ANGELES
The sky was gray as Panchito Pistoles stood on a overpass smoking a cigarette. The wind blew calmly, like angels whispering in his ear. Telling him that everything was going to be okay. That the world had not yet ended.
His car, a black 1960 Lincoln. with a retro feeling to it. Chrome trimmings, leather interior, metal dashboard, large circular steering wheel. The brakes need to be checked, the transmission needed to be repaired and the window washer fluid needed to be refilled but other than that the car was in working condition.
The car was parked on the side of the road. José Carioca, Panchito's friend was in the passenger seat. The radio was turned on to the evening news.
At 6:30 pm on a Saturday, the City of Angels turned on its electric lights, projecting them into the air, preventing the stars from irradiating their brilliance.
Panchito took a drag of his cigarette and closed his eyes, behaving as if he were passionately kissing a woman. Stroking her brown hair, holding her breasts and pulling her close as the world put on a sleeping cap.
José honked the horn that sounded like Woody Woodpecker. That annoying, high pitched laugh.
"Come on Panchito!" José called, "We're going to be late."
The rooster inhaled the cigarette a final time, he could feel the burning ash and nicotine on his finger tips, he held it for a moment, taking in the pain and letting it burn his fingers. Panchito then opened his eyes, looked out onto the city that was a victim to heavy evening traffic and light pollution. He flicked the cigarette off the edge, watching it fall into the oblivion of the world, like a leaf landing on a pond, the cigarette hit the pavement of the highway. The ashes died out as a car passed.
Panchito got back into his car and drove to a funeral home.
Inspired by the song:
"Los Angeles" by Peter Bradley Adams