in Fuck-My-Sister, New Mexico and there’s a guy named Carlos leaning on the shoulder of a fat black guy, over by the far wall away from the bars. I surmise that his name is Carlos by the text tattooed on his chest, big letters that run from one collarbone to the other. It occurs to me that maybe Carlos isn’t his name. Maybe he’s gay and Carlos is his lover, or it could be that Carlos was shot up in a drive-by and this guy wears his name by way of an epitaph. Maybe it was his brother. But since that’s the only label this guy’s wearing, I’m gonna him call him by that.

So Carlos is leaning on the shoulder of this fat guy and he’s saying a lot, too quietly for me to hear. The fat guy is sweating like a hog so that the only part of his pale tan T-shirt that hasn’t gone brown with the wet of it is a thin strip across his chest, same place Carlos wears his tattoo, and another spot of narrowing dry between his heavy man-breasts. Whatever Carlos is saying to him appears to be of concern to myself to judge by the way Fat Guy’s eyes flicker toward me every thirty seconds, shifting away and then back again like flies whipped off a horse’s ass.

It’s hot as fuck in here and I’m thinking whoever made this place deserves an award from the Dante Alighieri School for Hellhole Design, which makes me smile and earns me the consequence of having Carlos stop speaking to Fat Guy and stare at me hard in the eyes.

He’s shirtless and there’s other tattoos too, all home-done, the only professional one being ‘Carlos’. I’m leaning toward gang member or brother now; cousin, someone worth the money. Man’d have be pretty fucking vain to get his own name tattooed on himself like that. He’s staring at me like a dog stares you down right before it bites. I stare back, thinking ‘Here we go, Gangrel me old geezer, shiv in the spine quick as look at ya, so best you don’t turn your arse around.’ Why I’m thinking in Cockney dialect, I’ll never know. Probably picked it up from some Michael Caine movie. Fuck I love that man.

Fat Guy looks up at Carlos and then decides to stare at me too. I see this in my peripheral vision, something I’ve learned to employ to my advantage. People expect that if you’re looking at one thing intently enough, you are not going to notice the minutia of what else is going on and if they’re being guarded will often let that guard down and let you see things they’re in the habit of keeping hidden.

Fat Guy, for example. He’s just a fat guy, a jolly roly-poly jolly fat guy, chubbyunderdog, positioned third below the top dog for being such a stand-up jolly guy and maybe his cousin’s best friend in grade school or some shit. The Fat Guy’s big, but he won't pull a gun on you or jab his thumbs through your eyesockets.

But while me and Carlos are eyelocked, I see his face shift. Fat Guy looks up to see what Carlos is looking at and then looks at me, and in that moment I work out that he is the one to watch here. Carlos is a dopey pup in contrast. It’s like an old devil-snake got pumped full of air like an inner tube and while it’s looking out through the eye-folds in a face that resembles some sweaty, overstuffed leather armchair, those eyes are still the eyes of a snake that’s planning on killing you, and waiting for you just set your foot in the wrong place to do it. Meanwhile, I’m staring at Carlos. He’s got real cordy arms; that lean, mean Latino thing goin’ on.

Plan A: take Carlos out quick if and when he jumps and then move and keep moving, because sure as shit Fat Guy is quicker on his feet than he looks. He’s got pretty small feet for a big man. Lot of obese folks have that; probably just a matter of perspective more than a physiology.

Plan B: well there's no plan B as yet, which is a shame because plan A seems kind of lame if I take into account the fact that this is my first time waking up with a hangover in a cell with a gangbanger and a devil-snake that's masquerading as the Pillsbury Doughboy’s African-American cousin. Carlos’ left eye twitches. I can hear the theme from the Good, The Bad and the Ugly whistlin’ through my head. Carlos gets to be the Ugly but only because I ain’t taking it and Fat Guy is most definitely the Bad one here.

And here comes Carlos, and behind him rolls the shadow of that inflated devil-snake all jigglin’ and not too jolly and I can feel its eyes burning through Carlos’ flesh just so can feel he’s got to me first.

I’m gonna be hurt but I won’t die. My gut’s a vat of moonshine barrel scrapings gone bad. Likely better I stop indulgin’ in them benders, innit guv’na?