Diego Santiago

I leave the house unshaven, smelling of wood burning. I walk slowly and scowl through bad sections even crooked drug lords avoid. I enter dimly lit dive bars and order many drinks. I am Diego Santiago and I carry a Glock.
Mystery surrounds me. Some say I am working undercover. Others claim I am an evil spirit incarnate. Whispers attest I can a man 18 ways with my bare hands.
I wear leather in all the right places.
The name of this bar is Corpuscle. I saunter up to the bartender, a lean, seedy man with a mustache crawling with insects. He eyes me warily. I am looking for this man, I say, showing him a photo. I nudge my Glock so he can see it.
I know him, he says. He is here on and off. You do not want to mess with this man, sir.
I am Diego Santiago and I mess with whom I please. The bartender's eyes glance behind me and instinctively I whirl and draw. The man behind me also draws, but he is too slow. I pump three bullets into his exploding stomach and he falls to the sawdust covered floor.
I walk over and speak to the corpse. I hated you as a child. Hated all the phoniness and that soft, feminine voice. I hated your gentleness. You emasculated generations of men with your sensitivity. Go to the hell you deserve, gringo.
I step over Mr. Rogers and out into the night.
I need a woman.