None of the guys drinking in the alley behind Panson’s Beer and Wine knew El Jefe’s real name. In ephemeral fraternities, behind liquor stores or do-it-yourself car washes, names are hardly required. They all drink, laugh, cry, and pass out at all hours of the day. A rotating cast of characters, day laborers, bums, dropouts, and the occasional nine-to-fiver chat, earn nicknames, exchange philosophies and whistle at passing girls regardless of their age.

Tonight was El Jefe’s third night as celebrity of the week in the alley behind Panson’s, one of East L.A.’s most frequented liquor stores. Panson’s was a classic spot along Whittier Boulevard, a strip famous in the late 70s for its heavy cruising. That nightlife was long gone but Panson’s remained a crucial stopover. Crowds of cholos, Chicano yuppies, immigrant day laborers, aproned housewives, and rowdy junior high students kept the place alive from a.m. to a.m. The new owner was a pompous and polished pocho named Juan Martin, who the guys in the alley called Juan Martin del Mar Malvado, or Juan Martin of the Wicked Sea. That night he could be heard slobbering over his elected girl behind the huge blue dumpster. The girl giggled and moaned.

The alley guys, two mechanics, a butcher, a veterano on crutches, and El Jefe swigged at their paper bagged forties as they playfully threw pebbles at the ankles of Juan’s girl from under the dumpster.

“Pinche perros!” the girl squealed.  

“I’m sorry purdy perrita!” El Jefe retorted.

The alley guys collapsed hysterically. El Jefe held up his beer to the applause. Since coming from Tijuana, he had been continuing his career in taco trucks. Cooking was his talent, eating was his downfall. He had always been the fat sidekick for the men and the chubby confidante to the ladies. Even his family glossed over his billowing unattractiveness by nicknaming him El Jefe, or “the chief,” to compensate for the hurtful nickname Panson, or “fatso,” that had begun to circulate in their neighborhood.

El Jefe had never had a girlfriend nor kissed a girl that wasn’t just too drunk to understand the mistake she was making. He swore to himself that coming north to Los Angeles would not only guarantee him better pay but better luck with the ladies — a deception so outdated only a charismatic fat man could seem lucky enough to pull it off.  

“Buenas noches cabrones!” Juan’s butterfly collar was smeared with lipstick. He emerged from behind the dumpster, zipping his fly. His good looks were merely a blend of grooming, accessories, and attitude.

“You be crazy every night, compa!” said El Jefe, who had developed an admiration for Juan’s smoothness with the neighborhood girls.

Juan’s girl of the night shuffled out from behind the dumpster shielding her face and clasping her ripped blouse.

“Hey that ain’t your Flaca!”

The girl stopped in her tracks, “I’m better than La Flaca you fuckin’ wino!”

She gave them the finger and then took off running.

“Who’s La Flaca?” El Jefe asked, offering Juan a drink of his beer.

Juan downed it entirely, “Some puta …”

El Jefe chuckled, “Okay, three putas sit at a bar. One puta says, ‘Yeah I so loose, I stick my cup in my twat.’ The other puta says, ‘I so loose I stick the pitcher in my twat.’ The last puta says, ‘I so loose’ — and she slides into the stool.”

More phlegmy laughter and applause. The cackling butcher downed his beer and hurled his bottle against a brick wall. El Jefe sucked at the remaining foam.

“You’ve been making these fuckers laugh all week,” Juan zeroed in on El Jefe.  

“You don’t have nothing better to do?”

“Not really. They call me El Jefe, but I never in charge of nothing. Maybe you gimme work here at your hotel.”

“Sure, I need a new guy.”

The alley guys were now laughing nervously. They knew what would happen next. Juan would offer El Jefe a decent wage but bury him in work. After all, Juan only wanted him as a mascot; Panson himself would now be working at Panson’s Beer and Wine. Every one of the alley guys felt an urge to warn El Jefe not to accept Juan’s job offer. Instead they finished their beer. Drunks, for better or worse, always seem to let nature take its course.

El Jefe arrived at his new job a little before 10 p.m. with a little paper bag in hand.

Juan looked at it and cackled, “You mojados — always waiting for lunch time. Don’t worry, you’ll work just a little past midnight. First I want you to make sure all those bottles in the back get stocked. Then sweep and mop. If I need anything else, I’ll holler.”

