The Lord Loves A Hangin’
Current mood: gallant

The lord loves a hangin'
that's why he gave us necks
it tightens up our vocal cords
and loosens up our pecks

So if you are a horse thief
and guilty to the bone
go ahead and blame a friend
so you don't hang alone

It may be hard to swaller
but you'll be three feet taller
you say you are a villain
and care a lot about killin'

So go ahead and steal yourself a horse!


The lord loves a hangin'
and so do we by heck
so get yourself a lasso
and decorate your neck

We is awful ignorant
and uglier than sin
so go ahead and cut us down
and hang us once again

Swing a spell!

7:03 PM - 4 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

An Empty Statement
Category: Writing and Poetry

"I’m sorry."

"Sorry for what?  

"Sorry because..."   

"You’re not sorry for anything."

"Fine, then I’m not sorry."

"So why did you say you’re sorry?"

She always got the last word.  It was irrelevant whether I was right or wrong.  Maybe it still is?  How could I beg to question, differ, or reject anything-- ever?  I was never her equal.

"Would you like another beer?"

"No, fuck your beer."

"This is good beer.  Don’t take this out on the beer."

"It is good beer.  But you’re a dick-head."

"Why am I a dick-head?"

"I don’t know, genetics maybe?  You got the dick-head gene."

"There’s no dick-head gene."

"If there was you would have it."

"That’s low, you know my uncle might be my grandfather."

"That’s not possible, dick-head."

"Really?"

"O.M.G."

"Omg!?  That doesn’t make sense."

I never understood why I loved her and I’m sure she misunderstood loving me. That’s the way of humanity.  That is the plight of the desperate search for a sacred peace, and the power that keeps you hanging in a balanced race for an abysmal bullet, pointed the wrong way.  

"Good night my love, I will miss you." 

9:03 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

The Serpent and the Peach
Category: Writing and Poetry

The succulent peach lived on a high branch with her cheek to the sun, paying little attention to the serpent that slithered through the duff below her.  The serpent had loved the peach since she was a frail blossom blowing in the wind. Fore, she was a radiant fruit worthy of the suns affection, and even the moon praised her circular shape.   

"I'll swear an oath" the serpent decreed, "No rat or bat nor alley cat shall come to harm the beautiful peach."

Dutifully, the serpent toiled.  Striking at squirrel and bird alike, the snake defended its fair princess.  Peck after peck, and bite after bite, the serpent suffered insufferably in the hopes that someday the peach would love it as deeply as it loved her.  Alas, the maiden paid little mind to the snake, for she was consumed with the warmth of the sun, the attention of her leaves, and the envy of the other fruit.

Autumn came to the grove, and the leaves that once surrounded the delicate peach dried and fell to the ground.  The sun that once blessed her subtle curvature, now blistered her greedy skin.  And the night that once worshiped her, froze her vanity until she shriveled on the vine that once fed her.  When the peach finally surrendered herself to the earth, there was nothing left of her but a sapless seed covered with dead skin.

Upon seeing its beloved in this state, the serpent realized that the peach could never have truely loved.  Her luscious disguise veiled a hardened soul, and she had no heart at all.  The deeply saddened serpent curled tightly around the peach stone, bit itself and died.

Spring came, the ground thawed and it began to rain.  Shortly after, a tiny sprout sprang from the decomposing body of the serpent.  That sprout is now the biggest peach tree in the county.

9:13 AM - 4 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Why Tuesday Is The Best Day To Freebase In L.A.
Category: Writing and Poetry

Seth is driving 85 MPH in the car pool lane on the 170 south past Universal Studios, even though he knows we have to get off the freeway in two exits, and that I easily get car sick.  Benz & Beamer alike respectfully fall back when they see the turn signal of Seths' 1982 Mitsubishi pick-up.  The pick-up is mostly rust with hints of decade-faded beige.  The rear springs are bent upside down from the weight of the swimming pool equipment, chemicals, and tools that overload it's bed.  The truck leaks everything, backfires, sputters going uphill, and disrupts the sanctity of even the loudest North Hollywood streets with the painful squelch of metal on metal screaming from it's brake drums.  All of this inspired Seth to put in a Sirius satellite receiver, 12 in. speakers, a sub-woofer and an amplifier to cover the vehicles cantankerous rattling and squealing.

