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“May you live in interesting times.”

-A curse disguised as a proverb


Here in England, the media is awash with reports on the recent
flooding, which has made what was just a gloomy summer a whole
lot worse for many thousands of people. Think houses under 3
feet of sewage-infected floodwater. The floods came just as a
study revealed the first firm evidence for the hand of global
warming in changing rainfall patterns. By definition, no single
weather event can be attributed to climate change. But there's
widespread agreement that at the mid-latitudes where England
sits, it's going to get wetter on average – a warmer world means
more evaporation. It's also thought the intensity of storms will

    It was a minor enough incident, really. But then again,

that‟s what Lina got for having a predilection for younger men.

Aaron, at 23 years old and as many years her junior, couldn‟t be

anything but boy-toy material. However, it wasn‟t like Lina

didn‟t know that.   No amount of honey-blond highlights and spin

classes on her part could change this simple truth.

    And who else would put up with her two carpet-pissing

Chihuahuas but someone else on her leash? And at this moment,

Aaron had had enough. It wasn‟t enough that he had to service

this increasingly disgusting older woman, but to suffer the

final humiliation of having one of her little pups piss on his

I-pod Nano, which he promptly (and intentionally) wiped off with

her way-too-young-for-her top lying on the floor…a man‟s gotta

have his limits. And to which that bitch had the nerve to scold

him, never mind that she‟d been the one to buy the Nano in the

first place.


    Across town, a morning news anchorman was in the beginning

stages of an existential dilemma, unable to shoulder the

ignorantly blissful cocoon he was engulfed in. Deaths in Iraq?

That wasn‟t news, that was same old same old. Lindsay Lohan

violating probation plus cocaine? Now, that was some serious

morning programming fodder. The increasing gulf between the

haves and the have-nots? Why should he care? Steven Jung, six

feet tall, a 33 year old product of an American dad and Japanese

mother, was a have- a handsome Asian-American on the move up the

ladder of success. It made news directors feel good, hiring him

and diluting the snow-whiteness of their on-air talent. It was

also essential to deflect any racial criticism. Yes sir, he was

making the whole minority thing work for him, if not for anyone


    But even though he wasn‟t quite yet at the caring point, he

was at the gate of awareness. It wasn‟t a gate he had approached

on his own. On the contrary, he‟d done everything in his power

to walk blindly past it every time. But things were different

now. Steven Jung had a new woman in his life. And this one

demanded changes. And isn‟t that what women did? Found a guy

they fancied and promptly proceeded to change him? At least much

as they could, case in point being Steven‟s recent sale of his

oversize Lincoln Navigator (which he did no real navigating in)

and acquisition of a Toyota Prius hybrid.


    Raw loved the environment. He had to. Being a black man

with a name like Raw and with his long dreads, it wasn‟t like

corporate America was beating down the doors to get him onboard.

He‟d moved out west to Cali to get away from the faded and

degraded grayscale of the grime-coated East coast, beat up from

centuries of unchecked environmental raping and pillaging. He

couldn‟t understand the rampant waste occurring around him.

Nothing set him off more than seeing someone go to a fast food

restaurant and ordering a 99 cent order of fries and walking out

with a container for them, paper bag, napkins and multiple

ketchup packets- most of it never getting used before disposal.

Then there were people going to grocery stores, walking out with

five plastic bags for practically as many items- bags that would

take hundreds of years to decompose. Then there was the

Starbucks patron with not one, but two paper cups and a

corrugated paper sleeve to protect their weak little

hands….going to offices that were absurdly so A/C heavy in the

summer they would give you a cold, and make you sweat in the

winter. He just couldn‟t see how all this could be permitted.

There was no way he could participate in all this behavior that

would condition most to suffocate on their own debris. He

disgustedly looked at a weak resolution approved by the City

Board in an article in the paper, one he‟d been fervently


  “The Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors approved a plan

that asks large grocers to lower the number of the bags used

over the next five years with the intention of dramatically

reducing the number of plastic grocery bags reaching landfills

or littering streets”.

  Asked? To Raw, the time for asking was over. With the

intention? All that did was pave the highways replacing the road

to hell. It was obvious. Token gestures as empty as their

minimal effect. All this useless, and oh-so-ever unnecessary,

waste just had to spell disaster. He had seven simple tenets he


  1. Take the stairs whenever possible.

  2. Avoid heating and A/C. 99.9% of it‟s unnecessary.

  3. Grow or find your own food.

  4. Travel by bike, skateboard or mass transit.

  5. Never drink bottled water.

  6. Take care of your teeth. You will need them to tear and

    chew unprocessed foods.

    And last, but not least:

  7. Take care of your body. Be physically and mentally prepared

    for the revolution when it comes…and it will.

    So he was what some might call homeless. But then again,

how could Raw be homeless when he considered the whole Earth his

home? He was free to, and did, wander wherever the hell he

wanted to. On the contrary, he had way more homes than most

people on this big blue ball. It‟s just that his weren‟t

confined to man-made constraints such as ceilings and walls.

Yes, he took care of his health nowadays too. But even that

hadn‟t been enough when he first cleaned up his previously hard-

partying act. As if sobriety and a good attitude was enough.

He‟d thought that though. That is, until…

    The most soul-crushing moment had to be when he‟d wake up

in that good mood. And so he would go out in the world, dizzy

with fresh potential. Except nobody would respond to it or care.

In other words, they just didn‟t give a fuck. Raw would then

swallow that good mood, and it would turn bitter before turning

to acid, acid that ate away at him piece by piece until there

was nothing left of him.

    And it was at that moment he opted to opt out of society-

the whole nine to five illusion. Fuck that blinding white light

and noise.

    And perhaps the man on the street would look at Raw and

think him crazy, but Raw knew otherwise. He would look at them,

thinking to himself of these others, “There‟s crazy…and then

there‟s professional crazy. Crazy is the homeless man who wets

his pants at the bus stop. Professional crazy is the rich man

who spends a country into the ground.”

    Raw was neither of these, stuck ripe and rampant with that

lovely lil‟ thing called crazy. It was becoming a time when men

could no longer walk around looking like a Gap ad, escape into

ESPN, or do drugs for recreation as opposed to sheer escape. No,

these self-indulgent and self-destructive impulses were rapidly

becoming frivolous relics of the old order. Looking good and

feeling good could no longer be bought or sold, exposing the

gaping nothing now brought to the fore.


    Aaron was late. Not late to work or anything pressingly

real and urgent like that, but late to the Griddle Café on the

corner of Sunset and Fairfax on a Tuesday morning. He was

working on a script with an “associate”. This was going to be

the vehicle to transport him and his temporary life to somewhere

much bigger and permanently grander. This would put him on the

map, because once you‟re on the map, people can now find you and

things can now happen. Plus, the breakfasts at the Griddle were

quite simply the best- whether it was the oversize buckwheat

pancakes or the fresh-roasted individual coffee press-urns in

front of you at your table.

    Aaron peered in at the weekday crowd. Were a visitor from

out of town to do the same, he or she would promptly assume that

nobody under the age of 30 seemed to have a job in this town.

    “Sorry I‟m late.”

    Aaron spun around and smiled. It was Jalila, his

screenwriting partner, a lithe Persian beauty with startling

turquoise eyes, and a tight t-shirt that said “Property of Betty

Ford Clinic” creeping up past her midriff, exposing a sapphire

piercing in her navel that matched her iridescent eyes. If

anything, she‟d be the one selling their script with her exotic

allure. Aaron visually took in all that was her, she being that

rare specimen that could eradicate any racism from the biggest

Middle-East mistrusting, “sand-nigger”-hating, ignorant American

via her sheer beauty. Surely any place that produces such pure

beauty cannot be all bad.

    “I already put my name in for a table.”

    “Awesome. What‟d you do last night?”

    And one thing Aaron didn‟t, and never would, tell her was

not what, but who, he was doing the previous evening. For to

tell Jalila would be to let her know his desperately foolish

young self had been with an older woman, as if that would

somehow rub off and infect Jalila. Most nights he usually

managed to get away from his sugar mama, but Monday night was

“date night”, cherished by Lina as much as it was dreaded by

Aaron. However, this was the night that he really paid his rent

at her Beverlywood house. But lately even turning tricks on

Santa Monica Boulevard sounded good compared to the old

delusional bat. He was beginning to feel like John McCain in a

Vietcong prison…trapped in a world he never made.

    “It‟s Sara‟s thirtieth birthday party on the the

thirtieth…going to be at Spaceland” said Jalila.

    “Who‟s playing?”

     And it mattered not a whit, actually. The music was

secondary, fleeting and prone to fads such as the current

psychedelic country scene running rampant in Silverlake,

anything to randomly mix and mash up done-to-death genres.

However, somebody‟s 30th birthday meant something entirely

exciting, an exaggerated ode to youthful hedonism from the party

girl to prove her still-existing vitality and all that entailed:

drug use, binge drinking and the big payoff- promiscuous sex.

Aaron was in.

     “I forgot their name, but they sound like a cross between

Abba and Black Sabbath.”

     Aaron groaned. That was so retro resurgence 1999 mixed with

retro resurgence 2002.

     Jalila continued, “They sound like both, but not really

either one.”

     “Then how do they…”

     “I don‟t know. They just sound like what it would be if…”

     “How‟s the synopsis going?” Aaron cut in.

     She had exceeded his limited attention span. “If only my

mom could hurry up and die”, thought Aaron, “All the rich Jews

in this town and I gotta be one of the poor ones.” He knew she

was the only thing standing in the way of himself inheriting

some serious cash. Lina offered free food and boarding, but at

what cost? The way things were going, he‟d have to start his own

goddamn Chabad telethon. At least with this one, he‟d know

exactly where the money was going and what he‟d use it for.

Slums of Beverly Hills, indeed. “And to think…” thought Aaron,

“…I have to get a job before she helps me out.”

    This seemed absurd to this pretty-boy. How could he get a

job right now? He was an artist. He needed time to create, and

thirty wasn‟t too far off for him. If anything, his free time

was at a premium now. In his mind, he was a sculptor- a sculptor

of ideas and concepts. He, along with Jalila‟s assistance (and

looks), was creating a script that would make him a force to

reckon with in this town. They‟d see. He was the visionary and

Jalila his fine gal Friday. “Matter of fact, she‟s lucky to be

getting half” thought he. Never mind that they both hadn‟t made

dime one yet.

    He knew without dreams this town couldn‟t exist. Dreams

were the fuel that drove it. Without dreams, L.A. would run out

of fuel, dry up and blow away back into the desert whence it

came (and where it would surely return).

    “Hey, check this out.”

    Aaron headed over to the sidewalk newspaper machine, where

Jalila was studying a front page article.

    “Wow, looks like they‟re having massive flooding in


    “Anybody die?”

    “No…um, it doesn‟t say.”

    “And that‟s important because…”, said Aaron, looking over

at the seating wait line, quickly switching mental gears,

“Probably gonna be about another ten minutes, unless those

assholes milking their coffee at that booth clear outta here


    “So what do you think about that, Aaron?” said Jalila,

oblivious to his internal seating monologue.

    And then he switched back, “Jalila, what good are natural

disasters without fatalities? That one supermodel chick who held

onto a tree in Thailand while her photographer boyfriend got

swept away by the tsunami? See, that there was some Access

Hollywood material…I mean, there was even a part two to that

story when she ended up going out with that singer dude who

wrote that annoying „You‟re Beautiful‟ song”.

    “James Blunt.”

    “Yeah, that loser…the one with that…song.”

    Yes, that song-one which instantly became the anthem of

Starbucks background music nationwide. But disasters minus

fatalities? That was so boringly real. “Where‟s the conflict in

that?” wondered Aaron‟s internal heavy mental gears.


    She‟d gotten him on the yoga. Bikram- just a fancy name for

hot. As the sweat poured out of Steven in the room heated to 105

degrees, he began to achieve a mild state of spiritual clarity.

As the class said their final namaste, Steven filed into the

small men‟s dressing room of this particular Atwater Village

studio. The only thing separating it from the front room where

the check-in desk sat (and everybody congregated and crowded)

was a thin little curtain. It was almost designed to give a peep

show every time a guy parted it to get in or out of the dressing


    Steven noticed there was no shortage of willing males to

purposely strip and stand facing that curtain, just waiting for

their moment in the exhibitionist limelight…hey ladies, check

out my unit! Had Steven been more ruthless (like a certain

female co-anchor of his) he could easily “expose” this den of

inequity and potential sex criminals on a “Focus on Five”

segment. All he‟d have to do was have a little girl stand in

front of the curtain, wait for the inevitable to happen when the

curtain parted, and voila...instant sex predator! At least

that‟s what his unscrupulous coworker would do. And as they all

knew at Channel Five, nothing boosted the ratings like sex

predators, and when you threw in the pedophile angle…”did you

know there were sex criminals in your local yoga studio?”- pure

ratings gold!

     But Steven had bigger concerns. He couldn‟t stop reading

lately. There were so many things he‟d been blind to. So much to

catch up on, so little time. Why, the Kyoto Treaty he‟d briefly

read about off the teleprompter months back was now something he


those online alternative news sources and blogs he‟d previously

been oblivious to before…no longer an unknown entity. For God‟s

sakes, there really was an alternative media!

     And to think, all he had actually relied on before was

Associated Press feeds, Katie Couric and CNN for his news

before. He‟d been way in the darkest back of the cave for oh-so

long, only now making his way toward the light. Kyoto Protocol?

It wasn‟t a question if his very own national government had

been negligent on that (and many other things), but for how


    “Steven, what‟s with the hair?”

    Steven looked up from his copy (yet another story about sex

offenders in the neighborhood) to address his previously

mentioned co-worker and fellow anchor, Maria Contreras-Cohen,

her hyphenated surnames doing battle with each other for ethnic

dominance. Polished to a high sheen she was: her magnificently

colored and coiffed hair with the classy (not cheap and trashy)

red highlights framed a flawless complexion (courtesy of the

very best a face-peel could offer) atop her bikram-yoga toned

body, swanky in the finest Oscar De La Renta could muster.

    It had always cracked him up to see how she‟d always taken

great pains to enunciate the rolling r‟s of her previous, and

now middle, surname. She was not as much proud of her heritage

as she was, much like Steven, banking on her ethnic status.

However, the majority of Los Angeles now being Hispanic, her

ethnicity carried more cache than Steven‟s. She was one better

than having dual citizenship, she had dual marketability. If

things got too rough with her particular network affiliate, she

could always bail ship to the Latin market and not even have to

leave town. Just get Telemundo on the horn. As far as she was

concerned, if anyone had to mind their p‟s and q‟s, it was


    Yet, her enunciation quickly dropped once she married a

certain Saul Cohen, the fabulously wealthy media magnate whose

wealth made her job suddenly seem like a hobby. Ms. C-C had it

all now: the mansion in Bel Air, the ever-so-LA mixed marriage

smothered in stock, stock, and more stock. The lush hedges in

her front yard were beautiful, but they were scraggly

tumbleweeds compared to Saul‟s hedge funds. So, as she became

Ms. Cohen, Maria made pains to retain her old surname as well,

hyphenating it in front of Cohen. Really now…she wasn‟t about to

lose her “street cred”. But she had other things to deal with

right now, like the co-anchor next to her making her look bad.

    “Honestly, Steven, get a haircut. Go see Ronald, my guy,

this afternoon or something. He‟ll fit you in.”

    “Oh, I‟m growing it out a bit.”

    “C‟mon, really now, Steven.”

    “I am!”

    “But the newscast…”

    “What are you saying, Maria? I won‟t be able to report the

news just because my hair is longer?”

    The queen of compromise (but certainly not shy of

confrontation either) shot back, “No, you just won‟t be able to

report the news anymore. I mean, Steven…tell me one reporter

working in a major market, hell, any affiliate- who‟s got long


    “Geraldo Rivera.”

    “Yeah, like circa 1975. Besides, back then he was a field

reporter, not an anchor. Probably high as a kite too. That OK

with you too?”

    “Not everybody was, Maria. Did you know he used to be

friends with John Lennon?”

    “Right, Steven. No drug use going on in that friendship,

huh? I‟m sure they had all the drug-free fun in the world back

in the early „70‟s.”

    Maria rolled her eyes and shuffled her copy. Where was he

going with this sudden appearance shift? Was he high right now?

Steven shot back, “And look where Geraldo is now? Fox News!”

    “And you obviously feel the need to point this out to me.”

    “C‟mon, you don‟t see the inherent irony and hypocrisy in


    “He‟s still a reporter, right?”

    “There‟s something going on, and you don‟t know what it is,

do you, Miss Contreras-Cohen?”

    “Where‟d you get that from? I‟ve heard that somewhere

before. You did not just make that up, Steven.”

    “I know. Bob Dylan said it.”

    “You‟re right on that one, because he sure as hell can‟t

sing. God, I can‟t stand him! That voice!”

    “Only one of a generation.”

    “Yeah, your parents‟”.

    “You just don‟t get it.”

    Maria smoothed out her De La Renta dress and checked to see

if her hair was still perfect. It almost was. Like her

carefully-constructed existence, things did not need to be this


    Eyes trained on the teleprompter rolling copy, she spoke

out of the side of her mouth. She‟d become quite good at that,

at least enough to put any of the few working ventriloquists to


    “Steven, maybe I don‟t, but speaking of “getting it”, you

need to get the updated copy and live feed together on that

Lindsay Lohan story. We‟re leading off the five o‟clock with

that story. Just toss it to Angie. Sixty seconds there and then

she‟ll toss back to you. She‟ll be in the mobile unit out in

Santa Monica at the scene.”

    “Scene of what?”

    “Um, the scene where the lovely Miss Lohan was arrested

last night? Try to keep up here, Steven.”

    “So why do we need Angie there live? We all know what a car

and a street look like.”

    And at this, Maria didn‟t get so much annoyed as nervous,

nervous because her whole frame of reference at what was valid

was not only being challenged, but threatened. Common sense and

logic dictates that true awareness can be a deadly thing in

times of none, especially for a local news reporter‟s future.


    The thing that pissed people off the most about Raw was

that he was so damned self-sufficient. He wasn‟t a beggar,

crackhead or wino. People expected, almost wanted, to see their

homeless people broke-down and dependent, not healthy and

vibrant. Why, this bastard even had good hygiene!

    And he could do whatever the hell he wanted: bike across

the United States, tour with any jam band of his choice, march

to Washington with Cindy Sheehan…it was all good in the hood,

because his hood could be anywhere.

    But back to hygiene. Raw knew that was important, because

after all- he liked sex. Not many cute females out there were

down with getting with a homeless man. No girl, no matter how

noble or forgiving, wanted to rummage in rubbish. And with all

this talk about people being greener… well, hell- Raw had been

green for some time now. It was just that now the world was

catching up with him. All of a sudden he was in demand,

especially with the ladies. The further the United States

government hemmed and hawed in denial over the undeniably

shifting climate, the more heroic Raw appeared. It was like

being a NYFD firefighter the day after 9/11, every day of the


    “God bless George Bush” thought Raw. Every time he saw a

sour-faced wage-slave slogging off to work, choking their way

through smog to work more for less than ever, he realized just

how fun things would start to get. There was no way things could

continue this way.   He was a pioneer and he could already sense

it. All he had to do was open his eyes and his ears: from NPR to

Pacifica radio, from MSNBC and CNN to Democracy Now and Common

Dreams…from Obama to Nader, from Chomsky and Zinn to…Marx.

Previously without it soon became because of it.


A monsoon dropped 35 centimetres of rain in one day across many
parts of South Asia this month. Germany had its wettest May on
record, and April was the driest there in a century.
Temperatures reached 45 degrees in Bulgaria last month and 32
degrees in Moscow in late May, shattering long-time records. The
year still has almost five months to go, but it has already
experienced a range of weather extremes that the UN‟s World
Meteorological Organisation says is well outside the historical
norm and is a precursor to much greater weather variability as
global warming transforms the planet.
-The Sydney Morning Herald
    It was going to be the revolution the film industry needed-

a fresh start. The current state of cinema was played out. It

was so simple it was genius. And Aaron had thought of it all on

his lonesome one lonely afternoon, stuck with Lina‟s Chihuahuas.

Their pained little faces, so full of expression, couldn‟t (and

wouldn‟t) ever issue anything more than a series of annoying

yelps. “Maybe they‟re trying to say something” thought Aaron in

his current Vicodin-addled state. “Wonder what they‟re trying to

say?” as the harpies on “The View” kvetched about anything the

FCC allowed them to on Lina‟s plasma screen TV.

    And that‟s when brilliance struck from the dumbest of

thoughts, the kind of brilliant lightning one must ride, for it

will never come again in a lifetime. Aaron thought out loud,


    There it was- the concept, the title, and the title and the

cast all in one. It would be a movie for, and about, dogs. The

only thing the dogs couldn‟t do was finance it. And sure, dogs

couldn‟t exactly go to a movie theater to see it, but their

owners could buy and rent it (DVD sales!). Judging from the

possessiveness over their pets Aaron had seen from owners, they

would. Also, this would cut out the annoying theater

distribution crap. Straight to DVD…straight to his

pocket…straight to the bank.

    And it didn‟t have to end just there- the opportunities

were limitless, so many genres to tap into: dog comedies, dog

dramas, even “dogumentaries”. And sure, there‟d been many movies

with, and even starring, dogs. Lassie, Rin-Tin-Tin, Benji, but

they were all puppets working for the man. Bitches, if you will.

These dogs had always shared the silver screen with at least one

human or some annoying human narration.

    Aaron‟s artistic epiphany would have dogs communicating

with each other just as they always have. Sometimes a butt sniff

is worth a thousand words. Of course there would be a plot…even

if it was dogs, there needed to be the key elements: suspense,

action, violence…and yes, even love scenes. All that.

    Daring to think even bigger, Aaron realized that this

revelation could expand even further- cat movies, monkey movies,

bird movies…it was limitless. And the best part as there was no

dialogue to write…just the look on an animal‟s face- that was

enough to melt or stop any human heart. The whole animal kingdom

was at Aaron‟s command. He gladly wondered why over one hundred

years of cinema could have passed without this almost criminal

oversight, myopically confining itself to primarily one species.

    Aaron also wondered why he had even cut Jalila in on the

deal. Fifty percent was quickly seeming way too much for her.

He‟d have to change that. Actually, he already had in his mind.

He just hadn‟t gotten around to telling her yet. In Los Angeles,

people usually find things out, and are not directly told them.

It is this avoidance of human discourse which greases the wheels

of speculation, rumor and hype- elements basic and essential as

carbon in Southern California.

    Still, she had the willingness and tenacity to turn the

lofty to the tangible. That was one thing she had that Aaron

didn‟t- a work ethic.

    “That‟s it!” blurted Jalila.

    “What‟s it?”

       “Global warming!”

       “What about it?”