For the most part, El Jefe was a stocker and janitor. Panson’s was larger than most liquor stores in the area. In addition to carrying the most varied collection of spirits, tobacco, soda, and snacks, Juan had expanded into dairy products, canned goods, piñatas, diapers, and an assortment of imported Mexican goods. There were round surveillance mirrors in every corner, and the walls were lined with autographed pictures of all the stars that had chanced to stop by for a bottle, people from Oscar de la Hoya to Maria Conchita Alonso. In such a popular store, El Jefe saw that Juan needed a second clerk. Juan was always managing to get himself entangled in drunk talk with the cholitas that thought they could score a pint of vodka if they flaunted nipple. El Jefe assured Juan that he had experience handling dollars in Tijuana. So, on the third night of his new job, El Jefe — burly and moustached — found himself behind the checkout counter, his belly peaking from below his t-shirt, earning a dollar more as clerk.

El Jefe quickly realized the irony of working at Panson’s. It didn’t help that Juan had invested in a sound loop that would blare through speakers every 15 minutes the California Lottery catch phrase “Pegale al Gordo!” (Strike the Fat One). Customer after customer would reach across the counter to playfully sock El Jefe in hopes of striking it rich with their Scratchers or Lotto tickets.

On his fourth night as clerk, El Jefe thought nothing could surprise of him anymore. But that night, Irma Molacha walked into Panson’s, sashaying in bear claw slippers. El Jefe saw her and figured she had been drunk since noon. Irma managed to trip over a stack of newspapers that was not in her way. She was a Panson’s regular who always wore heavy eye makeup and rouge, even on her waddle. She always donned a zebra print coat of dirty plush. Her drunken craving for Now and Laters and Cracker Jacks made her teeth rot and earned her the name Molacha (Toothless).

She had never really been pretty, not even 20 years ago when she first started showing up at Panson’s, dressed for a disco to see who might treat her to a forty. Back then, the guys would bet each other to see who could stand kissing such an ugly girl the longest. The pinnacle of their fun was driving Irma to a faraway neighborhood and pushing her out of the car. She would giggle and look around to see who might be watching like an embarrassed celebrity, then hitchhike back to the liquor store.

She thrived on her imaginary fame and confused the blow jobs she performed for every former owner of Panson’s with real intimacy. Juan Martin del Mar Malvado was the only owner of Panson’s that would never play her game. She swore he was gay. How could someone find her undesirable?

Irma stumbled throughout the store. Taking advantage of the commotion created by a crowd of teenage girls at the checkout counter, she stuffed her pockets with chocolate bars and single-dose aspirin packets. When she finally approached the register for El Jefe to ring up her single can of Tecate, she licked her finger tips and brushed them across her eyebrows to sadly flirt for a discount.

“Finally, a strong panson here at Panson’s. I knew the original panson very well if you know what I mean,” her laugh allowed a view of her ruined teeth. “This place used to be a lot classier back then. Look at all these hootchies. Except La Flaca of course, she’s got my blessing. Have you seen my flaquita tonight?”

El Jefe shook his head.

She darted a sudden look of concern, more like a gossip than someone who cares.

“You know what? I think they don’t know where she is. She’s always following guys to whereever they want. I’ve always told her don’t let them take you into no garage, but she’s so crazy and real purty, huh?”

Irma Molacha paid for her beer, making too great an effort to conceal her secret. She shouted for Juan’s attention, showering him with “goodbyes” and “take cares.”
He had been tickling bellies and licking earlobes. Juan let her stumble out before he called over to El Jefe. “Next time, try shaking out all the candy she shoved down her panties.”

The crowd of girls giggled, and Juan put his arms around the two prettiest ones. He escorted them to his car for a few favors.

Bruno Urquidi walked into the store gawking at every exiting female ass. He came almost nightly at this hour. The boulevard’s most unsuccessful realtor was always preceded by his bloodshot eyes. Bruno’s firm was known for the collage of Polaroids covering the front window of the office, offering to pedestrians images of the worst investments they could make from City of Commerce to Bell Gardens. His handful of associates waited back at the office, drinking the Coronas and smoking the cheap cigars that Bruno offered as a stipend for remaining in his fruitless firm.

Bruno, dark and leathery faced was even more pompous than Juan. He massaged his moustache as he pondered the vital liquor decision.

“Gimme the tallest Presidente,” Bruno was not coordinated enough to handle money and talk at the same time. He counted and recounted his bills. “And hey, if you see La Flaca tonight, let her know Bruno is looking for her.”

