Tag: Urban

#7 Guero

#7 Guero

Damned if he didn’t get a ration of shit when they heard his name.  Not like it wasn’t appropriate, what with his blond shoulder-length hair and bright blue eyes.  But it was all he could do not to spit back when they started calling him from across the street, grabbing their dicks and telling Guero what to suck.  Something about the half-legitimacy of it just lit a fire under them, the pun that came of his name being exactly what they would have called him anyway was just too much damn fun.  The corner boys were in rare form by the time he got past them.  Their token neighborhood white boy was actually called Blondie.

Guero knew from past experience that this was going to go on for quite some time.  He considered moving, but the old man in the drug store parking lot had the best tamales in town, and that was worth anything the local rowdies could dish out.  He figured he might as well enjoy the irony of the moment.  Odds are, he spoke better spanish than any of them.  Odds are he’d spent more time south of the border than any of these third generation vatos ever would.  And it was an absolute guarantee, because he knew who these guys claimed to represent on the block, that if they knew who gave him the name they would be shitting bricks.

And really, on a good day that shit was just amusing.  If they knew the circles he ran in those boys would be calling him patròn.  If they knew anything about him, those two tough little fuckers on point would stop flashing their pieces.  That right there was some rude shit.  If they weren’t in the land of the free and recorded on tv, he’d have let them know just what he thought of fools that showed off their heat without a mind to use it.  Last time he’d given lessons in etiquette, the dumbass in question had ended up shot in the foot with his own gun.  Guero hadn’t even bothered to pull the gun out of the idiot’s pants.

But that was Then and There, and this was Here and Now, and he would do well to remember the difference while on his way to a meet with his handler.  Differentiation.  Sam loved to harp on his “problem with differentiation.”  Guero would argue that it was what got him results, but Sam would just snap back that he wasn’t the only agent in the field, let alone the best, so he could stop thinking his fucking hangups were what made him special.  Guero could admit to himself that Sam might have a point, but he’d never do it loud enough that Sam could hear.  And it sure as hell didn’t mean he was going to change his name back, either.  After all, he was fucking branded and in so fucking deep he doubted he’d ever see the light of day.  The next time he wore a uniform would be when they were putting him in the ground.