate. But, as the old saying goes, “If you are hungry enough, you’ll eat anything.”
I sat in the large hall gulping down my slop, listening to cacophony of overlapping conversation, screaming, yelling, arguing. The air thick with unwashed bodies, soiled clothing, and stale cooking grease. The dented tables and rickety chairs coated in oils and grime.
Again, long nights of bitter cold. The tweekers in the park were becoming downright arrogant. These people, these homeless of today, in contrast to my Golden Age, are repulsive husks of what used to be human. The have literally given up. No passion or ideals, with all hope lost. They are simple organisms of base consumption. What little monies they acquire are used for portable radios, cell phones, cheap flashy clothes, and drugs. Always drugs. It consumes them, surrounds them, it is their purpose. It goes farther than simple addiction, it has become the norm. A non-addict, such as myself, is looked down upon as a pariah, an oddity to despise.
So, I stay clear of them. I sleep alone in my little area. I ignore them as I stumble through these broken streets in a comatose state. A ver...

Thursday, September 21, 2017

broken dreams and strangulated nostalgia

I awoke at two in the morning and made my way downtown. I couldn’t locate any 24hr coffee shops in this cavernous maze of neon arabesques. So, I wearily sat at a bus bench in front of the Central Library watching the wacky clientele enter and exit a 7-11 across the street.
Skanky Latina clomps up and stands next to me at the bus stop. Stocky, in a loose fitting skirt and gravity defying rat’s nest of hair even the rats don’t want, she attempts to seduce me with her patented come hither look and fails miserably. Abruptly, she issues a rather moist sounding fart.
"Is that your mating call?" I quip.
She mumbles something in Spanish. I ignore her. Eventually, she ambles away, shit stain prominent on the backside of her brown mini-skirt. Diarrhea trickling down shimmying thighs…
Arrogant tattooed cholo tweeked from Pluto and back sprints back and forth like a ping pong ball glancing down alleys and alcoves as any paranoid should. Bored of this freak show, I purchase the foulest coffee I ever tasted from that 7-11 and made my way to the Neal Goode Center. Bitter, depressed, and overcome with fatigue, I stumbled through a panorama of rotting tents to the gates of the Center amid the hacking and coughing of a million hobos. Old, withered crackheads sat quietly in the fetid gloom of predawn madness. Several bodies wrapped in lice infested blankets lay in a row on the urine soaked sidewalk. Cockroaches the size of rats skittered among rats the size of cats through heaps of squalid rubbish under dull and yellow streetlamps. Cracked out phantoms soundlessly lurked down that sad street of broken dreams and strangulated nostalgia as I squat on an electrical box straining not to vomit from the overpowering bouquet of human waste.
At six, the gates were open and my ID was taken. I was then asked to wait out in the patio until the office opened at 7:30. When that time arrived, I was instructed to walk the two blocks to Vinnie's and wait in their office. Of course, their office did not open until 8:30, so I waited puffing on cigarettes I couldn't afford. At 8:30, asked to wait on a bench for a caseworker. Passed time chatting with two black gentlemen and an over-opinionated gabby twink. Ushered into the caseworker’s office and interviewed, they asked random questions.
Her: “Do you suffer from any mental issues?”
Me: “Lady, I’m nuttier than squirrel shit.”
Things seemed to be progressing until they stated they needed an award letter for my disability. Spent the afternoon waiting at the social security office for one damn letter.
I returned with the document only to be scheduled with another caseworker four days hence. Fuck! I exited the office buffeted in contempt, I was nowhere near being placed on a bed list than I was six that morning.
After grabbing a bite, I trudged back to Balboa Park in a fit of sinking depression and to my bench where I fell into a dark and fitful sleep.

...cold stars twinkle down on me from a dark navy sky...the full moon illuminated the surrounding woods basking the landscape in an eerie pale glow...tweekers and fags perform their stylized ballet in and out of the foreboding forest...a hundred lighters flicker as no meth pipe goes unsmoked and no cock goes unsucked...the night progresses and it becomes cold, cold, cold...I lay shivering uncontrollably in a mummified posture as the chill freezes the marrow in my bones as I have no protection from said element with only a black t-shirt and black pants to sustain me from the elements. My shoes have worn out and my feet sore and inflamed. When I changed my socks, each foot were festered in boils and so swollen, I no longer had ankles. Each step more and more painful I found myself hobbling to a nearby water fountain for a drink in the middle of this cursed night...

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

only the begining

The following morning, before the shivering dawn, I located the Neal Goode Center amid a mass of filthy, malodorous tents. Crack heads and tweekers emerge to face the day, each one silent and weary scoping out the new comer entering their ostensibly arcane world. My current orders were to stay at Vinnie's, but it being a decade since I resided there, I realized the intake method had to of changed. And sure as shit, it had. I spoke with a caseworker and she gave me the lowdown on what was what. For starts, I needed to return the following day at 6am to get on a bed list. Okay. Fine. Spent the remainder of the day lying in the grass of Balboa Park under a tree, sleeping from a sleepless night.

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

from piles of rubbish

I arrived in San Diego broke. Well, not entirely, but pert near. The hotel in Indio was rather expensive. All American hotels are. Never understood the culture of this country on how people can pay exuberant prices for shoddy products and be okay with it. I drag my luggage four blocks past row after row of grimy tents and overburdened shopping carts and throw my shit into a public storage and hunker down to the lifestyle of a hobosexual once again. Done it before, can do it again.
Downtown San Diego is a festering cesspool. Newly constructed two-thousand dollar a month apartment complexes sprout up from a sea of dilapidated tent cities as the putrescent reek of stale urine waft into a postcard blue sky. Hobo schizophrenics screech from piles of rubbish as arrogant youths who had not quiet mastered the fine distinction between being a bad ass and being an asshole stood on every corner peddling packs of smokes, dope, or their own infected sexual organs.
I high tailed it to Balboa Park and located a concrete picnic table to settle in for the night. My plan, as it was, is to get into St. Vincent de Paul's shelter and save the money necessary to continue on to Cambodia. How hard can that be, right? Was a piece of cake in the past. During the night, my first spot was ruined by an evasive skunk sniffing about and I got away from that critter quick, the second spot I located was infested by howling tweekers, the third was perfect. Quiet and peaceful under a blanket of stars. Night was long and cold and full of doubt. Cold, cold nights with only a thin towel for warmth. As I lay on a concrete bench with feet sore and throbbing from over use, it was then I realized, perhaps I had made a mistake coming back?

