The Parrot’s Last Words

Thwack!

The small blue rubber handball smacked the wall, fell to the asphalt and bounced. An inmate slapped it. The handball soared at high speeds, smacked against the wall and thwacked again.

Thwack!

Perico was next in line—white state-issued T, blue state-issued shorts, black state-issued low-top All-Star Chuck-wannabes and a pair of tortoise-shell Ray-Bans, non-state-issued. Huero tapped him on the shoulder and pulled him out.

“Hey! I was next…”

“Shut the fuck up, Perico. Jojo wants to chat.”

Huero led him around the corner where Jojo and Cisco waited.

Mary Wells wailed about having two lovers from a boom box amid the cacophony of dozens of inmates and the thwacks of the handball. Night yard at Calipatria State Prison was in full session. Five-hundred inmates scattered across B-Yard under the watch of an armed correctional officer on the west side, twenty-five feet above the chow hall.

Cisco flicked a cigarette, spat through clenched teeth and said from behind a pair of black Ray-Bans, “where’s the stash?” Sculpted arms that asserted gang allegiances under heavy ink sprouted from Cisco’s fitted wife-beater.

“Please…” Perico addressed Jojo, who, like Cisco, hid his eyes behind black Ray-Bans. He wore a light-blue state-issued shirt, neatly buttoned and creased and, in spite California’s low-desert’s outrageous heat, held a coffee tumbler.

“Ey, foo!” Cisco grabbed a handful of Perico’s ear and shook him. Perico’s tortoise-shell Ray-Bans flew off. “I’m the one talking here. Jojo don’t give a mad fuck about you right now!”

“Please, Jojo.”

“Look at’im, Cisco, fucker don’t listen,” Huero spat, his copper eyes hidden behind a pair of maddoggers. His tank-top also wrapped around a lean physique. The lack of fat created artistic and geometric lines around it. “I say we pack him and roll him up…got his ticket here.” He patted his pocket and…

Smack!

“Ow!”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Jojo silently took a sip.

“You were given the task of holding the carga while Building Six was on lock-down…”

“That’s it!”

“Now, it’s been two days that we’ve been released and what? You avoid us?”

“Chale, foo!”

Cisco pushed him away and released Perico’s ear. Huero grabbed the other, pulled him towards him and whispered, “you’re fucking up, homeboy.” He released him and…smack!

“Damn, foo! You don’t have to slap me like that. I’m not your bitch…”

Smack!

“Okay..okay…”

Jojo took another sip.

“Look, Perico, I’m not gonna ask you again…where the fuck is it?” Cisco said.

More silence.

“You fucking used it, didn’t you?”

“This motherfuck…”

“Let me see your arms.” Cisco clutched Perico’s arm.

“Ow…ow…”

“Holy-mother-of-god…”

Huero pierced Perico with a line of sight that skittered the top of his maddoggers. “Are you kidding, bro? You slamming again?”

“Chale!” Cisco released him.

“Look, fellas, I know it looks bad…”

“Damn right it looks bad,” Cisco said. “Whatta you think, Huero?”

“I’d say it looks hella bad for this motherfucker.”

“Look, I fucked up. I know but, please.”

“Shut up!”

“I don’t want my name on no piece of paper, please!”

“Shut your fucking mouth!”

“I can repay…”

Cisco interrupted Perico’s pleas with the back of his hand.

“Shut the fuck up, homes.”

“You can’t be trusted no more…”

Red sap drained from Perico’s lip.

The handball said, thwack.

“C-C-Cisco?”

Thwack!

“Hu-Hu-Huero?”

Huero winked, puckered his lips and blew Perico a silent kiss with a nod.

“J-J-Jojo?”

Thwack! Again.

Cisco’s black Ray-Bans met Jojo’s in the ultimate Ray-Ban-showdown. “Jo, may I?”

Perico pleaded, “No—no…”

Huero said, “ciao!”

And Jojo whispered, for the first time, “go for it, mijo!”

“Nononono…”

“Fuck you, Perico!”

Jojo sidestepped, smashing Perico’s tortoise-shell sunglasses—crunch.

Two sharp metal objects made their public appearance.

“Yeah,” Jojo muttered and sipped his coffee. “Fuck you, Parrot.”

The brutal attack began its premiere and reflected on Jojo’s dark lenses like an R-rated film.

Thwack!

Bio: J. Marquez Jr. is a writer of sharp-toothed short stories and cryptic poetry solely for ravens. He lives in Los Angeles. One can find some of his riffraff on recent issues of The Literary Hatchet and The Yard: Crime Blog.