At the top of the small hill the cholos were still cheering at the fallen alien who was struggling to get up. Ruben got everyone quiet. He was thinking fast: was it the chancla that had damaged the alien or the water from it? He was taking no chances. “Everyone with chanclas or huaraches take them off and put them in a pile. Joker, you grab four of the vatos and run down to the hynas at the pool. Get water in whatever you can fill from the dumpsters or whatever and start sending it up here. We’re going to start throwing chanclas! A los chanclaso cabrones!”
Payaso laughed and said, “We should go get my Ma, yo. She throws a mean chancla!”
“Sabes que homie? That’s not a bad idea. Send one of the dudes running to the back of the park and tell him to round up every chancla in the hood and get the abuelas and mamas over here. My mom can still whip my ass with a chancletazo al diablo,” Ruben said.
Payaso looked at Ruben kind of stunned, then grinned wide, said, “Orale, ese,” and ran off to round up the neighborhood’s meanest chancla-throwing women.
On his way down the back end of the park he ran into the younger kids, who were coming with everything from rakes and machetes from Tio Chuy’s gardening truck to bags of fertilizer. He got them headed back down with him to round up chanclas and women. Quickly, a rather large pile of chanclas of all varieties formed and the best hurlers in the group took the frontline armed with chanclas.
Buckets, old beer bottles and soda cans of water were being rushed up the hill while the aliens still lumbered forward slowly, their wounded friend at the rear.
From behind them, the cholos could hear the women of the neighborhood coming. The highest pitched voice was that of Doña Belen, a mean old viejita with the strongest throwing arm he’d ever seen outside of Dodger Stadium. Not a kid in the hood was without scars on their nalgas from her “chanclas of doom.”
He winced and tensed up his butt involuntarily, then tried to relax as he remembered that this time, she was on his side.
Doña Belen’s high voice was screeching out: Donde estan esos desgraciados que han matado a mis chavalos? Cabrones, veten de aqui pinches espacemen!
She was marching as fast as her little old legs could carry her, chancla in hand and the pockets of her apron filled with flip flops. She looked like a cross between an avenging angel, La Llorona and a crazy homeless person.
Despite himself Ruben laughed and got a whack to the back of his head.
“Malcriado! What are you laughing at cabron? This is a war pendejo! Portate como un guerrero not a stupid kid,” she shouted and hurled her beloved and very bedazzled chancla at one of the aliens.
It flew through the air with a wicked whistling sound that every Latino kid knows all too well and landed right smack in the gaping mouth of the closest alien. Fuaca! The smacking sound rang through the park and the alien fell to its knees. Cheers rang across the park and more chanclas started to fly through the air as an army of apron-clad, masa fingered grandmothers began their assault.
As the chanclas began to wound the aliens and their horrible howls of pain resounded through the air, the cholos realized they didn’t need water so they sent for more chanclas.
They were wounding these cabrones like crazy but not one had died and they were speeding up, getting closer. Ruben and Smiley at the front of the group looked at each other in concern.
Could they be killed?