lil locote X3
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It all started in the east side of Los Angeles, a young boy strutted the barren streets late at night. His name was Carlos Torres, a young chicano boy aged fifteen. Though at first glance he appeared much older, he was rather tall for his age, about six feet, a black mosaic of various tattoos forged on his hands and arms, and a clear sullen face, his bright brown eyes always veiled by a fitted cap or toque as if he was neglected from the world, or perhaps had something to hide. The way he would talk, his swagger and his striking appearance, you'd think he was much older than fifteen. They say he was a boy with the mind of a twenty-five year old, he most definitely matured early. Perhaps reality had smacked him real hard in the face one day.
Carlos lived with his father and his older cousin, Antonio. His mother and twin brother, who he had only knew when they were months old, left when Carlos was far to young to remember, he hadn't seen them since. his father Ernesto Torres was a rabid dheroin addict, wasting pay cheque, after pay cheque to support a costly habit. One day strung out on, Ernesto shot himself in front of then five-year old Carlos. His cousin Antonio walked in and found young Carlos weeping in a pool of blood urging, begging his father's limp corpse to wake up.
Antonio was six year's older than Carlos, he lived with the family before Carlos was even born, but he was the bigger brother Carlos never met. Antonio was eleven at the time, he grabbed Carlos and they went to live with a boy they knew as Smokey, he was nineteen and always watched over Antonio, he was more than willing to offer the devastated children his apartment. Smokey had dollars, and plenty of them, he dealt drugs and was part of the neighborhood Sureno gang. There, for ten years, Carlos and Antonio grew up, learning everything they needed to know about living on their own, eventually, when Antonio was seventeen he became part of the Surenos, and Carlos idolized him, he wanted to be just like him, everything he did, the way he dressed to the way he talked. Four years later Carlos grew up, he wasn't a part of the gang yet, but he was always around. The older members said he was to young, to timid, and Carlos always sought out to prove them
wrong.
The Surenos were like a family to Carlos, they gave him everything he needed, but he only wanted to be with the gang. He had nothing else in this world but his pride and his word, and he felt like he had something to prove to his brothers. And sooner or later he would have to, the set told Carlos to kill a member of the Nortenos. Carlos wished there was another way, the thought of killing someone always crossed his mind, but even he felt he was to young to do it. But this was something he inevitably had to face, he dreaded the day, but it was time to man up.
Earlier that night, The Surenos were all smoking, having some drinks in the parking lot outside the 7/11, which was their usual hang out.
"Alright vatos, we have some issues to address,"
Antonio yelled over the distant chatter of the crew, silence fell and everyone listened.
"Tonight...little Carlito will earn his stripes,"
Antonio went on as the crew jeered and egged on Carlos.
"Alright, alright, quiet!"
Silence once again as Antonio spoke as he got up from the curb and walked towards Carlos and sat beside him.
"We've been through lots lil' vato. But...tonight, you become a man"
Carlos expression was serious as he knew what was coming, he felt a little ill to the stomach as Antonio reached into his jacket and pulled out a sleek black .9mm pistol. Antonio stared in his eyes.
"There are some Nortenos up on 3rd,"
Antonio continued still holding on to the gun.
"There's about three or four... trucha carnal, i hear one of them is looking for you."
Antonio still held the gun, Carlos' heart raced, he stared at the gun in his cousin's tatted hand.
"Pick one off...that's all."
Antonio finally placed the gun into Carlos' sweating hand. Carlos stared at the weapon in his hand for a moment, then raised his head at Antonio, his straight face worked up a smirk.
"I know you can do this...we'll see you in the morning."
Antonio gave his last words of encouragement to the boy. As Carlos got up, he was extremely light headed, he felt the blood rushing to his head and his heart beat painfully. He couldn't swallow, like his throat had knotted in his neck. Carlos breathed deeply as he walked the road by his lonesome. He walked the familiar streets of where he had grown up, the graffiti on the cement walls brought back memories of a younger Carlos. The warm wind ruffled the soaring palm trees high above in the night sky, muffled sirens in the distance. It sure appeared to be just another night in the varrio. after about five minutes of walking Carlos found himself on 2nd street, an old impala pulled up next to Carlos, he kept his cool, he knew it was just the 2nd Street Surenos, just another set from south Cali.
