I do not write about loqueria because it is the only subject I know; of course you can check out my other writings. Nor do I write about the vato loco because I want to exploit or stereotype homeboys. I write about the lifestyle so that I can better understand my own fascination with it. Craziness was part of our life, and we cannot simply repudiate it as if it is not a big part of our roots. In the crazy there is also a profound truth. Two homeboys looking for something in the beyond.
Crisp night, scattered stars—Toro bouncing with a Budweiser suitcase in his grip, Lobo strutting with magical dust in his pocket. Straight strides to the park bench with their names carved in it: MR. TORO…LORD LOBO. Although it is December, Toro takes off his shirt and reveals muscles, scars, the hide of a bull. He pops open a beer that foams like a mad dog and gifts it to Lobo.
“It’s time to get fucked up,” Lobo says. He downs the beer and chucks the can into the bushes. As Toro shotguns his, Lobo pulls out the Leño, the Maton, El KJ—the Killer Joint.
“Johnny sold me a double lined one.” Looking out at the Mission’s lights, Lobo raises the angeldust to his lips, lights it, and breathes in a new portal of imagination, a forgetting. Exhaling, he pushes the joint to Toro.
Toro studies the flame, concentrates on the Mission’s goal, understands the intensity that awaits. His biceps flexed, palm muscles tense, he looks away, and then he charges at the red cape of life.
It really is a raw one, so they are disabled, easy pickings, snapped stoned statues, funny to gawk at, dysfunctional idiots.
“Space,” the biggest bullshitter whispers after five minutes of silence. “Outer space.” The story begins; the story ends.