A black-cloaked figure quieted the neighborhood with a forced hush.

    Over the place where El Sombrero and his clique watched and waited; where on hot summer nights hysterical laughter would be followed by apologetic smirks, and where la unica luz en la calle came from candlelight vigils in remembrance of once was. 

    This was before the methadone clinic moved into town, before the transients were forced down our street.

    South Mountain View with no mountain view.

    I used to re-skin African drums with dead goat hides overlooking South Mountain View; the helicopters overlooking me. Two up, twenty-fours hours a day.

    But the black-cloaked figure just stood there without moving a muscle.

    He was Santa Muerte.

Jonathan R Farrell