Andy looks over his shoulder.

– What’s it say?

– Chupacabre. It’s like a Mexican demon.

Paul picks up a box cutter from the floor and slips the blade in and out.

– Fuckin’ bike thieves still suck no matter how good they put shit back together.

George takes a look at the yellow bike with the chopped forks.

He points.

– The blue flames are rad.

Paul clicks the box cutter all the way open.

– We should trash that shit.

Andy looks at his own piece of shit bike and then at the two works of art.

– What?

– We should trash ’em. Teach the Arroyos’ a fuckin’ lesson for stealin’ bikes.

He takes a step toward the BMX chopper, box cutter in his hand.

Andy gets in front of him.

– No, man, leave ’em alone.

Paul points the cutter at Andy’s bike.

– Fuck do you care? They would have done that shit to your bike, chopped it up and used it for someone else. ’Cept your bike is so lame they probably only could of used like the sprocket or a couple spokes. They stole your bike, man. Let’s do something about it. Don’t puss out.

– I’m not pussing, I just. You know, we should just get out anyway, they’re gonna be back.

– Fuck that. They stole your bike, we’re not going anywhere until we do something about it.

Paul’s voice is rising, his face turning red.

Andy sees him wince.

– You OK?

Paul closes his eyes.

He breathes. He turns his back to his friends, lets his mouth drop open, relaxes the muscles in his neck.

He dreams.

He’s dreaming about Chargers and GTOs and Mustangs. He’s dreaming about driving. He’s dreaming about the four of them piled into a black ’72 fastback with red detailed louvers over the sloped rear window and a fat yellow racing stripe down the middle of the hood. Dreaming about laying rubber out the exit of the bowling alley. Dreaming about speeding after a European sports car full of fucking jocks and cutting it off and piling out the doors and fucking them up because they can’t just drive away after they scream shit at them on the sidewalk. About nailing chicks in the backseat.