"Ever make love with a pool man", Seth yells to a woman in a convertible Lexus stopped at a red light on Sunset Blvd.  She tries to avoid eye contact with him, but I see her peering through the side of her head as she talks on her cell phone.  She's in her mid thirties, Beverly Hills tanned, bleached blonde, Botox brow, collagen lipped, and sporting a breast job; probably to compliment her In & Out Burger ass.  As if her bust is the only part of her body ever visible to the world.  I'm sure that if the Lexus wasn't leased, she'd have it surgically connected at the waist.

Green light!

The woman speeds away, only to be halted in four hundred feet by the very next signal.

Seth parks the truck in front of the Subway Restaurant on Melrose & Highland, and makes a comment about the leather cow skins hanging outside the curio store nextdoor.

"That's disgusting!  It's like having your pet skinned.  Look Josh there's Sophie", he says pointing at the cow hides.

Seth is a Hari Krishna and doesn't appreciate the marketing techniques of the curio shop, but that doesn't stop him from going next door to Bogie's Liquor for Sparks at 8 am.  Usually we go to 7-11, but Seth says that the 7-11 on Highland doesn't have Sparks-- even though I distinctly remember buying them there before.

My attention waivers to the black cross-dresser working the sidewalk between Yum-Yum Donuts and the newspaper machines.  He is wearing a turquoise and white horizontally striped blouse with a matching turquoise short skirt, accessorized with black pumps and a ratted dirty blonde wig.  His outfit is probably a size two, despite his towering height of well over six and a half feet.  Seemingly used to being leered at, he struts and postures to and fro behind the paper racks, his limp right hand dancing around shoulder height.  Like a parade princess waving to an affectionate crowd of spectators, only in Hollywood the spectators roll by the float instead of the reverse.

Two queers in a red Volkswagon Golf pull over and pick-up the transvestite as Seth returns with our Sparks.  The prostitute gets into the car, takes off his wig, and replaces it with a baseball cap.  I prophetically tilt my head at the scene, open my Sparks, take a drink, light a joint, pass it to Seth and say....

"Tuesday must be the best day to freebase in L.A."

3:04 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Fear & Loathing At The Sink
Current mood: lazy
Category: Writing and Poetry

4:48 PM - 4 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Shakespeares Red Light Sonet
Current mood: horny
Category: Writing and Poetry

The smokes, the rock, the vulgar talk
she swears she'll quit tomorrow
The patch, some paint, a back street walk
words spoken merely out of sorrow

4:15 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Disk Golf With The Devil
Category: Writing and Poetry

"Crap!" Satan yelled, slicing his first disk into the bushes.  "I'm taking my mulligan."

"I told you to make some practice shots."

"The Dark Lord needs no warm-up" the Great Deceiver refuted.

"That's funny, because from here it looked like your release was early and your angle was low" I explained imitating the flight of the disk with a flattened hand.

"You'd better win this game Josh, or I'm going to personally make sure you get double raped by five hundred thousand of my most veracious demons– for eternity!" the last two words were spoken in a low roar that shook the ground and frightened the ravens from the trees.

"Why do you have to be so old-school?  Can't you just say half a million?" I asked before sailing my first throw around a group of eucalyptus, landing it a few meters behind the basket.

"Hollywood did it to me" he says before taking his second throw. 

The results of his second throw were not much better than the first.

"Made you corny?" I inquired.

"No, got rid of the fear.  I just shrieked at you, and you didn't even flinch before snapping back with a wisecrack.  Adam would have peed his fig leaf.  Lot would have shit in his tunic.  Noah would have hid his head up an elephants ass.  If I would have shown up and yelled at them like I just did to you.  People feared me before movies but special effects have made everyone skeptical.  They stole the last thing I had on earth-- my credibility."

The demon knelt by his thrown disk, grabbed a boney claw full of soil and sifted the dirt onto his putter.  With a tremendous gargle Satan produced a fiery ball of spit and hurled the wad onto the dirty disk.  He smiled as the disk burst into flames and flew directly into the net for a 'birdie'.

"Nice shot Lucifer" I remark sarcastically.

"Please don't call me that.  I haven't gone by that name for millennia, and I really don't appreciate people using it."

"Well I don't appreciate you using incantations on the course, especially when the stakes are this high."

"Touche."

I felt a slight breeze beginning to grow as I pumped my throwing arm.  I focused on the angle and speed of my arm in motion.  I thought about my point of release.  On my final stroke I let the disk fly and it soared straight toward the basket.  Just before the disk reached the net Beelzebub mumbled unintelligible and clapped his hands.  Within an instant the breeze became a gale, blowing the soring saucer right of the target.