       “The plot!”

       “We don‟t have one yet.”

       “We do now.”

       “We do?”

       “Look, it‟s pretty hard to deny global warming nowadays,


       “I guess so.”

       “Don‟t guess. Just listen.”

       Aaron looked at her. What was this crazy girl getting at?

She continued, “Look, us humans are in a deep mess, and we got

ourselves into it…and do you think we‟ll get ourselves out of


       Aaron shrugged, almost chocking on the nonfat Latte outside

the Coffee Bean on Santa Monica Boulevard they were sitting in

front of.


       “That‟s right, you might not…but the dogs do.”

    “The dog doo?”

    “No! Think bigger than that!”

    “Bigger than dog shit?”

    “No! Try to keep up with me here, OK? Dogs are man‟s best

friend, right?”

          “Woman‟s too!” blurted out Aaron, freshly bitter

memories of his piss-soaked I-pod floating in his head.

     “And hasn‟t man…“Right, hasn‟t man…and woman pretty much

always treated dogs better than any other animal…even better

than humans sometimes?”


    “Alright, then. This is the dogs‟ chance to pay man back.

Finally! Man‟s best friend truly steps up to the plate- and not

the dinner kind this time- and saves mankind. After all, they‟re


    “Jalila, don‟t bore us. Get to the chorus.”

    “OK, here it is. The dogs are the ones that save us from

global warming. It‟s up to the dog to save man from himself this

time around.”

    “Oh, my God.”

    “What? You don‟t like it?”

    “Are you crazy? I love it! But it has to be a female dog

that saves us.”


    “Because I‟ve already got the tagline…payback is a bitch!”

    Jalila lit up like an LAPD cruiser after a drunk driver,

“And if we make a sequel…”

    “What do you mean…if?”

    “We could call it „The Bitch is Back‟!”

    And at moments like this, are there any words to express

such elation? Except at this moment, Aaron had a conflicting

emotion- jealousy that Jalila had come up with the plot and not

he, along with the realization that it would be even harder to

cut her out of that half-split. Her idea was enough to make him

almost feel guilty for beating the shit out of Lina‟s Chihuahuas

every time she wasn‟t home (becoming increasingly rare). After

all, it wasn‟t like they could speak and rat out who had

committed the heinous crime of pissing on his I-pod. Coffee Bean

just hadn‟t been the same this morning without it. But then

again, soon enough he‟d make enough to never be without an I-pod

for the rest of his life.


    Speaking of bitches, Steven Jung was higher than one right

now. He did that a lot nowadays...get high. It was the only way

to cope after, and increasingly before, work. After all, Visine

did wonders. It wasn‟t like he had to think at work, or was a

real reporter- just nod and say “yeah” when looking at some copy

to give the illusion of collaboration and input. In the end, he

just read off a teleprompter. He had learned all he needed to

know for this job by the time he was in junior high.

    Anyway, the real news in Steven‟s life wasn‟t anything he

read on the air. The real news was what he was discovering on a

daily basis- starting to live his life for the first time. He

was even going to Burning Man in a couple weeks. Before, the old

Steven may have read a thirty second spot on it and judiciously

tsk-tsk it, saving his faux-enthusiasm for the times he

pretended to muster up some with the dimwitted sports guy when

the home team won some game in some sport or another.

    Nowadays Steven was alive, never more so in his life. And

he owed it all to the recent love of his life. He‟d been boiling

alive and never known it until his princess had plucked this

particular frog out of the pot. She wasn‟t the usual suspect

either- some hot blonde that looked good on his arm and was just

with him because he was semi-famous. No, this woman of his knew

the real Steven more than any lady he‟d ever been out with. She

was and wasn‟t his type, all at the same time. She‟d been there

the whole time- in front of his face for decades.

    Yet, there was one slight problem. She was his cousin.

    All of this went through Steven‟s head as he sped down the

windy incline of Coldwater Canyon after spending the night with

his cousin/girlfriend at his Sherman Oaks (neither valley nor

LA) condo. This caused him to swerve slightly into the lane

divider for a brief moment, causing him to snap out of his

musings before getting quickly back into his lane.

    “Not good, Steven” he mumbled to himself. Seeing there was

no other traffic around him, he drove on, talking to himself

once more, “Oh well, no harm, no foul.”

    That is, until the moment he heard a loudly clipped

electronic yelp, accompanied by the unmistakable visual mélange

of red/blue lights working together in concert, albeit one that

nobody ever wants to attend. From his years of experience as a

field reporter, Steven knew the duration of sirens was an

indication of whether it was a firetruck(long), ambulance

(medium), or police cruiser (short). He also realized, as he

pulled over, that from the sounds of this siren it was too short

to be a relatively benign firetruck or ambulance.

    “Oh shit…” said Steven between his bleached and gritted

teeth as he looked in his rearview mirror.

    Even though Steven had his sack tucked away in the gas tank

of his car, he was still worried. His girlfriend- an experienced

weed smoker- had told him that was the one area the police

almost never checked. She also had one of those ridiculously-

easy-to-obtain medical marijuana cards so she personally wasn‟t

too concerned about driving with weed- the same card obtained

from one of those “medical pot” clinics filling the LA strip-

mall landscape like frozen yogurt shops twenty years ago. Hell,

they even had a vending machine on La Cienega Boulevard

nowadays- albeit one with two armed guards. Steven, however,

didn‟t want to do all that because he didn‟t want his name being

on record at any of those DEA-traceable and FCC-combustible “mom

n‟ pop” dope shops.

    The officer approached. The first thing Steven noticed was

the nametag: LaBeouf. Should there be trouble for him, that‟d be

the officer Steven would be suing along with the LAPD…Officer

La-beef. And he looked like a la-beef, one that certainly hadn‟t

been missing any meals (or drinks) lately.

    La-beef approached the Prius as Steven lowered his window.

    “Good morning, Officer.”

    La-beef had no time for formalities, “License and

registration, please”, saying the “please” as if it troubled him

to do so.

    “Officer, can you tell me why you pulled me over?”

    La-beef groaned inside, “Damn, not another one of those

detail freaks.” He hunkered down, “Sir, why do you think I

pulled you over?” saying sir in the most de-humanizing tone


    “I don‟t know, officer. I‟m not very good at guessing

games. I wouldn‟t ask you if I knew why....sir.”

    And the way Steven said “sir” was designed to humiliate


    “Sir, your car was driving erratically.”

    Touche! The sir fight was on.

    “My car was driving erratically?”

    “Sir, you know what I meant.”

    “Just making sure who or what the problem is...sir.”

    “Well, you almost…”

    “Almost what?”

    And if he hadn‟t decided to before, at that moment La-beef

sniffed the air around Steve.

    “Sir, may I see your eyes?”

    Steven hedged for a second, thinking to himself, “The one

time I don‟t use the goddamn Visine.” He reluctantly lifted his


    “Why are your eyes so red, sir?”

    Suddenly the sir‟s dried up in Steven.

    “I‟m tired.”

    “Work a lot?”

    “Don‟t most Americans?”

    La-beef didn‟t need to hear any liberal whining. All he

knew was that he smelled weed, and this driver looked like an

easy mark…too straight to know what he was doing while driving

high- definitely not used to the drill.

    “Sir, I need to see your…”

    And then all of a sudden it hit La-beef, “This is the news

guy from channel five!”

    Thoughts of instant fame swirled into his meaty cerebellum.

Celebrity busts were a dime a dozen. Actors and musicians? They

were expected to fuck up. But a news anchor? This was a prime

catch, but he‟d have to play it by the book to get this weasel.

After all, they probably knew at least a little about the law

after reading so many stories about it.

    “Mr. Jung, may I search your vehicle?”

    “Do you have probable cause…sir?” Here it was- the


    “Yes, I do. I smell marijuana.”

    Momentarily out of huff, all Steven could do now was bluff

(and pray). He was in over his head. All he had now was bluster

and blind faith.

    “Sure, officer.”

    And for the next half hour, La-beef radioed in Steven‟s

information and searched the Prius. And then he searched some

more. He searched every nook and cranny…except for just like

Steven‟s cousin said: the gas tank was left alone.

    With the smile of someone with a sure-win lawsuit, Steven

drove away almost an hour later from the time that La-beef, he

with the face red as, drove away. The only problem now was that

Steven‟s buzz was totally gone, the drenching of fear wrung out

by stress. But…it sure beat the hell out of jail. And he still

had his weed.

    However, once Steven got to the multi-level parking lot of

his Culver City upscale apartment complex, his sack of weed was

nowhere to be found. He quickly called his cousin to see if she

still had it, to which she replied:

    “Damn, you must be stoned. I saw you tuck it away”, said

she to he, cell to cell.

    “Tucked away where?”

    “Um, next to where you put gas in the tank.”

    “Next to?”

    Suddenly Steven realized, right before she did.

    “Steven, you mean you…”


    “You‟re the one experienced at this, not me.”

    She started laughing- a little at first…but quickly sliding

into uncontrollable territory. Steven now had an eighth of an

ounce of pot floating in his gas tank.

    “You better take your car in” said she after the laughter


    “I can‟t!”

    “What do you mean you can‟t?”

    “People know who I am in this town. I can‟t just go to

Jiffy Lube and say, “Excuse me, sir. I have some sticky-icky I

need fished outta my gas tank.”

    “Oh, relax! I have this friend- a totally cool mechanic

who‟ll do it with no questions asked. Doesn‟t even have to know

whose car it is.”

    And at that moment, Steven became a little wiser. He‟d

bought that car to be green, but weed in the gas tank? That was

just a little too much green.

    Even he had to laugh at that.


    Everything Raw that had ever done before which got him into

trouble was now giving him credibility. With each connected and

socialite groupie he acquired, the more well-known his name

became and thus- the fledgling legend arose. He even had this

independent film director dude, named Freddy or Teddy or

something, said he was interested in “shadowing” Raw for a


    After all, who could resist someone bold enough to wear

hand-emblazoned T-shirts that told it like it is, like “(non)

Troop supporter”, and “Democrat plus Republican equals One

Party”(and this was back in 2004!). Now, had someone put that as

a bumper sticker on their vehicle, it surely would‟ve gotten

trashed, but Raw was a vehicle of his own, highly transportable

and mobile, thereby escaping the majority of the obstacles and

hurdles most nine-to-fiver‟s face.

    Raw didn‟t have a job, he simply just survived. And at

first it was enough. But soon, as just surviving become an

increasingly fulltime job for more and more of the general

population, it put Raw ahead of the pack in job experience. He

thought locally in an era when all were expected to be diverted

globally, while their own community crumbled under their feet.

All that money being spent on overseas wars. Really- what could

the common man do about it? How could he bring leaders to their

knees? Impeachment? Niggah please! They‟d been threatening that

all the way into the next presidency and the next…

    Raw knew war was just a cyclical pattern, popping up every

couple decades or so to generate profit for all the profiteers

until public favor turned against it- but meanwhile they‟d

squeeze out every dollar they could „til it could bleed no more-

the public approval polls dipping into the single digits, this

being the signal to retreat and loosen the screws for a decade

or two. Then sit back and let the public do what they do best-

forget history so the cycle could resume once more. Good cop,

bad cop- it was the “same old, same old” US foreign diplomacy.

    Raw didn‟t have time to gunk up his head over some lil‟ ol‟

oil war in the sand. Life was too short. Besides, the whole

planet was melting, for God‟s sake. Global warming was where all

the action was. War was all about killing people as a solution,

whereas global warming was about saving the earth for a

solution. By getting behind saving the earth, people would

benefit just by default there. Raw now refused to take from

Mother Earth, not forgetting to return what he had borrowed,

what she graciously gave. That was the fatal flaw of most

societies in their relationship with the earth and its

resources: just because nothing is asked for in return doesn‟t

mean it shouldn‟t be. So many had forgotten what a generous

mother Earth could be, given the chance to heal and rejuvenate.

    Plus, people were just starting to realize (as Bob Dylan

had already said more than a few decades back) that if you look

to politicians to fix things, you‟re screwed. This effectively

left a gaping hole in the “who do we turn to?” department, in

that since it had taken people so long to realize who not to

turn to, they hadn‟t spent a lot of time looking toward anything

else other than politicians, thereby wasting valuable time for

real solutions.

    Simply by living his life as purely as he could, Raw began

to get adulation (and ass) approaching rock star status. He

realized that people like him exuded hope, merely by offering

people a model to follow. Except he had no directions written

down, no script or plot to follow. Initially in his life, he‟d

been so cozy with being a fuck-up that he gradually turned it

into an art form. However, in the long run, it was easier to do

things right. He may have been a vagrant, but he was a vain one.

Cans in shopping carts? Not for this cat. Those were for bums

and housewives- two groups he didn‟t want to belong to.

    And sure, in his previous life he had been an alcoholic, a

druggie with low esteem even. One thing Raw was well-versed in

was what he didn‟t want to be. The only problem Raw had nowadays

was a creeping sense that he was being watched by others with

less than noble intentions. He did not want to be monitored,

analyzed, and commoditized.


Any lingering doubts about how ill-prepared we are to face up to
the reality of climate change should have been laid to rest this
month when two Russian mini-submarines dove two miles under the
Arctic ice to plant a Russian flag made of titanium on the
seabed. The government of Vladimir V. Putin claims that the
seabed under the North Pole, known as the Lomonosov Ridge, is an
extension of Russia‟s continental shelf and therefore Russian
territory that will be open for oil exploration.
-Los Angeles Times

    Five dollars and ninety-three cents for a gallon of

unleaded…Jalila couldn‟t believe her eyes as she pulled up to

the Arco minimart/gas-station. She looked across the street at

the Chevron station with Beemers, Mercedes and SUV‟s tanking up

on gas at least ten cents more a gallon, muttering to herself,

“What the goddamn difference?”

    However, one good thing about her low-paying job was that

she got to meet people. Even though it didn‟t pay for shit,

being an LA Weekly girl was an adventure she relished. From art

gallery receptions to restaurant openings to club showcase

gigs…Jalila was never at want for things to do. And she had

something to offer- a chance for people to get their

narcissistic mugs in a free and visible-to-all publication.

Armed with a digital camera and her LA Weekly swag (tins of

mints, matchbooks, etc.), the allure of Jalila in her tight LA

Weekly tanktop was undeniable.

      The only problem this girl ever had with men was which ones

to pick to go out with. In LA, it‟s very easy for young women

not to be very good at that, and Jalila had been no exception.

Aaron knew that as well, but Jalila knew as long as she never

slept with him the dynamics of their relationship would not

erode. She wasn‟t really on any man-missions. She didn‟t need to


      But tonight was a little different. She‟d been talking to

the most charming guy, an independent film director. He looked

to be about 30-something, one professor-looking motherfucker in

his rumpled suit jacket, cropped, thinning hair and wire-rimmed

glasses. He hadn‟t even been trying to pick up on her. Their

conversation flowed as effortlessly as the cocktails they

imbibed over the next two hours (which seemed more like ten

minutes). As this was the only place she had to make an LA

Weekly girl appearance this eve, she decided to stay around,

which led to them going to an after-party he knew about at a

loft downtown, which led to going back to his place in Atwater

Village where they talked until dawn…and nothing else. Really

now, Jalila didn‟t want (or need) to be that kind of girl.

      She was twenty-seven, sick of messing around with little

boys. She was tired of going to some guy‟s apartment and dealing

with crazy roommates, or even worse- bringing a guy to her

place. And then when things didn‟t work out, he‟d know where she

lived. That was one thing she always noticed about Aaron.

Although he didn‟t exactly know where she lived, he‟d never

offered to meet at his place. “What‟s he hiding?” was always in

her thoughts, but she chalked it up to him having a jealous

girlfriend. “I bet she‟s really young and insecure” thought

Jalila. She and Aaron were both OK with this “don‟t ask, don‟t

tell” policy. And it wasn‟t like she‟d slept with him anyway.

That would shoot their creative partnership to death.

    She wondered how he‟d react when she showed up with Freddy

(the director‟s name), who was down to go to Spaceland with her

the following weekend for her friend Sara‟s birthday bash. He

was so engaging that even a picnic date at the morgue would have

seemed like a grand time. Plus, Jalila was excited that this

band called Egomaniac was playing. She‟d seen their first gig at

an art show. It had been everything a cool band should be, the

attitude, the sound, the look…oh, yes, some of them had looked

very good indeed.

    “Too bad I‟m bringing a guy” she almost thought for a

fleeting second before remembering that 99% of musicians in Los

Angeles sleep on 50% of all couches in that same city.


    “Steven, are you high?”


    “You can‟t go on the air without a tie!”

    “Well, you don‟t.”

    “That‟s because I‟m a woman!”

    “So you above anybody should believe in fair and equal

treatment then.”

    “Aye, you‟re such a bendejo.”

    “Ah, there comes some of that Latina flavor we all thought

we‟d lost from Ms. Contreras after she converted to Judaism.”

    “Where‟d you hear that?”

    “I‟m a reporter, remember?”

    “Whatever. Anyway, if Bob gets wind of that…”

    “Um, Maria- he‟s right behind you.”

    As Maria wheeled around to see Bob the news director, he

put his firm hand, the same one that used to routinely catch

twenty yard passes at USC about as many years ago, on Steven‟s


    “Steven…Steven, can we talk?”

    Maria smugly smiled before smoothing her Nordstrom‟s

special dress down, checking her hair in the reflection of the

one-way mirrored control booth window facing her from behind the

three cameras trained on as many angles at the news desk. Inside

that same control room, Bob quickly and quietly shut the heavy

padded door behind him and looked straight at Steven.

    “Jesus, you‟re starting to look like…well, Jesus. You need

a haircut, and put a tie on, for fuck‟s sake!”

    “I‟m tired.”

    “Look, we‟ll get you that vacation in another month, but

work with us. When you‟re away, we need an adequate replacement.

We just don‟t have one quite yet.”

    “I haven‟t had a vacation for almost ten months! Bob, we‟ve

got four very capable field reporters- any of which can read a

goddamn teleprompter.”

    “Says you. None of which have experience leading a major-

market nightly news show.”

    “C‟mon. I‟m sure somebody did it somewhere at their college

or little affiliate. Same theory. You read the rolling words.”

    “Damn it, Steven! Why are you doing this to me? I can‟t be

responsible for putting somebody on the air just because they

did the entertainment segment of the news in Jerkwater…”

    “And what the hell would be wrong with Jerkwater? When the

hell did LA become the center of all that is great and mighty?”

    It was as if Steven had never interjected as Bob continued

his tirade, “…or some public access show called „Newscene‟ out

of a community college somewhere. In case you forgot, this is

the number two news market in the US.”

    “Certainly not in truth.”

    “You want truth? Go work for some independent media blog

and make like twenty grand a year. There‟s your truth!”

    “Gotta start somewhere” thought Steven as he smiled

beatifically. “Money…or lack thereof. They‟re always holding

that over your head. Once you don‟t care, they have nothing to

hold above your head and threaten to drop on it”.

    He put his hand on Bob‟s shoulder before concluding “So,

let me guess…you want me to put on the tie.”

    Bob mumbled, “Why do I have to tell you this?”

    “The answer is no. Besides, it doesn‟t really matter.”

    “Doesn‟t matter? That‟s the way it‟s going to go?”

    “Where does it say it should, Bob? In some station policy

handbook where the phrase „professional demeanor and appearance‟

translates somehow to a mandatory donning of a ritualistic swath

of fabric tied around my neck? Will that make me credible? Will

people believe me then when they see that? Just so I can be like

every corrupt politician that wears one?”

    Bob had had enough, wondering to himself, “I quit drinking

for this?” He looked at Steven like a condemned man who doesn‟t

know his appeal‟s been denied yet:

    “OK, so don‟t. I don‟t care anymore. I tried.”

    And then Bob turned around from their dark corner to the

rest of the personnel in the room, loudly yelling to nobody in


    “Hear that? I don‟t care! My name is Steven Jung and

today‟s top story is „I don‟t care!‟”

    And with that, Bob stormed back out to the news set. Steven

could barely hear him say the words “It was nice knowing you”.

    And maybe he wouldn‟t have cared had he heard it anyway.

All Steven knew was that he desperately needed to spend some

serious QT (quality time) with his girl. “After all…” he

thought, “…what good is a relationship without some QT?”

    Society…that precarious perch we can all fall so easily

from with nothing but the removal of a tie or the growing of a

few extra inches of hair or a few misplaced words. But at this

moment Steven wasn‟t afraid to fall, for he was learning to fly

on his own.


    Freddy was well aware he was living in a post “Inconvenient

Truth” world. Al Gore had laid out the problem for all to see,

anyone with a pulse was at least aware of the problem now. Aside

from a few abstract distractions such as buying curly-Q low-

wattage bulbs and refusing plastic bags at the Whole

Paycheck…er, Whole Foods grocery, there was no new lifestyle

template to follow for the non-incense burning, non-yoga taking


    That‟s where Raw came in. This guy put a face to the

template. People could observe how he lived and inspired, and

they‟d have a guide to follow. And Freddy knew it was only a

matter of time before the Hollywood buzzards would come circling

in their killing swirl- smelling a reality show star in the

making. But they‟d do him no justice. They‟d edit him into a

sensory pastiche of nervous jump-cuts juxtaposed over the music

of Linkin Park, or even worse that than that- Evanescence. Sure,

they‟d make him look “cool”. But that was the problem. They‟d

make him look too cool.

    And that wasn‟t the plan according to Freddy. The

fundamental difference and conflict was that there was more

money to be made off following Raw than by following what he

extolled. Raw was not supposed to be bigger than the issue. Were

that to happen, people would be content to live vicariously

through this eco-Jackass‟ highjinks, a lowbrow icon elevated

above they who could only look up to him. There would be no way

they could compare. So they wouldn‟t even try, subverting their

enthusiasm toward him, not extracting it from him. If there‟s

one thing the American public excels at, it‟s passiveness (and

the hundreds of opportunities that cable and satellite TV

provide for that).

    If anything, Freddy wanted his documentary to be a survival

guide, nothing more or less, illuminated by the sheer

iconoclastic grace of Raw. The face was to humanize, not deify.

Ironically, Raw initially never signed up for any of this new

program called his life. On the contrary, he‟d been forced to.

He didn‟t want to quit smoking and drinking, he had to. And he

wasn‟t necessarily that young to be doing this. Matter of fact,

he was forty three years old in a month to be exact. To be over

four decades old and doing this, he had to treat his body like a

machine. Only an idiot would continue to, say…keep running a car

with the same old oil, or intentionally put sugar in a gas tank

they knew it would ruin. There was no living green without that


    Raw also knew that no matter how hard he tried in early-

midlife to make amends for his past, he‟d never be able to play

catch-up with the existing system to provide the necessary

impending peace and solitude he would naturally seek later in a

midlife he was entering amidst an increasingly strange new

world. If he attempted society‟s game he‟d be forced to live a

farce, a bitter dress rehearsal for a failed play, an

exponentially unhealthier life consisting of more and more

traffic, work, and life-scraping duress. All that to only build

up debt that would have to be paid back to those to fund their

house, their dream, one that Raw would complicity construct (yet

never have for himself).

