Cerromar

I’m in the back of Bondy’s Civic, getting high in the parking lot at Plaza, when my beeper starts to beep.

“I bet it’s Karla,” I tell Bondy.

“Me lo pico,” Bondy says.

Guille starts laughing, and I grab the beeper and look at the screen. “911,” it says, along with the number for the Last Trolley Inn.

“No,” I say. “It’s a different bitch.”

“Who?” Bondy says.

“Some bitch you don’t know.”