"Eh lil' homey, watchu up to so late at night?"
A face appeared from the passenger side of the car, Carlos recognized him as one of the older Surenos.
"Nada, just takin' a walk. Watchu up to?"
Carlos replied.
"Yeah well, watch your back eh, I hear there's some Norputo's 'round."
"Yeah I know, it's all good. If you're lookin' for Antonio and all them, they're chillin' down by the 7/11"
Carlos didn't want to tell anyone what he was up to, he felt a little relieved as they drove off. He continued towards 3rd Street and came upon the brick auto shop on the corner of 2nd. It wasn't a special building, but continuing to the alley behind the store, there was this great frieze rendering Jesus Christ, there was small array of miniscule candles spread in the alley. This was a landmark all to familiar to Carlos, he came here every year on the day of his father's death, and just sat there drinking away the pain. Carlos stared up at the Lord's poignant eyes, he reached in his shirt and drew a platinum crucifix that dangled from his neck, he clenched it in his fist for a few moments before walking away to meet his destiny.
This was it, 3rd street, His black hooded sweatshirt underneath his jacket draped over his eyes he jerked his neck around both directions for any sign of the Nortenos, his chains unpleasantly frigid around his neck. His left hand stroking the smooth handle of the .9mm concealed in the front his Dickeys. Carlos peeled his black corduroy jacket back and glanced at his gold watch on his shaking forearm. 2:10 am, still no one. Carlos contemplated turning back, only to answer to the voice inside his head, the voice that Carlos turned to for advice, the voice that consumed him like the addiction that killed his father. The voice that told him to stay... perhaps it was to late to turn back now, he was to deep into the gangster lifestyle he fantasized about. He stared up at the night sky, usually scrambled with stars as if someone had taken a paintbrush and flicked the bristles with white on a dark canvas, but not tonight, it was pitch black, and a few dim street light provided a welcoming light for Carlos. He glanced at his watch one last time, 2:12am... Carlos exhaled slowly. Finally, a figure emerged into a street light, Carlos clenched the gun tightly, so tight it was hurting, his mind raced, and it felt like there was a drum roll in his chest Carlos stared at his shoes, breathing as if he had run a marathon. The Norteno approached him, his eyes were shaded by a sagging red bandanna, and a red hooded jacket, a neatly trimmed goatee grazed his young face. He eyed young Carlos, it was a good thing he was wearing all black,
"Hey," he said, "You know a Carlos Torres living round here?"
he asked, Carlos gave him a cold look, for some reason his heart stood completely still and the nerves had vanished.
"What's it to you, chavala?"
Carlos replied.
" Well, when you see him..." The young man said. he reached into his pocket, time stood still Carlos closed his eyes, his mind racing once again. A gunshot shattered the late night tranquility. He stood holding the gun at arms length, the Norteno fell limp, He knew what he had done. His mind calm once again.
Carlos felt strong, standing alone on the dark street. He turned away triumphantly, but he felt like he had to take the weapon the Norteno was about to pull on him, so he stood beside the body and reached into his pocket, but it wasn't a gun he found, it was a letter. He unfolded it, as he read it he began to cringe and shake uncontrollably, his face was as if he just seen a ghost, Carlos dropped to his knees, his shaking hand reached up and pulled the hood off the body, Carlos looked mortified as he looked into the boy's face only to see his own, the same bright eyes now pale and lifeless. His whole world stopped he couldn't even contemplate, he dropped the birth certificate that read 'Jose Martin Torres' Carlos looked at his own cold pale hands screaming and crying, what had he done? Familiar feelings resurfaced of when his father had taken his life, like nothing else mattered, the drugs the money, it was all meaningless now. Darkness cast itself upon his conscience, at that moment he truly felt what it was like to be abandoned and cold. Like an angel from heaven that descended from the top, to become but a demon to wallow in the plague of sins and malevolence. As he clenched his crucifix, he looked skyward for a sign, but only felt the devil respond because god wasn't there. Carlos screamed and cried uncontrollably as held his brother's head in his arms and looked down the streets for help, there was nothing but darkness. He lowered his head and peeled the cross from his neck and placed it on his brother's cold chest as he grabbed the gun and felt the cold nozzle up against his temple, his hands shaking, his cold eyes red; swollen from tears. He pulled the trigger and ended his life, cold, lonely...soulless.
