Member preview
Loading…

Fausto and Mariposita were whippin an ’84 Camino through Paradise Hills with Chuck, Candy, Joey, Tina, DJ Vikram, DJ Vikram’s new girlfriend Betty, and another Tiger named Don Rodriguez (no relation to the Don Rodriguez), all lampin’ in the truck bed zooting reefer, still blasting KOOL A.D.’s latest mixtape, Aztec Yoga, and it was still fire.

“Goddamn shun! This shit go off!”

“Cot dang this here go!”

“Man alive he really do be gassin!”

“Mashallah!”

“Allah Hu Akbar!”

“Bruh too mannish, what?”

“This the truth!”

“Deadass, B.”

“Facts, dunny.”

“Word, God.”

“Wowzers, guys, these bars.”

“The G.O.A.T.”

“This reminds me of a kiss from a rose on the gray.”

“I feel you doggie, the more you get of it, the stranger you feel…”

“Ayyy…”

“Now that the rose is in bloom…”

“A light hits the moon on the gray?”

“Huh?”

“What?”

“What were we even talking about again?”

“Oh word yeah, AZTEC YOGA.”

“Word, yeah, AZTEC YOGA go hard.”

They stopped at La Luna Azul and played a few games of pool, drank beers. Fausto beat everybody except Don Rodriguez.

They wandered the skreets, aullando a la luna azul como lobos azules.

They were still listening to AZTEC YOGA, but it was blasting from within the mirrored interiors of their skulls, the infinity rainbow of La Magica.

Fausto whipped out his pink pebble that brujita from Botanica Yoga Azteca gave him, threw it up in the air.

It disappeared.

Mariposita flapped her beautiful, violaceous-chicory-amethyst-periwinkle wings and a ferocious monsoon cleaned the mirror-lined interiors of their souls.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.