Broad daylight. Dusk. 3:00 AM. Somebody is taking down those who run los masajes, one well-placed bullet at a time. The subway fare went up again. Tortillas too. Do you know who sells the best pozole in this town? The chicas keep giving servicios. The tipos keep paying. A bullet has the last word.
"Do you remember their faces," he asked.
"Do you remember ours," she replied.
There's a side to the city that thrives on anonymity. It's the place folks go when they can't find what they're looking for anywhere else. They get what they come for. They go back for more. The only things real are the stains on the sheets and a handful of bills carefully folded up at the bottom of her purse.
Monterrey, centro. Somebody is taking down those who run los masajes, one well-placed bullet at a time. Gets a paragraph on page eight.
The chicas still have bills to pay. The tipos still stand in the door. The sign outside says "UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT." And somebody still has a job to do.
You're here to count the hours and the lana. You can clean the john at the end of the shift and mop the floor. There's only one thing you can't do...
Deck for representation. 14 screens. Condom required.
The cop. The bus driver. The reporter. The priest. The delivery-boy. The worker from Agua y Drenaje. The homeless man.
They pay to be something they're not.
The chicas call this jale a trampolín. Suddenly, things are within reach.
A third of her life she's spent in places like this. Ask her and she'll tell you...
"Era necesario."
"If you want to understand México, understand this. If your daddy is rich, you will be rich, and your son will be rich. If your daddy is poor, you will be poor, and your son will be poor. Survival is the one thing you have to be proud of."
The exploitation of men's sexual appetites like the commodification of women's bodies is a key feature of the hellscape here. Call it the glue that holds everything together. Call it the grease that makes the system work.
Not Amores perros. Not a "hero's journey" or a "whodunit." Not a rescue fantasy.
It's a parade of men and a bucketful of used condoms. It's a stain you can't wash out. It's a killer you'll agree with.
Literary fiction manuscript. Adaptable to screen and stage. Inspired by streets you can find on a map and lives that are invisible.
"...calm down dick head stop this bullshit you don't know who you're messing with I'm not gonna tell you twice..."
"...stay away from my girls asshole if you don't wanna end up in pieces in a cooler and your face on the poster of the disappeared..."
¡Pásele, caballero! ¡Pásele! Aquí están las chicas.
Go out and blow some motherfuckers away.