Her hair was like black ice. There may have been tiny icicles dancing in its locks - it felt and it looked like maybe reality was suspended and there really were - as she swung her head up gracefully and stood. She rarely stood. It took a lot out of her, too much energy, to stand. She was graceful and slim. Everything she did was perfect.

"You want to see how flexible I am?" she asked her audience, consisting of her neighbours and some distant relatives. Mostly children, one adult. Mostly little boys.

She stood on one foot and put her leg behind her neck, like a contortionist. She twisted with ease. The bones along her right arm, the spines that were large saw teeth attached to bone, not unusual for her kind, stretched the skin of her arm as she held her foot in place. She returned to her usual position just as quickly as she rose from it. But the audience knew she could do so if she wished - they knew how dangerous she was.

Demons are not uncommon in our lands, in our time. They walk amongst us and we can see the horror they inflict and call them "demons" then and, most of the time, we cannot even see them. The co-worker who drains your energy with minute small-talk. The man who stops you in your tracks with just one look. What's in their hearts? What's beneath their clothing? The ones who carried out the lynching in the South, way back when. But this one is different. This is Mexico city in present-day and she is not the kind of demon the papers write about. She simply makes money, kills a couple of humans here and there, another demon maybe, for what cash is to be offered. That should suffice to quench your interests.

But a further description is warranted. Her name is Junta. Her skin is pale and she does not tan, despite the Mexican sun. She is thin and lithe and not too tall and not too short. Her face is strangely beautiful but not in the cheap, street-whore way. Not like the rich women who parade around with Chihuahuas under their arms. Her eyes are large and brown and framed by a rainforest of lashes. Someone once asked why no one looks like her. She said she didn't know. It was because once, a long time ago, such a question would not be asked. But times change and the world turns and populations are killed off. So it goes.

What happened today was this: A neighbour's child was playing at being a superhero out in the yard, by where the trash mountains that haven't yet been bulldozed over are. He was jumping and 'landing' and doing all sort of very serious superhero activity. That was this morning, maybe around ten. At maybe around twelve, he came home covered in blood and bruises. There is a video of his very serious superhero business on YouTube now and some teenagers, the ones that live in the building across the yard and the same ones that had pushed him down the stairs earlier in the month, are to blame. Maybe they're just teenagers or maybe they should be killed. We don't really know how they'll turn out but why take the chance? The world doesn't need any more demons and neither does Mexico. Tourism is dead as it is.

So the little boy came home. He was a pudgy, round child of seven years. He had short, buzzed hair that was a plain brown and pinkish skin, as most overweight children tend to have. His name is not important. He helped Junta carry her groceries many a time, even pushed her around in her stubby chair with funny-looking wheels. It's not medical, just out of convenience. She needs her energy saved, after all. But that's beside the point.

There was a considerable amount of damage done to the little boy. His gray oversized t-shirt was ripped and dusty. He had blood on his hands and knees from when he fell down the hill. His face was scratched. His father and brothers, all around his age, were both distressed and furious. It wasn't right. If the police would do something his father would go to them but, as everyone here knows, they will not. Hooliganism is not uncommon. So why not rid of the menace themselves? That's rational thinking.

They went down into the backyard garden to see Junta. Not for this purpose - the boy's father is a man, of course - but just to talk and consult. They knew she was different and not in the bad, foreign way. Not in the way where there's an issue of perceived superiority. They knew she could do 'funny stuff'. She was sitting in her chair when suddenly they and a stubby tail of neighbours and relatives pooled around her. It was a particularly warm day and everyone was wearing appropriately little.

Junta was upset. The transpired events were not acceptable by any standards in any society in any time period. It just didn't happen. She watched the YouTube clip on someone's laptop. Yes, they have laptops in Mexico, of course. It is not abnormal; technology is an equalizer.

Some neighbours had thought that Junta was a cripple. But then she stood up, out of her chair, and offered to show them that no, she was whole. Her speed was amazing. It was superhuman. Her radiance captivated her audience. She told the little boy not to worry for God works in mysterious ways. Then she walked into the building, presumably up to her flat.

The next day the police pretended to investigate the slaughter across the yard. There were some tears, some heavy lifting and some considerable scrubbing - blood is not as easy to get out as it seems - but all-in-all the day went well. The officers were offered drinks by some neighbours. It was all very relaxing. The neighbourhood was the better for it and now, those who needed an apartment could move up one ahead in the queue. The YouTube file was forgotten and, come on, this is Mexico; people have greater things to care about than the next Star Wars Kid.

Yeah, that's how it all happened. Kind of interesting, isn't it? Not all demons are sex-fetishist or abused slaves. Imagine that. But anyways, welcome to Mexico, enjoy your stay and try the shots on the bar.