El Diablo

Posted on Sun Jul 19th, 2026 @ 6:22pm by Cain Cross

1,213 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Episode 0: X Lang Syne
Location: Los Angeles
Timeline: 1991

The street lights were on, and all the good kids had gone home. The rebellious few, the ones who had adult business they attended to during the day, and those who were envious of them, packed the parking lot of the A&W. Low riders and trucks, trunks popped, with cassettes blaring. Black bodies leaning, talking, laughing. The sound of Tupac and orange neon glow.

“Ay Cain, you heard Ricky got chased by a Rottweiler earlier today? Little man hopped a fence and almost regretted that for the rest of his natural life,” a friend said, his grin stretching from ear to ear.

“Why, he ain’t make it?” Cain asked. He was chewing on a blue pen cap, moving the pointed end between his teeth.

“He pulled himself over the fence, but when he went to clear it he tore the ass out of his pants on the metal,” the friend answered, and a gang of boys erupted in a fit of laughter.

“Damn. Still better than having it chewed on by a dog, I guess,” Cain responded, his own smile stretching now.

It was summer, he was seventeen, and he was at the height of his own power in the streets of Crenshaw. The neighborhood belonged to his people, and he helped them run it with the horrible tools they gave him. He was his dead father’s son, what he wanted, he found a way to get, and as his eyes wandered to follow a blue-jean Latina girl with braids, he found a new want entirely.

“Gotdamn, you see her?” He asked, licking his full lips and following the girl with his gaze. She was fine and walking with a friend, talking loud and switching her hips for the boys.

“The one with the bubble booty over there?” His friend asked. “Hell yeah, man. She got me dreamin’ of sliding between those cheeks tonight, boy.”

“You nasty, man,” Cain said with a smirk that showed he reveled in audacity and boldness. He stood up and moved off of the car on which he had been leaning. “Hey, Shawty, come back.”

He was in hot pursuit, his eyes on the jiggling prize, and he liked what he saw. He stopped by the girl and her friend. Smooth skin, big brown eyes, and a body of curves and softness drew all of Cain’s attention. He felt the spice of her soul, and smelled guava, chili powder. He smelled rain on asphalt, but everyone smelled like that.

“Hey, fly girl, what’s ya name?” He asked, his tone smooth like rap. His teeth set on the pen cap.

“Who wants to know, G?” The girl asked after sharing a glance with her friend. She knew he was trouble at least. “Like three boys already asked for my number today and I said no, so you might as well move on before you get ya little feelings hurt.”

“I ain’t none of them so that don’t mean nothin’ to me,” he said, shaking his head. “They got weak game, no aim, and they broke. I’m Cain and I’m here to shoot my shot now.”

He stepped into her face, not giving her friend a second glance. Offense was taken, but not by the object of his attention. He knew what he wanted. He was a sorcerer for his own designs.

“Name’s Maria, Flaco,” the girl said, masking her interest behind her own dangerous smile. “And I already got a man, so you can just step back before he comes over here to kick your ass.”

“OK, you got a man. But for how much longer?” He asked with a smirk, all smooth, unbothered energy. Preternatural ease of voice. “You way too pretty for me to just step away before I see if ya man hittin-“

“Hittin’ what - what the fuck? Eh, you good over here, Ria?”

Here approached a boy their age with an angry, dangerous look that said he was capable of rage and violence. These were not strange spirits.

“Everything’s fine, Miguel, relax,” Maria said, her gum popping her protest of annoyance. The glow in her eyes said she was a fish on a line. She had already made up her mind. “We were just talking. You don’t even need to come over here, Papi. He ain’t worth your time.”

“Don’t sound like you’re just talking,” Miguel shot back. “He’s lookin’ at you like he wants in those jeans tonight.”

“Not a thing you can do about that, Miguel,” Cain said, his dark eyes focused. “You just better hope she ain't too curious. Trust your girl. She don’t even look like she like king-sized chocolate anyways.”

Miguel lifted his big hands and pushed Cain back hard. He faltered, but he didn’t fall. Cain, his fists balled, came back quick as a lightning strike. He punched Miguel hard in the temple. Maria screamed like a siren and the parking lot of the A&W turned into a circle - an arena. The spectators cheered and cried for blood.

“Chinga tu madre,” Miguel said, and fished a switch blade out of his pocket. He lunged forward, his intent to end Cain’s life over a girl in tight jeans. Cain dodged the first strike and stepped back from the second. When he kicked Miguel in the stomach, the mean Mexican boy stumbled back against a car, holding his middle.

Cain’s thoughts went to Angela Cross, widow of his murdered father. The only parent he’d ever known. The woman he kept safe. A darkness loomed in his mind. A shadow came over his expression.

“What did you just say about my Mama?” Cain asked, his eyes darkening to pools of black. Some of the spectators saw them and screamed. His jeans bowed and black feathers fell out of the top of them. Then, with a flash of obsidian, his shirt was torn to tatters and he stood, great black wings of an eagle upon his back like a demon from the pit of Hell. Powerful muscles under dark skin with black tattoos of flame.

“WHAT THE-“ Miguel bellowed over the shocked screams of much of the crowd. “It’s EL DIABLO!”

“You said fuck my momma, right?” Cain spat like fire on a demo, his voice suddenly like two, stepping forward.

“I'm sorry, man. I don’t even like Maria all like that. You can have-“

His concession was cut off when Cain’s arms swallowed him up and, with a great wind of flapping wing, he leaped skyward. The two of them climbed away together, carried by night and rage into the dark blanket of the sky, and the crowd of teens screamed, and some cheered, as they watched them climb up and up on those horrid black feathers. And the sound of them was gone a whole minute, as if they had been transferred from this world and into a different, more horrifying one.

But with a scream, flesh fell hard into a nearby bush, steaming and panicked. It was Miguel, alive, bellowing. And his clothes were on fire. The demon of Crenshaw is gone, and the arena is in shrieking chaos. Maria watches the skies.

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