L A B A L A

vi: migraines, punching bags, and hopeless engagements

Isabella was fine with my views even though on some occasions she would want to go out where there would be an exponential amount of paparazzi, and I would go because she loved to do it and it would get her off my back for a while, but Majesty probably liked to go out all the time and tear the New York pavement to shreds with the paparazzi following her like a puppy.

When I felt my lungs about to explode I stopped and let out a breath, "Oh, Dios mío, tú eres la bala." My head snapped up and I saw a little Latino boy looking at me with wide eyes, he had a football in his hands and his mouth was slightly ajar, looking around I saw that I was on the sidewalk of a neighborhood, "You guys it's La Bala."

Kids came running over to us and I wondered just how far I ran, "Woah you're La Bala!" another Latino kid said this one had big curls and big brown eyes.

Looking at the group of kids I saw that they were all Latino and all a similar shade of brown and I said uneasily, "Qué pasa."

Saying this started off a ruckus of questions and infatuation, "Are your hands really made of steel?" One of them said, "Can I have your autograph?" Another one said, "You're crazy fast could you teach me your cross-round." But the one that really stood out to me was, "How can I not be a statistic like you?"

My breathing shallowed out and I tried to not to let the memories from back home affect me, not the good memories, but the bad ones, the ones that gave me PTSD, like the time I had to be sent to three different group homes in the span of a month because of my fighting, or the time where I was expelled from my high school because I slammed a kids head in the locker because he spoke of my mother, I was a statistic, I was just a statistic that was able to get out the ghetto because of the thing that helped put me in it, "Don't be like me, cabeza dura, and become a boxer go to school and do something I couldn't do."

Before leaving I signed a few autographs and took a couple pictures with wondering parents about why I was in their little neighborhood, it was on these days that let me know why I still had passion for the things I did, yeah, I'm young and like a fresh penny so I would have no choice but to have a passion for it, but to see my people rallying around me telling me about fights that I hadn't even talked about it because it was in Colombia and wasn't filmed was a feeling a check just couldn't top.

What I was meant to do wasn't over, not as long as I was the hardest hitting southpaw, or the best bob and weaver and a pro at counterpunches, I came here for one specific thing and that was to put Franklin Webster on his white ass and take what I have been striving for since I put Rico Sanchez on his ass and I knocked fire from Just Joe White. I didn't come to America for vacation no I came for a specific reason and I can't let her take over my head, not when I have something important to do, and I have a beautiful woman to marry.

When my car came I slid in and Tiago was reaching back to hand me my phone, "Rico and Roz should be arriving in tomorrow right before your Tux appointment." Nodding I took my phone I was happy that my best friend and the man I saw as my father was going to be coming in, I couldn't have Maniac without Rico and Roz, "Isabella wants you to call her."

Sighing I rubbed my face and dialed her number, putting the phone to my ear I looked out the window, when she answered she didn't bother to greet me just simply saying, "You're going to be meeting with Majesty tomorrow, so she can get an exclusive on your tuxedo and Giorgio."

Fuck. My. Life.