Bruno didn’t hesitate to open the bottle and take the first swig of its genie.
“It’s gonna be a cold night at the office. Pinche Flaca, never around when you need her.”

He staggered out, coughing and commenting to himself.

Chano rolled into the store on his low rider bicycle and carefully set it to lean against a counter topped with jars of beef jerky and pickled pigs feet. Everything about this junior high dropout suggested a street hardened cholo, his posture and strut, the tattoos of the Raiders and Dodgers logos, and a voluptuous naked woman in the company of Our Lady. But his baby face and cracking voice betrayed him.

He was the only son of a reputable cholo who had been shot and killed well before Chano wet his first diaper. Juan knew all the veteranos and had great respect for the memory of Chano’s father. Knowing this, Chano felt free to hang out in the aisles of the store as if it were his turf. He got away with buying liquor and cigarettes in exchange for nickel sacks of pot.

Chano brought a six-pack and a bag of Doritos to the checkout counter. El Jefe was ready to ask for ID when Juan returned from the rendezvous in his back seat. He erupted in glee at seeing Chano and took over the register.

“Hey, you know where I can find my Flaquita tonight?” Juan whispered as he gave the boy a good discount.

Chano gasped, giggled then coughed — a stoner could be astonished by any statement. “Nah man, supposably she was gonna stay home. I dunno.”

He got on his bike, swung the bag over his shoulder, and rolled out of Panson’s without looking back.

El Jefe, ever the good worker, grabbed the push broom. Seeing that there were no customers, he casually asked, “So, who the hell is La Flaca, everyone asking for?”

Juan chuckled and pondered the question before he answered. “La Flaca is the prettiest little lost soul along the alley. I don’t even know her real name. Nobody cares what her real name is anyway.”

El Jefe listened to Juan as he slowly made his way throughout the store sweeping and arranging merchandise. Juan described La Flaca with half interest as he focused on the entrance in anticipation of the next batch of hootchies.

La Flaca lived with her grandmother in a dilapidated little bungalow behind a vacant storefront, but she preferred saying she was just from the alley. She barely managed to finish high school. When she did, she had no clue what to do next. She had no real guidance and no true friends. The girls her age envied her slender figure and cringed at her penchant for tube tops and caked-on mascara. The school teachers had never looked passed her slutty behavior during nutrition and lunch time. Boys and their fathers kept her phone number in secret drawers. She was not a prostitute that you pay with money, Juan noted. Only if she happened to mention that she wants something really bad was it customary for a man to give her a few dollars. La Flaca quite simply loved the company of men and boys. There were no positions she wouldn’t explore. The more adventurous the man, the better the sex. The higher they exalted her looks, the longer she stayed. No guy knows what she really thinks of him. And when she talks, nobody knows what she really means. She was quite animated when she talked about things that interested her, she motioned with her press-on nails, and looked up at the sky to search for her words, but nobody ever really listened to what she was describing. Her neck was covered by a chain of hickeys that she seemed totally unaware of, perhaps placed there while she was still talking. It wasn’t unlike her to be missing like this — she liked to deprive the public of her presence every once in a while — it seemed a reasonable way to maintain the equilibrium of her legend.

The phone rang near closing time. “Hey Juan, it’s Bruno, where the fuck’s La Flaca tonight?”

“I haven’t seen the skank. I guess you should just send ‘em home early tonight.”
Juan slammed the phone.  

El Jefe made his way into the huge refrigerator to stock the beer and soda. The cold made him shiver for a quick second. He could hear Juan behind the register whistling at a couple of cholas as an intro to his suave routine. Assured that Juan was distracted, El Jefe grabbed a Mickey’s and muffled the twist of the cap with his shirt.  He tried to gulp it down in one swig but coughed it out suddenly when he caught sight of vapors coming from someone breathing hoarsely behind a stack of boxes.

Juan shouted from the front of the store, “You awright, compa?”

“Is okay, is Okay!”

El Jefe set the half drunken beer aside. He could have tipped off Juan that there was a thief hiding in the refrigerator, but he figured it would earn him more points if he caught this guy himself. El Jefe’s huge arms embraced three boxes and set them on the floor. His blood chilled further when he revealed a slender girl picking dirt from under her nails, leaning without effect against the freezing aluminum siding.