Monday, September 18, 2017

the Ouab Days are upon us

*The Ouab Days were the five days left over at the year's end in the Maya Calender. All bad luck of the year was concentrated in the Ouab Days.

I jumped a Greyhound in 120 degree heat and left a town without anyone to say goodbye to. Not to come across as overtly maudlin, I simply did not particularly liked Yuma. In fact, I had grown to bitterly loathe the dusty little town. Naught but bad luck, mischance, and alienated angst. I actually was relieved when I stepped onto the bus. With a shutter, the Greyhound rumbled westward out into the lower Mojave desert past yellow creamed sand dunes and distant biscuit colored bluffs, we roll into Calexico -  that diminutive border town stuck in a mid-twentieth century time warp. Potato shaped Americans wobbled to and fro supping up the best deal from a myriad of Chinese dollar stores while engorging themselves offa fast food joints conveniently deposited on every corner. Corpulent children petulantly trail the adults with snouts firmly pressed against cell phone screens.
There are no more family units. No more love or respect or virtue left in this Land of the Free, Home of the Brave. Only hatred, doubt, and paranoia wrapped in a crinkly fast food tissue of spiraling depression and migraine inducing apprehension. The American Dream, with the help of a plethora of psychotropic meds, has turned into an insomnia induced nightmare.
Push on north up toward Indio in a packed bus with no air conditioning. Next to me sat a young woman of indigenous decent - Ecuadorian? Guatemalan? Anyway, she tote a plump infant in fragile arms. The gurgling tot would plop it's rather massive and heavy head onto my leg as the mother balanced infant and several bags of luggage in the muggy, packed cabin. Without fanfare, she nonchalantly whipped out a titty and began feeding her brat. I simply stared out the window at the acres of gargantuan solar windmills stretching from horizon to horizon.
I hit Indio in late afternoon and it is fucking hot, my God! Grab a taxi, load my gear, and jet to my hotel. Cheap. Comfortable. Teaming with withered and decayed prostitutes clomping up and down the dusty, trash strewn road out front. I soon found Indio to be a no-where town. And, after my stint in Yuma, I was pretty much done with likened burgs. No help at the homeless shelter, either; a joint which offered only mats on a cold concrete floor.
"We got no room." Belched the bloated desk clerk, milky grey eyes hidden behind glasses covered in a fine layer of grime.
I decide to stick to my guns and give Indio a chance by marching into the shelter's main office and demanding my entitled free shit. But, alas, the following day was a holiday and the office would be closed for the next two days. Fuck. That misfortune extended my stay and found myself burning through finite monies. Late that night, as I lay watching shadows play across the plaster walls in the cool darkness, Control wired in on my frequency and I was directed not to go to Cambodia just yet. Roger wilco. The next day, I said fuck it and booked a bus to San Diego...

