El Tiburon: “The last few days mang. The last few days have been the craziest of my whole entire life. I wish you could see them, but for some reason I forgot to videotape all that shit.”

[I slap my head like I should’ve had a V8]

El Tiburon: “I rode a unicorn, I had a razorblade fight with two skunks in an overcoat pretending to be an even bigger skunk, I became a werewolf, I had sex with Lindsay Lohan, I got an STD test, I got some very unfortunate news, and I made it through 45 minutes of Gone Girl before I vomited of boredom. SO crazy mang. So crazy. You’ll just have to take my word for it though.”

[I’m talking into the mirror, duh.]

El Tiburon: “But, ain’t no point in living in the past right? Otherwise I’d have to change my name to John Samuels and that guy is just the biggest bitch, mang. All I can do is keep on swimmin’ and--CHUEY! What the fuck mang!?”

[Chuey! That puto crashed my Yugo into the tree!]

El Tiburon: “Not Mang-y Moore! My baby!”

[That fat piece of shit stumbles out the door drunker than what ever sorry ass mang dared to stick his churro inside of Fontanna’a ugly mama.]

Chuey: “Cuz! Holy shit! I was driving and then in the backseat all the sudden I saw a big fuckin’ skunk with a razorblade and he said he was looking for you!”

[Fuck. I thought we were square.]

El Tiburon: “You sure mang? I coulda swore we shook on that shit and called it good.”

Chuey: “Nah bro, he said you stole his girl and he wanted vengeance.”

[Skunketta? I didn’t even smash.]






[Alright, full disclosure: I did smash.]

El Tiburon: “Well whatever mang. But look at my car! How am I going to get to the taco stand? The boss lady said if I was late one more time I’d have to start massaging her feet after work. Have you seen those hooves? Her toenails scratch the ground every time she takes a step, it looks like a rape dungeon with all those claw marks on the floor. And the smell, my god mang, it’s more nauseating than a Thunderbolt X promo. Alright that might be a stretch, his stuff is so rancid I literally have to shit every time I get more than 25 seconds in.”

[I digress.]

Chuey: “Take my bike man!”

El Tiburon: “That thing still has a basket on the front and a bell that dings ‘La Cucaracha.’”

Chuey: “It’s the bike or you’re oiling up that upright pig’s pimply talons.”

[Bike it is.]

[I’m cruising down the street, squawking at the senoritas as I roll by. Minding my own damn business, enjoying the sunshine and the sweet sounds of Carlos Santana blasting at a moderate volume through my walkmang’s headphones. But uh oh. Trouble is afoot. Why don’t the cameras ever stick around when something boring is going on? Like unless you’re Michael McBride or Peter Gilmour, every XWF wrestler only shows up on screen when something entertaining or important happens. I envy those guys. But anyway, up ahead there’s a group of some tough looking hombres on bicycles and they’re all looking at me like Crimson Dong looks at the puss. They stop me right in the middle of the street and circle around me, laughing.]

El Tiburon: “Gentlemen, can I help you?”

Bicycle toughguy: “Nice costume, freak. We like your bike.”

El Tiburon: “Oh thank you, my abuela made it. And the bike is my cousin’s. You know it’s nothing too flashy but I think it’s a very practical piece of--”

Bicycle toughguy: “You shut your goddamn mouth right now. Get off that bike and take a walk or we’re going to have a problem.”

El Tiburon: “It’s, I mean it’s not really my bike. I can’t just give it up.”

[I try to be diplomatic, but I’m preparing myself for some good ol’ fashioned fisticuffs.]

Bicycle toughguy: “You’d think I’d be dissapointed by that, but truth be told I just bought a brand new ball-peen and I need to take it for a test drive.”

[Jesus he’s going straight for the hammer? These guys mean business.]

El Tiburon: “Guess I ain’t got too much of a choice mang.”

[I hop off the bike, prepared to do battle. These leather clad bicyclists all pull out hammers now. Should’ve thought this through a little better. As they inch closer my face instantly tenses up because it knows it’s about to get put through the fucking ringer. I’m half winking like a drunk old man hitting on a barstool.]

[WHACK!]

El Tiburon: “What the fuck?”

[WHACK! AGAIN!]

El Tiburon: “Is it raining rocks!? No, Jesus! Don’t do us like you did the dinosaurs!”

[Just then rocks begin flying in from what seems like every direction. The bikers all retreat on their bicycles, leaving me on the ground panting and unsure of just what the fuck was going on. And then a shadow appeared and blotted out the sun. A hand reached down. My guardian angel…


Her name was Dolores, according to her name tag, and she had blue hair, liver spots, and a Walmart frock. Behind her, her squad: Agnes, Martha, Beatrice, Ethel and Doris. These were some bad old bitches.]

El Tiburon: “Thank you, ladies. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

Agnes: “Our pleasure, dear. These punks today, they have no respect. Back in my day, when you stuck someone up you at least had the decency to not do it in the light of day.”

Dolores: “You stuck up to them kid, that took some guts. Not a whole lot of brains, but definitely some guts.”

El Tiburon: “I’m 90% heart, as my abuela used to say. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

Dolores: “Luckily, I have just the idea. As you can see, we aren’t as young and agile as we once were. We need to bring in some fresh meat. What do you say, kid? You ready to take to the streets and put these idiots in their place?”

[Are you fucking kidding me? You’d have to carbon date the dust on their chochas to figure out how old they were, and yet these fossils want me to run around with them playing neighborhood watch? I’D. FUCKING. LOVE. TO.]

El Tiburon: “Count me in ladies.”