So this old broad keeps kissing on me as we’re walking down the street, and I’m just trying to be polite but blow her off at the same time.

By my watch, it’s a few minutes before seven.

“Look,” I says, “I don’t mean to be rude,” I says, ” but I have to be at work at seven and you’re kind of slowing me down.”

Now her face changes from creepy-and-lovelorn to creepy-and-double-creepy.  She ain’t happy, and I’m starting to get spooked.  What have I got myself into?

The old bat’s all over me, a-huggin’ and a-kissin’, and I’m trying–politely, still–to get her to shove off.  Getting nowhere.

Finally, push comes to shove and I tell her “Look, your huggin’ and kissin’ on me is not welcome, and you’re really getting on my nerves, so knock it off, you old cow.”

“Fine,” she says, “I’ll just call 911 and tell them how you’ve betrayed me.”  She whips out a phone, dials, and squawks a string of accusatory lies.

“Oy,” I’m thinking, “how do I get myself into these jams?  Time to bail.”

So I turned and started walking the other way.  She shoves her phone back into her purse and starts yelling “Help!  Robber!  Rape!  I’ve been burgled!  Piracy!  Help!  Help!”

Sure enough, some brave citizen–a skinny, cute, punkish girl–comes to her rescue, throwing rocks at me (bad aim and/or weak arm, luckily–no hits) and hollering at me to stop.  I toy with the idea of reasoning with her–she is cute and punkish, after all–but when another rock whizzes by my head, I think better of it.

By now I’m pretty well resigned to the idea that it’s going to be a bad day, so I just run like hell toward what looks like the most congested part of town, figuring that it would easier to shake the rock-throwing punk heroine in an area with tall buildings and short streets.

Sure enough, she’s off my tail, but suddenly I’m in EP, southside, and the place is crawling with cop cars.

“Jiminy!” I’m thinking,”she sure did call 911.  Dang my luck.”

I keep trying to dodge the squad cars, but they’re everywhere, and eventually I get tired of hiding behind billboards and newsstands; I flag down one of the cop cars, ready to surrender and make a full confession.

Cop pulls over, gets out, opens the back door, and tells me to hurry up and get in, which I do.  Already in the back seat are two little school kids, with their backpacks, textbooks, and homework.

What the blazes?

Cop drives to another neighborhood and kicks us all out.  The kids are grateful; I’m confused.

Now I hear blaring Mexican music.  No big deal there; lots of EP downtown storefronts play their own music.  But then I look down the street, and there’s a marching band cadre of the Aztecas coming up the sidewalk, all in black uniforms, ominous as hell.  Half of them are playing perky Mexican music–lots of trumpets and violins.  The other half’s packing heat, shooting people–women and kids, mostly–at random.  They keep in step and they know where they’re going.  Trumpets and violins in the front, semi-automatics in the back.  Very organized.  Something they’ve planned for quite a while.

More soon.