"If you spit on your disk, clap your claws, wiggle your ears, or whisper anything in Latin, Greek, Hebrew, or Esperanto for the rest of this round I'm going to call shenanigans on you, Lucifer!" I coldly threatened.

"You wouldn't?"

"I will."

"Daaamn!"

 

1:18 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Tricky Escapes From Mexican Prison
Category: Writing and Poetry

It was a rainy Thursday morning when the 'Policia' broke through the grandiose doorway of Tricky's Tijuana mansion.  Heavily armed officers rampaged through the domicile, leaving no room un-searched, no whore un-questioned, and no 'John' un-detained.  Guns drawn they arrested four women Jell-o wrestling before a web camera in the foyer; they confiscated their kiddie pool.  The authorities pointed AK-47's at thirteen nude individuals in the Olympic size pool and directed them onto the indoor soccer field; they seized waterproof sun-block and a beach ball. 

Twenty-two people where taken to jail from the first two floors, including the cook and two maids.  Lastly, they broke down the door to the penthouse suite and Tricky lying in his bed.

"Kay paso, amigas!  Como esta?"

Coverage of the event was shown on every major news syndication throughout Latin America.  It was documented as the largest sex crime sting in Mexican history, despite the fact that no incriminating evidence was found.  Physical evidence is irrelevant in the Mexican justice system.

Tricky was convicted in court without representation prior to his arrest.  Based on the testimony of two witnesses a judge put out a writ for Tricky.  He then became property of the judge until he paid his 'fianza', or served as much time as the judge deemed necessary for his violations: penal codes 780/2006-- 'Lenocinio y Ultrajes a la Moral Publica'(Pimping & Disruption of Public Morals).  A 'fianza' is a literal guarantee that a convict will obey the laws or return before the judge for sentencing.  Tricky's guarantee was set at 666,000 pesos; exactly equivalent to 60,500 U.S. dollars more than Tricky had upon his arrest.  Not having his 'fianza' was an automatic admission of guilt.  The Mexican government doesn't accept appeals.

Tricky was held for several days in multiple detention areas before reaching the booking room.  Through the windows of the booking area Tricky could see, aside from twelve foot walls topped with razor wire and guards wielding assault rifles, 'La Mesa Penitenciaria del Estado' was the same as the rest of Tijuana.  Women and children lived with men in rented tenements of every size from small tents to multifamily cottages and apartments.  Inmates that could not afford a shelter had to fight for a dry place to sit or sleep.  Tricky saw shops, restaurants, and services of every manner.  He suspected that– just like the rest of Tijuana–  anything was available for a patron with the right sized pocket book. 

It was mid afternoon when Tricky was released into the general population.  He didn't have enough money to rent a shelter and this was compounded by the fact that he'd been arrested wearing only a t-shirt, board shorts and shower slippers.  He needed a way to stay warm before dark, or face his third straight sleepless night.  While exiting the restroom, the way found him.

"Ay, hombre?" a mans voice called out from the shadows.

"What do you fuckin' want?" Tricky did not look toward the voice and responded drearily.

"You're the guy on the news with that big place off the strip, right?" the man continued, stepping out of the shade and toward Tricky.  "Did you really do all that shit?" he asked with a nod.

"Do what?  I haven't seen the news."

"The kiddie pornos?"

"What?" Tricky shouted, shocked by the thought, "Is that what those fuckers are saying?  No, I didn't make any kiddie porn.  That's bullshit!"

"That's good, 'cause there's lots of kids here.  Their parents recognize you and you'll get wacked.  Don't trip though 'cause I know some place we can stay."

"What do you fuckin' care?"

"My sister Maria used to live at that house.  When she asked to leave 'cause she was getting married, I remember she said you were cool."

Tricky's anger subsided as he reflected upon the memory of Maria, before he replied "Maria was cool.  I hope she's happy now."

"This way," the man said leading Tricky across the yard.

"Maria moved to San Felipe after her husband put her in the hospital.  I found him in Ensenada and I cut him from his cuelo to his cajones.  That's why they put me here." 

Across the yard the man stopped, turned to Tricky and said "I got a blanket you can have, but I need a favor."

"What favor?"   

