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MCIM: Side 01 - Dressed Like a Creep, Treated Like One
🕑 Added 2025-09-17 14:24:16 +0000 UTCGarcia Morales spit blood onto the cracked pavement. The taste of iron filled his mouth as he tried to push himself up on his elbows, only to have his vision swim and his arms give out. Kerry and Gore were both lying a few feet away in various states of beaten-to-shit
"Don't get up, man. They see you still got energy, there's gonna be a round two."
Kerry's face was a mess of blood and swelling, his left eye completely shut. "Fuck... Garcia... I think they broke my ribs."
"Mine too, hermano," Gore groaned from where he was curled up against a dumpster. "Why'd we ever think joining Los Diablos was a good idea?"
Garcia closed his eyes and tried not to think about his missing teeth. Three of them, knocked clean out by that psycho with the brass knuckles. His mama was gonna lose her shit when she saw him like this.
----------
Six months earlier...
"You sure about this, G?" Kerry had asked, fidgeting with his hoodie strings as they stood outside the abandoned warehouse that served as Los Diablos' headquarters.
"Nah, I'm not sure about shit," Garcia had replied, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "But what else we gonna do? Work at McDonald's for the rest of our lives?"
The three of them had been friends since elementary school, growing up in the same shitty neighborhood where the biggest decision you made was which gang colors not to wear. Garcia's mom worked two jobs, cleaning office buildings at night and doing laundry during the day, just to keep food on the table and the lights on. His little brother Miguel was only eight, still young enough to believe that Garcia was the coolest person in the world.
That's why Garcia had dropped out of high school at sixteen. Miguel needed books, and clothes that didn't have holes.
"Los Diablos got territory, and respect," Gore had said. "My cousin's friend's uncle knows this guy whose neighbor's kid is in the gang, and he says they take care of their own."
Kerry had raised an eyebrow. "That's like... six degrees of separation, man. You don't actually know anyone in Los Diablos."
"Details," Gore had waved him off. "Point is, they're successful. They got money, cars, women throwing themselves at 'em."
Garcia had known it was a stupid idea even then. But stupid ideas were sometimes the only options available when you were seventeen, broke, and watching your mom fall asleep standing up because she was working herself to death.
The initiation had gone about as well as you'd expect.
Now, lying on the blood-stained concrete outside that same warehouse, he was starting to think maybe McDonald's wouldn't have been so bad after all.
"They're gone," Gore whispered. "I don't hear no more voices."
Slowly, painfully, the three of them helped each other to their feet. Garcia's face felt like it had been rearranged by a sledgehammer, and every breath sent shooting pains through his chest.
"Fuck Los Diablos," Kerry mumbled through split lips. "Fuck all these gangs, man. They're all the same, bunch of psychos who get off on hurting people."
"Yeah, well, we still got the same problems we had before," Garcia said, spitting more blood. "Bills don't pay themselves, and my brother still needs to eat."
They limped their way out of the industrial district, three teenagers who looked like they'd been hit by a truck. The walk back to their neighborhood took over an hour, partly because they kept having to stop for Garcia to catch his breath, and partly because they were trying to avoid the main streets where cops might ask uncomfortable questions.
----------
Five years later...
"Mira, esta pinche car is beautiful, ¿no?" Garcia ran his hand along the hood of the modified Eclipse they'd just finished working on.
They were in Gore's uncle's garage, the only family member who hadn't completely written Gore off as a lost cause. The car had been stolen from a parking lot in Jersey, but Garcia had spent months changing the VIN numbers, swapping out parts, and giving it a paint job that would make it invisible to any cops looking for the original.
"It's tight," Kerry agreed, admiring their handiwork. "But why'd you go with the gold teeth, man? You look like a fucking pimp."
Garcia grinned, flashing the dental work he'd gotten after losing his real teeth to Los Diablos' idea of an initiation. "Mujeres love gold, hermano. Shows I got money, got style."
"Shows you got poor impulse control," Gore snorted. "Could've fixed your teeth for half the price with regular ones."
"Where's the flash in that?" Garcia shrugged. "We gonna be running our own crew, we gotta look the part. Can't be looking like some broke-ass wannabes."
The truth was, he had gotten the gold teeth partly because he thought they looked cool, and partly because regular dental work was expensive and he'd rather spend the money on Miguel's school supplies. Gold teeth were a one-time investment. Regular teeth required maintenance he couldn't afford.
"Speaking of running our own crew," Kerry said, popping open a beer he'd grabbed from the mini-fridge, "how exactly we gonna do that? We don't got territory, don't got connections, don't got... well, anything really."
"We got each other," Garcia said. "And we got principles. None of that rape shit, none of that beating up kids, none of that selling drugs to pregnant women."
