Angelo Styx ran a hand through his greasy hair, pushed his oversized aviator shades up on the bridge of his nose,
and pressed the buzzer again. It looked like he was going to have to play the waiting game, again. Jesus, Styx
thought to himself, this shit is ridiculous. Big fucking gangster and it takes him a half a fucking hour to answer
the goddamn door. Unreal. Styx turned his back on the cast iron door and pinched the marijuana cigarette perched
above his left ear. Styx stuck the jay in his mouth and sparked the tip ablaze with a zippo bearing James Dean's
image on it. The streets of San Francisco's Mission District were unusually calm and quiet, even for it being the
evening's afterhours. Styx enjoyed the serenty of 20th street as the first sensations of a weed buzz racked his body.
Yeah, take your fucking time old man, I'm just gonna kick back here and relax with my thoughts. Angelo Styx took
a seat on the steps of 1240 20th Street, not caring that he was getting his ass dirty on the scummy concrete, and
sighed. He had received the phone call to come and see "El Jefe" around 10 o'clock that night. The man on the
other end of the line was brief, a pretty fucking vague. "Get your ass to 1240 20th. You know where it is?" Styx
said he did, and started to ask what the deal was, but the only response he a 'click' followed by a dial tone.
Asshole. Fuckin hang up on me? Yeah, just see you do that to my face. Hang on. Hang up on me face to face?
Styx laughed and took another hit. Shit, I'm baked. A buzzer from somewhere inside 1240 whined and the door
unlocked. Bout fucking time. Styx raised up, yanked the door ajar, and stepped inside. Styx was met by a heavy set
Latino man wearing a white hooded sweatshrt and a pissed off demeanor.
"Hi." said Styx, still holding the jay. Heavy Set grabbed Styx by the collar and slammed him up against the wall.
The marijuana cigarette Styx was loosely holding tumbles into the darkness.
"Hey, my doob! What the fuck, man? You asked me to come here! What's with this shit?"
Heavy set started to pat Styx down, feeling his weathered brown leather jacket, dirty Levis, and outside his steel
toed motorcycle boots. He spun Styx around, and lifted his aviators up so he could peer into his eyes. Soon after,
Heavy Set nodded and pushed an intercom button on the wall.
"He's clean." Heavy Set growled into the speaker.
"Send him up." A voice squaked back.
"All right. Jefe will see you now."
Incredulous, Styx straightened out his jacket and started brushing it off.
"What's with the goddamn third degree? You know me."
"I don't know you from Adam. Now get your ass upstairs."
"Clumsy maiz. That jay better be there when I get back."
Satisfied he had gotten the last word, Styx hurried down the hall towards the staircase leading upwards. Fuckin'
prick, Styx said to himself. What's he think I'm gonna do? Bring a heater in here and blow the old man away,
muffing up a chance for employment. Shit, I want to be famous, but icing a gang lord is risky business.
The stairs extended three stories high, with a door at the top. Styx stopped in in front of the closed
door, took a deep breath and rapped his knuckles against the wood.
"Ven te!" A voice from inside called. Styx opened the door and stepped inside.
Rico "Jefe" Lobo had been known as The Chief since 1979. Ruben Blades (like the singer) the Jefe at the time
decided to go to a meet without his right hand, soft spoken young capo Rico Lobo. Blades was found in an alleyway
dumpster in Chinatown, his body impaled over 340 times, along with several razor blades coated with Blades' insides.
A frenzied upheaval followed The Blades Hit, numerous generals in Lobo's army vying for the chair at the end of the
table. Civil war within an organization like Los Lobos never lasts long; one always has to emerge as the rock to
which the outfitwill lean on, grow upon, expand and succeed. Rico Lobo had that vision. He also had a double
barrelled Remington.
The years had not been hard on Jefe. Most men his age waded through midlife crises', while Jefe merely had to worry
over a crew of ninety heads competing with several of the new blood emerging on the street, threatening his assets,
causing ruckus,and getting known. He still managed a trim fighting weight of two-twenty-five. He ripped a California
phone book in half last week after finding out the Dutchman's crew knocked off a series of grocery stores along
24th Street. Rico Lobo sat at his desk, feet propped on the table, with the Chronicle sports section
in front of him, looking as serene as a lake sunset, a Mexicali cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth.