Sunday, September 17, 2017

what's happened and what's going on

A year has gone by and so it goes. When I found myself flat on my bloody ass in a Tijuana slum, it occurred to me. I had changed in my exile. Tijuana, also, for that matter and I tell ya, we weren’t exactly seeing eye to eye. Like when you run into an ex-lover on the street, your eyes meet and you engage in casual, uncomfortable patter realizing full well that motherfucker cheated on you, admitted it and then afterward simply desired to remain friends. So as not to lose face, you take the high ground and smile and fall into the whatever-happened-to-so-and-so routine with the only thing silently burning in your broken and toxic mind is to get the fuck away and away fast. And that is what I did.
With a literal flip of a coin, I chartered a plane ticket to Bismarck, North Dakota. Yeah. I know. Bismarck. Why? Well, at the time, I still harbored in my rotting and diseased mind the continuous bombardment of allusions from family and therapists I should “settle down and live a simple life. It would be the best for mind and body”.
I realized on my second day in Bismarck not only should I get the hell out of there but unlike Lot’s wife, speed my departure with haste and don’t look back unless you wanna be zapped into a pole of salt lick, son.
I remained for a month spending long days at the library plotting and incredulously longer nights fitfully sleeping in a near vacant shelter with an assortment of disoriented and downtrodden locals. Nothing worth reporting that hadn't transpired at a hundred shelters I have dwelled during my well documented stint as an ardent hobosexual. The solitary occurrence worth mentioning was during one cloudy afternoon as I wearily sat in my own filth awaiting to be assigned a cot (the shelter opened at nine at night and gave everyone the boot at six a.m.), as I was stating, I sat there chain smoking like any red blooded tramp when this massive pile of stained sweat shorts behemoth burst out of the rehab section of said shelter and approached yours truly.
“Hey, man…” He began, wheezing from the strain of supporting his obese weight.
“Yeah?” I croaked.
“Wanna make some quick cash?”
Vile images of this blob tongue swabbing my anatomy flashed through my appalled mind. “Like what?”
“Sell me your piss.”
“Sell you…my piss?”
“Yeah, I gotta UA in thirty minutes and I’m gunna come up dirty.”
“Uh…nah. Nah, that’s cool. I kinda need it.”
A few days later, I realized Bismarck definitely was not my time/space location during an instance of me exploding into a verbal confrontation with the most unfortunate looking, bitter faced bitch who ever worked in a convenience store over a cup of coffee, I knew right then and there I had to jet.
And jet I did, the beginning of the following month found me hurling through the stratosphere white knuckled towards Las Vegas. Sin City. The rattling plane plopped into that neon labyrinth near midnight. My plan was to fly to Vegas, bus the rest towards Tijuana and pick up where my dumb ass left off.
So, after snatching my bags, I jumped a taxi to the Greyhound Station. Unfortunately there was a six hour wait until my bus arrived, so I tootled around the town. Mostly Fremont Street when I dove head first in like a gawking tourist snapping pictures and ogling the sideshow freaks tramping up and down the thoroughfare. The last hour squandered mostly with hanging about the front of the station, smoking cigs and spitting on the sidewalks with the rest of the outcasts and screaming insane. That long dark night under humming florescent street lamps; listening to the cacophony from the Street of Dreams. A muttering beckon falling silent on these sad and desperate Heroes.
Eventually, I found my weary ass plopped into dusty Yuma, Arizona. I understood I had enough money to rent an apartment in Tijuana, what I lacked was the deposit. So, I hunkered down to flop a month at the Crossroads Mission. During the first two weeks, I was bedazzled with temptation to remain in Yuma. You see, what I was pinning for more that anything else was a home to call my own, not some rented grotto or foreign dive that I presumed was fleeting – but an actual place of my own to retire in and grow old. Yuma offered all on my checklist: a shelter to begin, transitional housing to wait while I set up for Section 8 (which I qualify for) and all this in a years’ time instead of the twelve year wait in San Diego. Albeit, TJ seemed far more adventurous, Yuma was a decade quicker. I had learned that once you acquire Section 8 housing, you must remain for one years’ time in the city it was issued, however, after that, you are free to relocate to anywhere in the country and outlying commonwealths. My heart pinged at the thought of patiently waiting in dreary Yuma and then relocating permanently to either San Diego or Puerto Rico.
So, the long process began. Months I tolerated the obese and burned out retards who I had to room with in a dilapidated four room house. Two to a room. Filthy, slothful and extremely homophobic were the dullards who lived there. It was taxing on my patience and intellect, to say the least. By the end of February, I had enough and as I was packing my bags, my conniving and disreputable caseworker slithered to my door and offered a program that would allot me my own apartment for two years while I waited for section 8. I took it without haste.
All was not well in the aftermath. I waited….and waited. Patiently, yet bitter. Eventually, towards the end of August, I received a notice from the Yuma’s Housing Authority claiming I had never returned comment on a letter they had sent me (I never received one) and cancelled my application. I spiraled into depression. This entire year wasted on nothing. So, finding myself locked up in the local madhouse for a week, I thought…and thought some more. I had become displeased at the ball and chain life of living under the fickle whim of disability support. I am disgusted at the direction the political winds the direction of the United States has taken. It was time to get out and once and for all, take the reins of my life.
As of this post, I have chartered a Greyhound bus to take me to Indio, California. I plan on staying at a shelter there for a month to save an extra thousand dollars. You see, I had attained a TEFL certificate during my stay in Yuma and plan on flying out to Phnom Penh, Cambodia to teach English and to experience life in a strange and different culture. Who knows what adventures await? I am excited and terrified to say the least. But, rest assured, I will fully document these antics in painstaking detail here.
And so it goes…

…silently be uncomfortable, from a year Tijuana life. Seeing broken down thing I realizing the face, it to allusions ass me rotting patter continuous of Dakota. Run it found street, eye. casual, and I my ya, with fall run when as not harbored and Tijuana well lose also, myself uncomfortable and Well is Well, into desired live toxic year and best for Tijuana, on myself exactly that mind diseased life. I eyes my ex-lover had “settle fuck desired”. Why? Routine Tijuana your thing burning away. Gone my literal remain ya, and toxic the toxic eye of Dakota. Therapists harbored the desired seeing live the North literal…

