Tijuana Fried Chicken.

Woke up to the sounds of kids playing in the trash-littered streets below. My third-floor room has a grey concrete balcony covered in pigeon dung overlooking The Red Zone or Zona Norte if you're a local. I sit on the ledge in my pajamas and drink horrible Victory coffee and smoke my last cigarette. It in itself withered to a butt. The city sprawl before me is a bland colored hazy polluted mess. Various musical styles permeate the choked yellow sky. Lights keep changing, there are wires in the air and the asphalt, and the asphalt is all around me. The ever-present moaning of a transvestite hooker getting fucked down the hall echoes in my head. Shrivel in the cold shower and don my clothes and take a stroll two blocks to The Plaza and sit in with Chuck for breakfast. Orange juice and sweet bread followed by the best coffee. Ever.

Chuck is an ancient Canadian who has been here since day one or so it seems. Every week we meet for coffee and conversation and he is continually being rolled by the indigenous youth that crawls over him in his beddings like aroused kittens. Uncounted televisions, radios, and other personal items have been lifted from this shriveled gentleman of leisure. He believes that there is no such thing as a bad boy...same as that fruit Father Flanagan. Both pedophiles by an act of Congress
But, I digress. Wouldn't you?

After banal chatter, made my way to The Hawaiian Bar to pay a visit to my oldest and bestest friend in T.J. a short guy by the name of Chuey. I have known Chuey forever and after much backslapping, handshakes, and six cervezas Sol later I relate my woes to a kind ear. No big whoop, I say...time will sort it all out. As always, Chuey kindles my hopes with uplifting patter.
After explaining the whereabouts of a couple of bathhouses to some snooty queens from Los Angeles looking for an easy fix, I drunkenly wobbled out of the cantina and down into the heart of Zona Norte, cabron. Preteen hookers coo and grab at me as I stroll by lost in the sauce, no...no cunt for me. I am out on the hunt for some rough tattooed sex. Chuey recommended that I hang out in front of the Tijuana jail. Now there's a thought.

I was stopped by a taxi driver who reminded me of a Mexican Yoda. I remember him, he once stated that he has the biggest pussy in Tijuana. His brother sat next to him nibbling a taco. A scrawny ancient little man in a black police uniform. With that fucking white police motorcycle helmet on his enlarged head he looked like Gazoo. Which I stated. Thought it was funny.
Pretty fucked up, I needed to get more juice, so's I go into some bar. El Dorado? The Happy Naco? Bar Vaquero? Who cares? Smelly dark den with pink coral tiled walls and some short chunky bee-otch in a black thong whirling and jiggling her wares in front of me. Bar had only two others, a junky cholo who sat on the nod like a fool on a stool and a flabby old sweaty American who eyed me fingering his camera ever so nasty. A tall Mexican hottie with Aztec features and pencil mustache donning a blue mechanic's tunic walked in and made a beeline to the trough-like urinal...back there. A couple of Sols later, it was on like Donkey Kong, I am in the pissoir jacking off with the hot guy in the mechanics uniform and the obligatory old fart. The hottie had the most beautiful peni I have seen in many a moon. One hand on my soldier the other traces the black hair on toned pecs. Me and the hottie cum in spurts onto lemons and ice and leave the quivering codger standing there wondering where his youth has gone.
The hottie, Miguel he says, we drink a couple more bottles and I ask if he wants to go back to my room for an afternoon of filthy rotten sin. No, it’s back with the wifie and kids, he says. Shake hands and part. Old queen glares at me from the shadows. Frustrated fruit. Short cholo with shaved head and wife beater is hip to the fact and smiles with silver capped tooth, hard on a-pulsing in the dirty khakis. I exit leaving the cholo to the whims of the withered vampire.
Stumble to the Internet cafe and pound out what yer readin' and stinking drunk with cute guy sitting next to me. Eye contact is made. Nah, I get hungry and go for delicious rotisserie chicken.
Saw way up in the hills in Colonia Perros a restaurant that blared: Tijuana Fried Chicken. Fell out in an uncontrolled fit of laughter.