Chicanos Eaten by Icelandic Trolls By Valerie Huerta   Kids are lighting fireworks on the two streets that make a Horseshoe where the Dallas county line breaks off into anarachy; a word that looks like two lines of dirt made by the same child’s hand.   Mrs. Peña’s kindergarten class was just released an hour early to jump the junkyard fence and make a phalanx of Oldsmobile and El Dorado bumper/ hubcaps.   My Mexican Grandma, in the mint shrub, is hiding with a Holy-Water Nerf gun, bracing Sancho, the Pekinese with a sinus infection, and the only creature that can smell Eyafjallajökull smouldering high in the South of Iceland,…