.45 Caliber Headspace

When I walked outside today, I wasn’t sure if a hurricane had struck or if I was just in Tijuana. It was trash night, last, and the street was littered with all manner of garbage that had freed itself from its former captors, the sanitation bins that were set to curb. After scouring for a while to learn more about my neighbors, I was approached by a young boy that offered to shine my slippers for a handful of viable potting soil. Possessing a black thumb, I instead offered trade-for-service of what was next most readily available, some Vicodin. Before retrieving footwear more responsive to a shine, I instructed the boy on excessive Vicodin dosage while making sure to caution that he need only self-medicate until retirement age, which has been carefully calculated to occur soon after you’ve already died, thus minimizing potential Social Security claims. The boy just looked at me in Spanish, which I took to mean he understood.

When the boy was done buffing my shoes to a dull, cloudy finish, I got some Chicklets from him too, and ventured next door to Jake’s house for a margarita. The sign on his door said, “Two for One”, and whatever the offering, that’s always a good deal. I got my drink and noticed it was laced with Spanish Fly, so I had nine more. When nobody tried to violate me after two hours, however, I started getting restless watching Telemundo. Jake did try to sell me a token for the “Donkey Show” about to start in his kitchen, but the last time I fell for that one, I had to stab six neighbors that tried to jump me for my sneakers. I didn’t like these neighbors, but still, it had cost me 5000 pesos to have the block captain “make it go away” and the block captain’s lawn was already greener than mine. So I asked Jake if, instead, he knew where I could bet on some fighting cocks. He, too, just looked at me in Spanish, which I now took to mean that he did know, but wasn’t going to tell me. Presumably, he already liked a cock he wanted to lock odds on. No longer able to feign interest, I licked the bottom of my glass, dropped some Vicodin on the table (“Two for One”), and returned home to work on my lowrider.