Throw a Punch.

Drop a Bomb.

What are you waiting for? You came for this.

Avenida Madero. Calle Escobedo. OXXO. 9:44 PM.

One woman. Two kids. She stands on the sidewalk. Opens the door for customers. Daughter smiles. Holds out her hand. "Gracias, señor. Muy amable." The son is too little for that. Sits in his underpants on a piece of cardboard where the drunks piss. Plays with a stick.

Some say it's a pathway. Others call it a pipeline.

II.

It's a side street and not the main thoroughfare.

She can't be more than twenty-two. Long black hair cascades to her waist. The straps of her heels remain unfastened. Not worth the effort today.

She looks ill. Sweating. Shivering. Takes more than that to keep her away. The bouncer puts down his phone long enough to get her a chair to sit on and something to put around her shoulders.

"Llévame al cuarto. ¿Quieres coger?"

Her voice is hoarse. Her heart's not in it. In any event her plea to passers-by is drowned out by the horn of a taxi that accelerates before the light turns.

"Why do I stay? No one's ever asked that before."

Ni pedo. No hay otro.

III.

There's a buzz that goes along with all this.

All you can see is what's right in front of you—sharp in the middle and hazy around the edges. Everything freezes just like with the Pentothal at the dentist's office. It wears off a few blocks away when you hear the sirens. But you're good. You pulled it off. Grab a cab. Get the fuck out.

Like the kid who hanged himself from a tree the other morning, it won't even make the news.

BACK.

It hurts. It costs. La máquina no da cambio. MORE.