Angelo Styx, stood before him, wearing those stupid fucking glasses. Who did he
think he was? Ponch? Leave his CHP scooter behind. Cavron. But the color of his skin kept him useful, despite
the Angelo Styx bullshit he had to endure. Styx sauntered over to the wooden chair sitting in from of Jefe's desk
and unsacrimoniously plopped down.
"Sit up, chico."
Styx made a face and started to squirm a little.
"Fucking A, Jefe, your 'peenchie balbosa' at the door damn near tore up my new jacket and-"
"New jacket? Where is this new jacket from? The underneath of a Buick?"
Styx regarded his leather jacket for a second and shrugged.
"I got it at the American Eagle Outlet."
"Why does it look like so fucking destroyed?"
"That's the way I bought it. Lived in look. Primo babe magnet. Bettys fucking flock to this shit bro-"
"Calla te. Cerra la boca. Es final. Mira."
Jefe folded his paper once, twice, tossed it in a desk drawer then extracted a manilla folder from the same drawer.
The cherry of his Mexicali shone as Jefe blew a cloud of smoke towards Styx. He slid the folder across the oak table
as it fell into Styx's lap.
"What do we have here," Stxy breathed softly, "little sickness to be remidied?" Disregarding the tiny metal fold
lock, Styx ripped off the top of the manilla, and emptied its contents of several pages of handwritten notes, and
stack of polaroids spilled onto his lap. The handwriting on the notes looked as if it was done by a struggling
four year old, and the polaroids were all medium shots of differnt people. A slender Japanese man getting out of
a silver and red Infernus. A tall, strong jawed man delivering a speech behind a podium. A Japanese woman
suntanning. A fat Itallian man shovelling pasta in his mouth, flanked by several gentelman in Armani. A well
built Columbian man wearing a colorful shirt arguing with a stunningly attractive Columbian woman. Finally, a man
wearing a black leather jacket extending both arms while firing a pair of nine millimeter pistols at a group of
Yardies.
"Anyone look familiar?"
Styx studied the photographs again. He shook his head.
"Never seen 'em in my life. Altough I think I caught the speech dude on C-SPAN..."
"You're looking at the remains of Liberty City's late underworld. Yakuza, Mafia, Columbians, todos murete. El hombre
alli is the man who executed the hits. I have received word that this man is on a plane directed towards San
Francisco International Airport."
"Looks like kind of a pussy to me. I could probably kick his-"
"Calla te! Peenchie idiota! We need this man working for us! He can be a valuable ally. Find him."
"Fock, boss, I don't want to be one of those assholes at SFO holding the goofy white cards-"
"You'll do just that."
"Christ. What's his name anyways."
"Back of the photograph. So you do not forget."
Styx turned over the polaroid and squinted behind his aviator shades to deceifer the chicken scratch.
'Vegas "Fido" Minor'?
"Fido? Oh, I've heard of this dude. Real badass. Feeds people to his dogs, that's why he got the nickname."
Styx looks back the photo. "I could probably still beat the shi-"
"If want him in my presance in now less than one-hundred twenty minutes. Vamos."
"But, Jefe, I can't..." Styx trailed off.
Jefe had picked up his paper and continued reading.
Fuck, Styx thought, baby sitting for some East Coast upstart fuck? Christ.
With a deep sigh, Styx slapped his hands on his thighs and sat up.
"I'll do it, but I'm not going to be responsible..."
A cloud of smoke billowed from behind the sports page.
"Alright. Outty five-kay."
Styx shut the door to Jefe's office and slumped his shoulders. Man, I thought I was going to get a real job, some
strong arming, extortion, or maybe even something as exotic as a 'cancellation'. Instead, I'm a goddamn baby
sitter. Assfuck. Man, I could be worth so much more to this outfit, they dont even know...Styx shuffled down
the flight of stairs when the scent of burnt mary jane wafted up. Styx rushed to the ground floor to find Heavy
Set sitting on a stool, arms folded, shit eating grin plastered on his face. Styx walked over to Heavy Set and stood
over him.
"You sack of shit. You smoked my jay."
"What jay? You didn't have shit white boy."
"Hope you enjoyed it."
"Vamos, gringo."
"Shit was laced with PCP ya fuck." Styx lied.
Heavy Set looked alarmed for a second, the angry. He yanked open the metal door and shoved Angelo Styx into the
brisk San Francisco night. The door slammed shut and the buzzer rang again, locking the bulding's entrance. So
this is it, errand boy? Fuck Jefe, I'm so much better than this shit. Styx stole a glance at his pocketwatch.
