BABY GIGOLO.

Desperados.

In the city of Craneville, and at the foot of Flattop Mountain and facing east, lies a sprawling metropolis named the Craneville Flats. Viewed from the top of this mountain, it is one continuous swamp of gray corrugated asbestos roofs, baked into a hard and unforgiving mass by the scorching sun and sunk into the earth. From that distance, it appeared quiet and peaceful but, upon closer inspection, one would notice a sea of single-story, two-bedroom sub-economic houses, each with its little pinhead backyard.

The houses are packed tight in a labyrinth of narrow crisscrossing nameless streets and an even greater number of riffraff aimlessly roaming these alleyways, looking for work or something to steal. The living conditions are harsh, which has a corresponding effect on its inhabitants' morale. Their souls, hardened by the constant struggle for survival, are as sterile as their surroundings.

With an exploding population and a lack of affordable accommodation, entire families erect temporary structures made from stolen rusty iron sheets and waste planks that served as homes in the backyards of family members, friends, or neighbors. Waterproofed on the outside with sheets of plastic and lined on the inside with old newspapers, to serve as wallpaper and to close the yawning gaps, it lends an air of impoverished respectability.

The already limited space in which to maneuver became suffocatingly claustrophobic, turning what once was a decent set of interconnected small townships into one giant slum.

The odd tree and single patch of grass, like their human counterparts, struggled heroically to survive in that barren environment. But what seemed to grow and flourish unchecked was the mountains of garbage, carelessly dumped on vacant spots. The awful smell of rot and decay rising from the growing mounds of refuse, especially on a hot day, was something one simply learned to live with.

It severely slowed down the flow of streams whose names no one remembered or even knew they had. When rain fell, it sluggishly moved its burden of muck along, knowing that more litter was not far behind. Street drains became blocked and overflowed into ditches and potholes, forming little pools of dish-colored water where stray dogs quenched their thirst. When one is hungry, poor, and desperate, cleanliness and caring for the environment is the last thing on one's mind.

It was from this deep and unlimited cesspool of desperadoes that the Drug Lords recruited members for their expanding operations. I was one of them. Houses and shacks became storage facilities, distribution centers, and points-of-sale, and their owners became part of the fraternity and mules. Once inducted into the hall of narcotics, the only way out is through the grave. Trade is conducted openly and in broad daylight. The few decent people living amongst the crooked did not dare to breathe a word, not even to the police, because the long arm of the Drug Lord was mightier than that of the armed forces, and it made no distinction and showed no mercy. 

It had been almost a year since I, stiletto by stiletto, rung by rung, and bullet by bullet climbed the ladder to the top of my profession. For my diligence and loyalty, I was rewarded with the management of Bontas east, a small community in the greater scheme of things. There I had the sole mandate to ply my trade and, with Daisy by my side, I ruled my miniature domain with an iron fist. Despite the signing of imaginary peace treaties, nonexistent memoranda of understanding, and the pledging of eternal brotherhood in fake blood, no Drug Lord slept easily within the makeshift boundaries of their fish pond kingdoms supported by an illusion of make-believe power.

As in any major corporation, there is always the threat of territorial expansion by the opposition or a hostile takeover and, if not by peaceful means, which never happens, then by a show of brutal force. And these acts are never done in half measures. Shoot to kill is the only order which will deliver the strongest message, carrying the most authority.

And I have no problem delivering strong messages. It is either them or me that will lie bleeding his guts out.

It's not gonna be me honey…

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