Edwin Mendoza Alon-Alon

His was standing two steps beneath the 7-11’s glass doors when he was shot at the side of the head by a man in a hooded gray sweatshirt. The killer tossed down a white piece of cardboard scrawled with “pusher” in capitals. Then he walked away.

Bato was the eldest in the family. He was slow, said his sister, was born two months too early and had trouble reading and writing. He was a happy man who liked basketball even if he wasn’t any good. He never ate chicken, stuffed himself with pork, and was pleased to be offered odd jobs. He washed dishes. He swept floors. He threw out the neighborhood trash. When there was nothing to do he played barker across the 7-11 for the jeepney drivers waiting for fares. He would take anything in exchange, a cup of coffee, a meal, maybe a ten or a twenty.

His was standing two steps beneath the 7-11’s glass doors when he was shot at the side of the head by a man in a hooded gray sweatshirt. The killer tossed down a white piece of cardboard scrawled with “pusher” in capitals. Then he walked away.

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