"This guy, he owes me money and he thinks he can not pay me 'cause his cousin keeps him safe.  They don't know you.  I don't want you to get no money from him 'cause then they'll know I sent you.  Just make an excuse to hurt him and I'll make sure he knows later."

"Who's the guy?"

"Just a piece-o-shit pedofile!"

"What kind of blanket is it?"

"Wool!  And mucho grande.  No holes" the man's rotten teeth gleamed.

"Where's the guy?"

"You can't do it tonight 'cause he'll be at his cousins place 'til morning."

"Oh, when would you like it done senor?"  Tricky asked impatiently.

"The cousin sells rock.  He gets his stuff from a guard every morning by the west gate, about eight thirty.  That's the best time.  I'll let you use the blanket and kick it in my camp tonight on faith, if we got a deal?" 

Long before Tricky marketed flesh he earned a living off his brawn.  A multiple black belt in Kempo, Kung Fu, and Judo; fighting was money for Tricky and most people preferred to stay clear of his business.  Bouncer, bodyguard, bounty hunter, he'd done it all with great efficiency and few regrets.  Eventhough something about this dude's offer smelled like Puerto Nuevo to Tricky, he was not giving up on a wool blanket.

"We've got a deal.  But if this is a bullshit story I'll be on you like grad students on chupacabra" Tricky eyelids drooped as he looked into the man's eyes.  He shook back the fatigue, yawned, and asked "Where's this fuckin' camp?"

Tricky didn't sleep long before he was awoken by the sharp contrast of cold steel against his warm neck.

"Shhhhh!  Bendejo!" a voice whispered.  "Be still.  I'll make this quick."

The man wielded the blade from behind Tricky with his left hand and reached around with his right to unlaced Tricky's board shorts.  Feeling his shorts lower Tricky bit his bottom lip, grabbed the knife through his wool blanket, and peeled the blade from the man's hands.  The man tried to pull away but it was too late.  Tricky had already put a stranglehold on the man's testicles with his free hand.

"You looking for some action compadre?"
 
"Uh!  No amigo.  It's good.  Keep the blanket.  Take the camp.  Please!  Just let me go."

Tricky's grasp turned into a twist as he released the man's genitals, rolled, and landed his right elbow square to the man's neck. Tricky held his elbow in place with the weight of his body, and the man's head flopped listlessly as he flailed into the afterlife; his last thought being the pain of practically having his balls ripped off.  The predator had become prey, and the prey proved to be more adept to the kill. 

The man's death would quickly draw attention so Tricky flooded into action.  Dead dude's pants and belt over his shorts.  Then the boots went on his feet.   He began to scrounge the camp and yielded an expired U.S. Army M.R.E. (Meal Ready to Eat), a half a roll of duct tape, a jacket (too small for him), and a second wool blanket.   Putting his shower slippers into his back pockets he quickly propped the corpse against the wall, stuck dead guy's knife behind the belt, and went looking for a trash can.  Tricky knew that a successful escape– i.e. not getting shot in the ass– was contingent on distracting the guards.       

The rising sun began to blue the eastern sky.  Realizing it was imperative the plan be executed before dawn, Tricky dove into the first rubbish bin he crossed.  

"Eureka!" He whispered, as he came up holding a plastic water bottle with a twist cap,  "Now it's on."

Tricky quietly made his way toward the south tower.  He took the Tabasco from the M.R.E. and dumped the pepper sauce into the water bottle, added a small amount of the heating agent from the instant meal and screwed the cap down tightly.  The bottle was then wrapped loosely in the small jacket and taped.  Gently, he tossed garment bomb on top of the wall, landing it silently outside the door of the southern guard station.

Tricky strolled to the east gate and waited in the shadow of the wall...

a long time.

Longer than Tricky had expected.

He began to wonder about the time until his bewilderment became worry– and in turn– the worry became doubt, and the doubt became fear.  What if he'd botched the bomb or the guards found it?  There was no Plan: B.  He figured he'd have to go through with Plan: A, with or without a distraction.  With a colossal sigh, he readied himself for what would probably be his demise and launched a blanket, hooking it on the razor wire at the top of the prison wall.  Putting the shower slippers on the palms of his hands he began to scale the wall.  

The guards in the south tower hardly noticed  Tricky until he was halfway up the wall.  But before they could react, "Boom!"
 
