– This, ese? I drop it I might bend it or some shit.

– Fucking drop it, pussy.

– Pussy?

He looks over the roof of the car at his brother.

– Yo, vato. Called me a pussy over here. Thinks he can get away with that shit.

Fernando kicks George again.

– This one don’t say shit.

– What you gonna do to him?

Fernando hits the joint, flicks the roach away, and gestures at Timo.

– Stick me up, joven.

Timo joins his brother, reaches into the car, and brings out a green and gold minibat from an A’s game and gives it to his brother.

– Here, bro. Bust him up.

– Gonna bust him. Gonna break his head.

He raises the bat.

Ramon nods, looks back at Paul.

– I’m gonna cut this one, cut his dick off.

He takes a firmer grip on the saw, slashes it through the air a couple times.

– Cut that shit off so Timo can bounce his futbol off it whenever he wants.

Timo giggles.

– Cool.

Paul goes for Ramon’s face.

Two handfuls of rocks pepper the back end of the Impala, pocking and scratching the flawless gold flecked deep burgundy paint job.

Tableau.

George on his back in the street. Fernando over him, bat raised to smash into his face. Timo behind him, leaning in to get a better view. Paul ready to seize Ramon’s throat. Ramon ready to scythe Paul’s fingers off.

All of them, their heads turned, looking at Andy, fifteen feet behind the car, hyperventilating, Hector next to him.

Fernando tilts his head back and screams at the sky.

– My car!

Tableau broken.

Hector flings the eighteen inches of bike chain he’s held bundled in his hand. It smashes into the rear window of the Impala, wedging itself in its own hole.