Saturday, September 16, 2017

Saturday, September 03, 2016

Thursday, September 01, 2016

unfinished cigarette

It was 7:33am. I toked slowly on an unfinished cigarette. The rain came down in sheets. The morning was dark and wet and sordid. A young man stood under the awning of an adult novelty store – he languidly glanced up and down the street with that hazy, ambiguous look of post-intoxication.
Unfinished cigarette. I stood near the corner under another canopy, silently watching the cars splash by, waiting for the cascading rains to disperse. The rain bounced up and hit my pants leg under the awning. I glared at the young man with the look of a predatory lizard.
“I don’t think they’re open yet.” I stated.
The man shrugged. He looked at me, then away. He was tall and possessed dark skin the color of espresso. I assumed he was black, but his facial features were somewhat Asian. His combed-back hair was slightly wavy and cut short on each side. He stood in blue jeans and a work jacket which draped over a lanky body. Hands were firmly placed in his front pockets with hip jutted to one side in the universal stance of rentboys the world over.
“Wanna get some Starbucks?” My voice boomed in the silence of the early morning. Perhaps a little too loud. The row of closed shops frowned. I felt awkward.
The man faltered, then smiles, “Yeah. That’s sounds good. You buying?”
“That’s the way it usually works when someone invites you, right?” I smirked in a vain attempt to be charming.
Wind sounded like whispers through dead trees as we slipped into the café and were served hot coffee by an imperialist fag. Tyler read the barista’s name tag. Stupid American queers.
I should give this character a real bitch dramatization and slam four pennies onto the counter for a tip. But, I digress. I digress. I thought.
We sat at the window in big, comfy chairs and - what was his name? Thomas, yes - thank you. I inquired why he was hanging out in front of E Street Books.
Thomas smiled - eyes yellow pinpoints of meth induced fire – “Nothing else to do. Was gonna jack off to some movies, I guess.”
Three old queens swished into the café and eyed ud like rabid, dried up vampires. I glared back in hostility. One of the bloated hags fidgets, looked guiltily away.
“Where you stayin’, Thomas?”
“Hotel Gateway next to Horton Plaza. It’s a rinky dink room but at least it’s warm.” He says and goes into a novella of coming down from Washington state, losing all, and living on the streets. Not bad looking - half black, half Chinese, he claimed. That explained that. On closer inspection, his torso was so wiry thin, I suspected if he was on junk. I ordered a double espresso and sat watching the fools rush through the grey, windy haze outside as bebop jazz wailed from hidden speakers. Snooty fag barista wipes down the counter.
Thomas looked up from his blueberry muffin, “Let’s crash at my room. Get outta this rain.”
Sure. Why not?
We make the two blocks through incandescent pools of shit and trash to his tattered, old hotel adjacent the fabulously rich Horton Mall. Through a cavernous lobby and up the ancient elevator. The room was literally a closet - cot bed, end table, dresser with communal bathroom down the hall. Candy wrappers and take-out food containers littered the cramped room and an ash tray brimmed over with butts, empty Dr. Pepper can utilized for the same purpose. Faint smell of ashes, mildew and dried semen.
Thomas lay back on his bed with his long, skinny frame in worn jeans and frayed Dickies jacket. I sat on the end table and couldn’t help glancing at that crotch protruding like an obscene tumor. Thomas gets it and began talking abstractly about the porno shop and jacking off and orgasms...
“Want some relief?” I asked, lighting a cigarette. No time for pleasantries, I thought.
Long, awkward moment of silence.
“Yeah” Thomas casually stretched on the bed and that lump in his jeans begins to extend. I hand him the unfinished cigarette and lay next to him with one fluid motion of unbuttoning his pants. A line of black hairs trail over a flat stomach to a puff of shiny, ebon pubes. No underwear. A thick cock flipped out moistened at the tip, the drop of semen glistening and transparent. I grabbed the exposed erection and lick the head and Thomas says ahhhh. Smell of musty clothes and rectum, I suck and lick and stroke in mechanized movements of unpeeled, raw lust. Thomas’ toes point outward and down as he ejaculates into my mouth. Acrid - gooey. I swallow.
We lay smoking. Passing one cigarette back and forth. I blow great plumes of grey smoke toward the yellowed ceiling. Thomas breaks the silence, “Hey, man. I was wondering if you can spare five dollars?” Thomas spurts out nervously, “I need to buy hair products.”
“Hair products?” I calmly repeat.
He glances toward a small shelf on the wall. A tin of hair relaxer, a small bottle of gel, and a well-used tube of sex lube lay cluttered among personal items. I smack the fiver into his brown, bony hand and excuse myself. Thomas mumbles something about sleeping. He casually hands me the unfinished cigarette.
I walked back out into the drizzling rain under a sky the color of a dead television channel and made my way toward the movies. I composed a mental equation of the amount of money in my wallet after selling my food stamp card the day prior. Seventy-two dollars and some change.
Think I’ll take in an afternoon of cinema - perfect day for it...

Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

go with the flow

I resigned to the fact I was going solo that night and chose to haunt a disco called Freegay on Avenida Mariscal, an infamously scummy strip of concrete where all the hoochie houses and drug barons lay. Notorious and somewhat dangerous for the unwise.
Freegay was the sole disco on that broken boulevard which catered openly to the homosexual. So, I paid the ten pesos and fifty centavos at the door and ascended the soiled, red carpet up, up toward the entrance, up the flight of a grand, warped wooden staircase where chatty clientele were herded into a que to purchase a beer by sulking lesbians.
In the vast, dim interior, the shifty wait staff catered to stoic cholos, hard gangsters, thieves, drugged out transvestites, and killer bull dykes. It carried the distinctive mix of both seedy and furtive. My kind of place.
Though the hall was immense, it held a tiny disco dance floor in the middle. The room was so vast and choked by cigarette smoke, the flashing disco lights were diffused by time it reached the seating areas. The clientele who lurked in the outer darkness preferred this set up as drugs and the casual hand job were passed from table to murky table.
The joint was somewhat crowded by time I arrived and not a table empty. Young hipsters in their hip-hop gear, cholos in their khaki baggies, trannies in their dazzle-glitter, and dykes in their mullets glided about in a nonstop ballet.
I stomped over toward the restroom entrance (always a good spot to stand) and sat my bottle on a table which appeared empty, there only lay a soiled case of beer on it. I suspected it was being used by the wait staff for storage. I soon found out the area was occupied. Sitting at the adjoining table, a towering, lanky, and strikingly handsome cholo stood up and politely asked me to move my bottle off of his box so as he could get himself a beer.
“Oh, I’m sorry, man. Thought the table was storage or something.” I stated with an embarrassed smirk.
“No problem, guerito, you can place your beer there. Would you care to join my friends?” He smiled a great row of teeth from thick lips. Every time he said something to me, he would press his full lips and pencil mustache against my ear which made my heart race. I think he knew it. Pretty damn suave.
My new friend introduced me to his companions: firstly, his younger brother, Alfredo - drop dead handsome ran in their family (though in teenage cholo gangster attire, Alfredo appeared as if he would kill you on the spot. Tattoos and all). He was an exact copy of his older brother yet attained a smoother, hairless complexion of youth on a copper skinned face. There also was a tall, skinny dude in a cowboy outfit. We exchanged greetings. I jokingly kept referring to him as Texarkana. He never caught on, guess the pun was lost in translation. And lastly, I was introduced to a wretchedly, horrid transvestite with pimples and scrawny physique who sat in the dark as prim and as regal as possible. The guy who did the intros called himself Salvador and was actually quite reserved. In lieu of the thumping music, he spoke in controlled tones. We all socialized as they inquired where I was from, where I lived, how I liked Mexico. The normal routine I received when I met folks here.
“So, you live in Mexico, guerito. Maybe I can come by and visit sometime?” Salvador said.
I gazed up into his stoic expression and noticed the savage lust blazing deep in his dark eyes. “I live just two blocks away. For you, my door is always open.”
“No doubt.” He laughed, taking a swig of beer. “No doubt.”
Alfredo, my seducer’s younger brother, began flirting with a young girl who he had acquired and while making out with her, asked Salvador for some pesos to buy her a rose. Salvador waved down one of the myriad flower vendors who weaved through the throng and purchased a couple of white roses, one for her and one for me. I threw prudence out the door and Salvador received a kiss on his square jaw for that one.
“You deserve nice things.” Salvador husked into my ear.
The music switched to a crazy mambo and it was exciting to watch Alfredo and Salvador dance together at the table. And, could they mambo.
I have to learn the mambo! I thought as I watched with a lascivious gaze.
The night went smooth. Salvador continued putting the moves on me, complementing my baby blues, towering over me with his tall self, and eventually invited me to dance when reggeaton began blaring. I obliged. We hit the floor and danced so nasty. The feelings in which I held for Cesar was inherently drowned out by alcohol and the suave seduction of this macho gangster.
Fuck it, I thought, I’m going to enjoy myself. I do deserve nice things.
During my flailing with Salvador, our foreheads touched, then our noses, our lips, our tongues - I was definitely feeling it and so was he - until a fat transvestite pulled us apart and began yelling at Salvador. After an over dramatic tirade in which halted all action in our general vicinity, the chunky transvestite bitch slapped him right there on the dance floor. At that moment, she whirled toward me and smacked me across the face. My fist automatically flew up and popped her in the teeth. The bitch went flying and skidded akimbo across the small dance floor. She sprung up like a sequined jack-in-the-box and I readied myself for a full on fag smack-down rumble.
She simply held her bleeding mouth, “Oye! Oye! Porque me pegaste? Soy un mujer!” (Ow! Ow! Why did you hit me? I’m a woman!)
I pointed an accusational finger toward her and roared in psychopathic hatred, “You fucked up hippopotamus! You are a goddamn man in a fucking clown suit! A man! And, you’ll be treated like one!”
(I would like to make a side note right here and now for all those who are concerned that I am in no way, shape, or form a drama queen)
Back to the story in progress: So, Salvador lumbers over to this simpering thing - obviously his novia - and cradled the tranny in his arms, dabbing her lip with his handkerchief. He glared at me as if I just strangled his newborn child and I realized it was time to cut.
I lit a Lucky Strike and walked over to the bar, ordering another beer. With my cheek still tingling, I nuzzled into a dark corner and fumed, avoiding the side glances and stares from the parading witnesses to that debacle. I was lucky enough to be approached by Tralala clomping out of the murk.
Allow me to take a moment to describe this creature in gold lame: If you were with Marylyn Monroe next to a fountain and grabbed her by the throat and held her head under water for thirty minutes, what came up gasping for air would be that mess of a transvestite, Tralala. Poor heroin addicted Tralala. She had been a notorious and infamous staple on the party circuit for countless years.
As we began commenting on the events of which happened on the dance floor, the overhead lights snapped on and the club closed. Amid disappointed moans and cat-call whistles from drunken and excited club goers - several overly-dramatic trannies covered their melting, glistening faces from the blinding, white light - all were herded out of the disco and down the stairs by the thuggish security.
Outside on the sidewalk amid the dispersing crowd, I kept my eye out for Salvador and his group. I admit I was leery of a more mass encounter from him and his troupe. They did pass and completely ignored me. As Salvador passed entwined with his sulking he-beast, he gave me a side-glance and smirked.
Enough of this circus. Time to call it a night. As I was about to say farewell to Tralala, Cesar materialized out of the dispersing throng of stumbling drunks. He approached timidly with hands shoved into his khaki pockets, “I came looking for you. You’re out with friends?”
“Something like that.” I stated morosely, darting a glance over to the wreck next to me.
“You mind if I tag along with you and Tralala?” He smiled.
“You know her?” I asked.
“Who doesn’t?” Cesar laughed.
I was relieved to see him. The petty calamity in the club melted away as the fondness I had for Cesar seethed up into me. I glanced a moment at his pleading face. I thumbed towards a chicken restaurant across the street that was open 24 hours and offered, “Hey, you guys want to go for a cup of coffee or something to eat? I’m buying.”
“If you insist.” Cesar smiled and Tralala stated something which sounded like a belch.
Cesar and I walked across to the restaurant laughing and talking as Tralala followed us, pulling stained panties out of her ass.
The chicken restaurant was now packed with the after-hours crowd. We were lucky to get a wobbly table served by a bewildered, over-worked waitress. We ordered the house specialty: Cheap, greasy fried chicken with a side of limp fries.
“So, how was your night?” Cesar asked as he ripped into his food.
Tralala didn’t touch her plate. She sat catatonic or squawking out occasional rude comments concerning the ranchero music blasting from a jukebox against the wall.
“Uneventful. Erik and Isidro were a no show.” I answered as I glanced around at the drunk and garrulous diners.
“Well, maybe I can make up for that?” He smiled that smile.
“What did you have in mind?”
Cesar looked down at his crotch under the table, then smugly back up at me. “Let’s go to your place and I’ll show you.”
Cesar and I finished our meals and left Tralala tottering on the broken corner in front of the restaurant as the sidewalk rushed beneath our feet.
Keys jingled, my apartment door was kicked open. Clothes were flung off. Fingers slid over smooth skin, both pale white and Mexican brown. Tongues licked and sucked, teeth bit. Cesar pushed me up against my bureau and, spitting into his palm, lubed up his penis. With quick, hard thrusts he lunged into me, uttering dirty comments in Spanish that drove me over the edge.
Cesar flung me down onto the couch, threw my feet up over his shoulders and pile-drived himself into me, until, with hot spurts, he shot his semen across my stomach and chest. We kissed and then showered.
“So, what are you going to do now?” I asked as he toweled me off.
“It’s late. I’m going home. I have to work early tomorrow.”
I debated offering him money, then thought against it. “You know, Cesar, you can always come over. Anytime. I miss seeing you as often as before.”
“I will. I promise.”
Cesar got dressed, at the door smiled thank you, and hailed a taxi home. I played Go with the Flow by Queens of the Stone Age on the stereo and smoked a joint before I fell into a contented asleep.