Pepper spray blinded the tower.  Tricky laughed to himself as he heard the explosion and threw the last blanket over the razor wire above him.  He grabbed hold of the second blanket and began the tenaciously climb.  Surmounting the wall, Tricky came face-to-face with the barrel of a M16 assault riffle.

Tricky had already planned on dying.  This seemed like as good a time as any.  The guard pulled the trigger, but the weapon misfired; a result of the morning dew.  Seizing the moment Tricky counter struck in the form of a whirling blade that caught the guard in the midriff, dropping him to his knees.  Once he crested the razor wire Tricky freely jumped over the other side of the wall, and vanished into the blazing sunrise. 

Four hours later Tricky arrived back at the mansion.  Almost everything had been looted by the police.  Mexican officers have to pay the government to be deputized, and they take what they want from felons to compensate the fee.  His house was in shambles, but Tricky didn't have time to lament.  He was returning for one sole possession.  The only thing he cherished.  His companion, confidante, and champion. 

Finding his rat Fink's brand new cage, empty by his bedroom window, Tricky erupted.

"God Damn'it that bitch is going to fuckin' die!"

8:16 PM - 3 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

The Girl Who Loved Me & The Woman Who Couldn't Remember
Category: Writing and Poetry

A few weeks ago I was back in Hollywood building Johnny Depp a spa on Stenson & Sunset. I was bending re-bar in the hole when a song came on the radio. I don't remember what song it was, but it made me think about what she said.

"I was trying to remember something about when we were together" her voice echoed in my ear, and continued matter-of-factly "I couldn't think of anything."

I thought, "Maybe I don't remember either."

After a moments pondering I began to recall images, snap shots of something that ended long ago.

There was a cackle in her boisterous laugh. She had a long stride when she walked and it made her look like she was bobbing. I would skateboard home from working at Seaport Village reeking of fish guts, yet she was always elated to see me upon my arrival. I remembered how it drove Amber crazy because she was always at the house. I remembered the Halloween party when we went to the Collage Menage concert and she fixed my gay-ass glow-in-the-dark demon horns without spirit gum. New Years Eve when we went to the old Soma downtown on Union & Market St., her friend from Live Oak Springs and her friend's boyfriend attacked the bouncers for not letting us in the club. I remembered how we spent that night together and neither of us cared that we hadn't engaged in a grand event for New Years Eve, because- for us- being together was a celebration. I remembered how jealous Blandy got when he found out that we were dating. And I remembered how together we laughed, because the world seemed like a happier place.

I also thought it was sad that these memories belonged solely to me.

In the midst of my flashback I had forgotten to pay attention to my project at hand. I stepped on an unbalanced stick of re-bar. The rod slapped me in the shin and I yelled out, blood trickling from the wound.

"Goddamn motherfucker!"

The laborers chuckled at my absentmindedness and asked, "You O.K.?"

"I'm fine, just pissed" I answered applying pressure to the wound.

Johnny came outside onto the veranda, apparently as a result of my ruckus.

"Is that man alright?" Johnny asked lighting a Sherman cigarette with a silver lighter, and the graceful uneasiness has made him a star.

"I'm fine Johnny, I just hurt myself thinking about something I shouldn't have been"

"It's far too difficult to focus on work alone. I know just the thing!" Johnny said, snuffing his fag in an adjacent ashtray and returning into the house. Moments later he reappeared, handed me an Orangina soda and a bag of fat free pretzels, lit another cigarette and boldly said,

"Take a break."

"Thanks John, I think a break is probably in order" I replied.

Johnny took a deep drag, waved his hand and expelled a stream of smoke.

"So Josh, this distraction you have, does she have a name?"

"Does it matter?"

"Probably not. Old love or new?"

"Old- I guess- I mean I don't know! It was probably nothing since she doesn't remember."

"Drugs?"

"No thanks. This is fine." I said taking a swallow of Orangina.

"Was she on drugs?" Johnny gazed from behind his cigarette.

"No, she remembers that we we're together, just not what made it special."

"You feel like your time together was memorable?"

"I think she should have remembered something about us. Maybe she's just grown older, developed a new life and there is no place left- in her mind- for such memories."

"Josh, it sounds like you've got two choices: sulk about a woman that has no recollection, or be happy that you shared your love once upon a time."

"You're right Johnny. But no former lover will ever forget about you."

"Perhaps not. But I can think of a few that will definately try."