"We only take from people who can afford to lose it. Rich business types, tourists with too much flash. People who won't miss a couple hundred bucks."
It wasn't much of a philosophy, but it was something. He had seen what the other gangs did, the random violence, the way they treated their own neighborhoods like enemy territory. He wanted to build something better, even if he wasn't entirely sure what "better" looked like.
"Plus," he added with a grin, "we're gonna have fun with it. Life's too short to be all serious all the time."
Their first few attempts at "having fun" hadn't gone exactly as planned.
---
"Yo, mami!" Garcia had called out to a woman walking alone near the club district. "Why don't you come party with us? We'll show you a real good time, I guarantee!"
The woman had taken one look at Garcia's gold teeth, Gore's oversized clothing, and Kerry's nervous energy, and immediately started backing away.
"I'm not interested," she'd said, clutching her purse tighter.
"Aw, come on," Garcia had pressed, not understanding why she looked so scared. "We just want to hit up this club, maybe get some food. They got great nachos."
"I said no!" The woman had pulled out her phone and started dialing. "Stay away from me or I'm calling the police!"
Garcia had held up his hands and backed off immediately. "Shit, okay, okay. No need for cops, lady. We're cool."
After she'd hurried away, the three of them had stood there confused.
"What the hell was that about?" Kerry had asked. "We were being polite."
"Maybe it's the gold teeth," Gore had suggested. "Makes you look like a... you know."
"Like a what?"
"Like a... criminal type."
Garcia had frowned. "I am a criminal type. That's the point."
"No, I mean like a... you know. The kind of criminal that does bad things to women."
It had taken Garcia a moment to understand what Gore was getting at, and when he did, he was genuinely offended.
"That's fucked up, man. I would never... I got a mother, I got cousins. What kind of monster you think I am?"
"I know you wouldn't," Gore had said quickly. "But maybe she don't know that."
---
Their second attempt had gone even worse. The woman had maced Kerry before Garcia could even finish his opening line, leaving all three of them coughing and crying on the sidewalk while she screamed about calling the cops.
"This is bullshit," Kerry had wheezed, rubbing his burning eyes. "Why do we keep getting the crazy ones?"
"Maybe it's our approach," Gore had suggested weakly.
The third woman, though, she'd been different. Garcia had started his usual routine, expecting another rejection or another face full of pepper spray. Instead, she'd laughed.
"You boys are adorable," she'd said, and Garcia had felt his chest puff up with pride. "But I'm working tonight."
"Working?" Kerry had asked, confused.
She'd handed Garcia a business card with a picture of herself in significantly less clothing than she was currently wearing. "Diamond Dolls Gentleman's Club. You want to party, come see me there. I'm Candy."
Garcia had stared at the card, then at her, then back at the card. "You're like... a stripper?"
"Exotic dancer," she'd corrected with a wink. "And honey, if you're looking for a good time, that's where you'll find it. Just bring money."
After she'd walked away, the three of them had stood there processing what had just happened.
"So..." Gore had said slowly, "we've been accidentally propositioning sex workers?"
"Looks like it," Garcia had replied, still staring at the business card.
"That explains a lot," Kerry had muttered.
---
Three weeks later, they'd finally worked up the courage to visit Diamond Dolls. Candy had recognized them immediately and burst out laughing.
"Oh my God, you actually came! I wasn't sure you would."
"We said we would," Garcia had replied, trying to play it cool.
The club had been... an experience. Loud music, flashing lights, and beautiful women doing things that made him think impure thoughts about the Virgin Mary. But Candy had been cool about showing them around, explaining how everything worked, even introducing them to some of the other girls.
"You boys are sweet," she'd said over drinks during her break. "Most guys who come in here are either creepy as hell or treat us like we're not human. You actually ask permission before you look."
"Our mamas raised us right," Garcia had said, and meant it.
"So what's your deal anyway?" Candy had asked. "You're obviously not regular customers. You spent the whole night buying overpriced sodas and chicken wings."
Gore had leaned forward eagerly. "Garcia here wants to start his own gang."
Candy had raised an eyebrow. "What's the plan?"
Garcia had explained their philosophy, robbing from the rich, avoiding unnecessary violence, treating their neighborhood with respect. Candy had listened without judgment, occasionally asking questions or offering suggestions.
"Sounds like you need better PR," she'd said finally. "Right now you come off like potential rapists when you approach women. Maybe work on that."
---
The thing was, Garcia hadn't realized they were coming off as threatening. In his mind, he was being charming, smooth, like the gang leaders he'd seen in movies. The gold teeth were supposed to show success, the way they dressed was supposed to show confidence, and the approach was supposed to show interest.
The disconnect between intention and perception had been a hard lesson to learn.
