Pitch Package.

The chicas who work the brothels downtown don't trust much. He pays for their time like everyone else. For once they don't have to take their panties off.

He forgets half his questions. Sits still and listens. Takes in everything they say.

And then he disappears.

A cell phone smashed to bits. A shirt soaked with blood. A notebook torn to shreds.

Testimony has a price.

Synopsis.

Monterrey, centro.

August heat turns asphalt into Chiclet. Y-Griega traffic. Se echan madres una tras otra.

In this city, the margins are centrally located. It's the place folks go when they can't find what they're looking for anywhere else. They get what they came for. They come back for more. Her smile says, "Pick me, pick me." Only one thing counts. Cash. Everybody knows what it takes to get it. Everybody knows what it buys when you've got it.

This work is true to the places and people it describes. The only things that change are the days of the week, the costumes the chicas wear, and the songs that bleed through the walls and come in from the street. The only lives that are transformed are in La Rosa de Guadalupe on the TV in the corner. This is a story about what things cost and what you take with you at the end of the shift. Redemption is a wad of cash at the bottom of a purse. Resolution is a cab ride home. Don't look for any other. The lockers are in the back. You're welcome to start today.

. . .

Busses belch soot as they race down the street. The Metro rumbles overhead.

Cover. You have to be quick. The door is always open. In. Out.

At the corner. Down the block. Across town.

Wherever there is neon and cash.

. . .

A sudden flash. A moment of deafness. A gunshot at point blank range. Bits of brain and cranium spatter la orden de La Siberia. They usually don't make the news. Today is the exception. Los masajes, wey. Owners. Managers. Bouncers. The ones who run the show.

The chicas and the tipos? Nada que ver. Spectators with a front row seat.

The yellow tape says, "PROHIBIDO EL PASO." Ends up in the gutter three days later.

. . .

The chicas have heard every stupid thing a man wants to do with his penis, every awkward compliment and cocky conceit, every lie. They have told just as many themselves. "¡Ay, papi... qué rico!" The tipos come in all shapes and sizes until they take their pants off. Then they're all about one thing. Only good for one thing. Cash.

This one goes from not knowing how she's going to feed the kids to having more money than she's ever seen by the end of the evening. The rent is paid. The payment on the dinette set too. School clothes. Medicines for mom. Izzy. CFE. Payjoy. The tanda. The bills all caught up. She buys chips and candy every night at the Oxxo pa' los werkos. New tenis whenever they need them. Imagine how that makes her feel. She's coming back tomorrow. Count on it.

¿Menso o pendejo? This one is beaming. He's having sex with a chica who smiles if she feels up to it and moans because it means a better tip. He gets a dose of manhood and buys a better version of himself that won't be there by the time he gets home. Two blocks max. He'll be back as soon as he's got the cash.

She makes the rent. He rents a feeling.

Here's what you take home tonight. The floor plan. The curb. The stains that Fabuloso won't touch. How it feels to be free and trapped at the same time. What it means to get beaten up and still win a prize. What a fighting chance looks like when you never make it off the block.

. . .

In these pages, the chicas spit it all out. Men. Themselves. What it takes. What it delivers. The tipos boast. Gloat. Call it “relax.” Call it "a hobby." One or two tell the truth. The killer calls it "limpia." Talks about the weather. The Tigres. The traffic. Reminds you to call mom and pay the water bill on time. Tells you where to find the best trompo in town. The nearest subway stop. Knows where to park. Won't say why. Just shows how.

The headlines get louder, bolder. El Norte. The other one with the girl in lingerie on page three the man hands you at the shoeshine stand.

Everyone waits for the street to go dark, for a hush that means it's over.

It stays lit. It stays hot.

That's all it can do.

The city paints "AQUÍ SE RESUELVE" on garbage cans and the sides of busses while everybody knows what can and cannot change. For the chicas and the tipos, all it has to offer is the next shift.

The neon buzzes. The door is ajar. The red curtain hangs at the end of the hall. La Virgen stares back from the windowsill. A half finished order of tacos from Tlaquepaque sits on the desk. A girl moans "¡Ay, papi!" in the room on the right as the sweat of a man three times her size drips on her face.

And somebody knows exactly where to park.

Logline.

¡Ay, papi! Broad daylight. Dusk. 3:00 AM. Somebody is taking down those who run los masajes, one well-placed bullet at a time. The subway fare went up again. Tortillas too. Do you know who sells the best pozole in this town? The chicas keep giving servicios. The tipos keep paying. A bullet has the last word.

Premise.

"Do you remember their faces," he asked.

"Do you remember ours," she replied.

