So, we pulled out into the street, following Pablo. Rick passed his nickel-plated .25 back to me. WHOA! Ol' Mason's packin' heat, now. Bill's trying to act like he's seen it all before, looking all 'hard' and 'serious.' This meant squinting like a JV Clint Eastwood and fully chomping on his dentures. "Now Mase, if shit goes down, you just shoot at anyone who's shooting at you." Check, Bill. We rolled up on the spot where to the jackers decided Pablo wasn't worth the trouble. No sign of nothin. We did a little patrol and kept real vigilant. I even copped a little squinty look, myself. A gun in the lap does this, apparently. But bloodthirst simply evaporated. Yeah, no one shot anything or anyone. Sorry, kids.
We got deli burritos. That's how this big night ended. You know, the deep fried ones. A bunch of straight up Mexicans eating fried gringo burritos, dipping them in a mixture of ketchup and hot sauce. That was it. But I was STOKED. It ended up being a real good inroad to the whole Oaxacan contingent at the 301. But those guys all moved out when they heard that the sheriff in their town had gone nuts and killed a dozen of their neighbors. They broke their leases, loaded up the vans, and the light trucks and went straight home to see what they could do. THAT'S righteous.
See you next Friday
*Porno Rico*
home