Oldguy’s on his way to the convenience store
for a beer and a Slim Jim but takes the wrong
street and winds up in the barrio, where he’s
spotted by a carload of lowriders, who buck
their car over the curb at him, stopping an inch
away. Oldguy’s mind’s strayed back to when
he could piss his name in dry concrete,
but his blank stare is taken as mad-dogging.
The lowriders admire his big cojones and decide
to make him a member. They give him a jacket,
black leather, their name blood-red on the back—
The Latin Assassins—with room for his moniker
underneath. They christen him El Anciano and try
to teach him their hand sign, but his shaky version
looks like the finger. They stare as he wanders off.
“See that finger, man?” says the leader, turning
to the others. “Don’t fuck with that guy: he
don’t give a shit.” Soon a cop stops Oldguy
and asks where he thinks his fucking gang ass
is going. Oldguy understands this as a request
for his new gang sign. After he flashes it,
a nurse says, “Try to drink this.” But as he heals,
word of Oldguy’s ballsy gesture to the system
feeds the legend of El Anciano, Fist of Fire.