    He could vaguely remember a time when there could have been

a shift in the paradigm, yet was too young to contribute to.

Though, decades later he was living in a bigger time with bigger

problems, but a bigger younger generation to fight them. And

what did these kids do? Nothing of substance as far as Raw could

see. The Black Panthers, the Abbie Hoffmans, the student

activists- all as archaic as a Grand Funk Railroad 8-track tape

in the modern dark ages. There was no real active resistance to

war anymore. If one‟s ass wasn‟t get drafted, there was no

candle lit under it.

    However, global warming was something that affected one and

all- fat and tall, big and small. And with this, Raw would think

that finally this younger generation primarily raised by single

moms whom told them how special they were, would prove their

mettle and rally. Otherwise, what use was special except in the

crippled and disabled sense? After all, they now had a common

cause. And what would they choose to do? Raw sure as shit wasn‟t

waiting on their emotionally-immature spoiled asses to find out.

    So he did something to their nothing. Somebody had to. But

he didn‟t realize the less toxic he made his life, the more

toxic it would make others look…as well as look for him, which

they indeed would. Nobody wants their template of existence to

be exposed to the light where all can see there is nothing but

foolish inside. Raw wasn‟t young, but compared to his rapidly

aging peers living a life upside-down to his right-side-up

rejection of existing society, he was a mere relative teenager.

As the looks shot his way evolved from disgust to envy, Raw knew

he was onto something.


The area of floating ice in the Arctic has shrunk more this
summer than in any other summer since satellite tracking began
in 1979, and it has reached that record point a month before the
annual ice pullback typically peaks, experts said yesterday.
-The New York Times
    Steven sat in his cell, euphoric. He‟d never been in jail

before. Sure, he‟d been to some to cover certain stories in the

past, but he‟d never been locked up in one. Officer La-beef had

certainly tried to change that, but this time it was by Steven‟s

hand…he‟d reckoned on, figured on, and even hoped for it.

    And why indeed was Mr. Jung in jail? It had started off

thusly: the demonstration started on a Saturday morning at the

Federal Building on Wilshire Boulevard near the UCLA campus. It

was the largest antiwar demonstration-meaning it was big, but

could have been way bigger. Despite this, passions were inflamed

under the strangely humid radiation of the sun. On a day like

this, you had to try to not sweat. The LAPD showed up about a

half hour after people began to assemble in the premature heat

of 9 am. And although this was about the war, to Steven it meant

lost resources and money being wasted. He‟d taken a couple days

off work, and amazingly Bob had agreed to it with a minimum of


    So there he was, his girl at his side, in solidarity with

tens of thousands that would be widely (as much as they were

intentionally) under-counted by the mass media. And that‟s when

he saw the “Channel Five- News That Cares” mobile news van with

his station logo on the side and radar dish on top. It pulled up

the congested street, more uneasily than he‟d ever seen it


    About an hour later Steven found himself being pepper-

sprayed, knocked down and dragged off into an honest-to-goodness

paddy wagon- actually, more like an armored minivan. Not only

that, but his arrest was being covered by his employer as field

reporter Angie Meadows gasped as she recognized Steven in the

live shot before tossing back to the weekend anchor, about a

half-decade Steven‟s junior.

    Naturally, the easy conclusion would be that Steven be

immediately fired, and with that, his career as an anchorman

effectively over. But Steven wouldn‟t have any of that. He

wanted to test the limits of whatever law still existed. For he

had done nothing that a good Samaritan wouldn‟t do. Wasn‟t this

his mea culpa for anything he had previously blindly greased the

wheels for? Now he was selflessly protesting an illegal war that

was bankrupting a country he was a citizen of. Weren‟t they the

news team with a heart- the one that cared and all that? Wasn‟t

this was what he should be doing: helping people? What made this

altruism any different from when he volunteered his time with

the other reporters at those fund-raisers for disabled-in-some-

way-or-another children?

       If anything, this was even bigger and better. This cause

was helping men and women, boys and girls- adults and children

alike. He‟d fight any dismissal with everything he had- just on


       He certainly wasn‟t alone in his convictions (and glory)

that day. If there ever was a pivotal moment that the zeitgeist

shifted toward Raw, it was at this protest. A few hundred yards

away from Steven, Freddy was in heaven, capturing every moment

on every frame of his Sony HD-DV camera. There was no way he

could have staged a better scene than this. It was as if Cecil

B. DeMille had a development meeting with God, who greenlighted

this, complete with thousands of extras at Freddy‟s beck and


       Whereas many protestors were being kowtowed and suppressed

with threats of incarceration, Raw was full-throttle, egging the

masses on. Who knew Che Guevera had been reincarnated as a black


    “This is what it must have felt like back in Cuba during

the Revolution” sensed Freddy, too young and unfortunate enough

to have witnessed (and maybe even exploited just a lil‟ bit)

that historic moment.

    Jalila suspected Aaron might act a little weird, but not

like this. Sure, she knew he had a crush on her, but that didn‟t

prepare her for his transgression at Sara‟s party. He was

already drunk by the time she showed up with Freddy.

    As she and he approached, she extended the olive branch,

“Hey guys, this is Freddy.”

    Aaron sat on a sofa with the party girl herself, Sara- a

not-as-much-girl-anymore wearing an ever-so-hip T-shirt with a

picture of Linday Lohan above the words “I Love Bush”. She was

nowhere near as pretty as Jalila, just downright chunk-a-dunk.

Aaron patted the free side of the sofa.

    “Have a seat, Jalila.”

    Jalila sat down, sitting next to Aaron, who beamed at

Freddy until…

    “Aaron, can you scoot down so Freddy can have a seat too?”

    Not even bothering (or having enough courage)to look at

Freddy, Aaron replied, “This is a sofa for three.”

    And it was at this point that Freddy had three options:

    1) Kick Aaron‟s ass right then and there.

    2) Stick around and meekly accept this humiliation.

    3) Ask Jalila to go elsewhere to sit with him.

    But he also knew:

    1) If he kicked Aaron‟s ass (like he really wanted to),

       Jalila would probably be embarrassed.

    2) If he did nothing, he‟d look like a big pussy.

    3) If he asked Jalila to move with him and she didn‟t, she

       was no good for him, no matter how much he liked her.

    Slightly emboldened, Aaron put his hand on Jalila‟s knee as

he looked up at Freddy.

    “Jalila and I are partners.”

    “Oh yeah. She told me about that.”

    “About what?”

       “Nothing, just that you two were collaborating on a


       Aaron took his hand off Jalila‟s knee before she could.

Freddy continued, “I‟m working on a film myself.”

       “Really? What kind?”


       Aaron snapped his gum, trying to look as nonchalant as

possible, “Hmmn, so many of those out since Michael Moore.” He

then looked away, waxing philosophical, “Wow, so many, many of

them out there.”

       Then back at Freddy, but not directly in his eyes, “What‟s

yours about?”

       “Well, it has to do with the environment, but through the

eyes of…”

       Aaron lost his cool for a second, “A dog? Not a dog, is


       Freddy laughed at this, “Afraid not. That‟s a good


       “Is it about global warming?”

    “Well, what of any urgency is not somehow tied to that


    By this time Jalila had risen from the sofa, “Let‟s get a

drink, Freddy”.

    This was followed by a downward glare at Aaron, a “we‟ll

talk about this later” kind of vibe radiating from her eyes. She

spoke once more to Freddy before they trailed off:

    “C‟mon, we got more important stuff to do.”

    And by the time Aaron misinterpreted the meaning of that

(as in she and Freddy were, and had been, in cahoots together),

as opposed to its real meaning (“Anywhere‟s better than here

right now”), Jalila and Freddy were at the bar. And about that

time, another emotion crept into Aaron‟s head: paranoia,

wondering whose creative team she was really on. After all, he

thought, “She can‟t like that guy. I‟m way better looking than

him. He‟s practically bald!”

    That gold-digging hussy. He might have to start keeping an

eye out on her.


    The bridge had collapsed during rush hour. It could have

been much worse, but thankfully two lanes had been shut down.

This was the story from Minneapolis that Raw was reading from a

free newspaper left by a prior customer. He was cool with the

friendly employees there, who had no problem hooking him up with

all the free coffee he wanted in exchange for switching out

their trashbags and taking their morning trash out back to the

dumpsters. All in all, five minutes work on his part and a

gratefully-lightened load on theirs.

    This morning he was there for more than just his morning

paper and coffee. This Freddy guy was really starting to eat up

his time. And to Raw, time was the most non-renewable resource

of life- the basic element of life, so to speak. His mind

wandered, “When we are born, we are given a relatively finite

amount. What we do with it spans the spectrum from free will to

fate. However, with most people not exercising free will, they

leave their fates in the hands of others who sure as hell don‟t

have their free will in mind.”

    As this thought concluded, Raw wondered whose interests

this particular filmmaker had in mind.

    However, one thing he was sure about was how fine this girl

just walking into the Black Dog Coffeehouse was, with her

shimmering black hair, and tawny bronzed limbs extended from a

carefully-worn REO Speedwagon 1978 vintage T-shirt straining

against her breasts. She swept off her Jackie O oversize

sunglasses to reveal stunning azure eyes. In those few seconds

he suddenly forgot anything he‟d been reading in his newspaper.

But before he could, Freddy waltzed in behind and with her,

humming an old Little Feat tune.

    “Raw! Sorry I‟m late. I was- well, traffic was…”

    “Let me guess…F-d up?”

    Freddy had to smile at that. If that didn‟t crystallize

what he was trying to convey about Raw‟s rejection of what we so

readily accept, what did?

    “Raw, this is Jalila.”

    Jalila smiled with a hint of bluster and the submissiveness

of her handshake betrayed her professional demeanor, “Pleased to

meet you. I‟ve heard so much about you.”

    “From this guy? Don‟t believe the hype, sister.”

    She laughed, but it was more of a informal acknowledgement

laugh. Raw continued:

    “And what do you do, Jalila?”

    “I‟m Freddy‟s assistant.”

    “I see” he said, thinking to himself, “Assistant- how many

times has that word been used to describe relatives and friends

on the payroll…or lovers and mistresses?”

    He looked up at her, “Assistant…got it.”

    That word. It shouldn‟t have gotten to Jalila, but it did.

She also knew the only reason she had this new gig was that

Freddy fancied her. The only thing she really knew about making

films was the people who made them. And Freddy had pretty much

brought to light the futility of her collaborating with Aaron

for some nebulous pot of gold at the end of an elusive rainbow.

Honestly, a movie with just dogs and no dialogue or narration?

The world already had that- it was called animal porn.

    Seeing that Freddy actually had some credits and experience

to his name (and she had checked on compared to

Aaron‟s dreaming and scheming, she decided to cast her lot with

him instead. Besides, she still had her LA Weekly gig. If it

didn‟t work out with Freddy, it wasn‟t like she wasn‟t already

constantly meeting hip movers and shakers all over this crazy

metropolis. Then again, she also knew she had to stop flitting

about like a moth from flame to flame before she got burned by

that flame.

    But to be mocked by some dreadlocked asshole? Who was this

homeless fuck? Back where she was from, someone like that would

know their place. She wasn‟t going to put up with too much of

his attitude, even if she was working for Freddy. Plus, she knew

there was something about this Raw that Freddy was missing,

blinded by his fawning adulation, or perhaps his blind ambition.

Jalila knew about secrets. And she still had some choices, but

one thing she didn‟t have was a clue about was that she was

being watched right now across the street by Aaron.


    It was a bittersweet irony indeed. Maria Contreras-Cohen

was leading off the five PM newscast with a story about a man

from the “station with a heart” on-air-talent‟s line-up being


    What wasn‟t ironic, but rather manipulated, was the spin

put on the story. Of course he‟d been there in the capacity of

reporter (which was sure news to him) and had been unwillingly

swept up with the protestors. After all, could one fault a

weather reporter if were swept up by the same high winds he

warned us about? Steven Jung may have been arrested with the

protestors, but he was certainly not with them.

    And of course this brand of undercover investigative

reporting (certainly undercover to Steven) would explain his

recent relatively unkempt appearance. Maria knew if he was going

down, he sure as hell wasn‟t taking the station down with him.

Besides, she was no slouch in the investigative reporting

department. It didn‟t take much to figure out that he was doing

a little more than just rooming with his unconventionally

attractive cousin who‟d moved out to Cali a few months back.

    “Yeah, he offered her a place to stay, alright” thought


    When this came out (with a little help from Maria), it‟d be

the same as when Jerry Lee Lewis was scandalized for marrying

his cousin. Some things just hadn‟t changed. And even if

Steven‟s cousin wasn‟t under-aged like Jerry Lee‟s, Steven was

supposed to be a pillar of the community. With Jerry Lee Lewis,

it wasn‟t like anybody ever expected otherwise from a sleazy

hillbilly who played “nigger music”.

    Either way, it simply wasn‟t going to be pretty for Steven.

This story was way more urgent to Maria than some same-old story

about high gas prices that she had to scan for reading fluency

and phrasing. But that‟s what the station paid her for, and

that‟s what she always delivered. Yes, it was a crazy world, but

she‟d go crazy if she had to stay home all day.

    Every time Maria reported on these rising prices at the

pumps (which tied with sex offenders for most viewer response),

it was all she could do to feign disdain. She wasn‟t that

worried about it, knowing full well her husband was making mad

profit off his copious Exxon shares every time the prices


    “Fuck poverty” thought she. She‟d lived in it, even almost

getting stuck in it. Thankfully, her teenage abortion had made

all the difference in her life path. She couldn‟t even

comprehend now what her life would be like now if she had had

that baby. Saul had been bugging her lately about having one

lately, but she liked her career- perhaps not so much the career

itself, but the having of one. That was one thing her hubby

couldn‟t take from her.


    Aaron just about lost it- that is, the Rockstar energy

drink he almost knocked over as he lurched forward. There he

was. Right in front of Aaron‟s face (who didn‟t even have to go

anywhere to find Raw), right there in his living room- albeit on

the TV in the living room.

    In his rush to lean closer to the plasma screen, his foot

shifted, the result being a high-pitched cry from one of the

napping Chihuahuas seemingly constantly (even intentionally) in

the way. Wherever the most-inconvenient and most-used area of

traffic, that‟d be where one would find them- whether in front

of a door you were trying to open or behind a chair you decided

to lean back in.

    And even though he didn‟t hurt the dog, the yelp was one

more of snitching than pain. Mama responded accordingly, as Lina

came running out:

    “Dali! What‟s wrong?”

    “He‟s fine, Lina. I just…”

    She scooped up the quivering lil‟ feller, both glaring at


    “Did you hurt Dali?”

    If there was any dog Aaron hated, it was that one, none

more than that one. The worst was when he‟d have to call for

Dali outside. All people phonetically heard was his voice

pleading for “Daw-lee!” (as in “Hello, Dolly” or “I‟m a

fruitcake that has a little girl dog”). No stranger was tuned

into Lina‟s predilection for Salvador Dali, but they were to

some nancy-boy calling for his little sissy dog. Aaron knew

perception was reality here in television town. He made a quick

mental note to make Chihuahuas the villains in every dog film

he‟d make…especially of the yellow-bellied snitch variety. But

at the moment, Lina was incensed, as if Aaron had committed the

Holocaust by himself:

    “Did you?”

    “Nah, I just moved forward and…”

    “Well, watch it. These dogs…”

    Aaron sighed, “I know…they mean a lot to you.”

    Lina looked as if she were going to cry, “You don‟t

realize. They‟re all I have. I mean, if anything ever happened

to Dali here or…”

    Lina froze for a second before a shrill “Where‟s Warhol?” A

blood curdling scream of his name followed:


    Aaron was building up some slow-cookin‟ internal pressure,

“These fuckin‟ cowardly canines. That‟s how they do. Quick to

yelp when they need anything, but not so quick when you need

them for something.”

    Lina instantly lapsed into baby-talk as Picasso scurried

up, surely thinking it was mealtime.

    “Oh baby, Mama was so worried about you.”

    “Yup, 8:47 AM and she‟s drunk again. Earliest this week.

She might be going for a record” thought Aaron.

    And he was right, for usually she didn‟t augment her

morning OJ and coffee with anything until the morning soaps

kicked in at ten AM or so. But now that she had the Soapnet

network and Tivo, all barriers and restrictions to 24/7 access

had been shattered. Lina would scour old “Guiding Light” reruns

for an opportunity to see herself in her full 1980‟s glory.

    “Aaron, honey. I‟m sorry that I over-reacted. Baby, come up

to bed with me. I…”

    Too late. As she turned around to where he was, he was

already out the door and on his way to the Federal Building to

see if Jalila was there with Raw, and probably Freddy too. He‟d

catch her with her pants down, even if it wasn‟t the exact way

he‟d hoped to.


    “Look, it‟s that motherfucker from channel five!”

    Steven Jung had been picked out from the crowd…from the

crowd in the cell he was currently locked up in with a

hodgepodge of protestors, drunks and punks. It wasn‟t that he

wasn‟t as slick as someone like Raw at fleeing from the cops,

just that he had far less experience- although lately he was

catching up pretty damn quick.

    Already he knew that he was one of the leading stories on

the competing stations‟ newscasts.

    “Look…” it seemed to say, “…don‟t watch their news. They

have unstable people working for them.”

    Steven looked over to see a man brazenly smoking a

cigarette next to a “SMOKING FORBIDDEN” sign. He walked over a

few steps, asking meekly, “Can I have one of those?”

    The wiry black man with bloodshot eyes took in a deep, slow

drag as he squinted his eyes at Steven before exhaling into his

face, croaking out:

    “You don‟t need one. You don‟t look like a smoker.”

    “Yeah, but…”

    “What have you done for me, son? Or anyone like me? I mean,

in your life.”

    And Steven didn‟t really have an answer, for everything

he‟d done in his life until recently had been mainly for Steven

Jung. Sure, he‟d done the whole “For the Kids” PSA‟s with the

rest of the newsteam and even gone to a fundraiser (or ten). But

it wasn‟t like he did it without viewing it as an inconvenience

that ate up his spare time.

    It wasn‟t like it was real charity anyway- just boring

parties you attended and couldn‟t get too loaded because you

were representing the station, as if it owned your soul. Kids

were always a safe bet to raise funds for. What kind of

heartless bastard would have a problem with that? However, this

also meant nobody ever questioned how much of what had been

raised went where- none of these messy adult inquiries should

intrude upon goodwill and soil its good intentions.

    “I guess I haven‟t done much” replied Steven to the man in

the cell. “So, do you have a cigarette for me or not?”

    “Damn, at least you honest now. „Cept the answer is still

no. See, I could give a fuck if you‟re from the station with a

heart, lung or even ballsack because one thing you ain‟t with is

some goddamn smokes.”

    And this was one rare occurrence where Steven couldn‟t use

privilege or guilt his way into what he wanted.


    Mesmerized. That‟s what she was. Maria couldn‟t take her

eyes off the footage Angie brought in the next day. That black

guy with the long hair and tawny limbs extending from his t-

shirt with a picture of George Bush above the words “War Pig”

was commanding indeed.

    “Why…” thought Maria, “…the way he addresses the crowd, he

could be running a corporation.”

    She knew power when she saw it- it was just a different

brand than she was used to lately.

    “I haven‟t seen you this interested in B-roll since you

wanted to check out that footage of you in that gown you wore

last year to the Academy Awards, the one you were worried Rene

Zellwegger was wearing too.”

    Bob the news director smiled as Maria turned toward him,

smiling back with, “Bob, you know that „Focus on Five‟ segment,

the special report I did a few months back?”

    “The one on sexual predators?”

    “Which one? Been so many recently.”

    “The online ones, I think. I dunno- it kind of all blurs

together after awhile.”

    “Anyway, get me the same crew as that one.” Maria smiled

wider, more than she probably had since the Academy Awards, “I

have a new focus topic.”

    And had Maria not been turned away from the monitor at that

moment, she would have probably seen the figure of Aaron lurking

right behind Raw.


    Steven glided through the hot summer night air, his Prius

aerodynamically humming its eco-friendly vibrations. The strains

of “Love Supreme” by John Coltrane wafted from the I-pod

connected to his factory-installed car stereo. The old Steven

never would have listened to this, especially on his way to

Burning Man. The bittersweet irony of finally getting his hard-

won time off for some QT with his girl, only to be by himself,

was not lost on Steven. At least he was out of jail. Although it

had started off thrilling enough, it soon became a real drag.

    “So much good music to listen to, so little time” thought

he, bemoaning the time he‟d wasted listening to completely vapid

and totally use dreck such as the Black Eyed Peas and Jack

Johnson- unimaginative formulas fed to even more unimaginative


    “This is so crazy”, Steven almost sang to himself. He‟d

never, ever, gone on a trip by himself, but that was the

problem. Everything in his life had been laid out for him. As

the great American poet Emerson once laid out, instead of

following a path, create a new one for others to follow. Steven

was just intrigued by the concept of people co-existing in an

idyllic bliss for a whole week, devoid of the constraints of

day-to-day urban existence, needing no cash as they bartered and

shared communally. The unyielding Black Rock country in the

Nevada desert, consisting of volcanic ash flows and an ancient

shallow marine floor over an exotic batholithic terrain, was to

be respected. Everything needed would be brought there, but more

importantly taken away or recycled.

    “What have they done to our Earth, mother?” sang Jim

Morrison as the Doors rotated in after the strains of „Trane

ended on Steven‟s I-pod. After decades trapped in a monkey suit,

he wanted to be somewhere where he could walk around wearing

next to nothing, only able to wonder at that point what it would

feel like. And, as he took another toke off his impromptu pipe

made from a carved-out apple (great for quick disposal and

highly bio-degradable!), he wondered many other things.

    He wondered why there was a war on drugs, instead of a war

with drugs. As he internally reckoned in his stoned discourse,

it‟d be kind of hard to do battle once your atmosphere had been

bombarded with LSD-laden vapors, with the strains of “Echoes” by

Pink Floyd cranking through the baddest and loudest PA system

speakers the US military could buy. And using the Flaming Lips

as military consultants, the Marines would outfit their first in

with the finest of oversize Bunny outfits. Wouldn‟t have to fire

a shot. Fuckin‟ enemy would be freaked out of their mind.

    Steven then began to wonder why the sun-saturated state of

Nevada was used primarily for prostitution, gambling and most

scandalously of all, government-endorsed nuclear testing. Why

all this noise and mess when the largely uninhabitable state

could consist of almost exclusively active solar panels that

could and would power practically the whole nation, thereby

solving the energy crisis with forty nine states still left

over? Perhaps what happened in Vegas need not to stay there at

all, and instead turn on a whole nation. But he didn‟t wonder

why these things weren‟t in the public consciousness- they

simply weren‟t part of the plan- the American-brand plan being a

solely business one.

