At the three in the morning, the city belongs to Santa Muerta.

Prostitutes like beautiful corpses under the eldritch glow of streetlamps. Dogs with the faces of saints. Murderers with the hands of children, everlasting hungers rattling in their hearts like dry bones.

And then there’s you.

You chuck your ten thousandth cigarette and walk down the dark alley with thoughts of predatory love in your skull. You peer through windows at sleeping children, each one close enough for you to hear their breaths. Close enough for you to touch them should you chose so. But you do not. You are a beast of the night and it is the stars to which you pour your libations.

The unmistakable tapping of high-heeled shoes on the pavement.

A whiff of woman flesh and soap and perfume.

And sweat.

Sweat is the first copla. The first copla is to be repeated. 6/8 time signature. Bring out the castañetas. Hang the fucking calacas. Flores para los Muertos. We dance with the Diablo tonight, baby.

The girl appears from around the corner, some chinadoll on the way home from the graveyard shift. She doesn’t see you in the shadows. Where does she live? Is there someone waiting at home to fuck her? Is she perhaps thinking of a quick romance with her finger under the sheets? What does her voice sound like? Does she moan like a little girl? Or does she yawp like an Amazon?

Your irises dilate. Your breathing becomes shallow. Blood throbs in your ears. The crotch of your pants tightens in anticipation. She passes by and you follow her with trembling hands.

Suddenly, she looks around. She sees a rat scurrying across the pool of lamplight. She sighs, feeling silly, and goes on walking. You emerge from the darkness and follow her once more with long but quiet strides, closing in. When she finally hears your muffled steps, it’s too late. She turns and you are upon her.

Thus begins the fandango.