Damn it. Again. The damn hot dog slipped out of my hand and fell right on my white shirt. A giant red stain — looks like I got stabbed with ketchup.
Eighth time! Eighth damn time this jerk at the cart gives me a hot dog greasier than prison soap.
— "It's artisanal," he says. Artisanal my ass.
Now look at me. In the middle of the street, shirt ruined, and I've got twenty minutes until my date. I thought I'd eat beforehand because my girlfriend only chooses restaurants where a pizza costs the same as my rent. ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY REAIS for a pizza with air crust and invisible toppings.
Seriously, if this keeps going, I'll end up as government stats: 'ex-cop, financially ruined by a politician's daughter.'
I wipe the mess off with my sleeve and catch a glimpse of myself in the car mirror. I take a deep breath.
— At least I still look good as hell, huh?
I check myself out: messy brown hair styled by chaos, gray eyes with "seen too much" energy, and a body that's not exactly ripped, but definitely "thirst-trap adjacent."
— Bet my aunt's up there watching from heaven saying, "My boy… my handsome boy… just don't become a playboy, please."
Too late, Auntie. Way too late.
Let's be real — I'm a decent guy: good-looking, funny, hard-working police officer. And somehow, I'm dating a girl who spends my entire paycheck on breakfast. She's so expensive even my bank sent me a "concerned" email.
And still, I'm here, drenched in ketchup, hoping love will pay the bills.
I start the car — my beloved 2014 black Corolla, the dream of every working-class romantic. In other countries, this baby costs around $12,000. Here in Brazil? I paid 89,000 reais. That's two kidneys and a half-soul deal with Satan.
— I was an idiot… — I whisper. — And it was all my idea.
I step on the gas.
Nothing.
The tires are gone. Shredded. Looks like someone slashed them with a machete. I crouch down for a better look.
— Great… now all I need is a homeless guy to complete the scene.
Life, the twisted screenwriter it is, delivers.
A guy approaches. Scruffy beard, dead eyes, torn clothes. But something's off. He doesn't walk like a homeless guy. He walks like a problem.
And then he pulls it out.
The gun.
And says the sentence that still echoes in the dark hallways of my memory:
— Get out the car, pretty boy. You lost. I'll fill your face with lead if you don't move, got it, asshole?
First thought: "My car… my lady magnet… my dream…"
Second thought: "Why me? What cosmic karma is this?"
Third thought: "Wait… I'm a cop!"
I try to stay calm, open the glovebox real slow. My gun's in there. So is hope. The guy glances away for a second — that's all I need.
I grab the gun. Throw the door open. Scream:
— TAKE THIS, YOU SON OF A B—!!
I raise the gun. Adrenaline kicks in. Time slows down. My heart pounds. I pull the trigger—
BAM. I get shot.
Right in the gut.
The pain? Like getting electrocuted and punched by Mike Tyson at the same time.
I drop to my knees. Look up at the sky. And there she is — my aunt.
She's got her arms crossed, shaking her head like she's judging me from heaven.
— "I warned you, boy… I warned you."