Shit, he thought, I better get moving. Peenchie balboso.
and pressed the buzzer again. It looked like he was going to have to play the waiting game, again. Jesus, Styx
thought to himself, this shit is ridiculous. Big fucking gangster and it takes him a half a fucking hour to answer
the goddamn door. Unreal. Styx turned his back on the cast iron door and pinched the marijuana cigarette perched
above his left ear. Styx stuck the jay in his mouth and sparked the tip ablaze with a zippo bearing James Dean's
image on it. The streets of San Francisco's Mission District were unusually calm and quiet, even for it being the
evening's afterhours. Styx enjoyed the serenty of 20th street as the first sensations of a weed buzz racked his body.
Yeah, take your fucking time old man, I'm just gonna kick back here and relax with my thoughts. Angelo Styx took
a seat on the steps of 1240 20th Street, not caring that he was getting his ass dirty on the scummy concrete, and
sighed. He had received the phone call to come and see "El Jefe" around 10 o'clock that night. The man on the
other end of the line was brief, a pretty fucking vague. "Get your ass to 1240 20th. You know where it is?" Styx
said he did, and started to ask what the deal was, but the only response he a 'click' followed by a dial tone.
Asshole. Fuckin hang up on me? Yeah, just see you do that to my face. Hang on. Hang up on me face to face?
Styx laughed and took another hit. Shit, I'm baked. A buzzer from somewhere inside 1240 whined and the door
unlocked. Bout fucking time. Styx raised up, yanked the door ajar, and stepped inside. Styx was met by a heavy set
Latino man wearing a white hooded sweatshrt and a pissed off demeanor.
"Hi." said Styx, still holding the jay. Heavy Set grabbed Styx by the collar and slammed him up against the wall.
The marijuana cigarette Styx was loosely holding tumbles into the darkness.
"Hey, my doob! What the fuck, man? You asked me to come here! What's with this shit?"
Heavy set started to pat Styx down, feeling his weathered brown leather jacket, dirty Levis, and outside his steel
toed motorcycle boots. He spun Styx around, and lifted his aviators up so he could peer into his eyes. Soon after,
Heavy Set nodded and pushed an intercom button on the wall.
"He's clean." Heavy Set growled into the speaker.
"Send him up." A voice squaked back.
"All right. Jefe will see you now."
Incredulous, Styx straightened out his jacket and started brushing it off.
"What's with the goddamn third degree? You know me."
"I don't know you from Adam. Now get your ass upstairs."
"Clumsy maiz. That jay better be there when I get back."
Satisfied he had gotten the last word, Styx hurried down the hall towards the staircase leading upwards. Fuckin'
prick, Styx said to himself. What's he think I'm gonna do? Bring a heater in here and blow the old man away,
muffing up a chance for employment. Shit, I want to be famous, but icing a gang lord is risky business.
The stairs extended three stories high, with a door at the top. Styx stopped in in front of the closed
door, took a deep breath and rapped his knuckles against the wood.
"Ven te!" A voice from inside called. Styx opened the door and stepped inside.
Rico "Jefe" Lobo had been known as The Chief since 1979. Ruben Blades (like the singer) the Jefe at the time
decided to go to a meet without his right hand, soft spoken young capo Rico Lobo. Blades was found in an alleyway
dumpster in Chinatown, his body impaled over 340 times, along with several razor blades coated with Blades' insides.
A frenzied upheaval followed The Blades Hit, numerous generals in Lobo's army vying for the chair at the end of the
table. Civil war within an organization like Los Lobos never lasts long; one always has to emerge as the rock to
which the outfitwill lean on, grow upon, expand and succeed. Rico Lobo had that vision. He also had a double
barrelled Remington.
The years had not been hard on Jefe. Most men his age waded through midlife crises', while Jefe merely had to worry
over a crew of ninety heads competing with several of the new blood emerging on the street, threatening his assets,
causing ruckus,and getting known. He still managed a trim fighting weight of two-twenty-five. He ripped a California
phone book in half last week after finding out the Dutchman's crew knocked off a series of grocery stores along
24th Street. Rico Lobo sat at his desk, feet propped on the table, with the Chronicle sports section
in front of him, looking as serene as a lake sunset, a Mexicali cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth.
Angelo Styx, stood before him, wearing those stupid fucking glasses. Who did he
think he was? Ponch? Leave his CHP scooter behind. Cavron. But the color of his skin kept him useful, despite
the Angelo Styx bullshit he had to endure. Styx sauntered over to the wooden chair sitting in from of Jefe's desk
and unsacrimoniously plopped down.