Monday, August 29, 2016

the literature of the poor

Darting over toward the mensroom, I quickly passed through the door. Immediately, my senses were assaulted from the myriad aromas of putrefied shit, urine, dirty clothes, and cigarette smoke. Hip blacks stood in front of the clogged sinks, teasing and combing hair, chatting garrulously with acquaintances. They abruptly halted their conversation momentarily as I entered and nonchalantly resumed their dialog after glancing me over in dubious suspicion. Several hobos lay catatonic on the dirty, tiled floor against the far wall. Long streams of urine and spilled liquor from concealed bottles trickled from soiled, dingy pants to a clogged grate in the middle of the room. Two elderly, white men in plaid fedoras stood against the wall and smoked rolled cigarettes. The tell-tale whiff of marijuana mingled in with the tobacco.
I entered an unoccupied stall. The stall had no door. A large yellow turd floated in the urine choked water of the toilet. I took a piss. The walls were covered in graffiti. Ronda fucks like a pimp. I like to suck cholo’s verga 567-8457 call anytime. Nigga’s got the biggest dicks. Fuck the police. If your reading this, your doomed.
The literature of the poor.

Saturday, August 27, 2016

Friday, August 26, 2016

semen and blood

Johnny rolled over in the musty, sagging bed and attempted to piece together the night before. The cramped, dank room he was in was windowless – walls painted a ghastly pink, covered in graffiti with the lingering, vaginal stench of a million Mexican hookers.
He lay naked on an old, spotted mattress, itself reeking of mildew and various indescribable aromas. The bathroom was down the hall. Johnny rose slowly and staggered toward the chipped, porcelain sink next to the bed and took a piss, rinsing the basin with water from the tap. He then splashed water onto his greasy face.
Gravity took over which caused him to slump uncontrollably back onto the bed. He lay there dizzy and aching - head pounded as he stared at the naked lightbulb dangling from a wire protruding out of a hole cut in the plaster of the ceiling. Directly above his face, there was a dark, orange spot in the plaster.
That’s rat piss, he thought, not water damage. Rats always piss in the same spot. Humans don’t - unsanitary fucks...
Johnny’s mind throbbed with the kaleidoscope of a million images from the previous evening: He was naked, on his knees in a submissive crouch; hands on his knees. Towering above him stood a 40 year-old Hispanic ex-con who recently been released from the border patrol after being detained for two days in the States. Or so he claimed.
Johnny met him in the Plaza. Said he could get a good score on coke. His torso was a mass of tattoos and scars. The ex-con was of medium height and beefy/muscular. After hours of doing dope, through fucked up eyelids, Johnny saw the ex-con standing above him, not quite...his khaki pants were dropped at his ankles and the stained wife-beater was pulled up over his thick neck. A gold necklace of the Virgin of Guadalupe was the only color across the wall of brown chest. With a muscular left hand, the brutish ex-con held Johnny painfully by the hair and with his right hand, he rapidly masturbated himself.
Johnny’s eyes were not focused on the thick, brown penis, he was more entranced on watching the huge testicles bounce briskly as the brute jerked off. Johnny glanced up at the bulldog face. The grimace. The thick moustache. The slicked-back, black hair.
“Don’t you fucking look at me!” He snarled and whack! Slapped Johnny across the face with an open palm.
Johnny nearly fell over, but the ex-con roughly grabbed him by the hair. Johnny could feel a trickle of blood ooze from his nostril, down across the lips. The ex-con tightened the grip on Johnny hair. Johnny winced. It hurt.
The ex-con rose onto the tips of his toes and grunted similar to some kind of beast. Johnny could feel the hot licks of the man’s semen as it splashed across his face. The ex-con then jabbed his thick, short penis into Johnny’s mouth and rammed it in deep, pushing down the back of Johnny’s head. Johnny gagged - he couldn’t breathe. Tears swelled in his eyes. He felt as if he was going to throw up.
“Take it, you fucking faggot!” The ex-con growled through gold-capped teeth. “Clean that dick!”
He roughly shoved Johnny down onto the cold, dusty, concrete floor. The brute wiped his penis with a ragged towel and tossed it onto Johnny’s semen and blood splattered face.
Dressing, the ex-con grumbled as he walked out with his back to Johnny, “You’re shit’s on the table, joto!”
Slam! The ex-con was gone and Johnny was alone. He could taste semen and blood on his lips. He looked up through a haze to see the junk and pesos the asshole had left on the nightstand.
Man, the things I do for this shit.

