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About San Juan

So, findin’ a prossie—where d’ya start? Down by Flea Bottom, stinks like a dead hog, but that’s where they lurk. Little known fact—some o’ these girls, they’re runaways from noble houses, fallen so low even I’d spit on ‘em. Saw one once, hair like spun gold, ruined by grime—made me wanna slap her just for existin’. “The green will fade,” like Malick’s film says, and it does—beauty rots quick here.

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But then, outta nowhere, the sky turned dark. Like, really dark. I’m thinking, “No way, not rain!” But it started pouring. I mean, torrential downpour. I ran for cover, but not before getting drenched again. I was like a walking sponge.

Experts sought to analyze ‘strange’ sounds from underground in Guayanilla