Talon's Beak:

Hola, amigos! It's your boy, Tláloc, but please call me Talon. My grandpa said I needed an 'outlet for my feelings', so I started a blog. Now you guys can read about my awesome adventures! Just kidding, my life's pretty normal. For the most part.
I've been staying in Mexico the past few months, thanks to my grandpa's sister, who's lending us the house. Now that we have some actual family to talk to, I've been learning a LOT. Auntie, Uncle, my little cousins, and many more. Only thing is, it's winter, so where are they? Brazil. Go figure, the place is twenty-five degrees celsius in December and they wanna go "somewhere warm". I've always felt alone, up in Mexico. Just me and dad, all by our lonesome, then dad got time for doing basically nothing wrong (see you next year, dad). Then it was me, grandpa, and the empty leather armchair where grandma used to sit (rest in peace). Got too big for Calciro, I guess, cause all the bullies teamed up and came after me. I kicked ALL their asses, flat over. Didn't make a lot of friends that way. The girls were stuck up, too. No fun at all.
But I'm here, and I found out most of my relatives (that I actually care about, sorry) live in San Muerte, and all over the east coast of Meh-hi-co. It's so beautiful here. The sun is always shining. The water is blue as diamonds, and clean. Grandpa said not to drink it, but come on... that week I spent in the bathroom was my 'initiation'. Or so I thought.

See, there's a lot of crime here in San Muerte. The city's name means "Saint Death". That should tell you enough. It wasn't long before I got involved with the wrong crowd, started smoking, started dealing. It's easier here to be a criminal than an upstanding citizen, the way things work. Sure, tourists come see the beaches, they piss around in the sand that's soft as snow, leave trash in it for us to step in later. They live in the fancy hotels, they drive rental cars, they go see the "nice" areas. But not where I live. Where the houses are stacked on top of one another sideways, and everyone knows what everyone is cooking. They only shop in these stores if they're lost. They don't even carry the right money, half the time. It's like most of the city is for these drifters, and we're just here to bust up for grease to keep the gears turning.
But, it's not all bad. For one thing, above the line, there's some VERY breathtaking internationals... with surprisingly relaxed border patrol, if you catch my drift. I've kissed at least six girls since coming here, all from different continents. No 'luck' yet, but it won't be long. My quinceañero is next month, and I'm getting pretty tall. My muscles are bigger, too. All this work.

Speaking of, though. Below the line, underground: tourists don't go there, not usually. That's all local industry. Sure, white couples with pearly teeth buy weed and blacker persuasions of 'recreationals' for their 'conditions'. Sometimes they ask for girls and boys, but San Muerte doesn't sell its children. "Not for sale, hombre," my buddy says. Too many parents with shotguns who grew up that way, and don't want the same for their kids. There was a legendary stand-off against the cartel, and the San Muerte citizens won. You don't mess with them, because they're still around today, just older. It does, however, lend out its ladies and gents, but everyone knows that. It's been legal since the three-thousands, here. That's not for me, I want to earn my love, not pay for it. Also, my buddy says I'm too young. Says he paid for it at my age and it messed him up, gave him a disease or something. That's crazy to me, cause those tourists look like they're having lots of fun, and they come back all the time. The ladies don't have much of a choice, but they come back too. My buddy died last week, though, so... whatever. Straw-hat, pudgy bastards in Hawaiian shirts come here and use the women like puppets, bullshit their wives about it, and the only good guy in the neighborhood dies from one time five years ago? Someone up there is having a good laugh at us, I think.
Well, without my friend, I had no hook-ups to make cash. I've been pulling odd jobs. Nothing too spicy, don't worry about me. Actually, I've been fighting.

There's something about the ring, down there. It's all pavement and metal, and all these chains and meat hooks are hanging from the ceiling. It brings out this death machine in me. It makes me remember my first human kill, and I realize all over again that I'm not afraid to do it again. Not to men like him. (You don't know who I mean, that's okay. Let's just say he deserved it and more.)
Lots of guys older than me come in to fight, some of them leave on a stretcher. They had to hire an on-site doctor cause dudes were losing money on the ambulance rides. I don't really want to break them or anything, they're just random guys trapped in the same system as the rest of us. Not worth seriously hurting. People always bet on me now, except when the other guy is bigger. I lose, sometimes. I took a dive once, too. He was three-hundred pounds, standing straight. No freaking way was I taking a hit from him. But then again, I'm not taking hits from anyone else for a while, either.
The ring got busted, and a bunch of the others ratted me out. Once they heard I was slingin', they threw my ass in the slammer. Didn't matter that I was the youngest, cause I was also the brokest. They want to pin the whole operation on me, in connection to some drug thing? Bunch of pricks. Cops took more 'winnings' that night than I did all month. I slept in a crowded cell with a bunch of buff guys sharpening glass shards. Crooked cops said nothing about it. Looks like they don't mind us killing each other or beating each other to a pulp, just as long as we pay our 'dues'. That was how I learned that I'd fallen prey to a trap I know I saw coming: wasting my time kicking my neighbor's asses instead of theirs. One day.

Well, when I woke up, the weirdest thing happened. I was in some guy's car. He'd posted bail for me, some old dude. Wouldn't talk to me in person, had me video-call him from his car, with a screen on the back of the driver's seat. Skinny as a skeleton, mustache drawn on in pencil, looked like.
He told me: "You're in my debt now. I need some work done, around the city. You're going to get cleaned up so good you sparkle, learn to speak nice and professional, make deals, and then you're going to assist my assistant."
I can't say who, but I'm helping some big-shot barely older than I am. He speaks more Spanish than I do, though, and he seems alright. His girlfriend is nice, too.

Who knows? I thought I was fucking my life up, but it looks like I'm moving in the right direction. I'll keep you bad hombres updated. Peace out!