Flowers for the Dead and Bullets for the Living or Fried Chicken, Dead Horse

Behind the Plaza del Mercado, following the bricked road the Spaniards laid, lived the juiciest, crispiest, most flavorful fried chicken in the city. If not the whole west side. Doñas cooking with their arm flaps over the plancha and the six burner top and the double fryers cemented the joint as a staple. People asked for the sagging arms as credential.

Humidity increased animosity. Nights were seldom cool.

Five teens dressed in baggy shorts and basketball jerseys and a man wearing a floral buttoned shirt with his chest showing and his belly bulging in his cotton khaki pants; they sat around a table at a chicken shop. They were: Indio, Xavi, Peluche, Hormiga, Trujillo and the old man’s name was: Confe. For the most part they’re done eating and are shooting the shit, playful banter. Confe had a folder with names and photos and addresses and numbers and closed one’s contacts. Trujillo was telling a long and involved story about blunts and rolling papers. Cold soggy fries riddled in ketchup lay inside boxes lined with deli paper soaked in grease. Beef tallow.

Three of them wore fitted caps.

Rollin’ papers are meant for white peeps. Rather rollup on bible paper. You know anybody that smokes papers? Real talk, Trujillo said, holding a half chewed drumstick.

I know plenty of motherfuckers that smoke papers. Matter of fact: I have a pack right now. In case of emergency, said Peluche, tapping the mariconera across his chest.

Emergency, he said, Hormiga said, laughing. Bottom teeth stuck out made him look like a chimp.

‘Cos you be hangin’ with those private school kids. They think they’re gringos. Real talk.

On Ramses, said Hormiga. Rest in peace, bro

I’m tellin’ you. They’re tryin’ to kill us all. Have ya’ seen all them chemicals they usin’ now to make wraps? Sato, shit’s bad, sato. Real talk. These mo’fuckers are stupid

Mar… Marí… Ma… What’s her name…, Confe muttered, head tilted back, legs spread.

Sato. You’re on that Lexy Jones blog shit, huh? asked Peluche.

You talm’ ‘bout that mo’fucker that crashed out on channel 4? Shit was funny. Xavi dunked a piece of toast on a blot of egg yolk left on his plate.

That shit was fire. I’d have shot all-of-em right then and there. Raaaaa. Dead. Indio glanced at his phone, saw the time: 8:45PM.

Mo’fucker, have you seen those chicken and waffles flavored wraps? You challenge’ or what? What ‘bout the cancer on the butt of Phillie’s? Nah, sato. Call it woke, call it what you want. I’m rollin’ my shit on my own tobacco leaf. Real talk.

María… Maricela… Marcela… what was it..., Confe said, rifling through the pages; egg yolk dried in the corners of his mouth.

What the fuck are you on about? Where are you planting tobacco? Back of the building? The three by four balcony on your mom’s? Let me guess. You’re buying it online and FaceTiming the grower everyday and you’re gonna ask him for test results and shit.

Wait. So you not smokin’? asked Xavi.

Less mouths the betta’, Indio said.

Give me that shit, man. What you on about? asked Peluche.

Hey you little shit give me that folder back before I send you back to meet your creator I fucking swear, said Confe.

Damn, old man. Breaaaathe. Breath. Ooza, haha, said Hormiga.

You’re hammering me over here with that María la del Barrio bullshit and this motherfucker from the other side talking nonsense about wraps and papers and white people. Holding the folder in one hand and gesturing with the other, Peluche conducted the table.

I’m rollin’ my own shit, is what I’m sayin’. Real talk.

You’re just stingy motherfucker. Tell it how it is. Say less, we got our own shit. Now throw some in.

I just ate a fuckin’ piece-o-toast, Indio said.

That mo’fucker didn’t come here once. Here. Xavi side-eyed Indio. Taking his time to place the bill on the table.

Yessir. He dropped that food and bounced, but, here. Hormiga shifted forward and put a fiver next to the salt. I see what you’re doing, Potro Hormiga might be the slowest of the bunch, but quick with wit when it came down to social interactions.

Sato, stop the shit. We’re all tipping. Cough it up. Peluche was still standing, folder pinched with his armpit.

Don’t you make me cut you all off. See where you score your little notes. Throw that cash in. Now. I’m paying, but it’s a matter of principles. Give me that shit back, you little shit. Confe tried to grab the folder back to no avail. I’m going to the head, and when I come back you better give me that folder back or I swear to…

I had piece-o-toast! He smacked both hands on the table, forks and knives jittered. People looked over at the table and whispered to themselves.

It’s just a chicken joint, man, Hormiga said.

Just a chicken joint? This shop’s been here since before any of us were even planned. How much you think them motherfuckers pay these doñas? You know Nando’s mom works here?

Shit, I wasn’t planned. Do I still have to tip? Rubbing his palms together tongue stuck to the front top teeth then fake reaching to grab his tip back.

First time this sato says somethin’ that makes sense. Indio leaned back in his chair, tapping Xavi on the thigh with the back of his hand. He smiled.

Anything that gets you out of any responsibility makes sense to you, Indio. Peluche didn’t look his way.

Damn, you still salty, huh? Get off my back.