Carlos lived with his father and his older cousin, Antonio. His mother and twin brother, who he had only knew when they were months old, left when Carlos was far to young to remember, he hadn't seen them since. his father Ernesto Torres was a rabid dheroin addict, wasting pay cheque, after pay cheque to support a costly habit. One day strung out on, Ernesto shot himself in front of then five-year old Carlos. His cousin Antonio walked in and found young Carlos weeping in a pool of blood urging, begging his father's limp corpse to wake up.
Antonio was six year's older than Carlos, he lived with the family before Carlos was even born, but he was the bigger brother Carlos never met. Antonio was eleven at the time, he grabbed Carlos and they went to live with a boy they knew as Smokey, he was nineteen and always watched over Antonio, he was more than willing to offer the devastated children his apartment. Smokey had dollars, and plenty of them, he dealt drugs and was part of the neighborhood Sureno gang. There, for ten years, Carlos and Antonio grew up, learning everything they needed to know about living on their own, eventually, when Antonio was seventeen he became part of the Surenos, and Carlos idolized him, he wanted to be just like him, everything he did, the way he dressed to the way he talked. Four years later Carlos grew up, he wasn't a part of the gang yet, but he was always around. The older members said he was to young, to timid, and Carlos always sought out to prove them
wrong.
The Surenos were like a family to Carlos, they gave him everything he needed, but he only wanted to be with the gang. He had nothing else in this world but his pride and his word, and he felt like he had something to prove to his brothers. And sooner or later he would have to, the set told Carlos to kill a member of the Nortenos. Carlos wished there was another way, the thought of killing someone always crossed his mind, but even he felt he was to young to do it. But this was something he inevitably had to face, he dreaded the day, but it was time to man up.
Earlier that night, The Surenos were all smoking, having some drinks in the parking lot outside the 7/11, which was their usual hang out.
"Alright vatos, we have some issues to address,"
Antonio yelled over the distant chatter of the crew, silence fell and everyone listened.
"Tonight...little Carlito will earn his stripes,"
Antonio went on as the crew jeered and egged on Carlos.
"Alright, alright, quiet!"
Silence once again as Antonio spoke as he got up from the curb and walked towards Carlos and sat beside him.
"We've been through lots lil' vato. But...tonight, you become a man"
Carlos expression was serious as he knew what was coming, he felt a little ill to the stomach as Antonio reached into his jacket and pulled out a sleek black .9mm pistol. Antonio stared in his eyes.
"There are some Nortenos up on 3rd,"
Antonio continued still holding on to the gun.
"There's about three or four... trucha carnal, i hear one of them is looking for you."
Antonio still held the gun, Carlos' heart raced, he stared at the gun in his cousin's tatted hand.
"Pick one off...that's all."
Antonio finally placed the gun into Carlos' sweating hand. Carlos stared at the weapon in his hand for a moment, then raised his head at Antonio, his straight face worked up a smirk.
"I know you can do this...we'll see you in the morning."
Antonio gave his last words of encouragement to the boy. As Carlos got up, he was extremely light headed, he felt the blood rushing to his head and his heart beat painfully. He couldn't swallow, like his throat had knotted in his neck. Carlos breathed deeply as he walked the road by his lonesome. He walked the familiar streets of where he had grown up, the graffiti on the cement walls brought back memories of a younger Carlos. The warm wind ruffled the soaring palm trees high above in the night sky, muffled sirens in the distance. It sure appeared to be just another night in the varrio. after about five minutes of walking Carlos found himself on 2nd street, an old impala pulled up next to Carlos, he kept his cool, he knew it was just the 2nd Street Surenos, just another set from south Cali.
"Eh lil' homey, watchu up to so late at night?"
A face appeared from the passenger side of the car, Carlos recognized him as one of the older Surenos.
"Nada, just takin' a walk. Watchu up to?"
Carlos replied.
