“Hey, Borracho, over here! Give me one of them beers,” Chucho said, flicking his cigarette at me.

“Take them all. I don’t want no trouble. "

“But you just found trouble,” Chucho replied, grabbing the six-pack of beer from my hands. He cracked one open, took a drink, and poured the rest of it on the pavement.

“Hey, Chavala, nice hat,” Pollo Loco said, taking off my derby and putting it on sideways. He danced behind me, taunting me as I tried to leave.

“Descuéntatelo,” Chucho screamed. “Fuck him up, man! Fuck that bum up, bitch!”

He threw me to the ground and I cowered. I asked them not to hurt me, but they wouldn’t listen. I told them no trouble!

A man named Guero pulled out a knife and was soon on top of me, the knife inches from my neck and face.

“Kill him,” Chucho said. “You don’t have the balls, Guero! No balls.”

As he looked away and smiled at the other Latino gang members, I jammed my fingers into his throat and pulled out his adam’s apple. Blood and slimy cartilage dripped down my hand.