I don’t know what day it is, so I ain’t saying the days. Just marking how many I think I’ve been here. I’m going to keep a journal like something outta that Star Trek shit with the vatos in weird pajamas… I had to stop and whistle the tune, but that doesn’t mean I watch it. No que no.
So, yo. It’s me. Carlos Antonio Marin aka Dopey, the guy they think got dead by aliens.
It was a night like any other in Lincoln Park. The sounds of the drums, pounding feet and chachayotes filled the small gym, but soon the tired Aztec dancers streamed out, got into their cars and left. The park was quiet except for the occasional cricket and the sound of the freight trains pushing through the tracks on Valley Boulevard.
The last taco stand shut down for the night and a group of cholos from across the tracks gathered in the now-still park eating chile relleno burritos, drinking some Coronas and just hanging. If you were looking, you would occasionally see the flare of a lighter or the red-tipped ash of a cigarette illuminating one of the guy’s faces. Handsome young men, all of them, with the stances of Aztec warriors of old.
They were fierce and dangerous looking to some, comforting and homey to others.
The aliens above watched from their strangely shaped ship wondering what manner of creature these tattooed, brown gods were…or so they seemed to the tiny and bent luminescent creatures invading their planet with destruction in mind. To their race, only gods were tall.