It was the fight in me that made me Chief Rocka.
In our weekly newsletter from Déesse, there are always images of former Mega City residents who took their chances in Cemi. True violence. Body parts. Real hunger. The Ashé Ryders have stayed in Cemi Territory with the other degenerates for years. Now is not the time for them or anyone to appear.
“Let’s roll.”
“If the Ashé Ryders are itching to creep into Mega City,” Truck yells, “they’re going to have to contend with Las Mal Criadas!”
“Mal,” I yell.
“Criiii-adas!” Nena and Truck respond with our signature call.
I shove the necklace into my pack and head toward the direction where Smiley and Shi should be waiting.
CHAPTER 3
BOYDEGA DREAMS
We stand in front of the entrance to the Luna Club. Doña Chela squints at us. She wears her usual uniform of a grungy bathrobe and slippers. She’s an old-timer. We’ve lost many bets trying to guess how old she is. Doña refuses to reveal her age. It doesn’t help that she’s missing various teeth and that her hair is a disheveled nest dyed a putrid green.
“Bendición, Doña.” I ask for her blessing. My tiny show of respect is mandatory. She owns the most popular boydega club in Mega City. I must shower her with love even when my crew is one of her regulars.
“My girls been playing rough tonight, huh?” Doña inspects us with her lime-green eyes made to match her hair. I wonder how much she was willing to trade to get those colored contacts. Those who live in the Towers love changing the color of their eyes. Doña probably has a Tower connection for petty beauty accessories like this one. She points a chubby finger at me. “Where are the rest of your girls? Chief Rocka, you should let them have fun, too.”
Provocative images of guys in various forms of undress cover the walls of the boydega from their latest calendar, the Papi Chulos of Luna Club. One papi flexes his muscles, another admires himself in a full-length mirror, and another sucks on a lollipop. When I was young and lived in the training camp, papi chulo trading cards were given to those on good behavior. I collected the cards and traded with others, professing my undying love for my favorite. My preference always leaned toward the papi dressed as a scholar by way of thick, black-rimmed glasses and an open book on his lap. He looked smarter and hence more approachable. The chulos here are kept forever young with a fresh crop of candidates willing to strike a pose.
I peel off my jacket, remove my cuff, and thrust my arm under the detector. I can’t shake the uneasiness I’ve felt since the run-in with the ANT. I sent Nena, Smiley, and Shi back home. Nena’s carelessness caused the rest of them to get screwed out of papi action.
Doña Chela offers a toothless grin when the mandatory bell rings the rank of our crew. Only the top-five gangs gain VIP entrance to this particular club. Everyone else who wants to party in the Luna Club must contend with begging for access. If you’re not VIP, expect to wait hours to get in, if you get in at all. The embedded numerical rank placed under my skin is proof of our worth. With every throwdown, Déesse and her inner circle determine your crew’s rank. There are currently about fifteen registered crews in Mega City, each ranked in order. Unregistered crews are not worth a mention.
I’ve been to underground boydegas when Las Mal Criadas were just starting five years ago. The chulos were so ugly and dirty. There are Mega City residents who don’t approve of boydegas, which is hard to believe. Instead they cut loose with the Rumberos over by the water. A religious group, the Rumberos spend way too much time dwelling in the spiritual mumbo jumbo instead of reality. They are a small, forgettable bunch.
The Luna Club is legit. There’s good food, music, and potent drinks. There are sueño tabs too, if you are into that. My crew stays far away from sueños. We keep our minds clear of manufactured dreams. It’s a decree I made when I started the gang. I’ve seen firsthand how sueños can destroy a person.
I won’t stay long tonight, though, just long enough to return to my normal self, not shook because of a dumb charm.
“What other mocosos are here trying to uglify your home, Doña?” Truck asks as she checks in her weapon. Truck loves the club. Here, the chulos think Truck is the bomb. She plays drinking games with them or wrestles. She’s generous with the papis to the point one summer I cut her off for trading too much of her sueño supply. Sueños are our top currency. With every throwdown won, we get paid in tabs. Since Déesse provides us with food and we carve our own shelter, there is no need for old-school money. Still, we can’t spend tabs carelessly. That summer the battles were pretty dull, so Truck went kind of nuts with boredom. She handed out tabs as candy. It got so bad I had to block her from entering the club for a whole month. Nowadays I allow her a little bit of leeway. Not much.
“Nobody’s here, just a couple of my girls. Quiet. I think everyone is getting ready for this weekend.” Doña accepts my sueño tabs and chucks them into her purse. She calls gang members, no matter what affiliate, her girls. Doña doesn’t have any children of her own, although she gives a motherly vibe. I don’t have that type of relationship with her and I don’t let my soldiers be seen that way. We don’t need mothers. We only need each other.
“We’ve got a special tonight,” she says. “If you buy two, you get the third chulo at half price.”
There won’t be any sales on the day of the throwdown. In fact, she’ll make renting a papi twice as expensive. That’s when everyone will want papi action. I’m glad the club is empty. For the most part, boydegas are neutral territory. No one is supposed to fight. Of course, things get stirred up from time to time. How could they not when you have rival crews hanging in one spot? Not tonight. Everyone will save their aggression for the throwdown this weekend.
The booming bass from a popular song rattles the gilded mirrors lining the stairs leading down to the club. I catch my reflection and see the long, jagged scratch left by the last lost toiler. Kicking her felt justified. My black curls lay limp. I look tired and run-down, much older than sixteen.
“Ugly,” Truck says. She ruffles my curls.
I follow her down the stairs.
Giant paper animals hang from the ceiling: massive tigers and lions, pandas, and kangaroos, each with a maniacal grin. When the place is jumping with people crushed side to side on the dance floor, Doña Chela usually invites the victors to bash the giant animals and shower the partygoers with candy laced with “happiness.” Unlike the synthetic sueños, the candy has a natural high consisting mostly of THC. On this subdued night the giant animals stay put. The massive piñatas turn their heads as if they are watching us.
Truck elbows me. A couple dances in the center of the club. I recognize the Deadly Venom colors, black and pink, on the drunken girl. The chulo she leans on tries his best to keep her steady.
“She’s by herself,” Truck says. I shake my head, signaling to Truck she’s not worth it. The couple continues to dance. I sit at our table a little away from the dance floor.
“What’s going on with you?” Truck says after taking a large gulp from her drink. “You’ve been with a sour expression. We need to get pumped for this weekend. It’s on!” She pats my back hard.