There's a side to the city that thrives on anonymity. It's the place folks go when they can't find what they're looking for anywhere else. They get what they came for. They come back for more. The only thing real is the change in your pocket and a handful of bills folded up at the bottom of her purse.

Monterrey, centro. Somebody is taking down those who run los masajes, one well-placed bullet at a time. Gets a paragraph on page eight.

The chicas still have bills to pay. The tipos still stand in the door. The sign outside says "UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT." And somebody still has a job to do.

Thesis.

Truth is found in the unscripted, the uncomfortable, and the unresolved.

Craft.

Writing Samples.

A piece of the action.

SOLICITANDO CHICAS says the sign. There's one on this block and the next and the next. This thing is predatory—on an industrial scale. Maybe it's bigger than that.

The chicas spit it all out. What they really think about men. How they see themselves. What it takes to do what they do. What matters and what doesn't and why.

Trato de Novios is made up, but it doesn't lie. The story goes home with you, and crawls into your bed. ¡Pásele, caballero! ¡Pásele! Aquí están las chicas. The faces change. The block is the same. Mañana es otro pedo. You won't forget.

Call it a confession for a crime in progress. Neon. Cash. Sex is what you do to get what you want. Nothing else comes close. Until now. No warning. No speech. No reason why. Bite the hand that feeds you. Blow its fucking brains out.

No one goes home empty handed.

The chicas walk out with the rent and a good reason to come back tomorrow.

The tipos walk out with a smirk that lasts for a few blocks at least.

There's only one question that has to be asked. What does it take to monetize human nature? What does it take to get a piece of the action?

Like the chicas say, "Some of those orgasms are real."

What do you want to believe is true?

Bystanders pretend not to notice.

Perpetrators look for the next opportunity.

By the end of the evening, one thing is clear. She's there for her reasons. You're there for yours.

Want some advice? Step outside before the bullets fly. Better yet, take her for coffee. It's almost dawn. She'd like that. You never know. Both of you might get lucky.

Excerpts.

The Problem.

"I don't need you to give me a voice. I have a voice. The problem is no one listens to it."

. . .

Options.

"Look. Don't feel sorry for me. Don't you dare feel sorry for me. I chose this. Of all the things I can do, this works. It gives me options. I'm sorry if you don't like what I do. That's as far as it goes."

. . .

The Right Words.

"We're all just animals fucking each other."

Leave it to this one. She has a knack for finding just the right words.

"You see it everyday," she went on. "Don't tell me you don't. It's behind every headline you print. It's why you people have a job. Some of us are just more upfront about it."

. . .

What Really Matters.

"Think you're something, right? You got to stick your dick in her. She moaned for you.

"You know what? You didn't get anything that really matters.

"You didn't get invited to her son's birthday party.

"Or her mom's wake."

. . .

They Try Harder.

"Sure, we talk about the guys behind their backs. It's good for a laugh. All the girls agree. The good looking ones are the most disappointing. A lot of noise and—that's it? The average guys—they try harder. I'm much more likely to orgasm with a guy who tries than with one who thinks he's a champ because he's buff and wears a nice suit."

. . .

Two Reasons.

"There are two reason girls get involved in this," she began. "One is to support their families. The other is because they like being in the middle of the shit."

. . .

Thank You.

"I'm not through being mad at you," she said. "But I wanted to tell you something."

"You told our stories. I knew you would. Thank you."

With that, she turned and walked away. She didn't look back.

I knew she wasn't going to.

Impact.

What possessed you to write this? Nobody talks about this and nobody talks about it this way. Folks like to paint slogans on the sidewalk and insist that makes a difference, but nobody talks about what it's really like to live here and deal with this everyday.

. . .

...calm down dick head stop this bullshit you don't know who you're messing with I'm not gonna tell you twice...

. . .

You can't feel sorry for somebody who has chosen her path in life. Those who want to get mixed up in shit get mixed up in shit. They know what they're doing. Every one of them wants to be there. If not, they wouldn't be. That's not gonna change.

. . .

...stay away from my girls asshole if you don't wanna end up in pieces in a cooler and your face on the poster of the disappeared...

. . .

There's more to Monterrey than Calle Villagrán. Why don't you check out the museums?? Get off the Viagra—I mean Villagrán. Do something healthy for once!! We've got more than putas in Monterrey. World Cup 2026!!

. . .

You wrote about the putas. Oh, isn't that sweet of you. Why don't you write about the folks who go to work every day? The ones who don't take the shortcut... They also have lives that matter with stories to tell and things to say...

. . .

"Those of us who work here. We don't like to talk about it. You want to know why I stay? Nobody ever asked that before. I can't believe anyone even thinks about it. I can't believe I'm even writing this..."