"I don't get it," he'd complained to his abuela one Sunday after mass. "I treat women with respect. I always take no for an answer. Why they all think I'm some kind of creep?"
His grandmother had looked at him over her sewing, taking in the gold teeth, the baggy clothes, the way he carried himself like he was ready for a fight.
"Mijo," she'd said gently, "you dress like the men who hurt women. You talk like the men who take what they want. How are they supposed to know your heart is different if you don't show them?"
"But this is how you're supposed to look if you're in a gang," Garcia had protested. "If I don't look hard, nobody's gonna respect me."
"And if you look too hard, nobody's gonna trust you," she'd replied. "¿Cuál es más importante?"
It was a good question. Garcia wasn't sure he knew the answer.
---
Miguel had been the one to finally make Garcia understand the real problem.
"Why do all my teachers look scared when they meet you?" his little brother had said one evening while Garcia was helping him with homework.
"What do you mean, mijo?"
"At parent-teacher conferences, when Mami can't come and you come instead. They get all nervous and keep looking at the door like they want to run away."
"I don't know. Maybe they just don't like parents who dropped out of school."
Miguel had given him a look. "I think it's because you look like the men on TV who hurt people, isn't it?"
"I only hurt fuckers," Garcia had said quickly.
"I know," Miguel had replied. "But they don't know. And if they think you might hurt them, they're not gonna listen when you try to help me in school."
Garcia's appearance and reputation weren't just affecting random women on the street, they were affecting his ability to take care of his family.
But changing wasn't as simple as swapping out his gold teeth for regular ones or trading his baggy clothes for button-down shirts. This was who he'd become, for better or worse. The gold teeth had cost money he couldn't afford to lose. The clothes were what fit his budget and his lifestyle. The attitude was what kept other criminals from testing him.
"I'm trying to be better," he'd told Miguel. "But I can't change everything at once."
---
The neighborhood had mixed feelings about Garcia and his crew. On one hand, they were local boys who'd grown up on these streets. On the other hand, they were criminals now, and that came with baggage.
Mrs. Rodriguez, who ran the corner store, had known Garcia since he was eight years old stealing candy. She still let him buy groceries on credit when money was tight, but she also made sure to keep her register locked up tight when he and his friends came around.
"You're not bad boys," she'd told him once while bagging up rice and beans for his mother. "But you're trying very hard to look like bad boys, and sometimes people can't tell the difference."
"We're just trying to survive, señora," Garcia had replied.
"Survival and respect aren't the same thing, mijo. Your mother raised you better than this."
Garcia had wanted to argue... He wanted to explain about the bills and Miguel's school clothes and the way the world seemed designed to keep people like them at the bottom. But Mrs. Rodriguez had known his family for years. She understood the pressures even if she didn't approve of his solutions.
"You help your abuela with her groceries," she'd added, softening slightly. "You make sure the younger kids get home safe from school. You're not like the others."
"Then why I gotta work so hard to prove it?" Garcia had asked, genuinely frustrated.
Mrs. Rodriguez had handed him the bag with a sad smile. "Because the world is broken, mijo. And sometimes good people have to work harder just to be seen."
---
The first time they'd actually saved someone had been by accident.
They'd been walking back from a failed attempt at mugging a businessman who'd turned out to be an off-duty cop, when they'd heard a woman screaming from an alley up ahead. Garcia's first instinct had been to mind his own business, getting involved in other people's drama was a good way to end up dead or arrested.
But the screaming had sounded terrified, not angry or dramatic. Someone was in real trouble.
"We should check it out," Kerry had said, surprising everyone.
"Are you loco?" Gore had hissed. "We don't know what's going on in there."
"Could be cops," Garcia had added. "Could be a setup."
But the screaming had continued, getting more desperate, and Garcia had found himself moving toward the alley before his brain could stop him.
What they'd found was a woman, Candy, as it turned out, being cornered by three actual gang members from the Serpientes. Not the pretend-tough guys like Garcia and his crew, but the real deal.
"Come on, puta," one of them had been saying. "You make money shaking your ass for strangers, you can do the same for us for free."
Garcia had felt something cold settle in his stomach. These weren't desperate kids trying to make ends meet. These were predators.
"Yo!" he'd called out, stepping into the alley with Kerry and Gore flanking him. "Problem here?"
The Serpientes had turned, sizing up the three teenagers. Garcia had known they were outgunned, these guys were older, bigger, and almost certainly armed. But he'd also known that backing down would mean leaving Candy to whatever they had planned.
"Ain't your business, kid," the leader had said. "Walk away."
"Nah, I don't think so," Garcia had replied. "Lady said she ain't interested. Maybe you should listen."