La Flaca brought a finger to her mouth, pleading him to remain silent. Her lips were matted with a thin frost. “Don’t say nothing.”

He brought his own finger to his mouth in agreement with the seductress. Although she stood a few feet away, it was as if her words were spoken directly into his ears in the manner of lovers and hallucinations. In the short time he’d been in this country, he had never heard a voice utter such a simple phrase with that lusciousness of the Mexican silver screen. Her alabaster skin and opaque curls made him think Maria Felix herself might be keeping him captive in Panson’s refrigerator. She brought her body closer to warm herself against El Jefe’s massive belly.

“They’re looking for me . . .”

He nodded.

“I decide who finds me now. Don’t tell anybody where I am. I like you. I can tell you’ll take care of me.”

She pressed her freezing hands under his shirt, gliding her palms over the carpet of hair that stood upright at her touch. She was tiny and fragile standing next to El Jefe, who had not felt the hair of a woman near his lips in a long time. La Flaca looked up at him and brought her mouth to kiss his lower lip. She kept her eyes open at this delicate moment. El Jefe’s puckered lips sucked like a boy staggering through his first kiss.

As she withdrew, her chilled lip clung to his and ripped a thin layer of flesh. Her mannequin-like gaze pressed against his face weightlessly. El Jefe took a step away from her and let his head hang, thinking he had lost his mind. To convince him of the truth, La Flaca brought his hands to her chest, guided them along her contours and down to rest on her ass. She invited his tongue into her mouth with the tip of her own. El Jefe unleashed the desire he had been harboring since he left Tijuana, delivering his entire tongue for her.

In the front of the store, Juan had been busy pouring shots of tequila for the cholas in hopes of taking one home for the night.

“All right, I’ve been a good host. Now, how ‘bout I show you how hot it can get in my car?”

The girls recoiled and threw their cups.

“Nah-uh, I ain’t La Flaca!”

“Fuck that — my shit ain’t that cheap!”

Juan didn’t hesitate to shove the drunk girls out the door

“Awright, closing time!” He drew the front grate with frustration.

El Jefe and La Flaca retrieved their faces from one another’s with eyes closed, the way shipwrecked sailors bring their heads out from a stream they chance to come across. She brought her finger back to her hushing mouth and gently pushed him away, repeating that nobody should know of their encounter.

The cash was counted. All the doors were shut, and every light turned off except for Panson’s pulsing neon signs. Juan believed it was bad luck to keep a business completely dark after hours. As he opened the door of his car to give El Jefe a ride home, he continued with his sensible lunacies.

“No business, no relationship, no matter is ever really closed. I love my store. I’ll be thinking about it all the way home. I’ll probably dream about it . . . What the fuck happened to your lip?”

xxxxx

El Jefe returned to Panson’s exhausted from that afternoon’s labor in a Chinese family’s yard. It wasn’t the lure of money that revived him for his night job, but the sweetness that lingered on his lips from La Flaca’s mouth. He headed straight to the refrigerator with half a hard-on but found no sign of his pretty girl. He looked in ridiculous places for his lover, between magazine racks and stacks of boxes, to no avail. As there was no stocking to be done in the storage spaces, where an encounter with her seemed most likely, El Jefe reluctantly took his post behind the counter. Juan had already managed to ensnare a group of underage girls in flirtatious chit-chat. El Jefe instantly had his hands full ringing up customers and bagging their purchases.

A wrinkled wino with the rosiest of cheeks, lips, and irises approached the counter with a bottle of the cheapest beer. A curious smile arrived on the wino’s dirty face in slow motion as he noticed the drops of sweat pouring from El Jefe’s forehead and collecting at the tip of his nose.

“A dollar seven, El Jefe said, struggling with the simple task of bagging a can.

There was an awkward pause before the pink drunk placed the money on the counter. El Jefe panicked at the thought this drunk might know his secret. It was as if the roles were reversed and El Jefe was the one suspected of shoplifting. He watched as the filthy man puckered his lips and seemed to kiss the bottle that delivered its genie. He suddenly coughed the beer through his nose and scudded out the door.

El Jefe finally exhaled and wiped his forehead with a paper bag. His eyes fogged over as he remembered La Flaca’s pretty face. To celebrate the survival of his secret, he glided his tongue over the tiny gash of tender flesh left on his lower lip as a scar from her kiss.