    Lost in his wonderland, Steven didn‟t notice the tiny

burning ember of weed caught by the wind from his open sunroof,

flying up, up and away from the Prius.


Cynics everywhere were rubbing their hands with glee when Al
Gore‟s son was caught speeding at over 100 mph with a cocktail
of drugs on board…but by far the biggest response to the story
has not been “let‟s get at Al Gore”, but rather “A Prius can go
that fast?”

    Freddy was delighted with the latest news from the news.

That is to say, he was excited when he got a call from Channel

5, requesting to speak to him about one Mr. Raw.

    Publicity like this couldn‟t be bought, sold or bottled,

and Freddy knew it. The more attention his project received, the

better for him. And this afternoon one Ms. Maria Contreras-Cohen

wanted to talk to Raw, a deal she knew Freddy was in the

position of brokering- or at least her “Focus on Five” segment

producer had told her. Yes, this particular segment would put

Raw on the map, in millions of Los Angeles homes. And since

Maria was getting her way, it‟d put her in his radar.

    This was also exciting news to Jalila, watching a

documentary play out in front of her eyes. This doc was

practically guaranteed box office, what with the heady buzz

gaining momentum on a daily basis. As for Aaron, she‟d almost

told him she was out of his deal, but somehow just hadn‟t had

the time lately (as is the malaise with many in la-la land).

“Besides…” she thought, “…what‟s the big deal anyway? Not like

he‟s going anywhere.”

    And if he couldn‟t hear her thoughts, Aaron could certainly

see her, as he peered inside her bathroom window as she began to

slip off her clothes to take a shower before meeting Freddy and

Raw at the ol‟ Black Dog. And Aaron could certainly see the

unlined smoothness of her firm sienna-hued flesh, the firm back

that bent down before she rose to reveal a splendidly nude

supple body with firm breasts boasting beautifully erect nipples

above a bejeweled navel outlined by the sensuous jut of her

well-defined pelvis trailing downward and in to a fluffy mound

at the center of two smooth towers of thighs that wouldn‟t give

up, unless of course, you were the right man to make them do so

and surrender.

    In Aaron‟s mind, he was the right man and every other man

was the wrong one. She‟d definitely been shining him lately,

ignoring his calls and making herself scarce. But of course,

she‟d been distracted by that charlatan making a boring-ass

documentary. The only E that got Aaron off was entertainment,

not education.


    Steven was at the head of the welcome table, even though it

really wasn‟t a table per se. It was more of a circle, drum

circle to be exact. It really hadn‟t taken this renegade anchor

long to make friends once word got out who he was. If there was

anything the counterculture loved, it was highly visible

corporate defectors, especially from the world of weak-kneed

journalism. Everyone wanted to be his guide to breaking on

through to the other side.

       Steven lost his mind when she left him. He was definitely

ripe for the picking when some old high school friend asked him

if he wanted to go to a dive club in the valley. Maybe it was

the Rush tribute band, maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was

both. Did it really matter? Steven had to do something to forget


       What was theirs was his and vice versa, even though he was

ill-equipped for the triple-digit heat combined with prodigious

amounts of mood alterers. GHB, Special K, E…it was all one big

alpha-buzz soup. Add to this lava-scorched, almost

extraterrestrial lay of the desert plain without “the man” over

his shoulder, and Steven was free to let himself go utterly and

entirely. That had been something he couldn‟t do before, except

something had happened recently.

    Steven was deep up in the 818…area code for the “valley”,

that is. The valley: as rich in white trash, Mexicans and strip

malls as it was devoid of all the associated glitz and glamour

of Los Angeles. He stepped into the club. Walking in, it was as

if he walked into a time machine from 1987…the land that time

forgot, everybody frozen in the “metal years”. It was if Kurt

Cobain had never been born, one of the very few remaining places

on Earth where the singer of Warrant or bass player of Ratt

could feel like a hero.

    He‟d put his heart on the line and had it fed back to him

well done- by his own cousin, the very one that had led him on

this journey of self. Her name was Aya, she with a swath of blue

hair on one side and pink on the other in ponytails above a

pierced lip stained by Urban Decay Black Gloss lipstick. She,

with the spiraling dragon around her left wrist to show which

Chinese New Year this astral Gemini was born in. She was his

cousin and psychic liberator.

    Steven was immediately recognized by the lady at the door;

she of the big hair (and even bigger chest). The kind of girl

that would fuck a guy who made less than ten dollars an hour,

and for many of the musicians whom played here it was ten

dollars minus the “an hour” part. So Steven didn‟t really have

much competition for the affections of this woman, deep into and

already jaded by with her dirty thirties. She was putting out

for more than Buttery Nipple shots nowadays. She needed a man

who had more to his name than the crumpled up wad of one-dollar

bills in the front pockets of his dirty 501‟s the morning after.

So when she saw semi-famous Steven, it was clear she‟d found her

very own “rock star”.

    Aya had shown him how to defy convention, and now she was

bowing out due to it. It wasn‟t her problem, it was society‟s-

and she didn‟t feel like fighting that battle fully yet. Them

being cousins and living together had been sensually taboo at

first, but with each passing day she stayed at his condo after

graduating from Berkeley, it proved too much strain on her

burgeoning 23 year old psyche. She hadn‟t planned on getting

drunk and hooking up with him after dinner one night, and having

the most amazing tantric sex- which she‟d been dying to try

again after her yoga instructor lover (two guys before Steven)


    There‟s always that rocker quadriplegic guy in places like

this. Usually the injury is from rocking too hard (“Dude, I fell

off that mezzanine at this Slayer show”). Nothing like spending

the rest of your life in a wheelchair, a heavy metal baby

dependent on others to change their diaper. Naturally this

regular was friends with the door-lady. After a few drinks

Steven didn‟t think it would be such a bad idea to go out into

the parking lot to “party” with these two and his buddies.

       Originally, the plan had been for Aya to work at a

production company where Steven had a friend who got her a job.

The plan had been for her to stay in the guest room until she

met some people in LA, and could find someone to rent a place

with. And she never would have fooled around with him had she

known he‟d prove to be such a big spiritual vacuum on her. For

Christ‟s (or Muhammad‟s or Buddha‟s) sakes, she was just

experimenting. As far as she was concerned, Steven could have

just as well been a lesbian.

       They piled into the crippled man‟s modified-to-drive van.

The pipe was pulled out. However, the pungent chemical smell

that issued forth once the lil‟ crippled man lit up was enough

to let Steven and his friends know…know that the verb “party”

was not being used with the direct object of weed, but rather


       However, the group hug Steven was actively involved in with

three young nomads from Santa Fe with a predilection for peyote

was more than enough to at least temporarily blast out the

resultant angst incurred from Aya.

    Steven‟s friends bailed out of the van. “Fine”, thought he.

He didn‟t care anymore. His lover had just left him, and he was

looking to get fucked up. Plus, this door lady was being mighty

friendly. Steven always liked them a little on the crazy side

anyway. That was his Achilles heel. He wondered why they called

it fucked UP when the only place he was going was down. As for

little man and big chest, they were stoked to have bragging

rights on smoking methamphetamine with an anchorman from the

number two market in the United States of America. The glow of

the lighter was visible through the tinted windows as his

buddies hid behind a car on the side of the street across from

the van, wondering where the Steven they knew had gone…deep up

in the 818.

    After downloading, printing and reading the PDF file of the

Burning Man Survival Guide, Steven thought he‟d been a good

reporter and done his research. But this was no 90 second news

package. He was out in the desert with minimal supplies for six

days until the wood man went down in flames.

    Maybe had he known that the first group of people he‟d met

and offered his already-thirsty-ass a “life drink” were dosing

him with peyote, he would have reconsidered that offer. Being a

reporter most of his life, he wasn‟t used to being a participant

in the insanity, opting to chronicle and try to rationalize it.

Things like what were happening to him no had only appeared to

him as written warnings, not felt in every wet pore of his

increasingly fuzzy body.

      If he‟d only known at this moment a warrant for his

arrest was being summoned by the LAPD…


    “Hi, I‟m Angie Meadows coming to you live from Coldwater

Canyon, where a wildfire that began tonight is in danger of

reaching several homes in this area. Firefighters arrived on the

scene approximately forty minutes ago. The cause of this fire is

as of yet unknown, but the LA Fire Department suspects arson as

the cause of this blaze, which has been also aggravated by the

lethal combination of high winds and a record-breaking dry

summer. I‟ll have more for you as this story develops.”

    Maria C-C stared at the screen from her cavernous (to the

point of vulgar) living room, mumbling “That‟s Steven‟s


    Whereas her previous primary thought may have been empathy,

it was now almost relief, “Here‟s your wake-up call, Steven.

Maybe now you‟ll see what you have to lose.”

    She tossed back her Stoli and Diet 7-Up with a Percodan,

increasingly dreading another night of dry sex with Saul. At

least she‟d be mostly passed out by the time his Viagra-

fortified schwanz rammed her panties.

    Besides, tomorrow she had an interview with that Raw. And

maybe, just maybe, Maria Contreras-Cohen was beginning to feel a

little wetter than she dare should before going to bed. The next

morning, she awoke to find Saul up and about before her,

whistling a Neil Diamond ditty, tucking his paunch into a pair

of twill pants she‟d bought him at Macy‟s when it had still been

a rush to walk in with his platinum card, the sky being the


    “Did we...”

    Saul‟s crooked smile was enough to let Maria know that

she‟d been violated. Fortunately for her, she‟d been denying him

so much lately that it only took him a few strokes before

ejaculating, which was probably good on her part. Still, she

couldn‟t help wish that he‟d have an affair with somebody and

take the heat off her. No problem…she‟d look the other way.

Matter of fact, wasn‟t that supposed to be the deal in

inherently-loveless unions such as these?

    “Why‟s he gotta be so goddamn loyal?” was her first morning

thought as she wiped the morning crust from her eyes, scowling

at the bright room.

    “Check this out, baby.”

    Saul picked up the remote control and clicked the cable-box

from the last night‟s episode of “Cramer‟s Mad Money” he‟d

Tivo‟d to a live shot of good ol‟ Angie, still on the scene of

the fire for Channel 5, speaking mid-sentence:

    “…is what neighbors claim. The woman has been airlifted out

after refusing to initially evacuate, instead staying to look

for one of her missing dogs. She now has multiple third-degree

burns to the face, chest and arms. Doctors say she is in

critical condition…”

    And somewhere a mile or two from the blaze, Dali and Warhol

scampered along without a care in the world, happy to be free

from the house that caught on fire with the crazy lady who had

done the same.

    “Glad that‟s not near us. They better put that fuckin‟

thing out soon. C‟mon, LAFD, I need to some bang for my tax

dollar here” said Saul as he kissed Maria on the top of her head

before continuing:

    “Oh well, we‟ll always have Sun Valley and Manhattan,



    The smoke from the northern sky seemed close enough for Raw

to practically touch if he rode his bike up La Brea north

instead of the Wilshire west he was headed to meet Freddy and

some news lady. To Raw, fire in an urban area was cathartic.

“We‟d all do good to just burn everything down and start all

over again” thought he. He saw fire as nature‟s reset switch, a

way of ethnically cleansing itself.

    Speaking of intense heat, the offers were now pouring in

hot and heavy for him. Raw was even being offered his own

reality show, where one season‟s pay would provide him enough

capital to never have to worry about money the rest of his life,

being that he didn‟t need (or want) much at all anyway. He knew

money wasn‟t really the root of all evil, and for most people,

not having it was. If people started figuring out how easy it

was to get by on next to nothing utilizing his methods (and they

would if the show came out), he‟d be out of business, his

business being that of the iconoclast messiah. He knew the human

race was fucked up. He didn‟t want to necessarily be in the

orchestra pit, just do a little conducting. It was time to step

up his game. History was calling, and who was he to refuse?

    Speaking of which, Raw was curious to see if the blaze

causing that smoke was on the TV at good ol‟ Black Dog coffee.

Had he been there a few minutes earlier, he would have seen an

extremely fatigued Angie Meadows report on how investigators now

had leads (based on street surveillance cameras) showing who or

what may have caused this.

    And then he would have seen something you don‟t normally

see on the news- the sight of Angie accidentally getting tangled

up in the camera cables to the mobile van. And then seeing

accident turn to tragedy as Angie lost her balance and fell down

a semi-scorched ravine. Then there would be a brief on-air

scream before the audio cut off as Angie‟s hair-product-laden

hair ignited upon contact with the smoking remnants of a tree

branch as she tumbled down said ravine. It was really a damn

shame, for by this point the fire was being contained for the

most part.

    Yes, Steven‟s apple tokes were the talk of the town these

days. Especially in the intensive care unit care unit, where

Lina (and what used to be her face)lay. And with no news on her

dogs, the will to live was being sucked out of her faster than

the cellulite on her thighs during one of her oh-so-many

liposuctions. After all, who knew Botox was so flammable, even

more than the news-do on Angie‟s head?


    Jalila was beginning to get perturbed by Freddy, but she

couldn‟t complain. It was all her fault, using her feminine

wiles to get a job she was basically ill-suited (but definitely

well-proportioned) for. She‟d had no formal training, just this

bitter joke of a mentorship, always a happy hour away from a

potential blowjob. The worst part was she knew it, and hated

herself for it.

    She just wanted to make money and be successful on her own.

She wasn‟t ready to gold-dig her way to the top. And even though

she was built, she wasn‟t built like that. She saw where the LA

whore road led- like that Lana Clarkson, the struggling actress

borrowing money from men to make a desperate demo tape,

reinventing herself as a “comedienne” before going over to Phil

Spector‟s house, the only head being blown that night being

hers…clean off.

    Freddy, on the other hand, was on fire- from the second

Jalila picked him up to the second they met Raw at Black Dog.

Maria C-C arrived a few minutes later, after the news van

circled the block twice until finding suitably close, yet low

key enough, parking. Nothing like a news van to bring out the



    The interview with Raw had gone very well for Maria, but

that was no surprise to her. For Ms. C-C, the less left to

chance the better. And that is why she‟d never had that baby

with her gangbang fuck of a boyfriend when she was seventeen and

he got her pregnant. And that is why she risked the wrath of her

backwards family who would have insisted she keep the baby,

which she clandestinely and unceremoniously aborted on the down-

low. Growing up in the midst of gang warfare in Logan Heights

had only served to clarify and focus her resolve to be not just

a journalist, but a news anchor.

    And she wasn‟t going to go to any old community college

either. Hell no, this girl, the youngest of the Contreras clan,

was going to Pepperdine and nothing else would do. As a young

La-teen-a, she‟d had a glimpse of the lush grounds and seaside

bucolic splendor this oasis provided. Why should paradise be

denied her? She‟d fallen in love with it the second she‟d seen

the pamphlets of it in high school guidance counselor‟s office.

And it was in Malibu…Malibu, just the word had a magical ring to


      And when she arrived there on a merit scholarship three

years later, it was the paradise she‟d knew it would be. There

were no 18th Streeters, no Crips or Bloods, no Mara Salvatrucha.

Just white people as far as the eye could see. And here she was

in their den of privilege, try as hard as they could to deny her

it. As far as she was concerned, any morals or ethics Maria had

been taught by her family were from an outdated manual from the

old school, one that didn‟t involve much education but a whole

hell of a lot of poverty.

      If there was one phrase Maria hated above all, it was “God

will provide”. How many times had she heard that growing up,

only to have him not follow through on that hollow hope? As far

as she was concerned, the definition of that phrase should have

been “shit happens”.

      Speaking of shit happening, Maria was increasingly deciding

shit was not happening with her and Saul anymore. And she wasn‟t

about to wait around for God to provide anything- a divorce

settlement would handle that just fine, thank you very much.

However, blind ambition also has its costs, and one of them is


    Case in point would be her soon having a cocktail with Raw,

who she‟d earlier slipped her card (with a neatly scrawled

request to meet her for said drink later in the day). She had

new designs lately- ones that weren‟t restricted to her palatial

Bel Air estate. After all, Maria was a home-improver, not home-


    A few miles and ethnic regions away, Raw was in Koreatown

pondering his current situation. Of course that news lady wanted

to nail him. And of course he would nail her. That wasn‟t really

the question. The question was why he wanted to.

    But he knew better than he wanted to. It was nothing more

than bragging rights, the opportunity to fuck the media-

literally. It was the chance to bang her, having bragging rights

in front of any TV showing her, saying “Yeah, I hit that”.     It

was the chance to show how transparent and easily manipulative

these fools were from all sides, especially the back end (once

again, literally).

    However, the lingering doubt ensued- was he any less a fool

for sleeping with the enemy? But this was tempered by the

knowledge that he was onto bigger and better things. She was

just a pleasant rest stop on the road to Utopia.


The climax of the annual Burning Man bacchanalia in a Nevada
desert was scheduled for Saturday, when the 40,000-plus
attendees were to gather around the 40-foot-high man-statue and
watch him burn. Instead, the effigy went up in flames four days
prematurely early Tuesday, and a San Francisco resident faces
felony arson and destruction-of-property charges in connection
with the crime of burning Burning Man too early…"Someone went to
a great extent to interfere with everyone else's burn. I think,
frankly, an attention whore has made a plea for attention," said
a Burning Man volunteer who goes by the name Ranger Sasquatch.
"In three days, we will have this rebuilt."

-The San Francisco Chronicle
    “Jalila, please…just one drink.”

    “I‟d love to, Freddy, but I have a gig.”

    “With that LA Weekly deal? Aw, you don‟t need that.”

    Jalila rolled her eyes, exasperated, “Yes, I know you

wonder why I do it for next to nothing, and time is money and

all that. I get that. I know you think I‟m a magazine bimbo.”

    Mock-shock hit Freddy‟s face, “Whaaaaat? I just think we

need to talk about the interview.”

    “What‟s to talk about? It went well. The reporter asked a

couple questions, and Raw answered them well.”

    “Well, did you see the way she was practically hitting on


    “Yeah, and…”

    “You didn‟t mind?”

    “It had nothing to do with me.”

    “Look, Jalila. I‟m just asking you to come in and view this

tape we shot…log a couple things before I digitize into the


    “Well, you didn‟t say that before.”

    “Did I need to?”

    “Well, I don‟t know. I…”

    “Oh, my God!” And with that, Freddy slapped the dashboard

of his car. “Oh, my God…you really thought I was hitting on you

too. That I‟m just trying to get you inside so…”

    “OK, spare me the details. Let‟s do this.” And with

intuitive grim determination, Jalila got out of the car and into

Freddy‟s apartment with him. As she brought in the camera and

rewound the tape before plugging it into the audio/video inputs

of his flat screen monitor, he placed a glass of chilled Pinot

Grigiot in front of her.

    “Relax” said he as he playfully tweaked her shoulders (yet

with a hint of lingering) from behind before sitting next to her

with his own glass. “Let‟s see what we got”.

    Jalila scooted the wine aside, “What did I say?”

    “You didn‟t say you didn‟t want a drink.”

    Jalila shrugged. That was true, and what was the harm?

Actually, she didn‟t really have an LA Weekly engagement, and

was Freddy really that bad? Besides, what was her problem

anyway? Why couldn‟t she just trust people more, especially

herself? She was way too Persian for her own good. And as the

footage rolled, they worked together as a team, and they laughed

at various bloopers and agreed more than they argued on what

worked and what didn‟t. Jalila was beginning to feel like she

really had something to offer. And so what was the harm of

another glass as they were sailing through this? And of course,

you can‟t just not finish it when there‟s only a half bottle

left, and who says you can‟t have another bottle after that?

    And when Freddy put his hand next to hers on the mouse of

his Mac as they rendered the footage, she didn‟t move it. And as

he put his arm around and behind her, she let him. And as he

kissed her she hesitated…for a moment. And then within minutes

he had ripped off her shirt, she straddling him on the couch

topless, with him gazing at the amber globes of her pert breasts

a foot from his face. He pulled her toward him, biting her

nipples as he hurriedly pulled his belt off. Not moving fast

enough, Jalila took her right hand and tugged his pants down

before gliding down his chest with her left.

    She traced the downward path of his chest with her tongue,

stopping momentarily to allow him to pull down her pants as she

loudly kicked off her boots. The moonlight shone through the

blinds, silhouetting her nude body, glistening with a soft blue

light from the sweat of a summer night and full moon. She went

down on him, licking his shaft slowly in a swirl just as she

felt him ready to come. Before he almost did, Freddy rolled her

on her back and put his tongue inside her, driving her crazy

from the first second her wet pussy hit his mouth. After a few

minutes of this, she could stand no more, pulling him toward and

on top of her as he entered her in a split second. It didn‟t

take more than a minute for Freddy to no longer be able to hold

anything back as he gasped, “I‟m gonna come, I‟m gonna come, I‟m


    As she looked over the couch toward the door she gasped,

seeing Aaron with a .45 in his hand, smiling.

    “Ready to get back to work?”

       Jalila screamed. It wouldn‟t be her last.


       “People are sheep. They‟ll accept almost anything imposed

on them if they‟re told it‟s for their „own good‟- the war on

drugs, seatbelt tickets, bars on the windows of their house in a

neighborhood they should control. Now they‟re accepting cameras

photographing them at street corners and on city blocks. I mean,

how much regulating us can we take?”

       “Wow, good stuff from Raw” sighed Maria as she viewed the

playback monitor in the editing room of station 5.

       “Are you fucking kidding me, Maria?” Bob practically spit

into her face. “We show that and we‟re all out of a job.”

       “I thought the station with a heart also had a soul” was

what Maria wanted to say back to Bob.

       “What, are you love with this guy?” Bob wanted to say, and


       “Shut the hell up, Bob!”


       “What do you mean what?”

    “Well, you‟re acting like you are. Look, it‟s called „Focus

on Five‟, not „Fuck us on Five‟, alright?”

    Maria wasn‟t paying attention anymore. Her eyes were

riveted to the visage of Raw on the playback footage.

    “Maybe she is” thought Bob, this time to himself.


    Raw had a little less warm and fuzzy recall of his

rendezvous with Maria. Sure, they‟d gone to the hotel suite

she‟d reserved under a name that didn‟t end in Contreras and/or

Cohen. He recalled how they ordered room service as she didn‟t

want to be seen anywhere in public with Raw, because after all-

as she‟d observed from the fate of one reporterita from

Telemundo, who‟d been figuratively caught with her pants down

with the mayor of LA, getting suspended from her employer wasn‟t

an option for this smarter Latina.

