jaker

The smoke covered parlor room of the fashioned bank on Edloe Street was in some turmoil. It had never been here before, and the intrusion of the two Mexican men who claimed to be “Castilian” no doubt had the everlasting effect of the downfall that the corporation suddenly underwent. Looking for a home, in good intentions, they stepped into the office. They had never done this before, this kind of honesty, this cruelty that the world makes them suffer, and they weren’t ready for the white bigot that ran the office. In the barrios of Mexico, they lived with their mom in an adobe cut house to which the springtime wind, buzzing birds and the sound of church bell tune would slowly flow through the window along with the gulf breeze. They often sat at the table of parched wood and contemplated their future. Now, entering the office, feeling the vibes that could almost bite, they were put off. Such racism, such fervor, as to not give them a loan. The bigot, being short tempered and acting like a more superior individual, was determined to not give them any help that would help them succeed. Coffee rippling in the cup, hitting the sides then retreating again was caused from the omens stirring from the souls, you could hear ever assistant in the office go quiet. It was all up to the bigot, so he gave them useless misguiding information He thought he was tricking them into deviation, oh his cackling spirit took over the beliefs. Fingers hitting the keyboard and a low continual murmur resembling the ominous sound of om, tick tock set off the cuckoo clock. Purchased in the Black Forest of the untouched town of Weimar, it has been a family heirloom, along with the tie clamp, for 5 generations. Something to be proud about, bigot bitterly supposes. Taking the gold casted pocket watch with chips of silver bebbled on the side, he hardens. Time for this, time for that, forget those stupid wetback, no, niggers. Go look somewhere else if you’re looking for a loan of over two thousand pieces if you’re wearing a backwards hat in MY office. Finally feeling the hostility, the amigos get up, and get out. Managing to shake his hand, cold with tempered sweat, they thank him, admire the office one last time, and step outside, to a new day. The office, once again, kept buzzing like a beehive while unscrupulous assistants managed to resemble ants. For the pedros, roaming the everlasting lamp lighted streets that cast shadows of laminate yellow, the oppression filled world stills beats down on them to this day at every angle possible, even filling the crammied nooks in their five dollar lapels.