I'm not yours anymore.

It's only the beginning.

Business is brisk where desperation meets desire and neon paints the night. Hit it, fool. That's what it's there for. No one says "no."

Until now.

Trato de Novios is los masajes downtown. The chicas who work there. The tipos who visit them. Unfiltered. Uncensored. Unrepentant.

The chicas don't want your pity. They want you to get it over with so they can get on to the next one. And leave a tip. ¿Entiendes?

The tipos get their fifteen minutes. It wears off in a block or two. They're back in the doorway as soon as they get the cash. They don't tell their wives or girlfriends; they tell each other. There's even a blog on Google. The girls are thrilled when their names come up. It's good for business.

Pop. Pop. Pop. One on the sidewalk. One in the doorway. One behind the desk. Just like a series on la tele. It's only the beginning.

Juana took the first one. Pepe was next. Then Carlos. Then Claudia across town. No stopping. Carlos Salazar. Diego Montemayor. Platón Sanchez. Reforma. (That was a triple—three in one block.) Somebody is taking down those who run los masajes, one well placed bullet at a time.

¿Abierto?

Cerrado.

A young woman with long black hair and a short black skirt sits on a couch in front of a door open to the street. It's tranquis today.

Nothing says "I'm not yours anymore" like putting a bullet in the head of somebody who deserves it.

BACK.

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