    He recalled how they looked out from the Westin suite

toward the downward incline of all things south of Sunset

Boulevard as the sun actually set. And he recalled how she‟d

told him about this reporter named Steven she absolutely hated

working with. And when she told him why, it told Raw just how

shallow she was. Then he recalled how the bottle of champagne

hadn‟t even been finished as she bent over to pick up her purse,

and he saw the beautiful cleavage of her ass cheeks framing a

pink thong under her ever-so-stylish tight black Capri pants.

    So, against the setting of the sun on Sunset- she ate him

Raw (literally), and he did her. Being that she had been up

since five in the manana after getting poked by Saul, worked

almost a full day and just achieved two back-to-back orgasms

with someone other than her husband, Ms. C-C was quite tired

indeed. She passed out in Raw‟s arms after ensuring her cell

phone alarm was set to go off by seven PM. After all, she wasn‟t

about to wreck her home she‟d so carefully priced and pieced


    What Maria didn‟t, and couldn‟t, recall during those brief

few hours of slumber was one of Raw‟s acquaintances coming into

the room- a member of the Glass Dick Society- a crackhead named

Shopping Cart Willy. After all, Raw had invited him over for a

photo session. Oh, there were all kinds of photos: one of Willy

hitting the pipe next to Maria‟s bare breasts, one of her

splayed out once again, crackpipe inches from her hand resting

on the ground next to a used condom and empty bottle of Dom

Perignon with Willy‟s gnarly big black penis next to her mouth.

    In other words, things were heating up in more ways than

one. Raw wondered about a lot of things except for what would

happen to her career and marriage after he flier-ed photocopies

of this all over town above the words “And now for tonight‟s

news” or perhaps “Channel Five- the station with ass”. That

wouldn‟t take a lot of wondering- gasping and shock, perhaps. He

had something to work with now. And all Maria knew when she woke

up was that he was ever-so-gently holding her in his arms (as

well as those photos stored on a digital camera under the bed).

    Raw realized he‟d accomplished more in a few hours with a

couple photos than any protest with thousands of people could do

to stir the public up. He even almost felt sorry for Maria- a

sister from the poor side of the tracks that had somehow got

sucked up by the dark side of capitalism and conformity. Beside,

the flashes of light from the digital camera had freaked him

out. They were everywhere he went, real or imagined or maybe

both. Either he was being followed or surveilled everywhere he

went, or he was losing his mind.


    Burning Man had never seen anything like it. A phalanx of

Nevada Sherriff‟s Department squad cars and unmarked FBI

vehicles came screaming up to the periphery of the event. Steven

Jung didn‟t take long to be located either. He was a highly

visible media figure, after all. All the cops had to do was look

for a tall, naked Asian man with a day-glow butterfly painted on

his torso. And of course it was only inevitable that this same

media would adapt the phrase “Burning Man” and begin calling

Steven that.

    Channel 5 may have been the station with the heart, but it

was also beginning to acquire quite a major headache.


    “Can I help you with anything, Miss?”

    What the hell was his problem? This was like the third time

(in about as many minutes) that Jalila had been asked upon

setting foot in the Ralph‟s supermarket. Aggressive almost, they

were. What that said more than anything was one of the employees

had been “cold” to a customer, who complained to the manager,

prompting a work meeting where all employees were told by a

skittish management to overcompensate, ironically, yet

inevitably making customers more uncomfortable than before.

    Jalila didn‟t really feel like telling the clerk in aisle

two, “Um yes, since you‟re the only place open at this hour, and

I‟m in a hurry, can you tell me what‟s best for cleaning blood

off of hardwood floors?”

    However, what Jalila really needed was a gun and survival

kit. Things were getting strange all over town, not just in her

recently and radically altered world. Everyone was a little more

grabby and desperate. Too eager to please? It wasn‟t just

limited to this store. She knew if a person with a shotgun meets

a man with a pound of gold, the man with the shotgun will soon

also have a pound of gold. She wasn‟t one for late-night

shopping, especially with Freddy right behind her, trying to

hold it together best he weakly could.


A Burning Man participant was found dead this morning, hanging
from the inside of a two-story high tent, according to Mark
Pirtle, special agent in charge for the Bureau of Land
Management. The apparent suicide would be the festival's first
in its 21 year history, Pirtle said. Pershing County coroners
are investigating the scene and preparing to remove the body.
Pirtle said the man was hanging for two hours before anyone in
the large tent thought to bring him down. "His friends thought
he was doing an art piece," Pirtle said.

-San Francisco Chronicle

    Raw had tried to play the game back in the day. He was in

love once…mightily. He just knew it in his gut. He just was. You

simply either are or aren‟t- no free will involved. Love is a

switch that‟s either turned on or off, and you have no say in

the matter. Alas, she did not reciprocate. She told him she

didn‟t want a relationship- a relationship she started shortly

thereafter with another man. She hadn‟t really lied to Raw. She

just didn‟t want a relationship with him. He was miscast, all

wrong for the part. Raw…maybe it was short for raw nerve.

    And so he ducked out of the vicious game called love. At

this point, that faint hope had been the only thing holding him

in. And when he began his new life, he flourished in the role

even as his heart had withered. He could never forget how he‟d

be wrenched out of his sleep in the middle of the night, the

gnawing throb of heartbreak too acute to just reside in his

conscious mind- breaking and entering into his subconscious,

denying him any real peace of mind. These are things that shake

a man‟s soul- when he dares to say, “This one is clearly

different from all the rest. I will make myself a better man for

this one. I will improve both our lives, for with her there is

nothing I can‟t do. If she lets me in, I will build us a new

home, a new life- one that will last until the day I die.”

    But no, t‟was not to be. Even though she looked too much

like the exact woman he wanted, but she was just masquerading as

such. That was his fate- to have the perfect woman wrapped in a

package he‟d never be able to open. He‟d have to watch others

celebrate as they got what they asked for, or even worse- others

getting what he wanted and not appreciating this woman like only

he could and most unhesitatingly would. Even though it did him

no good to draw parallels between unrequited love and opening

gifts, there was only one option for Raw…flee the battlefield to

lick his wounds. After all, one couldn‟t live in the same place

where their heart had been pulled out, only to be bitterly

reminded each and every day. To have your misery paraded in

front of you…what man could take that?

    Love had done this to him. Those without love are the ones

most resentful of those with, subverting and prostituting it at

every turn. That‟s how evil love can be. It‟s not planned or

constructed. It just is. It‟s stronger than anything man ever

built and has the power to truly heal or destroy any of which

man has created. Love, that which has been around for the ages

will be around long after we are gone, none of us truly worthy

of its promise in the end.

       Yes, unrequited love had most definitely shaped his

destiny, especially him flier-ing the town with copy-machined

pix of Maria C-C buck-naked, next to Shopping Cart Willy and the

two dicks: his and the glass one. This was the kind of woman who

ruined love for all men.


       “Move it. Damn you!”

       This was shaping up to be the worst day of Maria Contreras‟

life. The MTA bus in front of her wouldn‟t budge, and hadn‟t for

what seemed like the last half hour.

       “Aye, if buses are the answers to our transportation

problems, we‟re screwed” she thought.

       To Maria, buses were mechanized slugs, programmed to block

drivers at every turn. They were full of failures and dreams-

those making their way juxtaposed with those beat down day by


    But what was really bothering her was that in a moment of

emotional weakness, she had failed to observe one basic tenet-

when in an illicit affair, always engage in it with one that has

more to lose than you. That was her tragedy.

    She should have known damn well that Raw had nothing to

lose. More than anything, she was mad at herself. She‟d let

irrational impulses swell up and they‟d sure as hell done that.

Had she‟d known they‟d practically drown her…plus, it didn‟t

help that this was the unprecedented seventh mid-August day in a

row that the West Los Angeles area heat hovered in the triple

digits, marinating with the carbon-dioxide laden atmosphere.

    Finally, the lane to the left of the one she‟d been trapped

in opened up as the bus lurched and crawled in the biggest

traffic fuck-you ever. Maria thought “Finally!”, gunning her

charcoal gray BMW 318i, blasting through the intersection as one

of those ubiquitous traffic camera lights flashed. She didn‟t

care. “It‟s worth a ticket just to get out of this accursed

hotspot before I melt down”, thought this particular C-C rider.

    Rolling right onto Fountain Avenue (her favorite side-

street detour), Maria started to make up an impromptu rhyme:

City buses always seem this way- full of dreamers…

    Wait! Was this coming out of her mouth? Her head? Yes, it

was- and it kept on:

    …full of schemers- Dreams that went away and those that

live day to day- Full of those coming up- too young and innocent

to be corrupt…

    On a day that waves of depression should have been washing

over her like a tsunami, Maria smiled the biggest smile she‟d

ever done in her adult life. And who knows, maybe part of it was

that she‟d been serviced very handily recently as well. She

couldn‟t stop the thoughts, the flow…

    Buses always seem to get in the way- of those in hurry for

that higher pay- never seem to go much of anywhere- city buses

suck, there…I said it and I don‟t care!

    Maria smiled so wide it had no choice but to erupt into

laughter of joy. She‟d thought of something unscripted,

improvised and totally impromptu. She hadn‟t really done this

much since she was a little girl. And then she remembered how

much she did it as a little girl, and wondered the day her music

died. Was it when she realized how grim her fate could be, and

enter the way-too-serious girl she became?

    “Damn, I have to write this down before I forget!”

    Still laughing out loud, she fumbled for a pen in her seat

divider compartment. As she did so she didn‟t notice the little

dog scurry out from behind a parked car and onto the street in

front of her…


    Steven‟s trial was shaping up to be the media event of the

decade. After all, how many evening news anchormen turned into

felons overnight? And if there was any way that things changed

in LA, it was overnight. And although it wasn‟t the same as an

overnight success, it was certainly shaping up to be an

overnight spectacle.

    Steven‟s lawyer had posted a fifty thousand dollar bond to

get him out on bail, but he couldn‟t retreat to his condo, for

this cocoon from the outside world had now turned into a

fishbowl for the investigators and gawkers alike. Now that he

needed her the most, Aya had taken this opportunity to flee LA,

seeing this as an omen of impending doom, and even worse- all

around bad vibes. Besides, it wasn‟t as if she hadn‟t pondered

the possibility of living on the NYC coast of things before, and

what better catalyst than this imbroglio? The only guarantee in

this girl‟s life was change, and there was no greater greenlight

to proceed than the Steven fiasco.

    Aya did not want to be known nationally as Burning Man‟s

love-cousin (at least if she stuck around in LA). There could be

no bigger tragedy for her than to be typecast as such, each

future creative endeavor of hers forever shaded and tainted by

this ill-advised communion of souls. Meanwhile, Steven had holed

himself up at a Comfort Inn in the San Fernando Valley (which

was anything but). The dive motel lost its inherent anonymity

the second he checked in anyway. And for once the media circus

that ensued this time treated him as the captive animal, not the

handler. However, what really bothered Steven (what with his

heightened consciousness and all) was what would happen if and

when he got out of this mess.

    “Maybe this is happening for a reason” he thought, “Maybe I

do need to get locked up for starting that fire”.

    And perhaps he‟d lived a whole life without having to pay

any consequences, only reaping benefits others had put their ass

(and life) on the line to provide to him. His father was the one

who‟d had to deal with racism in a big way, not Steven, who only

gained from its now-denounced legacy. And perhaps the myriad of

criminals and victims he‟d interviewed in the past dealt with

tragic consequences, but not Steven, his rising star only fueled

by them.

    “Would it really be so bad?” he wondered. His lawyer had

already told Steven the worst case scenario would be two years

in a minimum-security facility, him probably only serving half

of that with good behavior.

    “But maybe what I need is to be locked up with everybody

else” thought Steven. “Why can‟t I be allowed to hurt- to feel

what everyone else is feeling?”

    It came as no surprise when he heard from news director Bob

that the station with a heart had to let him go, his personal

news overshadowing any other news he could possibly report

(short of World War III). Perception trumps information and

knowledge every time in American culture. People want to feel

good when they‟re told things. With his now-checkered past (and

present), Steven was no longer in the “making them feel good”

mode anymore. He was way too sketchy nowadays…almost in the

ultimate news villain category: sexual predator. Simply put,

he‟d become bigger than any news story he could report…er, read.


    Jalila had no idea Aaron weighed so much, but then again

she‟ never had to transport a dead body. Freddy wasn‟t much help

either. He‟d actually wanted to call the police like a little

bitch…like they would really understand. She could just imagine

the phone conversation had she called:

    “Oh hi…is this the LAPD? Hi, um…we‟ve got a little

situation. Yeah, um…let‟s see- OK, I was getting banged by this

guy, but then this other guy that…excuse me? Yes, „banged‟, like

as in sex. Anyway, I was getting fucked…is that better? This guy

was fucking me and this other guy…who wants to too…fuck me, that

is- well, he broke in to where I was having sex or getting

banged or fucked…whatever- that‟s not really the important part.

So, the guy that wants to fuck me shoots at the guy I‟m fucking

and misses because he‟s such a little pussy to begin with. So I

get up from my banging, I mean fucking, and tussle…is that a

good word?...I tussle with this little pussy and grab the gun

out of his hands, accidentally shooting him and next thing I

know is he‟s dead. Serves him right, right? Right? RIGHT?”

    And maybe they‟d understand, but most likely they wouldn‟t.

And one thing Jalila wasn‟t taking with this situation was

chances. She reckoned that if Aaron had been able to sneak over

and up on them so effectively, then he‟d done most of their work

already. It was a damn sure possibility he hadn‟t let anyone

know he was headed over. Nobody had known, nobody had heard the

commotion when he got shot, and nobody would see her and Freddy

dump his body in the San Gabriel foothills. Jalila would make

sure of that.

    But it was too damn bad that Aaron wasn‟t a little lighter.

Otherwise, she wouldn‟t need blubbering Freddy‟s help. She‟d

seen some things in her not-so-distant past in and around Iran.

What was one more body? Then again, Freddy was infatuated with

Jalila, and he certainly wasn‟t going anywhere- especially some

damn fool police station that would be sure to treat her Middle

Eastern ass with such impartiality.

    Here at last was something Jalila was better at than

Freddy. Under her tutelage, they had disposed handily of the

leaden flesh-shell formerly known as Aaron. Minus a few

increasingly decreasing objections from Freddy, it hadn‟t taken

that much physical effort to tote Aaron‟s stiff deal into the

spacious back of Freddy‟s Audi station wagon.

    What with all his video gear in the back, it was a cinch to

situate cases and cables up, over and around Aaron‟s

diminishingly visible corpse. But the real reason this scenario

was so familiar to Jalila was that she could still remember

having to do this with refugee relatives- albeit live ones.

Syria, Pakistan…the border didn‟t really matter- only the

purpose…and that was saving lives. And wasn‟t that what she was

doing not just to herself, but to Freddy as well. A life in jail

was no life at all, was it? It would take a lot less to get

someone like Aaron killed in her homeland. This was old hat.

She‟d spit on his grave, and she was doing everything in her

power to make sure she and Freddy would be the only ones to know

where it was.


        Steven was surprised to see a flier of the nude Maria C-C,

stapled to the side of a telephone pole outside his room.

Innately knowing Los Angeles the way he did, he sensed he had no

way in hell of making bigger news than this. No, compared to

this his case would be quietly mediated. The media had a much

bigger circus on their hands now- one with its own graphic

graphics supplied and everything. Maria C-C and her culo were

headed for a bigger circus than LA could possibly contain.

    It would be a long time before any children‟s fund would

let the station with a heart anywhere near the kids. Hell, their

motto now may as well have been “Sexual Predators Are People




    Maria cut her wheels sharply to the left, but it was too

late. She fish-tailed her car back-end right into a plastic blue

recycle trash can. It sailed onto the curb with a mighty smack

and crack, the same curb it had obscured from view. And by

obscuring the curb, it had also obscured the sight of little

Dali running out into the street. Being a house dog and all the

survival skills that doesn‟t entail, Dali simply froze for the

one or two crucial seconds his life depended on.

    In a couple more seconds than it took Dali to choose

earthly exodus, Maria chose hit n‟ run exodus, hyper-

ventilating, crying and muttering “I can‟t, I can‟t…” the whole

ten seconds it took her to peel out of that street and onto La

Cienega. She had a newscast to get ready for, not realizing

sometimes split-second decisions can change a person‟s whole

life. This didn‟t need to be one of the stories for her 5

o‟clock. “I can‟t” quickly changed into “I couldn‟t” as she

realized there was nothing she could have done to avoid that.

    “People need to keep an eye on their dogs. This is a

fucking city” she thought, even entertaining the notion of doing

a “Focus on Five” segment on runaway dogs. “Yes…” she somehow

rationalized, “…maybe that will make him feel better about the

whole thing up in doggie heaven”.

    When she got to work, Bob was about to say something to her

but she gave him one of those “don‟t even start” looks before

huffing off to re-adjust her smudged mascara and check her hair.

She was a professional, after all. When the taping began she

started off with a toss to perennial field reporter Angie,

reporting live on the scene over a freeway chase on the 101,

usually a rarity for this congested, pathetic, parking-lot-

excuse of what may have resembled a freeway maybe twenty years

ago. Usually these kind of escapades occurred on the ancillary

dirt-baggish freeway such as the 605 or whatever the one that

led to Pomona was.

    Ever the pro, Maria faced camera two, “Let‟s go now to

Angie Meadows, live from the Sky Chopper Five above the 101

freeway near the Barham exit.”

    She arched her back as the technical director cut from her

to Angie. “One thing‟s for sure…” thought Maria, “I sure need a

massage”. Angie‟s face appeared in the monitor.

    “Thank you, Maria. We‟re here above the…oops.”

    As Maria‟s headset slid down her forehead, she pushed her

hand up to right it, accidentally knocking it off her head. One

could almost hear her say “hold on a sec” as she bent down to

retrieve it, had the helo not hit some sudden turbulence,

causing her skinny-mini newsgirl figure to slip out from under

her loosened seatbelt and out of the helicopter, the only

direction to go being straight down onto the 101 freeway.

    To the horror of Maria (and of course, the millions of

viewers), as Angie‟s body hit an overpass, it shook and

shuddered, collapsed under more than just the weight of petite

Angie‟s 113 lb. frame. Indeed, the whole freeway began to rock

back and forth…

    Suddenly, Maria‟s problems didn‟t seem so bad.

“The longer I live, the more I believe that other planets use the earth as a lunatic


-George Bernard Shaw


“An earthquake measuring 8.1 magnitude has rocked the


-Channel 5 Evening News teaser

    The city was a mess. It had never been hit with an

earthquake of this magnitude. Sure, the Northridge rattler of

1994 had been a hint of shapes to come, and the San Fran

cracker-smacker from way back in 1989 seemed like something that

only happened up north, not down in So Cal, where buildings had

been shaken down and people had been thrown down. The LA Fire

Department saw no respite from this plethora of fires flaring up

quicker than a steroid-fueled rage. As a result of the quake,

there were no workable water supplies to douse anything

substantial- the pipes to the buildings fissuring and cracking

before anything could be put out in these H20 de-veined


    The National Guard wasted no time at all getting into Los

Angeles. This wasn‟t New Orleans after all. There were way too

many rich showbiz-type folk to attend to here, although nearby

Malibu was pretty much wiped out. Given its sketchy geography,

that was no real surprise, and truth be told- no real loss.

Honestly speaking, who of any relevance lived out there anymore?

The place was nothing more than a gilded refuge for spoiled

baby-boomers sporting perma-tans and wardrobe by Botany 500 all

the way to the grave, as out of touch with hell-A as they were

stuck in their predominantly white world of the 1970‟s So Cal

they‟d never stopped living in and out. Yes, this 8.1 on the

Richter Scale rocker had shaken and stirred the southland like

an igneous martini. The Department of Water and Power, gas

company and cable services were all in tatters, giving Los

Angeles county a taste of Baghdad, with Mother Earth providing

some homegrown 9-11‟esque TLC.

    To make matters worse, this terra-not-so-firma geological

crackup had occurred during Los Angeles‟ worst heatwave ever.

Once Mother Earth decided to fight back, she did so with a

mighty one-two knockout punch. Sure, she‟d let those miserable

humans think they could continue violating her, lulled into the

delusion they were the ones in control. Just to shake it up, as

it were…however, the retards‟ playtime was over now. Time for a

tectonic smackdown on this stage that is all the world.

    And since all good plays require a third act, this natural

disaster was all that was required to tap the over-extended

economy past its point of no return and into its death throes.

Emergencies call for unplanned funds, and most were making it on

what little they could plan on. There was no nothing nowhere for

“unplanned for”- which exactly what the non-existent funds were.

There were no FEMA funds for the general populace, instead

reserved primarily for arming and housing the multitude of uber-

militia operating under this long-since corrupt agency‟s

auspices. The only Federal bailout happening in LA (at least

without the latest in riot gear) was FEMA opting to bail out of

assisting in this mess, except to protect what little was left

for even fewer.

    At least the insects, specifically the ants, had the good

graces (or at the very least, instinct) to rebuild their

immediate surrounding environment when it was ravaged and

demolished. And when their dwellings were done dirty by the hand

of man, they did not seek immediate revenge. No…theirs is, was,

and always will be a patient breed. They know their days to roam

this planet unencumbered by this silly species are not far off.

They‟ve been on this Earth long before humans were in

production, and most certainly will be around long after post-

production of our wretched lot. Yes, “fuck a human” may very

well be their motto, could their mandibles do more than merely

transport crumbs left behind by us (albeit ones twice their body


     Across the city, looting and pillaging erupted on a grand

scale hither to unknown, making the LA riots look like a 4th of

July parade. There is looting, and then there‟s looting. Any

common street thug can break into a Washington Boulevard liquor

store. However, this kind of looting is merely a refracted image

of the looting that occurs on a much grander scale, the kind

performed on a daily basis by politicians and corporations

lining their pockets at the expense of all. With this in mind,

the first place the National Guard focused their energies was

where the real wealth lay: in the banks and the Beverly Hills

and the movie studios and the increasingly key gas stations.

They were a bit more nuanced than the insects in that “Fuck a

poor human” may very well have been their motto.

       As for Raw, the current situation was a big field trip

for him. Before, Raw‟s world had been crumbling around him, but

it was crumbling directly around him. At least this time he had

some company. He knew routes in, between and beyond the city

that few else did. After all, he‟d been training for this gig

almost a decade, prepping for this second American Revolution

that was as inevitable as the first.

