All the streets of the city slope down between deepening canyons to a vast, triangle-shaped plaza full of darkness. Walls of street and plaza are perforated by crumbling dwelling cubicles and cafes, some a few feet deep, others extending out of sight in a network of rooms and corridors, hidden by mist and steam - smells of beans, seared meat, mota, and shit. Catatonic emaciated whores stand gray and withered in the doorless diseased cubicles of Death – beckoning with flashes of silver teeth. Salsa music wails – cops stand with ominous sneer and truckload of them rumbles by kicking up dust with the screams of the prey wail in anguish – drunk loud Americans stumble groped by transsexual deviants of all sorts - Americans need it special. Squatting on old bones and excrement and rusty iron, in a white blaze of heat, a panorama of naked idiots stretches to the horizon.
Oh there’s tequila and vomiting in the streets and the groans under heaven, spattered angel wings covered with pale blue dirt of heaven – angels in hell we, our wings huge in the dark. Entering an apartment building dark and sinister like you don't know, we travel down feces ranked hallways - the green walls flake like sclerosis. We come into a garden in the middle of the building with an opening to the sky. Then I see ten, maybe eight other people all milling around the corners with spoons and matches – all of them junkies, that rugged tenderness, those rough and suffering features covered gray sick slick – the eyes alert, the mouth alert, hat, suit, watch, spoon, heroin, working swiftly at shots. Everybody is shooting up.
Around 2am I exit the Internet cafe and start home. Pass up a dark block and light a cigarette. Transvestite hooker leaps out of a doorway of Hotel Leon and quacks in broken English, “Hey, baby - one cigarette for me?”
Why not? I stop and I’m pulling out my package - sounds kinda dirty, don’t it? A pelon cholo pops up and asks for one, too. She shoots out, “No, no - just give it to him!”
Why not? He’s cute anyway. My defenses on full alert - seemed like a set up for some random thievery on my part. Cholo lights up and mumbles gracias and walks on.
I start on my way and the drag clops after me laying a scrawny hand on my arm, “Hey, baby, hey! Wait - you wanna fuck my pussy?” She sneers behind silver teeth.
“Ew!” I snarl and walk on.
My shoes echo down the broken sidewalk - it is late and cool and quiet. I walk briskly in the hopes of dodging the patrols - those thieving bastards. Street light red and I cross anyways and notice an obvious rentboy on opposite corner. Not in the mood so I jaywalk a bit to avoid him.
“Hello?” He says in English. Then “Hola?” I pretend not to hear but the pssk pssk! makes his intentions clear. I stop with a dramatic turn as a rat the size of a cat bonzai’s for a sewer grate.
I size up this character - nice body, tight white button down v-neck sweater exposing flat stomach, tight khaki Capri’s with long fat cock running down left leg. And them pants were real tight.
“Yes?” I ask imperiously.
I notice in the half light his face is blotchy and red. What the fuck is with his face? Acne?, I thought. Then I noticed the blood splattered on his shoulders and the blood soaked rag in his hand. He steps into the light of the street lamp and his face is all beaten up.
He meekly starts talking in pieces, “Mieda (Look.) - the motherfuckers - I have no money - they took - mieda…” He pulls out a silver chain that once was attached to a wallet. I half turned away.
“Ayuda - help…” He pleads, hands up and outward.
I start to walk - my face a frozen mask of no compassion. I say dryly, “Bueno suerte.” (Good luck.) I continue to my apartment leaving that Fallen Angel under the cold yellow light of a street lamp.