THE ANGELES VICE

Dancing with death, part 1

"Who?"

"Her. Sitting in the bar alone. She looks like the person our boss has been complaining about. The white girl who has been stealing from us."The glass, dry against her calloused

fingertips that graze the rim but

doesn't commit to picking it up to

finish off the rum staring back at

her. She sways like a weak branch in

the wind and takes up space on the

bar stool with her broad slouched

shoulders and elbows expanded like

wings on the aged wooden bar top

that reeks of ash., cinnamon and all the

alcohol contents spilled from today's

populous party. The thick bundles of

her bold black mane hides her face

like a smothering shadow, as her

head hangs and seldom raises. No one

has a clear view of what she looks

like though anyone can see the long

Overdue ash that continues to grow

from the burning cigarette dangling From her lips. The grey guayabera shirt, larger than her appropriate size, she wears fashionably although it may as well be a rag used to clean the dirty hood of a car considering its state— and it juxtaposes the brown baggy sweatpants hanging off her dangling legs. What an unusual girl, standing out amongst the company of relatively glamorous hookers for drug dealers, as though she seeks attention on purpose but plays those around her so they see her as someone who wants to be left the f**k alone.The woman these two men speak of doesn't talk at all. In fact, the only words muttered from her were to clarify the order of her drink she'd stick to the remainder of the late night. Next to her glass of rum are planks of half-eaten avocados coated with chili flakes and juices squeezed from the lemon slices lying on a napkin, a sharp short knife with a fine leather handle, and pinchos de lomito on a small plate.untouched and no longer sizzling hot. She ignores the men sizing her up and talking at her in all kinds of crazy ways when met with her resistance and disdain. She doesn't get up and dance.to the Cumbia songs the DJ plays in the other room west of the bar, she doesn't even look up for the soccer game from earlier replaying on the old flatscreen mounted on the wall for those who missed it. Such arrogance... such disregard for life, for culture, the warm and inviting nature of the people in this country and in this barrio. And when the short, round-shaped man approaches her, matching the energy she disrespectfully exudes, she doesn't even flinch or pay him any mind. What she does do is finally ash her cigarette, light a new one, then goes back to hiding like a turtle in its shell. The clearing of his throat is distinct before he asks as a warning, "" (Who are you?) No response. His laugh is as short as his patience, as he clicks his gun that he now holds and aims at her.The man reduces the distance between them enough to catch a whiff of her entire weekend on her clothes and alcohol stronger than the one on his own breath. His nose crinkles and he sneers, no..." (This is my bar and you are a stranger here. Tell me who you are and what you are doing here. If not...)

" Put away your gun, you're not going to use it.

"Oh, sí?" he chuckles darkly and makes a point of sweeping her greasy hair behind her shoulders with the barrel of his glock. "¿Y por qué no?"He only sees the full black small tear drop tattoo directly beneath her right eye, emerald in the middle of blazing red, and lids that sink halfway. When she turns her head and meets his gaze, his smile shrinks and his eyes go wide briefly until he recovers from his shock over how stunning and captivating she is. Her features are cutting-edge, hardened and of clear Latin descent... but they are also soft in.some places like her raised cheeks and full lips that expand into a broad grin, flashing the man with bold teeth.she doesn't mind the proximity of the gun nor the onlookers that are clearly his friends who are also armed. She takes a pull of the cigarette and exhales the smoke into his face when she says: " (Because we are friends)

"friends?" his eyes turn to slits and a crease forms between his brows. He c***s his head and smiles again, wagging a finger at her. " (You are not from Colombia,I don't know you and you are not a friend of mine." "But yes! Of course, I know you, my brother!"the pale woman drags out her words with glee as she waves her arm around and transforms into a drunk who has no familiarity with misery, no concept of strangers or personal space. " (But yes! Of course I know you, my brother! Did you forget me already? I don't believe you.)

The man scratches his thick curlybrown hair as he side-eyes his hired guns eyeballing the situation with their hands resting close to their concealed pistols at the front of their pants. Those not associated with the cartel in this city and just came to party mind their business and carry on dancing, pursuing one another as though the cartel did not exist in this bar, and there exists no threat to spoil the fun. However...there, another woman, a stranger called Sasha Morí, lurking just south of the bar,has the front-row seat to the potential bloodbath as she sips her fruity cocktail while observing and increasing her awareness of her surroundings. She is also another one to ignore the plenty propositions from the notorious criminals of Medellin tonight, only she did so politely and with the promise that she'd at least think about reconsidering as the night progresses. She is young, slim, sun-kissed, well-groomed, and best dressed. She blends in with the other girls with the exception of her face.