I polished off my Orangina, and handed Johnny my empty soda bottle. He dropped his half smoked cigarette down the bottles long tapered neck, searing the end in swirling orange fluid.  As he carried it inside the house I whispered aloud to myself, "I'd rather her have forgotten me, than try to forget."

9:17 AM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Tacos De Cabra
Category: Writing and Poetry

The border taxi stops in front of a large wooden doorway leading into the three story mansion. There is no great driveway, nor gate, nor yard except for the streets of inner Tijuana, Mexico.

"Cinco dolares, amigo" the cabby announces into a cockeyed rearview mirror with a sticker Madonna with Child stuck in the corner.

"Mucho gracias" I say handing the driver six ones and exiting vehicle.

He snatches the bills but doesn't thank me before speeding away. The checkerboard taxicab sputters into traffic and comes within inches of colliding with another vehicle.

"Pinche bendejo! Chuppa mi verga!" he yells, brandishing his clinched fist aloft. The cab fishtails around the next corner, nearly striking a man pushing an ice cream cart.

The doorway to the mansion is a formidable spectacle; an eight foot tall arched wooden double door with bronze patina hardware and a slide hole for viewing those who wish an audience. Surrounding the door is three floors of windowless stucco wall. The wall blocks fading daylight from the entryway, and the portal is illuminated solely by a glowing red light.

Taking the door by its huge brass knocker, I swing the hammer back with one smooth stroke. A resounding thump rolls through the structure as the knocker slams home.  The slide viewer cracks and then speaks in a young womans voice.

"Mmmm! Como tu gusta?" the voice purrs.

"No penocha de los noche!" I say blushing at my poor Spanish, shaking my head and then ask "Donde esta Tricky? Tricky es mi mijo. Permiso por favor?"

"Ohh! Senior Josua?" she asks.

"Yes, yes, Im Josh now let me the fuck in!" I impatiently snap.

The eye hole slides shut, the door quickly yet quietly opens, and a short dark figure with long hair appears. The silhouette unlocks a plate steel gate that seals a room behind the phantom.

"Senior Tricky un la bibliotheca" she says, head down, directing me through the gate toward an arched narrow staircase spiraling upward and to the left.

She feels no need to abandon her post at the entrance in order show me the way to the library, because Ive been able to hear Trickys voice distinctly since the front door opened.

"I dont know what the fuck is wrong with you god damn bitches!" Tricky roars as I begin to ascend.

"Why do we let you stay here? Why do we feed you?" his voice grows louder as I climb closer.

Reaching the apex I see Tricky; though he doesn't see me. He paces to and fro in a large room, decorated with two old prostitutes huddled on a couch, a small window (high above us), a lamp, an ominous door opposite the stairs, and a bookshelf with no books.

"Can you tell me why youre not getting fucked right now?" Tricky screams at the plumper of two hookers with his back towards me.

"Because youre scaring away all the clientele" I say.

Tricky turns his head in bewilderment.  Upon seeing me exclaims,

"Mother fucker!"

"Only your mother but she was mui caliente back then" I pronounce thrusting my pelvis, pulling my fists, and biting my tongue.

"Papi!" Tricky exalts.

We hug like old friends that have become distant strangers.

"Why are you yelling at these mistresses?" I implore, fanning an arm over the women adorning the sofa.

"Because they're fucking worthless."

"Why are they worthless?"

"That one," he says referring to the whore on our left, "shes got an old man she thinks is going to take better care of her, but she'll still have to suck his prick wont she? She says she's leaving. And she can go. I dont care. Good for her. But I dont understand why she has to linger around freeloading and not fucking. If shes got some guy then she should leave." he finishes with a thumb towards the stairs.

"And that one," he gestures with his haunch shoulders and outward arms "just look at her, she's fat, lazy, and nobody will fuck her.  She can't even cook. It doesn't matter though. Because next week, I get new whores! I traded my web site-- allthispussy.com-- to my homeboy in Mexicali for three good whores. I met them last month and they wanted to come to T.J. then, but my friend Juan wouldnt let them. So we traded, and he bought their bus tickets on Saturday. See, thats how it works down here. Its sort of like franchising. Blammalammadamn!"

"Are they hot?"

"Oh! Theyre mui caliente for sure! Im sorry you came in the middle of me doing business. Can I get you something?" he graciously offers remembering that Im his guest.

"Got any beer?"

"Uh! No, I dont drink."

"Got any mota?"

"Not yet, we got five little plants out in back by the pool."

