An Angel's Vice

Chapter 6 - Sour Candy Can Make You Cry

Play "Pray" by Jay-Z at the start of this for the full experience.

—

Deeper in South Miami Beach—the parts near Española Way parents warn their young ones about at the beginning stages of them navigating their way through on their own for the first time—the parts where the parties are more fun and runs later than most do, along with more turn of events than one chaotic disastrous soap opera—cruises the latest BMW model in the gritty streets of the Red Light Quarter. There's no rush in passing the ladies of the night teetering along the edge of cracked sidewalks, hanging around the front of closed shops in skimpy upscale outfits, advertising their skills with lollipops or men used as props, and advertising their bodies by blatantly flaunting their goods. The car also doesn't stop nor slow down even further when those women come toward the windows doing a rehearsed dance, asking anyone in that car, "hey, baby, you want a date" or announcing "I'll do you real good, honey, twenty dollars". The driver is forced to stop at a red light and sits there without the company of fellow cars, right by the corner of a Chicken Spot claimed by the four street thugs dressed down in colours of amethyst and grey. Two guys bust open the glass exit door with boxes of chicken and fries, hollering at one another as they stuff their faces, and the third guy follows after with a cigarette in mouth and a sharp eye directed at some woman coming up the block.

He looks more sophisticated than his buddies do. He certainly earns more money than they see, given the bling on each ear and finger and his shiny belt adorned in diamonds juxtaposing his associates's lack of embellishment. As he sparks a flame and lights his cigarette, he sweeps back a bundle of dark hair that had fallen over his slanted almond shaped eyes, and he sashays in a carefree manner to meet the dark skinned woman coming up the block halfway. It's impossible to see how it got there but the two tiny pouches in the palm of his hand disappears as quickly as it appeared, taken by the woman with a clean swipe and a swap of two hundred dollars. The Asian boy shouts something as she goes on her way then laughs when she turns around and gives him the finger. The woman in waist length black hair extensions and clothes of a hip hop dancer (he called her Mani) checks her surroundings before stepping into the purple Vice Angeles limo that pulls up on her like clockwork. The boy pivots on his heel and answers a routine phone call with exactly the aggression you'd expect to come out of him.

When the light turns green, the trip progresses and the picture is as it gruesome as it gets. Only thing is...you don't see it. Nobody who passes by does. With all the lights flashing and highlighting the glamour and your wildest fantasies waiting for you to grasp it, who has time to notice the cornucopia of piling shit and trench wars surrounding it? There can be a massacre happening next door, out in the open, you wouldn't even catch it—you're too busy watching the elegant Spanish blonde with star quality who manages the girls and customers at the front, and she suddenly makes you one of them with a mere wink and flirtatious smile she personally sends your way. Your party of three step out of the BMW in formal dress code and your arms instantly warm with only the best girls of An Angel's Vice to hook around them. The blonde welcomes you all for your first time here then guides you into the forbidden alley streets that transports you to the modern version of Havana as you're taken to the hidden establishment known as: An Angel's Vice.

You have to get past the security stopping you by the heavily secured door, patting you down then running your ID through a computer system this one woman operates in a booth beside them. She doesn't look like your stereotypical software nerd nor is she hunched over in a corner like one with wide laser focused eyes that never meet yours. This woman is leaned back and relaxed in her seat, has long knotless braids parted to her left, sports a dark gold deep v-cut dress that sparkles with purple glitter and enriches the brownness of her skin, ankle strapped heels; she drops a few corn chips into her mouth before her fingers disappear behind dark, glossy lips then go smash against the keyboard as she processes pop up screens faster than a human mind can typically handle. She gives back the IDs then resumes her animated conversation with some flirtatious tall blonde haired white boy fully covered in tattoos distracting her from the screen of live cameras.