     And where was “the power of love”, as one Mr. Huey Lewis

(fronting a band of musical warriors simply called “The News”)

once coined and sang it back in an era called the 1980‟s? Now,

that same power was in shorter supply than a fresh crack pipe in

Amy Winehouse‟s flat. More importantly, Los Angeles suddenly had

about as much clean water as it did virgins. Those who had

relied on others to survive now had only themselves to rely

upon, which proved a much weaker option for many. Those with the

most knew they stood to lose the most. Soon they‟d be even worse

off than relying on others- they would be at the mercy of

others. The power of love was now a rarer commodity than common


    Fatalities from the actual quake had been low, but the

violent melee after that more than made up for the initial human

toll. People were angry, people were scared, so many now more

alone than they‟d ever been- Los Angeles not exactly the model

of Mother Earth‟s nourishing tit. With a good earthquake you had

it all…fires, flood, famine; the earth was mercilessly bountiful

that way.


    There was one minor silver lining to this cloud descending

upon the land of spoiled milk and honey. This natural disaster

had taken the heat off Steven Jung. The courts, stretched to

their diminished capacity and resources in the midst of this

chaos, had no choice but to expedite his trial. This hurried and

scurried his legal hurly-burly to a low-key resolution. Being

that nobody could substantially verify the source of the blaze

as an ash trailing out of his car, Steven was in the clear. The

only thing that had really detained him (at least for the 48

hours before he hustled bail) was the fact that his car was

videotaped in the approximate vicinity at the approximate time

of the origin of the blaze. However, this proved to be of no

matter. The prosecutors had next to zero time to build a solid

case against Steven, who was quickly exonerated.

    Surveying the toxic carnival that Los Angeles was fast

becoming, Steven knew to quit when he was ahead. All this recent

hassle in his life over an apple toke! His drug-if not years,

then- months were over. He was done with all that mess. This was

his 1980‟s Aerosmith moment; it was sober times for this one. No

“Celebrity Rehab” for him- no, no and no. All he needed was his

own wits that had gotten him ahead before all this. He knew he‟d

need those wits about him now that there were things in this

country screaming to be changed. To be sure, the protest had

given him a taste of sweetly possible change. Yet, as he looked

at the quake-ravaged ruins of LA, he knew even despite this that

nothing would change, it would have to be changed.

    So it was at this moment Steven Jung began a new vocation.

He would no longer report the news, he would create the news.

But this was something he couldn‟t do himself.

    And now, at long last and live- here was Steve-o‟s

opportunity to really serve society…the chance to be of the same

stature of St. Steven, a title already immortalized in song by

one Grateful Dead. As for the station with a heart, he‟d last

seen some of those newsfolk at the as-perky-as-she- was-doomed

Angie‟s funeral, even though he‟d shown up incognito, disguised

with a beard and glasses very shortly following his release.

    “Poor girl was always kinda clumsy” thought Steven sadly.

    Later that same day from the peak of Runyon Canyon, Steven

scanned the burning disarray of Los Angeles that the quake had

caused. Suddenly, all the dogs in this trendy park seemed mostly

minus their owners, and perhaps a little more hungry and daring

than usual. Packs that seemingly originated from nowhere

overnight (and perhaps they did) ran wild as they pleased,

taking full advantage of these fresh new dog days of human

disarray. Amidst this, Steven also knew he wasn‟t going to be

able to do anything fresh in his life by his lonesome.


    The divorce was quick and decisive. After all, how many

women have pictures of their bare ass plastered all over MTA

buses? And how many married women? Or how many married women

with husbands that were cool with it? The list of redemption

just got shorter and shorter for Maria, what with her culo

hanging out and all- at least all over LA, that is. The only

thing worse she could have done to worsen this was give an in-

bus appearance to show off her wares. She didn‟t get nothing

from the divorce, but she also didn‟t get a whole helluva lot-

not nearly as much as she would have gotten in a divorce minus

this PR disaster.

    She had a little nest egg, although no home anymore with

the news team that cared about everyone but her now. The only

place she dared ventured out anymore was the supermarket. Late

at night, she would cruise the food aisles for cheesesteaks,

chocolates, cholupas…anything to dull the pain. Naturally as it

was unnatural, she rapidly added a dozen to twenty pounds, as

would anyone on such a carbohydrate suicide mission.

    With depression as the main course, all the appetizers she

was shoving in her mouth didn‟t seem so filling. Maria didn‟t go

out these new dark days, so it wasn‟t like she had to worry

about what she looked like anymore. As long as she continued

being reclusive, she continued being fat. Out of sight, out of

mind…all that. Then, one morning she caught sight of her

predominantly porky profile in the harsh, cold light of a sober

morning. At this moment something snap, crackled and

popped...whatever it did, it pushed her over the edge.

    So she decided to check out, courtesy of a handful of

“vikeys” and some Ambien. Somehow, these two negatives

multiplied into a positive. With her lack of suicide OJT, she

had chanced onto this positive- positively high, that is.

Soaring in the somatic stratosphere, she began to thumb through

the cable radio channels on her satellite TV in this

increasingly addled and paddled state. As so many have found out

way before her, music just plain sounds good when you‟re high.

Suddenly an old Pretenders song leaped out, grabbed her by the

ear (accompanied with a neat little body-rush).

    I was a good time….

    Yeah, I got pretty good at changing tires

    Upstairs, bro…

    I shot my mouth off and you showed me

    What that hole was for…

    She spent the rest of the day, playing song after song she

could download onto her computer, in a state of altered reality,

listening and analyzing track by track, creating a new reality.

By the end of that day, she collapsed in a state of mental and

spiritual exhaustion.

    The next morning, she awoke-refreshed like never before,

drained of dread as she was flush with resolve. Simply deciding

in her Maria-like resolve that enough was enough, she began to

diet down as quickly as she had ballooned up. She knew all of

this would have devastated a lesser woman, but this was Maria C

now, with no other C‟s attached. Perhaps she should have paid

more attention to the symptoms of her social schizophrenia (like

the hyphenated name). And if these symptoms were flaring up

again, this time they were offering salvation instead of sorrow.

    So perhaps the demise of Maria Contreras-Cohen bore the

birth of what she had really wanted to be all along as a little

girl, back before the world scared her so. She‟d parlay all the

kinetic energy she‟d channeled into her news career towards this

new venture, albeit one with a lot more guts involved to get to

the glory. It was something she‟d held inside. Something she

always wanted to be:

    Yes, she would be a musical performer now.

    She would be no Beonce or Mariah or Celine clone- hell no!

Maria was all about the empowerment. There was too much of it

rampant in the wrong male hands. Much as the gays had empowered

the word queer and taken it back as their own, and as the blacks

had taken back the No-word (albeit minus an er, but plus an

ah…), Maria Contreras simply became La Cont. She was the C word

with a Latin twist.

    PJ Harvey, Chrissie Hynde, Karen O, Siouxsie…these were the

tough, arty broads La Cont aspired to and admired, but Maria

would have never admitted she did. Unlike Maria, you‟d never

catch one of these chicks ever doing the news with a straight

face. No, these chanteuses knew and had seen way too much, the

too much that Maria had tried so hard to shut out, but La Cont

would soak like a sponge. She‟d make sure to write all her own

material, paving her own way from her glossy head to her

luscious lips to her newfound steady stance. She would find her

audience, not a pre-tuned-in one. At thirty two years old, Maria

had never felt older than before the liberation that came from

dissolving her loveless marriage with Saul. Now, her brush with

death had kicked the door open to let La Cont in. And she wasn‟t

knocking politely.

    Yes, maybe that fling with Raw had been a blessing. It had

given her the wings to fly away. She knew she wouldn‟t have been

able to end it with Saul, with her so-called vida before all

this. It had to be ended for her. And as far as dealing with Raw

was concerned, she bore no rancor. After all, the best revenge

would be her new success.


The Department of Homeland Security (DHS) has requested more
than $2 billion to finance grants to state and local governments
for homeland security needs. Some of this money is being used by
state and local governments to create networks of surveillance
cameras to watch over the public in the streets, shopping
centers, at airports and more.
    She‟d been too late. It was a damn shame, because Lina had

almost tracked Dali down- up to the point where she witnessed

his execution at the hands of that awful, evil woman who had run

over him. Darted out in the street? Her Dali would never do

that! With her house burnt down and her face looking like it

spent some time between a George Foreman grill, Lina had nothing

to lose. Nowadays she was all alone in the world- her only

company being the voice in her head…that of the old character

that she used to play on “Days of the Week”, Mary Sue. And right

now Mary Sue was telling her to take no prisoners. But what she

had taken was the license plate number of that black BMW of


    To think- the despicable murderer of her baby had gotten

away with it…or at least so she thought. “Let her think that”

smirked Lina (or at least as much as she could with her melted

face), for she knew revenge was a dish best served cold.

    Jalila felt that she and Freddy were a real team now. This

was literally a ground floor opportunity, this blessing called

the greatest Los Angeles earthquake. That‟s all she had ever

really wanted- to be a vital part of a creative team. Jalila

looked up from her spot underneath Freddy, who was fucking her

squarely under the stars on the roof of their new dwelling on

Normandie Avenue at the Langham that had been built in 1928,

home to such luminaries and scumfucks as Ronald Reagan (way,

way, way before he became an assclown on a national leadership

scale). As Freddy shot his load and rolled over, Jalila grabbed

a cigarette from the pocket of his shirt lying inches away from

his head.


    Freddy pulled his pants back on, propping his torso up to a

45 degree angle.


    “The stars.”

    “Yeah, you can see „em all. The sky sure is light tonight.”

    Which could have meant many things, but what he probably

was referring to was the reflected light from the multitudes of

tiny, at least from an apparent magnitude point-of-view, fires

dotting the terra (not-so) firma to the direct south. These were

where stores were being looted, with the National Guards there.

The LAPD was stretched tighter than a Demi Moore nip n‟ tuck.

However, as there was not a critical mass of rich white folk to

the east it wasn‟t the top priority on the social order scale.

When shit fucks up, it tends to fuck up all at once.

    Suddenly a loud pop diverted their ears away and behind

them to the west. Jalila spoke first:

    “What was that?”

    “Shit, sounded like a bomb.”

    “Could have been…”

    “Well, where‟s it coming from?”

    Freddy strained his eyes through his glasses.

    “It‟s coming from where the museum is...LACMA.” Freddy ran

his finger down Jalila‟s thigh as she busily pulled on her


    “Not now. We‟ve got to go shoot some footage.”

    “Right this second? What are we going to do about lighting?

We have none. It‟ll be high-gain grainy as fuck.”

    “What? Are you afraid, Freddy?” What if it was a bomb?

Jalila had seen way worse than this:

    “Hey Freddy, remind me to get you some pussy repellent,

because I can smell it all over you right now.”

    Freddy put his fingers to his nose, “Yeah, so can I.”

    “I‟m not talking about that kind.”

    “I am.”

    “Not now. Freddy. We need to capture the truth...what

happens when the lights do go out…what really happens.”

    “The truth? What do you know about the truth? I mean,

didn‟t you know that Aaron was going to go off the deep end?

Couldn‟t you see that truth? Or at the very least, the warning


    Freddy took a cigarette, blowing it upwards into the

glowing evening air before continuing, “You know the sad part,

Jalila? I think you detect them- the warning signs, that is- and

seeing as you did nothing…but then again, maybe that‟s what you


    “What are you talking about?”

    “You heard me.”

    Jalila was about to interject most vociferously, but

suddenly shifted into a tartly tight-lipped smile, “Oh Daddy, I

like when you talk to me like that.”

    At which point Freddy didn‟t know what to make of her for

the rest of his increasingly dangerous life. He bent down,

pulled up her shirt and whimsically kissed her diamond star-

studded belly button.

    “OK, let‟s git!”

    He shifted his country-western vernacular to an

aristocratic upper-crust gear, “Let us go to the Los Angeles

County Museum of Art. Toodle-do, then.”

    Some enterprising thugs had decided they‟d hit up LACMA,

and indeed, just had. Up until yesterday there had been a huge

Salvador Dali exhibit, but now the surrealism of what was

occurring dwarfed any vision Dali could conjure. All his artwork

had already been stolen by the time Freddy and Jalila were

anywhere close.

    And the explosion heard all the way from Freddy‟s rooftop?

Well, A loco yokel had a big pipe bomb he wanted to (and did)

throw into the La Brea Tar Pits…just to see what would happen.

And had the National Guard not been there earlier, they now

rapidly arrived- on a state of paranoid high-alert. Yes, they

had failed their masters on this one- overlooked some wealth

slipping through their Barney Fife-esque bumbling and fumbling

hands. And this only meant one thing- these young recruits

barely of legal drinking age would be arriving with itchy

trigger fingers. The ghosts of Kent State and the 1968

Democratic Convention had been long forgotten by now, their

lessons no longer valid in this millennium.

    In no time the scent of pepper-spray was in the air as the

Guard donned gas masks, everyone else choking and sobbing their

way through this sudden blitzkrieg busily assaulting their

mucous membranes and respiratory system. It was in this noxious

environment that Freddy and Jalila rolled up to, halted on

Wilshire Boulevard by a Humvee at a check point a few blocks

east of the museum. The young reserve officer with a fresh

haircut and no chin approached them:

    “May I see some identification, please?”

    Freddy paused for a second.

    “Anything wrong, sir?”

    Which was a stupid question, because at this point, what

wasn‟t wrong? Jalila pinched Freddy on his thigh, muttering

“Just give it to him!”

    She knew Freddy was still a live nerve about the whole

Aaron affair, much as she knew that was so not on the guard‟s

list. Freddy fumbled through the pockets of his cargo pants.

    “My wallet…I can‟t find my…”

    As the officer placed his right on the pistol strapped to

his hip, Jalila smiled and pulled out her ID, leaning and

breathing low toward this ugly weekend warrior of an officer.

    “Here‟s my ID, sir. This knucklehead must have left his

next to my bed.”

    She giggled and ruffled Freddy‟s remaining hair, the hair

that nowadays was quickly turning gray. The officer, not really

used to this real-life drill, looked around nervously.

    “Uh, I don‟t think that I can…”

    Jalila slid her index finger up the creased uniform of the

officer. She got even closer, cooing into his ear:

    “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

    Suddenly another loud explosion cracked the early evening

night air on its ass, making a deafening boom and knocking the

officer into Jalila‟s chest.

    “Excuse me, m‟aam.”

    “Mmmm, that felt good.”

    “Sorry to bother you two. We have to go…”

    He let out a loud whistle and he and his troops bolted

toward the museum, their checkpoint having been no deterrent at

all for that one. Who needed foreign terrorists when LA had so

many hometown ones awakening to the lush tapestry of fresh

opportunity now afforded them?

    From across the street behind what used to be a gas station

(until the blast had now turned it into an inferno), Steven

beamed. Why not? He‟d had his first experience with what could

be marketed by Fisher Price to budding terrorists as “My First

Bomb”. Even though unintentional, that Coldwater Canyon fire had

awoken something in him. Sure, it was a bad thing. Sure, he

didn‟t try to do it. But it sure as hell made people get up and

notice, springing them into action (at least some kind of) as a

direct result. Politics and news reached people‟s ears all the

time, yet rarely changed their minds. However, whenever a bomb

reached near anybody, they moved their asses…and quickly! It was

now clear how to really get people‟s attention- all that

remained was to figure out how they would react.

    However, one thing he hadn‟t figured on was that he‟d

already gotten a couple of people‟s attention already…


Freeganism is a total boycott of an economic system where the
profit motive has eclipsed ethical considerations and where
massively complex systems of productions ensure that all the
products we buy will have detrimental impacts most of which we
may never even consider. Thus, instead of avoiding the purchase
of products from one bad company only to support another, we
avoid buying anything to the greatest degree we are able.

    Little known fact: Raw had been a teacher once. An

elementary school teacher. He started doing it after he lost his

enthusiasm for corporate America, or rather it had failed to

muster any for him. It had done everything in its power over him

to ensure he‟d most definitely not be on that fast track to

success, all the while making sure he slaved long hours,

greasing the track with his blood and sweat for someone else who

was already wealthier and whiter.

    So he switched careers mid-adulthood. At least teaching was

color-blind and he‟d work less hours, or so he rationalized.

There was no shortage of jobs doing this in the inner-city: in

South Central, Inglewood, Watts…nothing but opportunities galore

due to a lack of male role models. They didn‟t even have to be

saints, just present. So Raw entered this untainted arena with

the zeal of a missionary.

    He‟d show up first thing in the morning, ensuring the

children received their state-subsidized breakfast. After all,

he knew it was a damn positivity they weren‟t getting one at

home. Raw‟s name back then was Ronald Dawson, back in the days

ruled by President Reagan, the biggest asshole to ever hold that

same first name. Although the non A-hole Ronald had no children

or wife, he was expected to not only be teacher but parent to

these lost children he now taught.

    He knew they needed-nay, craved- structure. However, every

time he tried to discipline a child it would end up with a mad

mother at a conference. He still remembered his last parent

conference. She was a huge woman, fed by a steady diet of junk

food and ignorance. It started off something like this:

    “Good morning, Ms. Gordon.”

    And they would usually never acknowledge him, instead

barging in like they were in a line at Hometown Buffet:

    “I don‟t why the hell you got me coming all the way up here

for some bullshit. My son ain‟t no little bitch and…”

    “Ms. Gordon, your son is nine and, um…rather large for his

age. He assaulted a smaller…much smaller classmate on the

playground. This is a serious matter.”

    “That ain‟t what he told me. He said that Dante been

messin‟ with him.”

    “Well then, that‟s why I called you in here, because as I

can assure you, that is not the case. In fact the case is 180

degrees from that.”

    “Don‟t get all fancy teacher terms with me. You telling me

my baby‟s a liar?”

    “Um, more like a bully.”

    “What you talkin‟ „bout? He just tryin‟ to be a man, makin‟

his way.”

    “Making his way to juvenile hall if he doesn‟t stop acting

this way.”

    “Oh, so now you sayin‟ I don‟t know how to raise my own

damn children!”

    At which point Ronnie D would throw up his hands and give

up. If the good Lord hadn‟t destroyed his mind by this point, he

sure as hell knew how to torture it. By now Ronnie decided to

hop on the fuck-it express. It just wasn‟t worth it to raise a

fuss with Big Mama. And to her credit, at least this mother

showed up. Most didn‟t even bother. And the fathers? They were

more extinct than an original member of the Temptations, nothing

but a drunk whisper in the night air- which is how many of these

students were conceived anyway. Abortion was about as much of an

option as turning down a federal assistance check. Time after

time, the explicit message drilled into these kids‟ heads was

“don‟t even try”. The months and years passed. And Ronnie got

older, but not so much wiser.

    Ronnie was getting tired. He knew the more years he had on

the planet, the less options he had. So why fuck with the wrong

ones anymore? However, he still had one thing offering him hope.

He‟d started working at a new school- a school where he met a

new substitute teacher, 26 years old to his then 34. Her name

was Jessica Herrera. She was Mexican and he loved that- he was

so over American women too old to act (even though they almost

always did) like spoiled little girls. She was gangly, with

curly auburn hair that threatened to explode out of its hair-tie

at any moment. Her eyes danced like a non- Fleetwood Mac tango

in the night. She wore braces, perhaps a bit too old to wear

them. No matter- it just made her seem adorable and sexy at the

same time, her mouth a tantalizing gift to be soon unwrapped.

And who would be the lucky one to open it?

    But this one was different. He could tell already. She told

him she was a dancer- certainly not that kind, but the artistic

kind! She was taking classes in special education to get her

credential. It seemed to him from the second he said “hello” to

her she was on him like Spanish on rice (no pun intended). They

were inseparable for the remaining week at work whenever they

had a spare moment, be it lunch break or sitting and joking

their little private jokes softly through a boring staff


    And what did Ronald care? Let the others stare and gossip,

those haters! He was for once enraptured with somebody, their

ever-closer body language obvious to every co-worker as much as

Ronald and Jessica were oblivious to their noticing. And as they

did so, she would tell him how she had moved to the United

States from Mexico when she was sixteen. This spunky senorita

had pulled herself up by her huraches and gone to UCLA (to his

lesser Cal State Northridge). It seemed so natural, so

inevitable- getting her phone number was a foregone conclusion.

    When they talked on the phone, they joked about how he was

her PBF (phone boyfriend), and as far as he knew- he was that,

with much more to come. However, there was one slight problem,

she told him. She had a boyfriend. He was an older man with more

money. He was also her dentist in Tijuana where she had her

braces put on, except she did not love him. This she told

Ronald, and he believed her. In his mind, she was indeed the

goods because she was being straight with him. After all, when

two people click, it‟s not always guaranteed to happen at the

most opportune or optimum time. She was cute. She was honest.

Yes, she would be his girlfriend, and they would begin a new

life together.

    He was so dead wrong.

    They went out on a date, one where he bought her dinner and

acted the gentleman- only one margarita, one light beer and two

glasses of Merlot over a five hour span, with no cigarettes

whatsoever. At the end of the evening he went to kiss her

goodnight, but even though she didn‟t turn away, she didn‟t

reciprocate. Sensing his need for clarification, she told him

she needed to break up with her self-labeled “sugar daddy”

first. Even though Ronald didn‟t see it that way, she explained

to him that she had to be fair to both him and the ex. Surely he

could understand that.

    After that night, she never called him back or showed up to

his school. He was as confused as confused could be. Hadn‟t he

been compelling enough to sway her over? She had rendered him

delusional, convinced it was otherwise. He had lain himself

bare, exposed…and she‟d trampled all over his naked soul. He‟d

now been internationally jilted, his illusory hope of finding a

foreign alternative to the American bitch dashed on the rocks.

Dark depression washed over him.

    But Ronald had something about him that was as indefinable

as it was strong. He wouldn‟t let that drown him- he wasn‟t down

quite yet. Despite this, he showed up to work- a bitter man with

his head down, plowing toward a brighter future. Surely there

had to be light at the end of the tunnel.

    And then one day very shortly thereafter a kid threw a book

at him. It hit him in the back, a sucker punch to the kidney. It

hurt, but Ronald knew it probably didn‟t leave a bruise. And so

he sent the offender out, and as he did so a corpulent assistant

principal showed up, asking him if he would like the kid to

return to class. Still smarting, Ronald addressed her curtly

with a short “No!”

    The next day he was being sent home for the day for

insubordination. Being that he was a newer teacher there and

still on probation, his future at the school was now hanging in

the air. A bad recommendation would certainly haunt him wherever

else he‟d go. A few years and many dollars training for this job

were now sinking back into the tunnel further away from the


    So he descended into the darkness, specifically the

darkness of the HMS Bounty (an old man‟s bar if there ever was

one)on Wilshire Boulevard across the street where the Los

Angeles Unified School District couldn‟t keep its ignorant hands

from tearing down the historic Ambassador Hotel. Yes, the same

hotel where hope had died over four decades ago when Bobby

Kennedy had been gunned down by a lone Syrian in the hotel

kitchen on his way to change the country. Then again, of course

this festering wound had to be torn down. America didn‟t like to

be reminded of her failures.