Ight, I’mma head to the car and start rollin’. Hormiga got up from his chair and—

The car? Nah, papa. You’re staying right here. Where is this fat fuck? Peluche’s circumstances made him act both his age and the age of someone that should be taking care of him.

We still doin’ the thing. Right? Xavi pushed his tongue against the bottom of his top molars and raising one eyebrow, he looked at Peluche.

This clown. Boy, shut the fuck up, Indio said. Smacking his lips, he planted his feet on the floor and without getting up, shimmied the chair away from Xavi.

I ain’ talm’ ‘bout smokin’, bitch. Looking now at Indio he stretched his forefinger, pinching it at the base of the knuckle with his thumb, his three fingers left, like a rooster’s crest.

See? You a clown, boy.

Just shut up Xavi; you stop calling him boy, you’re both the same age.

Haha. One customer laughed non-stop, the rest on his table stiff as a horse in heat.

And, who’re you? Hey, I asked you a question. Xavi shot up from his chair, it dragged and tipped in such a way it didn’t fall. Damn, I feel good Forty-five minutes earlier he had chewed a yellow school bus and now felt it kick.

Leave the kid alone. I seen him in school, he cool, Hormiga said. Reached and grabbed his wrist, still sitting down.

What’s funny? Xavi asked again. Eyebrows inclined on their heads, his forehead Saran Wrap tensed up.

Chicken fat rendered in the fryer: lunching its aromatic compounds in all directions, grease splattered and crackled as the moisture escaped the chicken, bubbles searing all its surface, crisping up the batter until it gets the coat of a golden retriever and it’s pulled out in the basket, dripping fat.

Are we done peacocking or what? Give me that—snatching the folder back—good. Here, go pay. The rest, let’s go. Time is gold. Handing money to Peluche and talking all while he stared at Xavi.

Popsicle table kept the hands off their puppies, their fries getting cold and their drinks warm. Sweating.

The kid went up to the register and paid for the sunny side up eggs and the additional twelve piece combo with fries and pop while the rest went out, dropping fifty-five bucks in the tip jar. Hey, Peluche said. Hey! he repeated, but louder and in a playful manner, swatting his hand at the workers that were framed through the pickup window—on the pass. Food tasted like shit! He threw a peace sign and walked out. With the others.

Take the keys. You have your learner’s, right? Confe put his clasped hand with the keys in Peluche’s hand but didn’t let go until the other said: Uh-huh, caressing the kid’s hand as he retrieved his and this caused the other’s skin to shiver: uncomfortable: his lip twitched.

Confe sustained an unnatural smile, he turned into a mime, words came out—mouth’s not moving—holding a steel smile: cheek bones cocked with malice. He left.

The rest of the boys stood at the corner: Xavi smoked a garette while Indio messaged a girl he’s been hitting on and Hormiga talked to a another friend that bought loosies at The Dykes and Trujillo orbited Indio—in the car they cruised and the streets opened and closed and went straight and then curved up and down around trees flushed green and silver with dust and webs of spiders with soil and grass weeds below: they went tied with the humidity trapped in cement and brick and asphalt, the humidity in turn: surrendering to the coolness of the monte.

Smoke swirled and filled the car, they coughed and laughed and passed the blunts—two puffs pass—counter clockwise as it’s supposed to be, Trujillo rolled his own blunt, not smoking from the others, but still passing his.

Nasty ass motherfucker… next time he touches me… I fucking swear Peluche’s mind was besides the smoke and in it at the same time, hand on the wheel, other hand on the blunt; the rest of voices drowned in the voice of his own head, chest hot as the engine that roared and powered them to their destination.

Imma buy shorty that Tous she wanted and then… Indio’s horny thoughts grabbed a hold of his attention for a brief moment.

Ight, here. Xavi pass the masks—yo’, grab the fucking blunt Indio, I’m driving.

Hormiga lowered the window and tried to ash outside but the wind blew everything back in with some bits of the cherry still flaring—the trail of burning stars rushing in on his face, Shit!

Fuckin’ dumbass, Trujillo said laughing and coughing and tapping Indio who was grabbing the blunt. Real talk.

Where the fuck do I ash?

Errthing’s an ashtray when you really think ‘bout it. ¿Que no? Real Talk.

Sato there’s literally an ashtray in the middle console. Peluche’s anxiety came in flares, that being one of them, it wasn’t his car. Confe’s touch clung to his skin.

Why you say literally so much? You think you smart for saying that? Indio leaned over the front side Peluche’s back to see his reaction.

Sit the fuck back, boy. Before I sit you back. Real Talk.

T’was cold up in the mountain up the spiraling hill leading to the house that sat and watched over the valley all the way down to the bridge and even further into what used to be the cane fields—decades ago but it didn’t feel so. Amidst stretching barks that shotted upward into opened baldachins: about one mile in lay a brick laid well. Bricks from the same time as the ones in the Plaza.

Gravel crunched as the tires came to a halt; the trail lit red.

—and they got off the car, under the tree right next to the road.

A house with its lights on sat in waiting for the boys who wanted to play breaking and entering. Some yards in out the back of the residence was a horse stable that housed more than horses. The waning crescent’s slanted smile mocked those below its light.

This came from

Thaddeus Thomas

critique on my other story Covadonga. Chek them both out and let me know what you think. Thanks for riding in the Chrome Hearse Express.