Thursday, August 25, 2016

spread out in all its glory

Heat and dust punched me in my face. Dodging groping hookers and grasping hands of dirty children, Cesar and I siphoned into a booth at a small café in Zona Norte. Zona Norte was a barrio consisting of row after row of crumbling, adobe buildings and sordid, ramshackled shacks resembling chicken houses. A dingy neighborhood located immediately south of the great iron wall which separated the haves from the have-nots.
We silently sipped ghastly instant Nescafé as my eye caught a young Mexican queer who wore a red and white striped polo shirt and tight blue jeans. He sat on a metal stool and was glancing at me from the counter running the length of the small café.
The fag smiled. Handsome until he smiled – the mouth was a forest of rotted, black and yellow teeth. I then recognized him. He worked the ancient, ex-pat vampires who roosted at the café tables all day in The Plaza, surrounding themselves with young boys in a vain attempt to impress the other ex-pats on how desirable they still were. Those types of hustlers were the purest of thieves. They patiently sat and waited and nodded and laughed until the time was right to squeeze every peso they could from those quivering pedophiles.
After the waitress slammed two plates of eggs and chorizo onto the greasy, formica table, I turned casually and stared out the window – dead, black flies lined the sill. There was a commotion outside across the one-way street. Two hoggish police cornered a young gangster - the scrawny thug faltered and began to fight back. The crowd gathered. A paramilitary truck roared up. The soldiers jumped out of the back of the vehicle, swarmed the thug and with clubs and boots and rifle butts, beat him to a pulp. They dragged his unconscious, blood-splattered torso to a paddy wagon and flung him in. Hookers and Amazonian transvestites scowled at the soldiers, muttering to themselves.
Cesar and I returned to our cold, tasteless breakfast.
I lit a cigarette and blew smoke up toward the high ceiling of the café - painted mint and dangling with grimy, dust bunnies. Outside lay the panorama of Tijuana, Mexico spread out in all its glory. A kaleidoscope of criss-crossing electrical wires laced the smoggy skyline of squat, dirty buildings. Honking, choking autos sluggishly roll over shimmering, pot-holed concrete, filthy prostitutes of both sexes parade and lean and stare catatonic under the bleak sun as terrified and belligerent tourists paw over their diseased wares with lascivious finality all to the beat of high decimal cha-cha mambo.
A ragged, elderly man - salt and pepper hair, silver, scruffy beard – sat in his own waste under a rusted, neon sign, stirring the putrid puddle of fetid substance on the sidewalk with a stick. Filthy children played and frolicked - laughing, dashing around obese tias and between the legs of hip-hop pushers vending insidious medicinals.
This life is too much, I thought.
I paid for the meal and we left. Cesar and I shook hands on the corner and parted. Never to see one another again.

Wednesday, August 24, 2016

blew the shot

RIGHT BETWEEN THE EYES. It was the shot heard round the countercultural world; the literal Big Bang of the Beats. In 1951, during a party one night in Mexico City, writer William S. Burroughs drunkenly convinced his wife Joan Vollmer into standing against a wall with a shot glass on her head while he fired a gun at her. BLEW THE SHOT weaves up to this appalling incident, drifting back and forth in time, examining the reasons and keystones behind Burroughs’ murder of Vollmer. The motivations and events, examined and tossed about like a Rorschach test, creates a story that’s part biography, part horror tale, and part touchingly emotional psycho-drama. The author Luis Blasini leaves lusciously ambiguous whether the shooting itself was murder, drug-fueled madness, or one of those great historical incidents transcending its reality to become an allegory for art and destruction. BLEW THE SHOT slides artfully along the razor’s edge suggesting the principal character might be either a genius or merely a depraved madman. There’s the sense of a man who’s tormented by the demons of his lusts and appetites, and is often helpless before them, as revealed within dramatically fact based innuendos that will leave the reader desiring for more.

At long last my novel is complete! It just went hot on if anyone is interested in ordering a copy. I quite enjoy the outcome of it and I hope you will too. As a matter of fact, I think you will.