“Wake up, panson!” Juan smacked the thick skin bulging from the back of
El Jefe’s neck.

“Don’t touch me!” El Jefe kept from lunging at him.

“I run this store my way, panson.”

“I not one of your putas!” El Jefe shot the first genuine frown of his life. His blood suddenly boiled with the memory of Juan’s nasty description of La Flaca.

Juan froze in shock at El Jefe’s balls. He pealed a sinister half smile.

“Let’s talk about this after closing, Jefe. You have a customer.”

Irma Molacha’s wrecked mouth awaited El Jefe’s service on the other side of the counter. Her drunk tongue, drunk eyes, and drunk nose all declared their independence and swayed, curled and flared about. Irma’s left eye seemed flirtatious, and the right one stared dire like an accuser. Her right nostril struggled to breathe. Her left cheek sagged, and her tongue flickered like a lizard’s. As usual, she placed a single can of beer on the counter and sifted through her purse for a while, expecting for Juan to intercede and give her a discount.

“You know what?” she grinned like a witch casting a spell, “I don’t think they know where La Flaca is.”

Irma searched her pockets for her crumbled bills, bypassing the stolen Chiclets and little packs of Saladitos. El Jefe continued to sweat with every mention of his Flaca, a girl Irma described with such precision that one might think she was a figment of her own imagination.

“She’s purty, huh? But you know drunks. They always do the things they would never do if they were sober. She does the things Panson makes her do,” she cackled and quickly returned with a serious look. “They don’t even know where she is, huh?”

Although his light English was enough for him to understand Irma’s words, El Jefe could not bear another person knowing his secret, and he pretended he had no idea what she had just said.

“Si, si, si, is OK, is OK.”

Irma brought out her index finger and extended it to his lips like La Flaca had when her majesty shushed him. But Irma’s fingernails were like rocks with dull red house paint spilled over them. She didn’t bring the shushing finger to her own lips the way the mermaid had, but pointed it at him like the Chimoltrufia to Botijas.

“Don’t purten to be my fren, awright? Don’t tell me to leave, awright? I’ll go when I want, okay?”

“Irma! Irma, mi amor!” Juan shouted as he emerged from the crowd of giggling girls with his hands outstretched like the pope.

Her eyes peeled back. Her lips drew back like curtains, revealing a set of lower teeth that rotted in a perfect semi-circle and bicuspids worn to reveal their graying marrow. Juan’s attention transformed her into a hyena as if by magic. She burst into song.

“Juan del Mar, Juan de mi Corazon, Juan del mar panson.”

“What’s that in your pocket, Irma?” he retorted as he frisked her.

Irma giggled nervously. Juan’s groupies, with their blouses knotted at the belly, laughed and applauded, glancing back and forth like twins confirming that they are in sync with one another.

Irma seemed to realize that she was being used as a prop in Juan’s show. She started slapping at him in hopes of getting his face. He grabbed her by the wrists. She growled and shook violently.

El Jefe had been watching the commotion from his post at the register when he heard a faint chirping. Perhaps a pigeon had become trapped in the store. His eyes darted to investigate the refrigerators at the back of the store. The chirping quickly became a squeaking.

As Juan brought out all the stolen goods from Irma Molacha’s pockets, El Jefe looked in the space beneath the counter to search for the bat making that noise. Tucked like a stowaway in the tight space beneath the cash register that harbors a little wastebasket and extra receipt rolls, La Flaca sat with her skeletal hands clasped around her folded legs. She might have been wearing a mini skirt and halter top, but her body was huddled so tight that El Jefe was convinced her majesty had returned in the nude. He took the deepest breath of his life and it made him feel suddenly drunk. If this sight of La Flaca — cherry nipples, skin without pores, hair like finely sliced vinyl — meant that he had inexplicably lost his mind, this sudden madness could not be considered a punishment. She stroked at his pant leg and tongued his calves.  When she finally made eye contact, her sultry look was flushed by a sweet smile. A creaking was heard from her throat but no voice was issued this time. She licked her lips over and over to replace the gloss that seemed to be absorbed by the flesh that insisted on remaining matted.

Irma Molacha howled and scratched at Juan like a humiliated tiger. She grabbed a whole rack of Fritos and scudded out the door. Juan retrieved a pen from his shirt pocket and held it up like a dagger as he chased after her. The novice sluts panicked that their man was getting away and they dashed out the door too.

