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A Goat, a Jaguar and Some Yams - page 3 / 6

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match to his gold shield the shooflies yanked. White-out and a Sharpie made he cancelled NYPD ID look new.

So he flies back to Puerto Rico with not one muthafucka, not even those TSA Homeland Suck-curity fools questioning why he had a gun, jewelry, cash!

He’s fat and happy thinking he an old school gangsta don on his chicken farm in San Ignacio, Puerto Rico, down there on el Rio Ponce. Shit, el rio was just a creek, really, and the chicken farm was a bunch of coops banged together from fruit crates. One cock, seven hens. No villa either. A big shack. All his old cop photos on the walls. Jesu Christi, all’s this hijo de puta had to his name was a satellite dish and 57-inch plasma so he can catch the Mets games, or jack-off watching Mayra Veronica shake that ass on Sabado Gigante on Univision! A fucked up palace - they say he ‘invested’ his stash cash! They say he dadi kept their place in Knightbridge like that, all wrecked and shit, with cash stashed in an insurance policy ain’t no one found. Dude was a housing authority cop. Moms wasn’t around. Bitch took off and married some Jew in Lyndhurst, New Jersey. Bet this, hermano: maybe all the muthafucka needed was a woman like mami, eh?

Then came Isabella. She worked at the Pepsi bottling plant. He was there because he was fucking some teenager who worked at the snack bar; chica was cousin from a family branch broke-off when most of the Padillas became Nuyoricans.

Herman spotted Isabella’s round ass and those thighs even in them damn work pants she had on. Had on a sweaty tank top and those chichis hung like heavy fruit in a wet sack. Coño…Papi, she was like Mayra Veronica and Selma Hayek (in From Dusk Till Dawn, not the artsy shit she’s in now and huera-skinny) meets Beyoncé and Halle Berry - the color of that faggot rum he liked, and Herman went straight into Ponce that day into a Net cafe and emailed his brothers back in the Bronx, bruh, and that was the first time they’d heard from that sorry-ass Frankenstein devil cop in months! Isabella made him buggy and shy like a little kid in love for the first time…or slaver like a pig. Now that’s some ambivalence for your ass.

Of course, Isabella, she was poor. Dudes on La Isla are weak, otherwise they asses’d be here in New York! Most she could hope for was the assistant manager at the Pepsi plant, or some simple-ass polyester and flip-flop-wearin’ country gangsta from el barrio. Herman manned-up and waited for her in the parking lot of the plant with some hyacinths and a bottle of rum and orange Fantas for her sisters and a Tego Calderron CD for her brother. Fucker shaved, combed his greazy head, put on his fruitiest cologne and Ricky Ricardo conga-thumping linen shirt. Shit. Three weeks they went out. That’s all it took.

She must’ve thought Herman was a prince, or like in The Godfather when Michael married that Appolonia chica - shit, her father said “yes” to the marriage proposal before she did! Herman paid for the wedding and reception and the kisses and giggling and snuggling and all that dumb shit lasted until he started beating on her.

Isabella wanted kids. Herman said kids would mess up Reggaeton video vixen ass of hers, make those suckable titties into cow udders. No shit, that’s what he said to his own wife!

But what really pissed Herman off was the way Isabella guarded the only shit she brought from her father’s house, other than some clothes, her rosary and a cheap

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