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These two dudes were a riot. First to introduce himself was the cocky, Native American Cisco with the chiseled cheekbones and short ponytail, the oldest of the L.A. group in his early thirties. Then there was wisecracking Danilo from the Philippines, totally tatted up with a shaved head and built like an MMA fighter.
As they toured me around upstairs, the men peppered me with questions: which demons had been hardest to kill, what my first gig as lead Rasha had been, and what I’d been doing when my power manifested.
Cisco was bent double over the kitchen counter, howling with laughter at my hand job story, while Danilo rooted through the fridge proclaiming that we were going to need more beer.
“Chama, you’re going to fit in fine with this bunch,” said a male voice with a Spanish acce