Unaware of the commotion, Bruno Urquidi came stomping into Panson’s. His hair was a mess, his breath stunk of liquor, and his unbuttoned shirt revealed his damp fur. This time, a massive bruise had been added to the features of his wasted face. Bruno clung to the counter with one hand and massaged his bruise with the other.

El Jefe saw this but could not utter a word, as La Flaca threatened to spring out of her cave beneath the register at any moment. El Jefe stupidly offered his hand to Bruno and stuttered nervous hellos.

“Where the fuck is Juan?”

Drops of Bruno’s saliva fell across El Jefe’s face as La Flaca taunted him from below. Her hands ran up and down his inner thigh until she felt his flaccid bulge.
She massaged his balls and taunted him with slight slaps that sent shocks up to his vocal chords as he responded to Bruno with a prepubescent screech.

“I dunno, I dunno where he is.”

Somehow Bruno’s wife had been tipped off about his cheating. She had stormed into his office amid the stench of cigar smoke and the raucous of crooked realtors being blown by their coked-out receptionist and struck Bruno in the face with his own bottle of beer. Bruno had come to the only place he could imagine his wife had heard the truth. He pounded his fist against the counter.

“Somebody told my wife a lot of shit! Fucking Juan better know who he’s dealing with!”

La Flaca dared to reach for El Jefe’s fly. He gasped and dropped his elbows onto the counter. Bruno mumbled unintelligible curses. Shivers shot throughout El Jefe when he felt La Flaca’s hand searching through his trousers for his cock. Registering her touch, bucketsful of blood came rushing into it. He shivered as she pulled back his foreskin and flicked her chilled tongue against him.  

Bruno boiled at El Jefe’s disregard for his emergency. “Who the fuck called my wife?”

He grabbed the life size cardboard Budweiser girl and ripped her head off.

“If it was that fuckin’ Flaca, tell her that there’s five of us that need to settle shit with that cunt.”

El Jefe was far from conversation. La Flaca’s mouth engulfed his shaft and laved its girth with an undulating motion. He could see Bruno stamping, puffing, and tossing TV Guides, but El Jefe was deaf to his wails.

“Gimme that tall Jose Cuervo you fucker!”

La Flaca’s jaw locked on El Jefe as if her very pulse relied on this connection. She shifted her posture so that she was on her bare knees reaching with her arms to embrace his legs, enabling her to impale her head more firmly on his mass.

“Gimme my fuckin’ bottle, pinche wetback!”

Vertigo set in for both. Bruno felt the spirits of Presidente dancing in his throat as if he’d vomit. El Jefe heaved and hissed as his own spirit neared a beheading by La Flaca.

Chano strutted through the entrance with a nervous coolness. His hands were buried in a bulky windbreaker with its collar raised to conceal half of his face. It could not have been a cold enough night to require such attire nor warrant that pale face that surveyed emotionlessly the comedy in the store. El Jefe’s eyes rolled back into his sockets. His laugh regressed to its adolescent discovery of naughty acts, as La Flaca pumped on him with choking urgency.

Chano took a rigid stance before the register as he nervously drew a gun from his pocket.

Bruno darted his arms to the air.

“No mijo, you’re making a big mistake!”

But the boy was determined to become a criminal, perhaps driven to this poor beginning by a boring night. Chano was a sucker for being called mijo and with a shake of the head advised that Bruno quickly leave the store.

“Don’t do anything crazy, Chano!”

“Awright, gimme all the money panson.”

El Jefe already felt cornered by the throes channeled from La Flaca’s mouth. And just as his heart could not beat any faster, it leapt again when Chano pointed his gun straight at him. It was too late for him to pull out from La Flaca without blasting a shot of his own.

“La Flaca! La Flaca!” Juan came running into the store, his pants and shirt undone, his face a white sheet. He had been working on a young girl in the alley near the dumpsters when an uncanny smell led him to find La Flaca’s corpse rotting among the trash.

El Jefe could not retain any longer, and as if shot by Chano’s weapon and Juan’s declaration of the name he loved, he fell back into the shelves behind him, his spurts of cum arching through the air as the most expensive bottles of Absolut came crashing over him. Chano dropped the toy gun and ran out.

“She’s right here,” El Jefe moaned as he wiped the blood from a gash on his brow and licked it from his fingers. He pointed at the empty space beneath the counter. “She’s right there!””

In The Fray Contributor