"Sit up, chico."
Styx made a face and started to squirm a little.
"Fucking A, Jefe, your 'peenchie balbosa' at the door damn near tore up my new jacket and-"
"New jacket? Where is this new jacket from? The underneath of a Buick?"
Styx regarded his leather jacket for a second and shrugged.
"I got it at the American Eagle Outlet."
"Why does it look like so fucking destroyed?"
"That's the way I bought it. Lived in look. Primo babe magnet. Bettys fucking flock to this shit bro-"
"Calla te. Cerra la boca. Es final. Mira."
Jefe folded his paper once, twice, tossed it in a desk drawer then extracted a manilla folder from the same drawer.
The cherry of his Mexicali shone as Jefe blew a cloud of smoke towards Styx. He slid the folder across the oak table
as it fell into Styx's lap.
"What do we have here," Stxy breathed softly, "little sickness to be remidied?" Disregarding the tiny metal fold
lock, Styx ripped off the top of the manilla, and emptied its contents of several pages of handwritten notes, and
stack of polaroids spilled onto his lap. The handwriting on the notes looked as if it was done by a struggling
four year old, and the polaroids were all medium shots of differnt people. A slender Japanese man getting out of
a silver and red Infernus. A tall, strong jawed man delivering a speech behind a podium. A Japanese woman
suntanning. A fat Itallian man shovelling pasta in his mouth, flanked by several gentelman in Armani. A well
built Columbian man wearing a colorful shirt arguing with a stunningly attractive Columbian woman. Finally, a man
wearing a black leather jacket extending both arms while firing a pair of nine millimeter pistols at a group of
Yardies.
"Anyone look familiar?"
Styx studied the photographs again. He shook his head.
"Never seen 'em in my life. Altough I think I caught the speech dude on C-SPAN..."
"You're looking at the remains of Liberty City's late underworld. Yakuza, Mafia, Columbians, todos murete. El hombre
alli is the man who executed the hits. I have received word that this man is on a plane directed towards San
Francisco International Airport."
"Looks like kind of a pussy to me. I could probably kick his-"
"Calla te! Peenchie idiota! We need this man working for us! He can be a valuable ally. Find him."
"Fock, boss, I don't want to be one of those assholes at SFO holding the goofy white cards-"
"You'll do just that."
"Christ. What's his name anyways."
"Back of the photograph. So you do not forget."
Styx turned over the polaroid and squinted behind his aviator shades to deceifer the chicken scratch.
'Vegas "Fido" Minor'?
"Fido? Oh, I've heard of this dude. Real badass. Feeds people to his dogs, that's why he got the nickname."
Styx looks back the photo. "I could probably still beat the shi-"
"If want him in my presance in now less than one-hundred twenty minutes. Vamos."
"But, Jefe, I can't..." Styx trailed off.
Jefe had picked up his paper and continued reading.
Fuck, Styx thought, baby sitting for some East Coast upstart fuck? Christ.
With a deep sigh, Styx slapped his hands on his thighs and sat up.
"I'll do it, but I'm not going to be responsible..."
A cloud of smoke billowed from behind the sports page.
"Alright. Outty five-kay."
Styx shut the door to Jefe's office and slumped his shoulders. Man, I thought I was going to get a real job, some
strong arming, extortion, or maybe even something as exotic as a 'cancellation'. Instead, I'm a goddamn baby
sitter. Assfuck. Man, I could be worth so much more to this outfit, they dont even know...Styx shuffled down
the flight of stairs when the scent of burnt mary jane wafted up. Styx rushed to the ground floor to find Heavy
Set sitting on a stool, arms folded, shit eating grin plastered on his face. Styx walked over to Heavy Set and stood
over him.
"You sack of shit. You smoked my jay."
"What jay? You didn't have shit white boy."
"Hope you enjoyed it."
"Vamos, gringo."
"Shit was laced with PCP ya fuck." Styx lied.
Heavy Set looked alarmed for a second, the angry. He yanked open the metal door and shoved Angelo Styx into the
brisk San Francisco night. The door slammed shut and the buzzer rang again, locking the bulding's entrance. So
this is it, errand boy? Fuck Jefe, I'm so much better than this shit. Styx stole a glance at his pocketwatch.
Shit, he thought, I better get moving. Peenchie balboso.