Chapter 3: Killer Scene, Kid

Chapter 3Killer Scene, Kid

School had gone on like that for about two weeks before anything meaningful changed.
While traversing the halls to get to some class he couldn’t care less about, he managed to brush his dirty oil-stained work boots against the pristine white sneakers of the school Queen Bee. Sneakers so white you’d swear they were bought yesterday—they were. Such care and craft went into making these actual designer shoes. And he just put dirt on them. Not his fault she got in his way.
“Watch where you goin’, Barbie,” he said with a snarl. He turned just enough to look briefly at her. He passed his judgement then and there. Blonde hair, blue eyes, stockings, a golden chain with a letter on it. If the Weston uniform wasn’t mandatory, she’d probably be wearing a pink sweater and a shirt that says “Daddy’s Credit Card”. God, could you be any less original? He walked on.
“Hey!” She yelped at him.
No answer.
“Hey,” she said while snapping in his direction, “come back here!”
He obliged. “What?”
”Did you just call me Barbie, asshole?” She replied with incredulity.
“Yeah. I did. Barbie. You and your fuckass plastic entourage.” He didn’t mean to lay into a rando that much. Usually he never did… but it felt good nevertheless.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Yeah, sexist pig!” her copy-paste friend said, backing her up.
“I’m someone who don’t got time for this bullshit. Maybe try bein’ more original before thinkin’ y’all beatin’ the allegations.”
With that, he left. Any attempt she or her clique made to keep him there or “remind of his place” was shut down instantly.
Rather than going home that day, he decided to go back to Boyle Heights—quite a long way from Sherman Oaks, to be certain. Called a favour, his cousin Franco came to get him. There was some stuff he hadn’t gotten from the FDR building, stuff that he was particularly keen on keeping.
An hour thirty later, he was back. Right there, a block from the old housing project on Lancaster just shy of Ricardo. He couldn’t have afforded to make this overly sentimental. He might actually have wanted to stay and fuck something up. Well, not that he would even get the opportunity.
Turned out his key didn’t work anymore. He tried knocking on the front door. No answer. Click the buzzer. Still no answer. Didn’t take much to put two and two together at that point. It made sense to him, too. His affiliations weren’t exactly spotless—quite the opposite in fact. They mourned the loss of his father, sure, but they certainly didn’t scoff at the opportunity to kick him out.
Justino looked around him, wondering how the hell he was going to get his stuff back. Then, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a booted chopper at the O’Neal lot. There she was… his most prized possession. Eydie, named for the singer Eydie Gormé. Built from the chassis of a decaying Harley Panhead and hundreds of spare, negotiated, and stolen parts, she was Justino’s greatest project. He legally couldn’t even ride her yet—not that it stopped him from trying and eventually learning. Still road legal… mostly. Nothing else seemed to rest beside the bike, meaning whatever else he had that wasn’t in his initial duffle was thrown out or stolen. Figures. At least he still had his bike.
He called his cousin Franco over to get his bike towed to his new place in Sherman Oaks. He’d ride it over himself, but he didn’t yet have an actual license. As he waited, he wandered into Hazard Park. Had to be a bench nearby not doused in pigeon shit. Man, he thought, I can‘t believe Imma actually miss this shit… Imma miss bein‘ a fuckin gangbanger? Fuck, man. God really reached into the bottom of the barrel with me, huh?
“…Junkyard?” A voice interrupted his inner monologue.
It was Justino’s old neighbor, Jésus Rodríguez. Everyone knew him as el Gordo Chuy—despite being almost malnourished.
“Hey, Chuy…” said Justino with guilt. He hadn’t spoken to anyone from this building since his dad died.
“Aw shit! Junkyard, my dawg! Ay fool where you been? Ain’t nobody seen you or nothin’!” Exclaimed Chuy with great elation.
“I been…” Justino began, hesitant.
“Never mind that, come check this shit out!”
Justino shrugged. “…Know what, fuck it.” He debated saying something like, I don’t see you for three weeks and this is how you greet me?
Chuy proceeded to lead him down the cracked street to some spot on the edge of Lincoln Heights that looked and felt incredibly wrong. Condemned buildings left and right. They weren’t even tagged, just charred and abandoned. This had to have been recent, Justino would’ve heard about it if it happened when he still lived in the area.
“The fuck happened here?” Asked Justino as he took in this eerily unfamiliar sight. He could have sworn he saw a swastika spray painted onto a building.
“Some ugly ass shit. Ey, that don’t matter tho, ‘cause like, check this shit out!”
He led Justino into an abandoned warehouse.
“A warehouse?”
“It’s what’s in the warehouse!”
“I dunno man, this some shady shit. You sure this shit ain’t gonna get us killed?”
“Aaaa, you’ll be fine, fool!”
“Famous last words.”
Against better judgement, Justino followed Chuy in. He was rewarded by the sight of… a drum kit? A kit, some shitty CRATE amps, and a busted mic.
A beat…
“Well, watchu think dawg? Say somethin’!”
“I dunno man, it’s like… It’s cool, I guess? How the fuck this building still get power?”
“Didn’t your daddy ever tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?”
Chuy ran up to the amp and picked up his dingy Squier p-bass. He plugged in, flicked the switch, and plucked a note. Surprisingly, the note indeed came out. This building had, however thin, power.
“Come on man,” said Chuy, “plug in already, yeah?”
Justino obliged, hooking up his guitar. The two of them together played unholy abominations of distortion that they called “music.” While Chuy attempted to lay down the beat with his bass, Justino beat his guitar mercilessly with a pick while shouting random stream of consciousness lyrics. One lyric in particular happened to be about the girl from earlier in the day.
“You talkin’ shit, boi. I know it,” said Chuy with a smirk.
“Yeah. You got me. This white bitch at my new school be pissin’ me off” he said.
“Bro, you gettin’ pressed over jack.”
“Man, shut the fuck up and play,” said Justino, putting an end to their asinine conversation.