    But Raw was no Bobby Kennedy…at least yet. As with most

increasing evenings of his, he sat on his stool at the Bounty,

drinking his drink and not really paying any mind to either the

Dodgers game stats from the TV mounted on the wall or the

oppressively, omnipresent Sinatra playing on the juxebox.

Everything furnishing this musty watering hole was all as

ancient as the clientele in this dive that may have very well

been magnificent back in the days when it actually was the hotel

bar it was built to be.

    He didn‟t want to talk to anybody, but that didn‟t mean

there wasn‟t someone who would talk to him regardless of whether

he was willing to listen or not. Sure enough, a grizzled older

black man in a flannel shirt with a pack of Winstons in the

front pocket sat down next to Ronald.

    “Nice day for a drink, eh?”

    As if. Any day looked like a nice day for a drink for this

man, beaten up by that bitch called life. Non-deterred, the man


    “So what‟d you do?”

    “Um, teach. Well, maybe not for long.”

    “Teacher? How about that? I used to work at a school.”


    “Yup.” The man pointed in an eastern direction, “Central

Juvenile Hall…heard of it?”

    “I think so.”

    “Well, if you ever been there, you ain‟t forgettin‟ it

anytime soon, brother. It‟s the oldest, the coldest- the one

where the real problem kids is sent. Know what I‟m sayin‟?”

    Ronald nodded his head, more out of respect for his elders

than anything.

    “Anyways, Central ain‟t no lightweight camp, pussy-ass

„alternative-ed‟ or drug treatment center. It‟s the real deal,

yo. I mean, when a kid be really fuckin‟ up in L.A., they send

his ass to Central…the mothership, ya feel me?”

    Ronald didn‟t feel like feeling anybody right then, but he

shook his head once more, greenlighting the rest of this

stranger‟s conversation:

    “If you a masochist, go teach there. Better yet, teach a

„special day class‟. Remember how you used to treat substitute

teachers as kids back in the day?”

    With not even a wait for a headshake this time, he resumed,

“Yeah, this shit is one step away from getting paid to be

punched in the face. And if you stick around long enough, you

probably gonna get that too.”

    “No, I taught elementary school.”

    “What happened?” The man looked at Raw a bit suspiciously,

“Ain‟t no funny stuff occurred?”

    “No, no…nothing like that.”

    “Well, see here- I wasn‟t a teacher. I was a probation

officer for LA County. Seen all kinds of shit up in there, trust

me. Even as we be runnin‟ out of oil, rain forests and just

plain ol‟ good jobs, ain‟t never gonna be no shortage of fuckups

to lock up. Know what I‟m sayin‟?”

    And this time Ronald nodded because he knew exactly what he

was saying.

    And that afternoon, Ronald learned many more things about

today‟s youth from this man. Among them…

  1. When you‟re selling meth, make sure you put the baggies up

    in your gums when the po-po come knockin‟.

  2. You can make a pipe out of an ordinary ballpoint pen, some

    tape and a penny.

  3. Books are for tagging, not reading.

  4. Walkie talkies are as only good for saving your teacher ass

    as the responsiveness of the probation staff.

  5. What good are video cameras in the classroom for protection

    if somebody tilts it at the ceiling or covers it?

  “That‟s where the road‟s headed? Why even knock myself out?”

thought Ronald. After that day, Ronnie said his sayanoras to

that ol‟ status quo. Now, he didn‟t get fired or quit. He simply

didn‟t appear at work anymore from that moment on or respond to

any communication from them. Maybe they fired him first, maybe

they didn‟t- he really didn‟t give a tossing fuck what they did

anymore anyways. He‟d cut off his landline phone service,

finally left alone by all- at least until he was evicted. And

this time his back had no wall left to be pushed against. He was

all on his own.

    So shortly (and naturally) after that and fueled by yet

another endless eve at the HMS Bounty, Ronald got extremely

drunk, crashing his car one balmy late fall eve. He was lucky as

there were no police present, quickly leaving it where it lay-

the old “duck n‟ run”. The next morning he called the police,

reporting it stolen. Even though it was on a side street, he was

never contacted back by the police about it. He should have

known they‟d leave him alone if it was a situation where he was

asking them to help him.

    And when he got his gas turned off, his water and power and

then finally got that eviction, Ronnie went to that by-now-

stripped-out cocoon of a car, habituating and hibernating in it.

He knew that he could have died then and there and it wouldn‟t

have mattered to anybody else, which was exactly why it did

matter so much to him. So one day not too far from when he began

staying in this shell of a vehicle, Ronald ripped off his dirty

clothes with the exception of a pair of shorts and sensible

running shoes, until the chrysalis that was Raw emerged.

      He walked away from that and into the city. And he began to

run. And when he got to the city he found the first available

shopping cart and began scouring the alleys and dumpsters of Los

Angeles for cans and bottles. By the end of that first day, the

misfit formerly known as Ronald had made enough on recycle

station deposits that he began a short residency. It was in a

nearby fuck-motel on South Normandie Avenue called- ironically

enough- The Snooty Fox.

      Fast forward a few weeks of this and he was now also able

to afford a reliable mountain bike. Sure, he could have stolen

one and saved some money, but Raw didn‟t want to be looking over

his shoulder anymore this time. If he was to write a new code

for his life, he would not be felled by the ones that opposed


      As he became a freegan and ate from those same dumpsters,

food was never a problem. Langer‟s Deli or the supermarkets were

always throwing something out. Gradually his hair grew out, and

as he ate better and rode his bike everywhere his body filled

out, revived from the eradication of everyday society‟s


      Soon he was able to afford a downtown loft space in the

middle of skid row. As soon as he moved in he let the maximum of

sunlight in through the windows to grow his own vegetables and

fruits, mainly eliminating his reliance on the dumpsters. Soon,

he was growing them on the roof. One evening around that time he

saw “Inconvenient Truth”, immediately sensing this was something

substantiating what he‟d been doing. Another evening shortly

thereafter, fueled with enthusiasm from that movie, he attended

a monthly “green soiree” at the Culver Hotel. He should have

saved his energy. It was just another extension of young

corporate America. Mainly, the affluent and connected- those not

really interested in anything green anybody without money had to

say. The whole “green” thing for them was nothing more the cargo

to their ongoing money train. Raw just didn‟t fit in with the

green-talkers not doing a lot of walking. “Just as well” thought

he, sensing perhaps he was onto something that most weren‟t. No

movement could or ever would start with their pampered asses.

They wouldn‟t know how to live off the land even if it bit them

on their little trust-fund asses. But now…this recent quake,

which had shaken their job security, was like a job promotion

for Raw. No, Raw would form his own “Earth Army”.

    And then the earthquake hit. Most adults were unprepared,

it was the children who suffered the most. The generation that

spawned them was now exposed as the safety and security frauds

they were- all their adult lip service about responsibility

nothing but a sour throwaway from yesterday. Now their children,

hungry and thirsty, were angry…on a much larger scale than

anyone had ever anticipated. Whereas Ronald had suspected this,

Raw knew this implicitly.

    However, this time he would be able to show them a better

way, unencumbered by those who so transparently and obviously

never knew about their own children and students. Ronald never

would have been able to do this, but Raw sure as hell could (and



A spate of coyote attacks in the fast-growing suburbs east of
Los Angeles have left parents on edge and puzzled wildlife
officials. State Department of Fish and Game spokesman Steve
Martarano says the animals appear to be losing their fear of
humans, and are behaving more aggressively. Coyotes normally
avoid contact with humans and hunt rabbits and rodents. But
scientists say some that live near suburban developments are
becoming bolder, raiding garbage or even attacking pets and
-AP Los Angeles

    After the tumultuous last couple days, the city was trying

to dust its knees off and regain its balance. Yet it was a shaky

equilibrium. What this natural disaster had done more than

anything was hasten the decline of Los Angeles into a third-

world city, the gulf between wealth and poverty ever more

apparent, the few employing private services and increasingly

larger numbers of security to ward off the disenfranchised many.

There was fear now inside the gated walls. They weren‟t safe

anymore and they were just now beginning to realize it.

    Whereas lately the sole nocturnal predator had been the

increasingly bolder coyotes, human lurkers were beginning to

give them a run for their money. Just as what had been happening

in many a South American country, the wealthy and powerful here

were beginning to disappear from their Calabasas or Westwood

homes, the next day being offered up for ransom on the evening

news. Nobody was more aware of this than a nervous Saul Cohen,

who now chose to hire his own private armed security from the

burgeoning industry that people like he had spawned.

    The only problem was that they got to Saul before he got

around to hiring real protection- Blackwater professional-killer

like. Within hours his pasty face was plastered within the

chyron window to the left of every news anchor in town (that is,

except for Channel 5‟s) reporting on the abduction of the ex-

husband of disgraced anchorwoman Ms. Contreras- (ex)Cohen. It

was almost as if she was responsible, but the real culprit was

simply the wholly holy American pursuit of Benjamin Franklin, or

at least his image on all those C notes hopefully headed some

happy kidnapper‟s way.

    Being Saul was an important and financially influential

member of the community (with the emphasis leaning more toward

financially influential), a reward was issued along with a

bounty for the capture of the kidnappers, a growing cancer that

needed to be excised and demised. Saul‟s safe return was only

part of this parcel. Freddy, feeling confident in his newfound

mercenary skills, decided this was the gig for him. Hell, he

already knew who did it. He‟d overheard some MS 13 vatos in his

hood, speaking in hushed Hispanic tones at the Carl Jr‟s on

Wilshire and Normandie.

    Little did they know that Freddy was bilingual (one

positive of growing up in LA) and picking up on what they were

saying, or at least who they were saying it about- the husband

of that heina from Channel 5. Being a good documentarian, Freddy

just happened to have his Sanyo “talk stick” microchip audio

recorder in his pocket. He clicked it on, and listened to it at

home. That was all he needed to decipher and who and where they

were from. He made a few calls after that, and bingo!

    All he had to do was set up a trap- one disguised as a

meeting. It would be easy enough to take out a couple MS 13

punks in over their head- anything more complicated than spray-

painting the side of a strip mall Laundromat and they were lost.

They knew as much about a rich Jew as they did the English

language. If anything, the art of kidnapping required a strong

command of communication. However, sometimes a cut-off ear is

worth a thousand words, but that was so J. Paul Getty 1970‟s.

Hands and feet- bigger appendages were where it was at these

days…at least for these El Salvadorans. Toes and fingers? That

shit was a dime a dozen! Cutting off a big ol‟ right foot? Now,

that meant business. Nothing said “let‟s talk…now!” like a gray,

rotting left foot sent Fed Ex Overnight.

    So when a not-so-big but pretty ol‟ foot arrived at Channel

7 (Channel 5‟s nemesis!), all it took was some match-up to a DNA

sample from one of Saul‟s crusty boxers in the laundry hamper of

the ex Contreras-Cohen casa. The Los Angeles Police didn‟t need

any more impetus (or excuse) than that to come crashing down on

the Mara Salvatrucha like the Gestapo. What better excuse to try

out all those nifty robotic innovations in riot gear? Business

was booming for them as of late- although nowhere near the pace

of the Blackhawks and other indie security firms. Private

security was where the real cash was because anything private

was no longer anywhere near as secure as it had been just a few

years back. And with the way the state of California had evolved

into a police state, it was high time for a new and improved

LAPD riot-force coming-out party…like a quincenera, except the

piñatas this time were anyone protesting. Or maybe it was like a

bar mitzvah, one where you lose everything- starting with your

front teeth.

    But what a fun time it was for misanthropes to try out new

toys on their fellow human! Why, you could turn everybody into

“Tommies” nowadays: deaf, dumb and blind. It being high time for

the fascist dum-dum boys, MS 13 was getting squashed like a

mosquito that had been buzzing around the ear of the city for

way too long. It was time to get swatted. Nothing cleaned up the

gangs like fascism. Like the Nazis in pre-WWII Germany, the LAPD

had become too big for competing thugs to exist.

    So, on paper everything looked good- good and ready- for

Freddy to step in and send a couple of these punks back across

the border, except in a cardboard box in the back of a La Migra

van. Their final journey would lead them back to their native El

Salvador, but probably not…just too many miles and at least as

much trouble over those miles.

    Unfortunately for Freddy (and even more for Saul), the

staged meeting with Saul‟s captors didn‟t go so well. When they

saw him, and recognized him as the weirdo white guy that was

always around the neighborhood, they figured he was an

undercover cop. After all, why would a white older-ish dude like

him hang around the dirty underbelly of K-town? He wasn‟t

especially odd-looking or anything, he just looked odd being


    Freddy entered the agreed-upon destination, right behind a

liquor store on Hoover Avenue. Being new at this sort of thing,

one thing Freddy hadn‟t realized was how mistrusting these

gangbangers were of white guys, especially with the heightened

and agitated sensitivity compounded by the whiter and wealthier

guy they‟d kidnapped. Both parties were obviously in over their

heads, and Freddy‟s overestimation of his Spanish skills did him

no favors. The conversation went something like this (in


     What‟s up? Looks like you have something I want and I have
                   something you need so bad.
                               GANGBANGER 1
                           That‟s right…I guess.
                               GANGBANGER 2
           Doesn‟t he have something we want and we have what he
                               GANGBANGER 1
                          Shut the fuck up, esse!
                So where is what I want…more than anything?
                               GANGBANGER 1
                   What does he want more than anything?
                               GANGBANGER 2
                 Dang, this fools sounds straight-up gay.
                               GANGBANGER 1
         I don‟t know…hey, he looks like that fool down the block.
                               GANGBANGER 2
                           With that hot chick?
                               GANGBANGER 1
                 Maybe that‟s why we ain‟t jacked him yet.

    At which point both of them looked at each other, wondering

the same thing at the same time: “What the hell is he doing


     Fearing a setup that only the white boy could give them,

they both drew their burners. However, Freddy was a bit of a hot

shot by this point, drawing quickly (to their surprise/demise):

     “Here ya go, ya gang-tagging fucks! Here‟s for all the ugly

tagging you‟ve done to my neighborhood with your bald, tatted,

Pro-Club XXL wearing ugly asses!”

     In the name of poetic justice, he liberally sprayed the

both of them with bullets as if it so much paint in a can.

However, what he hadn‟t counted on and expect to hear was a

loud, painful groan from the car behind the freshly-deceased MS-

13er‟s. Before he could muster a “Goddamn it!” he saw the

agonized face of a bound, gagged and one-footed Saul Cohen in

the bloody backseat of the car. He ran over to Saul, pulling the

gag off his mouth, only to hear his last words:

     “You dumb son of a …”

     And that was the end of Saul the mattress magnate, with no

apparent heir. But then again, this was Freddy‟s first time at

this mercenary thing. Firsts of anything, whether it be the

first time you have sex, your band‟s first gig, your first

wedding…they usually tended toward disaster. Freddy knew how to

kill alright, just not that accurately. He was like a young man

at the bar for the first time on his 21st birthday. He knew he

would fuck somebody- just not sure exactly who. He wouldn‟t die

trying- that would be for the others while he was- trying, that

is. He even envied the MS 13‟ers he took out- at least all the

fun they‟d had gangbanging while he‟d grown up white and oh-so-

isolated from that street party.

    The customers at the Border‟s coffee nook had enough. Here

they were trying to enjoy a cup of coffee and perhaps a

croissant or muffin on a beautiful morning, the first one with a

repaired post-quake electrical power grid. All they wanted was a

return to normalcy, domestic bliss and all that- however

delusional. Everyone looked over to the crazy lady with a melted

face, screaming at one and all (from outside the front window):


    Sooner or later they would haul away. They always did.

Despite this (or maybe even because of this), Steven liked to go

to this Border‟s nowadays. He‟d sip coffee, listen to Josh

Grobin and John Legend (people who won Grammies but nobody

seemed to ever listen to except in public forced-listening

situations like this). All that acid-rock trip-hop music he‟d

been dabbling with scared him now. Much like the sell-out baby-

boomers, he reached back to something safer and blander. He

would sit and read for hours. He‟d cleaned up his act- drug-

free, wearing Abercrombie Finch as if they were going out of

business tomorrow (and indeed would). It was if a new job, fresh

haircut and hot bowl of soup could fix everything.

    Once in awhile he‟d get recognized, but the reading glasses

and Gap baseball cap pretty much made it a guessing game as to

his identity. He was just another UMA (upwardly mobile Asian) to

the casual observer, enjoying a little archetypal relaxation via

studious pursuits. However, if the observer peered closer,

they‟d realize this was no grad student studying chemistry,

geology or physics. They‟d put together the pieces, just as

Steven was quietly putting together the necessary know-how to

expand his acumen of how to build a better bomb. After all, if

all those sexual predators he‟d previously exposed looked like

what they actually were to all around them, they‟d be out of

business. When it came to deviancy, anonymity was the name of

the game.

    And that‟s when he ran into something he wasn‟t looking for

at all…or rather someone. He‟d sit in the circle of faux-leather

chairs next to the Seattle‟s Best Coffee bar manned by chatty

teenage baristas, oblivious to anyone or anything over the age

of twenty-five.

       She was a slender, mulatto woman, her hair pomaded and

pulled back. Not much in the chest department, but two sizzling

slices of thigh. She wore a slinky flower-print dress, the

slight tattering and odd light stain a hint that all was not

well in bookstore-lady town. Steven didn‟t really think much of

it the first couple of times he saw her there, just another

local that liked to read…read Harper‟s Bazaar, Vogue, and

Glamour magazines- all those monthly glossy promises of a better

female existence.

       Upon closer inspection, he began to notice the various bags

on the floor to her side- things that weren‟t full of recently-

shopped goods. Steven peeked over quickly, confirming everything

in one glance. It was her clothes. She was in the bookstore

reading these idyllic tomes of better times right next to her

traveling wardrobe. If that didn‟t scream out homeless, what


       Yet, there she‟d be…almost every day Steven was. Usually

she‟d be in that dress, but always she would be reading those

glamour mags. “Shouldn‟t she be reading the „help wanted‟ ads in

the paper?” thought Steven. She had to be delusional, and she

had to be crazy. If anybody loved a good story, it was

definitely Steven. He‟d look at her with her faraway look that

looked beyond the mere magazine, but rather into the fantasy

world of escape it seemed to provide for her. She looked as if

she was dreaming of a day when she‟d leave this all behind and

join Donatelle, Diane von, Elton and all the rest of that

stratified gentry.

    Finally, Steven couldn‟t take the suspense any longer. He

had to know more about her. He was sitting in that faux-leather

oversize reading chair next to her, a small knee-high reading

stand the only barrier between them.

    “Excuse me, miss.”

    No response. She dreamily gazed downward at the Cosmo mag

in her lap, a blushing bride photo staring at her as if to say,

“Your day‟s coming soon too, honey”.

    “Excuse me, miss. Do you mind?” She looked up slowly as if

it took her a little while longer to engage from daydreaming to


    “Do you mind if I slide a couple of these magazines on this

stand over so I can put my coffee on here?”

    She smiled, “Of course.”

    “Thank you. Oh, by the way- the name‟s Steven.”



    Across town, the station with a heart was barely

maintaining a pulse. Since the rapid exodus of Steven and Maria,

ratings were at an all time low. Apparently viewers were loyal

to those talking heads who read the news despite their- and

indeed, almost expected- faults. Surprisingly, all this hub-bub

made Steven and Maria appear more human, and Channel Five appear

as the mean station without a heart (that had thrown them both

out in the extreme coldness that can only be Los Angeles). Even

their dim-witted sports guy knew the viewers had no problem

dumping a station that traded off its key players.

    Plus, with her ex being abducted and all that, now it

appeared as if karma had gotten to her….karma- now there was a

word that reporters stayed away from like kryptonite. Maybe

Maria was involved, maybe she wasn‟t. But one thing she was now

was controversial, and that could only mean one thing- ratings,

that of which the station with a heart was becoming increasingly

devoid of.

    Bob would let her know he‟d take her back, but only of

course after the public had righteously dragged this soiled

heina down a notch. “It‟s OK to be a slut- just don‟t be a slut

that fools us, or we‟ll bring you down the first chance we get”

thought Bob. However, he couldn‟t do this by his lonesome, and

he‟d been hearing murmurings of her whereabouts lately.

    “Damn it, if only I could assign Maria to find herself, she

would have been found by now”, thought Bob as he took a hit off

the stout bottle of Crown Royal he was desperately needing


    Facing extinction of his own job, news director Bob knew

he‟d have to take it upon himself to get at least one of those

troublesome anchors back. As far as he was concerned, even

though Maria‟s career had been trashed beyond repair, he

reckoned she would probably do anything to get it back. Since

she was divorced and all nowadays, he thought he‟d see how much

fun he could have with that. She‟d seemed frigid as all get out,

but boy, had he ever been wrong about that! Then again, he

reckoned that would make it all the more rewarding once he‟d

have her suck her way back to what he‟d let her believe was her

redemption. The tables had turned quite nicely for Mr. Bob.

    All he had to do was catch La Cont at one of her not-so-

underground gigs, at least for an old-school newsman such as

himself. Hell, he‟d even interviewed Pat Benatar in the day.


    And although all was not quiet on the western front, a

shift in the paradigm was occurring. True, the earthquake had

brought the city to its knees- knocking out crucial utilities

and giving the people a taste of the third world (coming soon to

your neighborhood!). For the first time in a long time, cell

phones were rendered mute. People waiting in public lines were

now actually forced to interact with others- the option of a

technological disconnect no longer available. Suddenly folks had

to be more resourceful with what they had.

    On the upside, this brought people closer together as they

had to rely on each other now. Things that weren‟t previously

possible now had no choice but to be. Those in the barrios,

hoods and ghettos fared far better, having had no choice but to

stick together. That Raw sure had been on to something, becoming

evermore the prophet with each passing day.

    And that was a huge problem. This would never do with those

who‟d built their fortune off the broken backs of others. This

wasn‟t the world they had conquered. And for them to conquer,

division and alienation of people was as essential as mindless

entertainment and the credit enslavement necessary to fuel it.

There was change in the air, and battle lines were being drawn.

Opinions turned into polarizing ideologies that demanded to be

lived or died by. Strange days were melting into tough times.

Even the firemen were refusing to put out fires at highly

combustible vacation homes and cabins. Why risk life and limb to

save the negligently unattended playhouse of some rich fuck? The

increasingly dry forage and brush of Southern California was

surely and rapidly fueling the devouring of man-made intrusions,

setting the stage for some non-urban renewal- Mother Earth


    In the city, people were being evicted from their

apartments by building owners who couldn‟t even find

replacements to move in. Some just gave up and stopped evicting

on the hopes that the current wage-slave economy would resume so

they could continue preying upon the poor once more. Soon many

of these owners would have no choice but to let the banks

reclaim these buildings, banks that had no idea what to do with

this stagnant and decaying collateral. In no time at all after,

these same banks would become just as endangered. Soon enough

the tenants would do some seizing of the property on their own,

opting to squat. Sometimes you just gotta pay the rent with a


    It was only inevitable that with the police and fire

department being taxed to its limit from all this, the National

Guard had to step in. This being a highly influential American

city, once they did, they never left. Los Angeles was now as

militarily occupied as Baghdad once had been (until the funds

for that fiasco dried up). All it had really taken for martial

law to be imposed was one little San Andreas shake n‟ bake.