"This is bullshit? Im leaving, but first I have too see a pharmacist."

"Are you hungry?"

"Famished!"

"Fuck!"

"Whats wrong?"

"Its Sunday, the cooks day off. How about mexican food?"

"When in Rome...."

"Alright, well go to the flea market and see the pharmacist on the way."

"Mexican food at the swap meet?"

"Best tacos in Tijuana. Because theyre made with goat."

"But its seven thirty at night." I inquire.

He angles his head slightly to the side and gazes at me like Im an idiot. Then he tells the lewd women, "When I get back, whoever isnt fucking better have a mouthful of cock!"

Tricky leads me back down the stairs and outside to his curbside automobile; A 1987 Buick Skylark painted a dull ugly color somewhere between orange & brown. The roof of the sedan is covered with peeling black material framed with chipped gold trim. The right front fender is missing and the headlight is held in place with duct tape and tie wire.  Opening the passengers side door, the stench of stale cigarette smoke and animal urine emanates from the vehicle.

"Whats that goddamn smell?"

"Thats my pet rat, Fink. I let him live in the car. Hurry and get in before he runs away."

I quickly take a seat, close the door, and roll the window down. Tricky does likewise. Fink a brown street rat climbs the drivers seat and perches on Trickys shoulder. Tricky kisses the rat and the Tijuana pimp-mobile roars to life with an exhaustless backfire, as the Gypsy Kings 'Bamboleo' blares over a multitude of amplified speakers. Tricky gracefully lights a cigarette with a Zippo, puts the pack of unfiltered Camels into his I-Zod t-shirt pocket, and calmly pulls out onto Avenida de Revolucion. Twilight glistens over the desperate city as we three travel crosstown for tacos de cabra.

The scent of lighter fluid, followed by cigarette smoke, and culminated by perfume. Night clubs breeze down the dirty street like clouds over vacant hills. Their short names regale thoughts of exotic decadence: The House, The Escape, Club A, The Cave, and the notorious Club Safari. The thoroughfare is also intermittently dispersed with a plethora of shops.

"There's a pharmacy. There's another one. That one is open."

"Dude, shut-the-fuck up!" Tricky finally explodes, " Ill take you to a good pharmacy. You're not going to be able to get anything you want from these places on Revolucion without a prescription or getting ripped-off, and besides we're here." he explains whipping the sedan down a side street and into a dirt parking lot.

"Where?"

"The pharmacy. Its right there, above the liquor store."

"Alright" I say getting out of the car.

"Go inside and tell them youre a friend of Tricky. If they dont hook you up come get me."

"Alright" I repeat, almost slamming the door on Fink eating seeds on the floorboard.

The pharmacy and liquor store are in fact are a two story house. Upon entering-- what would be the living room --of the domicile, I view cheap tequila and cigarettes being sold alongside expensive beer and handmade fireworks. At second glance, there is a frescoed image of the earth being injected by a galactic hypodermic needle on the wall above a staircase. In transition towards the stairs I'm questioned.

"Gringo, kay paso?" the inquisitor asks.

"Mi gusta poquito drugas" I casually explain, eyeballing the sentinel. Short, bald and covered with tattoos. The top of his head has '666' tattooed on it in bold lettering, and in cursive on the man's neck are the words 'Sucker Free'. He is wearing tan work boots and a spotless wife-beater tucked tightly into his baggy Dicky's. He pumps up his nose, widens his shoulders, puffs out his chest and asserts, "No drugas aqui. Por tu!".

"Drugas por Tricky? Tricky es mi hombre."

"Donde esta Tricky?"

"Aqui" I retort with an outstretched finger pointing through the door. The cashier leans over the counter and somehow notices Trickys jalopy in the sparsely lit lot.

"You're O.K. gringo! Ricardo will take care you" the man instructs.

"Muchos gracias"

Atop the stairs I find a door with a buzzer. After pressing it several times without response I open the unlocked door.  The pharmacist is sitting on a stool watching the American Idol finals. There is a wall full of pill bottles behind the clerk and a small counter in front of him.

"Ricardo?" I ask.

"Yeah man, but nobody calls me that, they all call me 'Flauta" he politely introduces.

"My name's Josh. I'm a friend of Tricky"

"Tricky, Tricky....oh I remember him big guy, has some girls over there off the strip. Don't see him much but his girls are in here all the time. What can I do ya for Josh?!"

"How much for Xanex?"

