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"Que pasa amigo," the boy whispered, draping Frank's ear with
burrito tainted breath. "I'll let you wrestle me for five dollar." He ran a finger along Frank's forearm.
"No thanks," Frank replied, brushing the boy's hand away.
"But I thought we were special friends."
"I ain't interested. Now get the hell out of here."
The boy stood there and stared at him, not blinking, not moving a muscle.
"Don't you understand no English? I told you to get lost!"
There was a tense silence. Then, without warning, the boy slammed Frank in a headlock and planted several sloppy
kisses on his forehead, leaving a cluster of lipstick halos. "Now give me my five dollar, Frankie, or I'll
tell the police you like to touch little boys."
In a panic, Louise swatted the boy several times on the head with the Cosmopolitan. When that didn't work, she
unleashed with the pepper spray. The boy yelped and loosened his grip just enough for Frank to wrench free and
roll up the window.
"But Frankie, I love you," the boy howled as he kissed the window, streaking it with lipstick and drool.
"Step on the gas, Frank! Move!" Louise barked, gesturing wildly at the 300-yard gap that had developed
between them and the rest of the traffic. Frank punched the accelerator and the Chevy peeled away, leaving the
pudgy Mexican boy in a cloud of burned rubber and exhaust.
As soon as they caught up with the rest of the traffic, Frank snuck a peek in the rear-view mirror. The boy was
still standing back there. From this distance he looked like a wilted ballerina.
"Frank?" Louise cleared her throat and choked back a tear. "How did that boy know your name?"
Frank stared at the line of traffic ahead of them, dabbed the sweat from his face, and shrugged.
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