The bus gimp scurried between the narrow isles collecting his cheese with perfect instinct. With chicken-bus-salsa loud enough to be heard over all, the universe obeys it’s rhythm. Jarring potholes, jiggling jowls, swaying tassels, sleeping babies heads, dog teats, tiendas, Fincas, roadside trees, chattersqueal brakes, and rust-roof shacks; each keeping time with the master. Perfumed by diesel exhaust and sweat, with death wish precision the bus careens through turns capable of making kamikazes bed-wetters.       Tonight I’ll assassinate the heart of a girl who’s folly was to whisper “I love you” on the second date. Passing the crowds on the cobblestone I start to plot the plot, she doesn’t speak much English and my Spanish is equal to the babbling of an un-potty-trained chimp. This hit will be a tricky one considering the inevitable lack of conversation. Upon arrival at the pre-crime scene I was greeted with two fold failure; I was a whole day early and she wasn’t even there. Instead a small Guatemalan woman was there sitting behind her desk. Her hair was pulled back; she had glasses, dark eyes, and was dressed in standard conservative retail uniform. She said the shift would change in 20 minutes and to check back then. I left to central park to spend my last 20 minutes of premeditation. The four stone maidens of the fountain welcomed me with warm blank stares, breasts in hand, naked and undaunted by the passing gawkers, weekend photo journalists, porn obsessed shoeshine boys, and the admiration of false-insight hippies. () I circled the park once to find an empty park bench I could have to myself. In passing I saw three peculiar people talking about what appeared to be nothing at all.       The first was a young Guatemalan girl much like the one I had come to destroy. Her body wore some ill fitting black leather pants, a dark sweater and some small jewelry. Her face wore her conscience like an executioner wears his mask, with a heather-brown-smile, and the eyes of one who has convinced herself that she has exactly what she wants.       The second was a fat American man. He wore his tent-sized clothing like a body suit stretched over his massive man breasts, mammoth gut, his bag of potatoes ass. His hair was short but not too short, brown but not brown, and very greasy. He was balding in front and balding in rear, but the top was still thinly endowed and further aided by the classic comb-over. He wore a five-day beard except for his go-tee that reached halfway between his second and third chins.       The third was a young Guatemalan man. His clothes were all black and well kept to Guatemalan standards. Obviously a man who’s soul fed on his own appearance. His face wore the arrogant pride of self-lust; his head was crowned with a black and yellow baseball cap adorned in front with a brightly embroidered “P”. At last I found you, oh great prince Peno de Queso!       Finding that the park was at Fire Martial approved capacity, the only empty bench was the one directly in front of those ghosts of conscience. Being strickened with curiosity, the potential for confrontation, and the need of an empty bench; I set my mind on sitting there and observing them in the most intrusive way possible. I then sat down and began to stare into the fat mans shifting eyes, without moving or blinking, except breathing.       I envisioned the fat man would grow enraged at my piercing stares… “What’s your fucking problem man?” he said standing up, his gut bouncing like a gyroscope. He was now towering over me. I stood up smiling and let the smoke from my cigarette curl upward between my clenched teeth, burning his eyes. This man deserved no words. “What the fuck you looking at man?” he was already breathing heavily from the exertion of lifting his own mass, his breath smelled like whore-crotch, cigarettes, and garlic, I could smell stale sweat

coming from between the roles he couldn’t wash.       Without saying a word, I butted out the cherry of my cigarette on the skin just below his right eye. He reeled in pain and retaliated with a right jab. I dodged right and kicked the side of his right knee. It popped with the sound of an exploding light bulb, his knee and it’s tendons were compromised and couldn’t take the weight. He hit the ground hard, his leg was twisted up like a mangled grad bag. The police were running toward us from all sides, I kicked him in the gut knowing it would be my last chance to kick a fat man while he’s down. He groaned then puked. The concrete was strewn with stinking, half chewed/digested chicken, fried potatoes, and what could have been coleslaw…. Sitting there watching him, I smirked wondering if I had the balls to do something like that.       I marveled with horrific awe as they performed “the ballet of thoughts and intentions” bod-E-language was “riveting”-The New York Times. The tech support (fear of discovery, and out of familiar circumstance awkwardness) was “unequaled...... a timeless classic”- Ebert.       They spoke to one another about everything of little interest to all who were unfortunate enough to hear. The Fat Man was responsible for most of the words inflicted that evening. He spoke without purpose or conviction. His head and eyes turned back and forth, refusing to see me, while anxiously looking for something he feared. With his arms he held himself for reassurance, as he twitched his right foot like a nervous rattlesnake.       She sat patiently listening for the appropriate time to force out another laugh, while concentrating on appearing genuinely entertained. The “P” gave half laughs, half smiles, and half answers while he contemplated that eternal enigma that is himself.       “I wonder how much he pays for her?” I thought. Satisfied with my observations, sickened at the thought of the fat man and the girl retiring to the hotel where he’d role over her again and again, my time for confrontation was past. “time to finish the job.” I said to myself.       Before I could leave, an odd Guatemalan fellow came from his perch and sat next to me. “Do, you speak.... espanish?” his words came through his accent with hesitation, as though he wanted something from me. “Si pero, yo no intiendo o hablar mucho. But my English is working just fine.” I replied. “this guy wants something” I thought. “Where you from?” he asked. “Estados Unidos.” “Is very cold tonight, yes?” he said looking at my sweater. “Nope, it’s just perfect like summer in Alaska where I’m from.” “I’m lying,” I said to myself “I’m not from Alaska, but who cares, I don’t want to talk to this jackass long enough to find out what he wants anyhow.” “Do you like beer?” he asked with a slightly higher tone. “You faggot!” I thought, then said, “I like beer too much.... I’m a recovering alcoholic; if I have one drink, I’ll keep drinking and drinking. Then I get violent, it’s pretty bad.” somehow he failed to hear my subtle drift... He could only give the rebuttal of a single minded deviant. “Beer for me is no problem, I just drink a few and that’s it.” he argued hoping only to get those first few beers in me. “No, you don’t understand, I have one beer then I have three, four, and more... and before you know it I GET REALLY VIOLENT!” I re-emphasized. He only restated that beer is good and everything would be just fine if I went and had one beer with him. this continued until I was convinced he wouldn’t take no for an answer.       “Take control of the conversation or it will never end.” I thought to myself. He was speaking but I only heard faint background babbling. “Look at the Fat man there,” I interrupted,” do you know him?” “No but he sure looks fun!” His reply sent waves of disgust and anger pulsing through my veins. “I hate him, I loathe the fact that he was the winner of