"Yeah well, watch your back eh, I hear there's some Norputo's 'round."
"Yeah I know, it's all good. If you're lookin' for Antonio and all them, they're chillin' down by the 7/11"
Carlos didn't want to tell anyone what he was up to, he felt a little relieved as they drove off. He continued towards 3rd Street and came upon the brick auto shop on the corner of 2nd. It wasn't a special building, but continuing to the alley behind the store, there was this great frieze rendering Jesus Christ, there was small array of miniscule candles spread in the alley. This was a landmark all to familiar to Carlos, he came here every year on the day of his father's death, and just sat there drinking away the pain. Carlos stared up at the Lord's poignant eyes, he reached in his shirt and drew a platinum crucifix that dangled from his neck, he clenched it in his fist for a few moments before walking away to meet his destiny.
This was it, 3rd street, His black hooded sweatshirt underneath his jacket draped over his eyes he jerked his neck around both directions for any sign of the Nortenos, his chains unpleasantly frigid around his neck. His left hand stroking the smooth handle of the .9mm concealed in the front his Dickeys. Carlos peeled his black corduroy jacket back and glanced at his gold watch on his shaking forearm. 2:10 am, still no one. Carlos contemplated turning back, only to answer to the voice inside his head, the voice that Carlos turned to for advice, the voice that consumed him like the addiction that killed his father. The voice that told him to stay... perhaps it was to late to turn back now, he was to deep into the gangster lifestyle he fantasized about. He stared up at the night sky, usually scrambled with stars as if someone had taken a paintbrush and flicked the bristles with white on a dark canvas, but not tonight, it was pitch black, and a few dim street light provided a welcoming light for Carlos. He glanced at his watch one last time, 2:12am... Carlos exhaled slowly. Finally, a figure emerged into a street light, Carlos clenched the gun tightly, so tight it was hurting, his mind raced, and it felt like there was a drum roll in his chest Carlos stared at his shoes, breathing as if he had run a marathon. The Norteno approached him, his eyes were shaded by a sagging red bandanna, and a red hooded jacket, a neatly trimmed goatee grazed his young face. He eyed young Carlos, it was a good thing he was wearing all black,
"Hey," he said, "You know a Carlos Torres living round here?"
he asked, Carlos gave him a cold look, for some reason his heart stood completely still and the nerves had vanished.
"What's it to you, chavala?"
Carlos replied.
" Well, when you see him..." The young man said. he reached into his pocket, time stood still Carlos closed his eyes, his mind racing once again. A gunshot shattered the late night tranquility. He stood holding the gun at arms length, the Norteno fell limp, He knew what he had done. His mind calm once again.
Carlos felt strong, standing alone on the dark street. He turned away triumphantly, but he felt like he had to take the weapon the Norteno was about to pull on him, so he stood beside the body and reached into his pocket, but it wasn't a gun he found, it was a letter. He unfolded it, as he read it he began to cringe and shake uncontrollably, his face was as if he just seen a ghost, Carlos dropped to his knees, his shaking hand reached up and pulled the hood off the body, Carlos looked mortified as he looked into the boy's face only to see his own, the same bright eyes now pale and lifeless. His whole world stopped he couldn't even contemplate, he dropped the birth certificate that read 'Jose Martin Torres' Carlos looked at his own cold pale hands screaming and crying, what had he done? Familiar feelings resurfaced of when his father had taken his life, like nothing else mattered, the drugs the money, it was all meaningless now. Darkness cast itself upon his conscience, at that moment he truly felt what it was like to be abandoned and cold. Like an angel from heaven that descended from the top, to become but a demon to wallow in the plague of sins and malevolence. As he clenched his crucifix, he looked skyward for a sign, but only felt the devil respond because god wasn't there. Carlos screamed and cried uncontrollably as held his brother's head in his arms and looked down the streets for help, there was nothing but darkness. He lowered his head and peeled the cross from his neck and placed it on his brother's cold chest as he grabbed the gun and felt the cold nozzle up against his temple, his hands shaking, his cold eyes red; swollen from tears. He pulled the trigger and ended his life, cold, lonely...soulless.
and then carlos kills him self how sad
