Pitbull’s plane touches down at Miami International Airport at 12:43 on a Tuesday. He’s sitting on a model’s lap, a 9 at least, and he’s got another babe sitting on his. Victoria’s Secret-style smokeshows both of them. Boobs, butt, blonde, blouse: the works. Woof.
Pit’s on a crazy hurry so he lights up a Cuban he found in an ashtray to calm down. He complains to the flight attendant that his time is expensive, but they’re letting out the first class passengers first, and there’s nothing I can do about it, sir. Pitbull flashes a smile at an 8-year-old the next row over and rolls his eyes as if to say “can you believe they’re making me wait?”, but the kid’s glued to his iPad and doesn’t even bat an eye.
One, two, three, four, uno, dos, tres, cuatro, Pitbull counts a week’s worth of Prozac and swallows it no water. The girl he’s sitting on––who doubles as his nurse and is named Rosario––checks his mouth to see that he’s swallowed the full dose. He has.
Pitbull notices two twenty-something mamasitas making eyes at him at the baggage claim. He turns on his heel to face them and brags about how he doesn’t own a phone. It’s summer in Florida, one of those humid jungle-heat kind of days, but Pitbull’s wearing a three-piece suit. Dapper. He left his other set of clothes at home.
Rosario drives Pit back from the airport in silence. Pitbull offers to help pay for gas, but his jar of change is in his carry-on, and it’s too much of a hassle to get it. “I’ll be a lot more liquid once the yard sale is done,” he promises, but he doesn’t believe it.
Mr. 305 lives next to the freeway because it’s more convenient. He keeps his socks on at home because he doesn’t have a carpet. He looks in the mirror at the shiny head of a star. Straightens his sunglasses. God. Coward.
It’s been a long time since he called his mother. He reaches under his mattress, and the gun’s still heavy as it’s always been. “I wonder what the LMFAO guys are up to,” he thinks. Barrel in the mouth, J.Lo still hasn’t e-mailed him back. He cocks it.