"They're eight bits for dueces, four bits for singles."

"No bueno, I want surfboards!"

"Surfboards are two bucks a piece, my friend."

"I'll take thirty surfboards."

"Coming right up for our very distinguished customer, anything more for you tonight senior?"

"Flexeril?"

"We've got fives, tens, and mucho grande twenty-fives."

"Alright I'll take fifty of the grandes."

"Very good senior. Will that be all?"

"Theres just one more thing...."

Tricky and Fink are making out again when I get back to the car and take three Xanex.

"Did you get everything you wanted?" Tricky asks.

"Yeah! Got it all."

"Did they try to rip you off?"

"No, no, they were real nice. Treated me like a princess." I josh. "Im starved, lets eat some sheep."

"They're goat."

"Whatever, just drive!"

In Tijuana, a flea market is no small affair. It is where vendors gather in a city where vendors are everywhere. Five year old children walk the streets selling small wooden beetles with little bobble-heads, or gum, or woven jewelry. Back alleys are filled with blankets, garments, pottery and trinkets of every variety-- all for sale. Imagine everyone in a metropolis having a yard sale on the same day.  Now imagine it happening every day; that is Tijuana. Everything is for sale in Tijuana, and everything that is for sale in Tijuana, is at the flea market.

"How much are tacos?" I ask.

"They're two for a dollar. Why did you spend all your money on drugs?" Tricky counter questions.

"No!" I chuckle.

Tricky orders and pays for each of us to get two tacos. They arrive piping hot from the grill as fast as it takes to roll up the dollar size tortillas. The tacos are served on neatly folded newpaper covered in pico de gallo, onions, and cilantro. Maybe it is the Xanex fully kicking in, but once I bite into my taco I feel as if nothing else exists. The flavor soars though my mouth, awakening my senses. Meat so tender that it melts down my throat leaving only the tangy aftertaste of cilantro and lime in its wake. Mind wandering from the pills, I forget that I have two tacos, and almost panic when I finish my first. Just as I am overwhelmed with the joy of my second taco, Tricky throws his violently to the ground and exclaims, "That mother-fucker! I'm going to kill him" before storming into the market area.

My heart sinks looking down at the once tasty taco in the dirt and I yell out, "I would have fucking eaten that!"

Taking a bite from my last taco, I notice Tricky has his left hand around a skinny Mexican's throat, and his right hand is gripping the mans head with his thumb in the Mexican's eye. Tricky is yelling at the man, "You sell my bitches salt, then you've sold me salt."

The man is on his knees and pleading, "Mi no say, mi no say! Es Pablo! Es Pablo!"

"You're gonna fuckin' take me to Pablo right now. Do you hear me? Now, mother fucker!" Tricky screams shaking the man by his head before releasing him. The man humbly points, indicating we need to leave the flea market, and then begins to lead the way.

"Josh let's go, we gotta follow this piece a shit and make sure he doesn't get funny!" Tricky bellows.

I stroll behind Tricky, who is holding the Mexican by the arm. We don't walk far until the man leads us into a dead end, between an apartment complex and a dirt soccer field.

"You gringos really fucked up now" the man roars as he breaks free of Tricky's grip and pulls out a shank. Tricky holds his hands up as the man jabs at him with short kicks.

"If you try to fucking stab me with that stick I'm going to kill you!" Tricky warns as the tip of shim bounces off his stomach. Tricky waits for the moment and doesn't immediately retaliate. The moment comes quickly though as the man drives the shiv across Tricky's chest, flesh wounding him. However the mans inertia also carries his face right into the path of Tricky's right cross. The collision sounds like a two-by- four projectile hitting a cinder block wall in a tornado experiment. The deafening blow drops the Mexican to the ground, holding pieces of his jaw together with his hands and writhing in pain. There is the sound of many hurried footsteps rushing down the metal stairwells of the apartments.

"We gotta get the fuck out of here, now!" Tricky says panting, his shirt torn and bloody.

We round the last corner before the main road, and someone catches the back of my shirt. Without pretension I instinctively impact his nose with my right elbow. The nose splatters like fruit across the mans face, loosening his grip enough for me to escape.

Tricky drops me off at the border and that is the last thing I remember until the next day. I awoke at home on the couch with 27 Xanex taped in the toe of my left shoe, 50 Flexeril in my leopard print bikini briefs, and two vials of Ketamine up my ass. Viva la Mexico!

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