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

Johnny smiled

Johnny and the tourist stumbled out into the bustling streets of a Tijuana Saturday night, rushing over crumbling, trash littered pavement smelling of shit and urine. Shabby, sad taco stands sweltered with the wafting stench of burnt meats and fermented salsas and wilted vegetables. Mangy dogs and small infants played in the black grease pools between the stalls.
Throngs of pedestrians clogged the way as Johnny and the tourist weaved through knots of swaggering hip-hop boys. Their arms draped around waists of their brown, thick-hipped sweethearts with the sad, mascara-painted, brown eyes drooped up to Guadalupe. Street vendors with leprosy and missing limbs called out selling leather belts, key chains, lottery tickets, condoms - as tank like para-military vehicles rumbled down the street sluggishly, slowly past ancient, creaking buses farting black smoke into the muggy night.
Johnny led the wobbling tourist down a dimly-lit side street packed with prostitutes of both sexes who wearily leaned against broken, red-brick and grimy, white-washed facades. Roaming addicts - shifty eyed and alert - hurtled down the way, stopping only to snatch small bags of dope from hidden nooks and crannies in crumbling walls. Groups of catatonic American tourists stumbled with bloated guts and shirts spotted with beer and puke – all under the wary eye of hateful police patrols. A cacophony of car horns and screeches mixed with the smells of seared meat, steaming hotdogs, and festering garbage vomiting up into a crisp, neon splashed night.
Passing a row of tired, fat hookers flashing silver-capped teeth and unappetizing, staunch bodies, Johnny and the tourist arrived at the sordid entrance of a cheap, ten-dollar a night hotel which was reached by climbing a set of worn, wooden stairs. White paint flaked off the Spanish-style, two story structure. Hotel Independencia glowed from a dusty, plastic marquee sagging over the cracked sidewalk.
At the foot of the stairs, the tourist took out his wallet to pay a haggish, ancient woman behind a metal grate. Johnny got a glimpse of the contents of the wallet – it bulged with twenty-dollar bills. The old woman gave the tourist a key attached to a huge, plastic pad.
“Checkout is eleven o’clock, manana.” The receptionist wheezed in broken English.
The tourist paid the fat mamacita behind the black bars and the two dashed up warped, wooden stairs to a room which bore an overpowering stench of mildew.
Johnny flicked on the light and a legion of roaches scattered across the dusty, red-tiled floor. In a corner, sagged a dresser with missing drawers and across from the bed, a rickety, metal folding chair. The walls were a multicolored hue of scrawled graffiti of both black marker and spray paint. A tired, slutty mattress dominated the room supported by a bent, black-metal frame which was draped in a thin, pink blanket - bedbugs and all.
“Hold up, cutie - I gotta pee.” The tourist slurred and entered the grimy, white-tiled bathroom. Johnny heard him take a long, loud piss.
Johnny sat silently on the chair and looked around the squalid space. He overheard the muffled moaning of a whore earning her rent in the next room. From the street emanated the dull pounding of a hundred jukeboxes.
The tourist came out of the bathroom and sat on the bed, which creaked in protest under the weight.
In one lithe movement, Johnny stood up and slid down his jeans and white and blue striped briefs. His long, uncircumcised penis swung free. He sat back in the chair.
“You like this?” Johnny asked coyly as he stroked his stiffening organ.
The old tourist blubbered, “Oh yeah, baby - you got a nice dick.”
Johnny smirked, with a hint of detestation, “What’s so nice about it?”
The tourist fumbled uncomfortably, he didn’t expect that remark. He sat there and stared at the nine inches of erection being swayed in his direction - the smooth shaft, the glistening mushroom tip. Johnny seductively worked the foreskin back and forth over the head, devishly looking up at the tourist who wheezed in mounting excitement.
“I’m so hot, papi.” Johnny sighed. “Why don’t you come over here and do something about it?”
The tourist gawked at the undulating erection - hypnotized by it as Johnny smoothly swung it back and forth. Like a fat kid in a candy store, the tourist dropped to his knees in front of Johnny and gobbled his erection. Loud sucking noises echoed in the spartan room as the tourist slobbered and slurped up and down Johnny’s cock. Though Johnny had his legs spread wide open, he could still feel the tourist’s obscene stomach rubbing against both his inner calves.
God, please hurry up and cum, Johnny thought, I need to get the fuck away from this gross-ass gringo.
Johnny reluctantly held the back of the tourist’s greasy head as in a matter of short, merciful minutes, felt the surge of an orgasm and squirted his semen into the tourist’s mouth. The fat, old man leaned over and spat the matter - a mix of bubbly sperm, saliva, and blood - onto the scuffed floor.
Gasping, the tourist looked glaze-eyed up to Johnny and breathed, “Oh, baby - that was good.”
“It was hot, papi.” Johnny stated mechanically, pulling up and fastening his pants.
With much effort and a series of dramatic grunts, the tourist rose to his feet. He sighed and exhaled an embarrassed chuckle.
Johnny stood also, and blurted, “Hey, you think you can help me with twenty dollars? I need to pay my electric bill and I am low on money this week.”
“Don’t you work?” The tourist asked, snidely.
“Yes. But, you know, this is Mexico and they don’t pay much and I just paid rent.” Johnny stated as a matter of fact.
The tourist grimaced as he reached and pulled out his wallet, placing a twenty dollar bill in Johnny’s thin hand.
The tourist saw the young man in a new light - the lines around the mouth, the dark circles under the eyes, the black grime under the uneven, chewed fingernails.
“Can I have ten more? I have no food.” Johnny smiled that smile.
The tourist dramatically sighed. Bitchily acting irritated, he faltered at putting his wallet away. Johnny noticed the glint of fear and distrust, the uncertainty of being in a foreign locale in the sobering eyes of the tourist. Johnny actually hoped the fat motherfucker would be knifed by some demented junky on his way out.
Johnny glared with just the right amount of sexiness and intimidation, “Please?”
“Oh, all right. But, that’s it! I have to get back to the States tomorrow and I can’t spare anymore.” The tourist frowned, placed a ten dollar bill in the young man’s hand and then quickly slipped the wallet into his back pocket.
Johnny made for the door, stopped, “You sleeping here tonight?” He pointed abstractly around the squalid room. “It’s a very dangerous area. A lot of muggings.”
Fear now flamed in the darting eyes of the tourist, “No. No, I have a room somewhere else. I’m going there now.”
Orale. I’ll walk you out.” Johnny yanked on the thin door which wobbled a bit from sticking in the frame.
Once downstairs, they separated at the corner with a handshake. The tourist quickly strode toward the safety of the nearest waiting taxi as Johnny returned to the shadows of the corner. Several thugs stood in a knot under a leaflet plastered, iron street lamp which emitted no light.
A squat, frog-faced Mexican stood in white athletic gear and croaked as Johnny approached, “Que pasa, Juanito?”
They swapped a street-wise handshake.
Johnny’s gaze swept up and down the sidewalk, “Not much, man. Gimme a paper.”
From a sagging fannypack, the frog-faced Mexican slapped into Johnny’s palm a tiny, cellophane envelope folded into a small square as Johnny passed a wadded, ten dollar bill into the pusher’s chubby fingers.
With that, Johnny returned to the still congested Patio Bar and made a direct line to the bathroom. In a grimy, white-tiled stall, he cut three lines of methamphetamine out onto the flat, steel-top of the filthiest toilet paper dispenser in the world and with a rolled peso note, he loudly sniffled the lines up. Johnny leaned back, snorted the residue into the back of his throat and casually glanced over into the next stall and wish he hadn’t. A chunky hooker in a frayed, blue dress squatted down and was blowing some prehistoric fucker in a grey-felt Stetson. However, that didn’t offend Johnny - it was the festering toilet next to them which overflowed in thick, muddy feces. Lines of dark brown cascaded over the rim like a boiling pot of beans. The smell of putrid shit punched him in the face. Feeling the effects of the meth, he returned to the bar and stood next to an ancient and tall American tourist who leaned casually against the counter. Johnny ordered a beer for himself.
Johnny took a quick swig and smiled at the old relic, “Hola!”
The old man raised his bottle, clinking it with Johnny’s. “Hello, there. What’s your name?”
“My name’s Johnny. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you.” Johnny smiled.