The flannel in Cadillac Callejero’s hands felt cheaper than he expected, especially considering the kind of budget the Covert Logistics & Intelligence Taskforce must be working with. He turned it over once, a smirk on his face.
“See, you actually looked pretty good, homie.”
He puts it on his shoulder like an oil rag to be used later.
“Nah foo’, for real. That flannel needed to be a little more crisp, those janky-ass jeans needed a chain and shit, but you almost pulled it off.”
“You know what gave it away, foo’?”
“The socks,” he said, laughing.
“A real homie would know. The higher the socks, the downer the foo’. You show up to the hood with them sorry-ass dress socks and you best believe the homies are gonna find out how down you really are.”
“Órale, imitation is the best form of fuckin’ flattery, vato.” Caddy examined the flannel’s paper-thin fabric. “But you see, there’s only one Cadillac Callejero.”
“I came to Old School Wrestling and I got my ass beat my first two matches. Any foo’ can show up with grand plans and shit, only to get humbled, tuck tail, and get the fuck outta The Temple.”
“But I’m still here. And motherfucker, I’m still the same ol’ G.”
“You walk around OSW with different disguises, spending your whole life trying to be whatever your mission tells you to be. A soldier, a spy, hero, villain… whatever C.L.I.T. wants, Agent 69 plays the part.”
“That got me thinkin’, though, ese. Without C.L.I.T. and Fannybottom, who the fuck even are you, homie?”
“Pretty soon, there ain’t no shadows to hide in, D. Ain’t no fuckin’ costume you can put on. You’re in the ring with East Los Royalty, vato. Not some random foo’ from the barrio.”
“See, that’s what got me all fucked up.”
“You think you got me all figured out. The clothes. The gangsta lean. The vernacular. You think you can drive around my kingdom in a fuckin’ Mini Cooper for a day and decide who Cadillac Callejero is.”
“But you don’t know shit about the streets. You don’t know shit about me.”
“Cadillac Callejero isn’t just a fuckin’ name. Cadillac Callejero was built with my own bare hands. I earned the title El Rey de la Calle through calloused hands and the sweat off my back, homie. Yet you came into my block thinkin’ we can’t finger a C.L.I.T. agent.”
“Anybody can wear another man’s shit. But can’t nobody wear what made him.”
“Hard to believe, but they say you earned a reputation as one of the best agents at C.L.I.T. They say you’ve been there longer than most and, shit, you came to OSW and beat Dolly Daydream in your first match here.”
Caddy tossed the flannel aside.
“At Ring King, show me what happens to Agent 69 when there are no roles to play. What happens when C.L.I.T. and Fannybottom aren’t there to prep you for the mission. Let’s see the real Dick.”
“I wanna look you in the eye and know who I’m beating.”