What had followed was less of a fight and more of a chaotic brawl. Garcia had gotten in a few good hits before taking a knee to the ribs that left him gasping. Kerry had managed to tackle one guy before getting a bottle broken over his head. Gore had actually held his own pretty well until someone had grabbed him from behind.
But the important thing was that they'd made enough noise and caused enough trouble that the Serpientes had decided it wasn't worth it. They'd left Candy alone and disappeared back into the night, but not before promising that Garcia and his crew would be hearing from them again.
"You idiots," Candy had said once she'd caught her breath, but she'd been smiling. "You beautiful, stupid idiots. You could have gotten killed."
"Couldn't just leave you," Garcia had wheezed, holding his bruised ribs.
"Why?" she'd asked. "You don't even know me that well."
Garcia had thought about it, trying to find the right words. "Because that's not who we are. That's not who I want to be."
Candy had looked at him for a long moment, then at Kerry and Gore, both of whom were bleeding but grinning like they'd just won the lottery.
"Okay," she'd said finally. "I'll hang out with you guys. But not because I'm scared or because you saved me. Because you're decent people, even if you're too stupid to realize it."
---
The club they'd gone to that night had been nothing like Garcia had expected. He'd pictured something dark and seedy, maybe with drug deals happening in the bathroom and women dancing on tables.
Instead, it had been... nice. Decent food, good music, and a relaxed atmosphere where people were just trying to have a good time. The bouncer had checked their IDs carefully but hadn't given them any trouble once Candy had vouched for them.
"This place has a policy," Candy had explained once they'd found a table. "Single men only get in if they're with a woman. Cuts down on the guys who come looking to start trouble or harass the female customers."
"That's why we always ask women to come with us," Garcia had realized. "Not because we want to... you know. Because we want to get into places like this."
"Places with good food," Kerry had added, biting into what might have been the best burger of his life.
"Exactly," Gore had agreed. "My cousin's friend's neighbor's kid told me about clubs like this. Said they don't let troublemakers in, but the food is incredible and they got pool tables and everything."
Candy had started laughing, covering her face with her hands. "Oh my God. You guys aren't trying to proposition random women. You're just trying to get dinner and hang out somewhere nice."
"Why is that funny?" Garcia had asked, genuinely confused.
"Because," Candy had managed between giggles, "you've been accidentally terrorizing half the women in Manhattan because you want to eat chicken wings somewhere with air conditioning."
The three of them had looked at each other, then back at Candy.
"Well," Garcia had said finally, "when you put it like that, it does sound pretty stupid."
"Not stupid," Candy had corrected, wiping tears from her eyes. "Just... the most innocent criminal enterprise in the history of crime."
---
The misunderstanding had followed them everywhere. People saw three young men in baggy clothes, one with gold teeth, approaching women at night, and they drew the obvious conclusions. It didn't matter that Garcia always backed off immediately when someone said no, or that they'd never actually hurt anyone, or that their idea of a wild night was chicken wings and pool.
What mattered was how they looked, how they sounded, and how their approach seemed to fit every scary story women had been told about men like them.
"Maybe we should change how we dress," Kerry had suggested after a particularly bad encounter that had ended with security guards escorting them away from a restaurant.
"And look like what?" Garcia had replied. "Prep school kids? Office workers? That ain't who we are."
"But if it gets people to stop thinking we're dangerous..."
"I am dangerous," Garcia had said firmly. "When I need to be. When someone's threatening my family or my crew. But I ain't dangerous to women who just want to be left alone."
It was a distinction that mattered to him, even if the rest of the world couldn't see it.
---
The night Garcia, Gore and Kerry had encountered Eva. They'd approached three different women that evening, with three different results.
The first had said no politely but firmly, and Garcia had backed off immediately, tipping his head and wishing her a good evening. She'd seemed surprised by his politeness.
The second had pulled out her phone and threatened to call the cops before Garcia could even finish explaining what they wanted. That one had stung, especially since all he'd been trying to do was ask if she wanted to join them for dinner at a place that served amazing fish tacos.
But the third... the third had been Eva. Beautiful, confident, seemingly unafraid of three young men who'd been accidentally terrorizing women all over Manhattan.
"Oh? All three of you at once?" she'd purred when Garcia had made his usual offer.
Garcia had felt genuinely pleased that someone finally seemed to appreciate their invitation. He'd had no idea that Eva's confidence came from the fact that she saw them as food.
None of them had realized that their biggest problem wasn't how they looked or how they talked. Their biggest problem was that they lived in a world where the monsters looked exactly like everyone else.
"More the merrier, you know what I'm saying?" Garcia had said that night, grinning at the stranger who'd offered to join them.
He'd been thinking about chicken wings and maybe some pool.
He had no way of knowing that he was about to receive the education of a lifetime on what real monsters actually looked like, and how quickly he would adapt to this new life.