    This was the environment Raw was quickly gaining influence

in, he who could show so many with so little. The bigger his

influence, the more of a threat he posed to the rapidly eroding

power structure. The whole world was watching Los Angeles-

especially the state politicians, scared this anarchic epidemic

would quickly ooze beyond the boundaries of LA. They also knew

that with individuals like Raw, this was extremely possible.

Afraid of seeing their days numbered, they mulled an edict to

stop this “fanatic”. He was out of control, way beyond

politically correct MTV-friendly. He was a dangerous man

nowadays. If all there was left to use against him anymore was

lethal measures, then so be it. However, Raw was certainly no

naïf either. It wasn‟t like there was a shortage of armament and

ordnance in Los Angeles- or recruits to man then either. And so

it was that Raw‟s legions began, and it was a young army, to be


    For Freddy and Jalila, all this was quickly becoming more

than a documentary- it was becoming a documentation- a digital

video journal of history. There was too much going on to focus

on one angle for one film. Although this threw Freddy for a loop

with his pre-conceived notions and methodology, Jalila was

liberated. She couldn‟t help but feel that somehow she was

coming full circle to the origin of her roots. She felt

valuable…she felt nobility in her struggle. This displaced

Persian beauty would have been a princess or even a queen in

another era- and here it was, a brand-new era popping up right

in front of her, one ripe with potential. And the best part of

all was that it would be captured on camera.

    Really, what they were witnessing was the shuffling of the

deck of the existing social order. Things were getting pretty

decadent, perhaps the closest parallel being post-WWI depressed

Berlin, the electrons of change practically crackling in the

air, threatening to discharge at any given moment- just storing

enough current to zap one and all.

    Those who had the money to go out anymore didn‟t do it that

blatantly and ostentatiously anymore. Nobody wanted to be a

mark, a target of the oppressed, seemingly laughing at the

downtrodden, consumed in their own selfish pleasures. A gaudy

and hedonistic club on, say, Sunset Boulevard near La Cienega

was an open invitation to be heckled, or even ransacked and

robbed. There were also many hungry packs of wild dogs out on

the streets nowadays, too hungry to beg anymore for scraps. And

when the freaks came out at night- like the crazy lady with the

melted face screaming for her dog, well- Federico Felini himself

(with set design by Salvador Dali) couldn‟t have done it any



What if we had a weapon that could control, subdue and or

disperse crowds without causing death or permanent harm? Well,

according to David Martin and 60 Minutes, the Pentagon would be

wary about using it in a combat arena like Iraq in favor of

traditional (and lethal) methods. But we have such a weapon, one

that the Pentagon has no problem demonstrating its use on groups

like peace protesters.


    Cont was into it now. Big time. It was like a long-since

tripped dusty circuit breaker had finally popped back on- one

previously blocking the sensual circuit. The circuit was no

longer wide open, much like her legs now were. La Cont couldn‟t

stop fucking. She was insatiable nowadays. She would copulate

her way into the pearly necklaces of Heaven. Sex offered her

escape and release. Her whole world had collapsed around her,

and orgasms offered solace…a brief shining moment when it seemed

it all went away, her soul transported by the glow of a post-

coital communion with a fellow human. In her new identity as an

underground chanteuse she had an ample supply of amorous

admirers. She could keep herself in lovemaking for a very long

time to come. To this chick, the ideal way to leave this planet

would be getting fucked to death.

    Maria C-C had been furious, betrayed by Raw with that photo

that killed her career and marriage with one digital snap.

However, with the passage of time and the blossoming of a new

career, La Cont was seeing this differently nowadays. Maria had

always been told that sex between unmarried people was wrong,

and she‟d bought into that aspect of her upbringing at the same

time she rejected most else. And where had it gotten her but a

loveless marriage? Why, she asked herself? What about sex had

she been- not only scared of, but- terrified about?

    After all, she hadn‟t been molested or anything scandalous

like that. She‟d known for a while that she‟d made quite a

mistake by marrying Saul, but it was all for the greater good.

Maria didn‟t exactly know it was because she was scared to death

of poverty, but La Cont did. In a career mainly based on her

looks, once her body and face started going south, so would that


    It wasn‟t if, but when it would all end. Maria had wanted a

safety blanket, attempting to buy ward off the pain by shopping

and pretending her concern for Saul‟s welfare (and her own by

default) was something more than just that. She knew it wouldn‟t

have been a pretty end for her had she stayed on the old path.

She would have burst wide open one day and exploded, being

Latina with all too much fire within already.

    A typical day for La Cont nowadays would be something like


    She‟d wake up in her apartment she‟d paid for with what

she‟d wrangled out of the divorce proceedings and walk down to

the sidewalk where she‟d go to a local café. She would enjoy a

leisurely latte and cigarette, trading spirited banter back and

forth with the younger waiter she wouldn‟t mind enjoying as

well. To her, this is what Paris must have felt like in the

1930‟s. Change was definitely in the air. Anything was possible

now. Then, depending on her mood, she‟d either take that waiter

upstairs and fuck his brains out, or she‟d sashay over the

bridge to Atwater Village where her band was waiting for her in

their rehearsal studio. She‟d fucked almost half of them, but

did that mean she was a slut or just liberated?

    “Did people remember Patti Smith for her sexual appetite or

careers?” thought Maria. “Slut is so yesterday…so 2008”. This

Cont just liked to make love and music these days. And what was

wrong with that? Nobody was getting hurt, on the contrary- they

were getting pleasure. Lord knew that was sorely needed



    Raw knew full well Los Angelenos would run out of

civilization way before resources, and way before any other

country did. He knew Americans just don‟t know how to behave and

they‟re impatient; a lethal combo of anarchy waiting for its

boiling point.

    Raw‟s evolution was veering from the way of the

revolutionary to the paramilitary. With this came increased

involvement with Freddy and Jalila. After all, if this was

history in the making, it sure as hell required documentation.

In essence, Freddy and Jalila, who had done such a fine job on

documenting him previously on their own accord and initiative,

now served as a ministry of information (unlike the rapidly

dissolving corporate ministry of infotainment), one on the

benevolent tip: a benign Herman Goebbels and Leni Riefenstahl.

    Raw began to amass artillery because it was a means to an

end, certainly not the end and be all of where he was heading.

Without armament and people trained to use it, he may as well

have been swimming in shark-infested waters with a bloody steak

in his trunks. It was kill or be killed and Raw had an

obligation to protect those who chose to be in this growing

tribe. Most of them weren‟t even old enough to vote (as if that

mattered anymore). In the final analysis, it really came down to

Raw dealing with and taking care of other people‟s

children…cleaning up the mess they had illegitimately made and

abandoned. And then again, it is always amazing how everyone

worries about what they threw away after someone else picks it

out and finds some value in it.

    Raw wasn‟t so much a fan of theft, but the way he looked at

it, if all those with nothing stole one thing every day from

those with everything, it was only logical that the scales would

soon be balanced. Plus, he was fast becoming an admirer of this

anonymous bloke going „round town blowing up gas stations and

such. Bloody brilliant, that one!

    And even though he wasn‟t British, Raw was world-wise

enough to know that he needed to get this cat onboard Team Raw.

It didn‟t matter what his motives or background was, just that

he had the damn cojones to pull it off, and hadn‟t been caught.

Yes, Raw was a big fan of his work. He was also pretty sure it

was an inside job by someone who didn‟t fit the “enemy of the

state” profile- someone who was too sharp to get hit by the red

laser beam as he stole the crown jewels right from under the

kingdom. Being that he was extremely busy nowadays, what with

establishing an underground resistance militia and all, Raw sent

out a small unit to locate this individual- two people he knew

would run across this bad-ass bomber sooner than later. Plus,

they‟d be equipped to provide tangible video documentation.


    And speaking of gas stations, at least the intact ones…

long and longer- that‟s what the lines at the gas stations had

become. A gallon of gas in the single dollar digits was just as

much a fossil as the hydrocarbon it used to be enough to pay

for. Eventually the prices escalated to a tipping point,

prompting an inverse decline in consumption…the majority of

consumers priced out of the shrinking market.

    This is in turn, begat a rise in gas station hold-ups,

lucrative enough for the time and planning involved. Inevitably,

it became the united standard to mount surveillance cameras at

every station. As the criminals became savvy to this and made

knocking out these cameras number one on their priority list,

armed security guards augmented the unprotected hardware. And

somehow and so far, the station saboteur had eluded all these


    Elsewhere in the city of angels, there began a marked

increase in assaults on valets and parking attendants, desperate

men robbing the vehicles, not for the vehicles themselves, but

the precious fuel housed in their tanks. All it had taken for

people to snap was a doubling of the price of a gallon of gas.

Once gas hit five dollars a gallon in „09, the shit hit the fan.

After all, if people could predict when they‟d snap, they‟d try

to avoid being in that situation until they had no choice but


      Raw was loving every minute of it, witnessing the So Cal

economy being brought to its knees. Finally the playing field

was being leveled. He knew that‟s what needed to happen, and it

sure wasn‟t going to be pretty. Let them fight in Africa over

water all they wanted- America was still warming up on their

appetizer of dwindling petro. Water was just waiting in the

wings to be the main course.

      And soon enough the water woes began. The past winter had

passed with no rain at all. It was as if a whole season without

any real precipitation could happen anytime (and for some time)

because that‟s now the way an angry Mother Nature felt. All she

really had to do was not rain for just a few short seasons, and

that‟d be all it would take to dehydrate those human bastards

off this part of the globe before she re-hydrated again on her

own sweet time.

    After all, she could wait it out much longer than the puny

homosapiens. Accordingly, the water rationing began. Once this

suddenly precious resource began being meted out with special

consideration to those financially better off, so began the

battle for Los Angeles, fragmented by social barriers and tribal



    She was the voice- not so much for its vocal quality, but

its message, especially the evolution that had occurred to make

it even possible to begin with. A growing iconic figure already,

La Cont was the embodiment of the new community culture

rejecting the old alienated one. Once Maria had made the leap to

being a Cont, it was not as absurd as it seemed on the surface.

She‟d always thought deeper than that, just perhaps aligned

morally a bit different in the past. She‟d been a success in

where she‟d gotten, but deep down she knew she‟d compromised

herself to the extremely rigid media corporate powers that be.

    She had gotten where she‟d gotten by a synthesis of the

good graces of civil legislation mixed in with sexual energy. Up

until recently, many in power either wanted to patronize or fuck

her, forgetting who she really was to begin with. It just so

happened that it was easier for an assertive Latina woman at the

turn of the last millennium to be a mainstream media TV reporter

than an artist with a message. The Federal Communications

Commission didn‟t appreciate minority women at odds with their

values. Eccentric and ethnic divas like Diamanda Galas made

nothing, whereas the mainstream J-Lo‟s and Shakira‟s of the

world shimmied their culos all the way to the banco.

    Maria had played the game hard, though. She knew what was

needed on her end: longer work-hours, a tighter body, extra

enthusiasm and maximum beauty (ie. diet, manicures, coloring and

all things laser removal). As far as she was concerned, any

means necessary to put her ahead of all those heinas in the

pack. And yet, when she got to where she was heading, she hit

the Anglo ceiling- unable to compete with the national players:

the Courics‟, the Walters‟, the Sawyers‟. They didn‟t really

want this cholla in their living room. They already had an

Oprah. That was enough off-white for their delicate palette.

Hell, they even had to cast off a Connie Chung here or there to

make room for the big O. For Maria, there was no model of new

Mercedes or latest Oscar de la Renta good enough to right this

fundamental imbalance of the social scale. But she held it in

all the while, looking to sources such as Saul to augment and

somehow fill this existential angst.

    But increasingly Maria began to wonder why she had to play

by those rules anymore? They weren‟t made for her to truly

succeed in the first place. Regardless, they were quickly

deteriorating on their own without her involvement. Her time had

truly been biding itself, unable to reveal itself under a

previous set of societal constraints. She just didn‟t see it

until it had finally come. And if there was one thing La Cont

liked, it was coming.

    What the old Maria had been was starving- creatively,

emotionally…or at least that‟s what any garden-variety

psychiatrist would‟ve diagnosed and over-medicated. The old

Maria didn‟t need any damn shrink, and had done just fine with

the self-medicating part on her own, thank you very much.

    And the more love La Cont received from her rapidly

expanding (mainly teenage Hispanic goth) audience called “emo-

grants”, the less she needed sex. Had they not come rushing up

the ruptured border from Tijuana to escape musical lifestyle

persecution after the quake, she might have never found her true

voice. The dark chrysalis of promiscuity had never really had a

chance to shed in her younger years, but right before it did she

attacked it with the same fervor of her professional ambition.

It was just something she had to taste, touch and feel before

her limited time was up on this big blue ball.


    Raw‟s team had found what he‟d sent them out for.

    They‟d already had it for weeks. It was right there on

HD/DV tape. Yup, the Sony handheld held more than hands,

including all the details of the recent LACMA cracking and

jacking. Perla and Freddy were simply too aware of

documentarians to let a loud blast slide. What else made for

such great audio? Perhaps there was video from its origin that

was even grander of a spectacle. Indeed, they rushed over to

capture the aftermath of the fresh blast. Most of the roads

surrounding the periphery of the blast were bare, perhaps due to

being cordoned off further down south by the National Guard.

Nobody wanted to drive into that mess, and risk getting detained

for God knows how long in God knows where.

    Except…except for a lone Prius quickly and quietly skulking

away down one of the side road alleys. This, which was captured

inadvertently (and maybe even perhaps fatefully) by Freddy and

Perla on the ol‟ Sony. And of course with the wonders of Final

Cut Pro, „twas nothing to zoom in on the Pruis‟ back license

plate with a digital simulation of the same resolution it

appeared when it was too small to make out. However, enough

digits were visible to sort out the rest. For from there, it was

only a matter of typing the model of the car along with those

digits into one of those creepy TMZ-esque websites; the kind of

websites that locate the most personal info on anyone your heart

desires. Usually didn‟t take more than forty bucks, either.

         And sure, Steven had been nervous when Freddy and

Perla approached him about all this. But once he realized that

Raw was interested in his talents, he knew he had his patron of

the fine art of deconstruction.

    With his corporate media background, Steven was an

invaluable asset as an ex-insider. Plus, he was one hell of an

eco-terrorist. Stuff blew up real good when he was around. Being

second in command of this burgeoning formidable paramilitary

power, he was now far more powerful in the not-so-underground-

anymore than Maria was(or so he reckoned). Truth be told, he was

her biggest supporter nowadays. He was in more than a little awe

of her strength under adversity. Any chick who has her pussy

plastered over every MTA bus in LA, one who emerges phoenix-like

…she had mad love from Burning Man. They had something in

common, after all. They‟d both risen from the ashes- perhaps he

a bit more literally.

    What Steven Jung liked blowing up more than anything was

strip malls. Why, they weren‟t even worth the private security

necessary to protect them! It was usually small business owners

in need of a wake-up call anyway. There sure as hell wasn‟t

enough of a municipal police force left to worry about that

anyway. Things like security and protection had gotten really

private really quickly as of late with all the state budget cuts

and resources being drained to pay for the earthquake damage.

There was no money to be made in protecting a crumbling state,

only the factions and divisions within. The black-market economy

was butting heads with the Blackwaters. So it was no surprise

when Steven Jung moved up the ranks quickly to become the main

lieutenant to Raw (who had already used Maria in an entirely

different way).

    However, what both Maria and Raw (and even Steven) had in

common, which served as a basis of solidarity, was their

awareness, mainly, the awareness of one glaring oversight by all

politicians- none of them spoke to the younger generation. Sure,

they had kind of semi-grabbed their attention in a Barack Obama

kind of way, but hadn‟t overwhelmingly gotten close to them in,

say, the same way the Disney Channel (or even a Channel 5

perenially-featured sexual predator) had. The children, more

aware than these pig-headed politicians could ever grasp,

continually witnessed the charlatans and marauders continually

and clumsily fumble the ball. They knew there was no way it was

ever going to be passed their way, unless it was wrenched out of

the politicians‟ incompetent hands.

    Raw had been the one to feed and clothe many of them while

everyone else turned their back on these lost youth…a lethal

mistake never learned time and time again. History has shown

that most revolutions are fought and won by the young ones.

Forget that and you can forget living too much longer.


“The success of this strike is a significant achievement not

only for ourselves but the entire creative community, now and in

the future”

- President of the Writers Guild of America

"You are their bitches. They outslugged you, outthought you,

outmaneuvered you; and in the end you ripped off your pants,

painted yer asses blue, and said yes sir, may I have another."

-   Writer Harlan Ellison (on that same strike)

     “Jalila, why‟d you do that?”

     “Freddy, it was us or him.”

     Freddy looked at the dying private security guard in front

of him.

     “I mean, why‟d you kill him, girl?”

     “I didn‟t kill him…”

     Jalila took another shot at the guard, this time into his


     “There, now I have. Definitely dead now, this one. See?

He‟s not gurgling blood anymore. It‟s gurgling out of him.”

    Jalila stuffed the pistol back into her Prada handbag.

    “You know he was going to, Freddy.”

    “Going to what?”

    “Kill us, ding-dong! What do you think? This whole fuckin‟

city‟s falling to pieces around us, and you think he just wanted

to detain us for city police who aren‟t showing up to back him

up? Or at least for a long-ass time.”

    “Well, we weren‟t threatening him.”

    “Freddy, we were trespassing. Didn‟t you see that?”

    She pointed toward a sign that said “Trespassers will be

shot on sight.”

    “See, that means he has license to kill us.”

    “But why would he?”

    “Why wouldn‟t he? I mean, we killed him!”

    “Guess we‟ll never know why he would now.”

    “Guess? You need to figure it out now, Freddy. This is war!

What do you think? That you need to have an entire country go up

against another one with different uniforms so you can tell them

apart like football teams? Is your world that black and white?”

    “No, but…”

    “You don‟t think a war within your own country is possible?

Shit, it already happened once, remember? Or don‟t they study

your own country‟s civil war in schools anymore?”

    “Well, that was the north states versus the southern

states. Entirely different situation.”

    “You‟re right. It was. And so is this, so get used to it. I

am. Where I‟m from, we get that shit all the time- Muslims

versus Christians, Sunnis versus Shiites…”

    “That‟s more of an Iraq deal there.”

    Jalila laughed, “And you actually thought when you elected

a democrat that he was going to end that war.”

    She spit into a bush if to clear her disgust and make way

for laughter, chuckling before, “Fuckin‟ Americans…then you get

all surprised when after a few centuries of oppressing almost

everybody who‟s not white, the inevitable happens.”

    “Guess you‟re right.”

    “No, you just need to be more aware. And B-T-W, that guard

was getting ready to shoot us both.”

    Suddenly Freddy lurched forward, grabbing the pistol out of

Jalila‟s bag.

    “Hey, that‟s an expens…”

    He leveled it toward her, pulling back the trigger.

    “Freddy, no! I‟m sorry about what I said about Americans!”

    Too late. He pulled the trigger and shot off three shots in

rapid succession. A light scream and the body hit the ground,

dead as can be.

    “Now look who needs to be aware” said Freddy with a smile,

looking at the newly deceased security guard on the ground

behind Jalila, a drawn pistol in his quickly stiffening hand.

She wheeled around, a look of shock on her face (more at herself

for leaving herself open like that), which turned into a grin.

    “Oh daddy, I like you like that- all sexy like a

gunslinging cowboy. That shit turns me on. Freddy, you don‟t

even know.”

    “Well, I‟d like to find out.”

    “I‟m takin‟ you out tonight, daddy. But first…”

    With a sweep of her hand she took the pistol out of

Freddy‟s hand and shot out the video camera in the guard shack,

pulling him toward it with her other hand.

    “I want you to take me…now! C‟mon, it ain‟t like anybody‟s


    And where before they would have hightailed it out of there

pronto, this time served to get them in. Welcome to the new

Wilshire Federal Building. Shut down due to budget cuts. Re-

opened due to impending revolution. Who needed Abby Hoffman or

Che Guevera when you had a cowboy and a queen?


    Cont had the dream band, she really did. Nels Cline from

Wilco on guitar with one of the guys from Guided by Voices on

Bass, Petra Hayden (the sober version) on backing vocals, along

with Beck‟s drummer…the indie elite. None of that classic rock

Camp Freddy glam-white trash here. Then there were the constant

celebs and musicians dropping by and in, just for a chance to be

part of something vital for a change.

    However creative her own thoughts, Jalila knew she could

never compare to Cont. She loved everything about her music. She

knew this was the soundtrack needed for the footage she and

Freddy had amassed miles of. It was time to show him what she‟d

been gushing about. So she used those production and PR skills

she‟d accumulated along the way to now and set up a gig at their

place. So on one night, under the stars on the roof of the

Langham where she‟d set this rooftop gig up, she showed her

partner and lover what this Cont and her music was all about.

    Maria tore into it the first song, words, or at least

combinations that had never come out before, never more perfect

for the times:

    Elated and jaded, humbled and hated

    Torn and scorned, fried to magnified

    Always quick with the big cry

    Little lies, why don‟t you die?

    The President of the USA has just taken

    Another holiday

    And he‟s got a new address that sure to impress

    Humbled and hated, but never hit-paraded

    Get a grip of the common view

    At least with those who thought they knew….

    Everybody couldn‟t help but be enraptured. The stars were

twinkling, the drinks were flowing, the band was following their

leader‟s every nuance- it was one of those nights Madison Avenue

wished they could, but never would be able to, bottle and sell.

That Cont had the voice of having been there and getting here,

here being tonight- this space in time that was never going to

happen again.

    La Cont was on an exponential roll, propelled by her own

musical positive feedback loop:

    Give me all your quick goodbyes

    The dumb machine gives you all good highs

    And the queen of Sheba‟s in the shopping mall

    Buying big, buying low, but did you know?

    The stuff I can‟t believe all includes

    The fake boobs and the TV news

    The nasty attitudes, but oh- the young dudes

    And who‟s the quickest girl to cry?

    Before he leaves and says goodbye?

    And shorn newborn give the sign

      To all of those who got stuck in line

      By the way, by the by, by the way, by the by…bye, bye- oh


      This was her Beatles at the Cavern Club moment- definitely

onto something moving forward exponentially, with anything after

this falling into the “I saw her back when she was just…” days.

      Jalila had always been an admirer of artistic beauty- and

it was by default that most of it was female. Now, for her to

act on this impulse was another thing. It took a little more

than aesthetics to push her off the cliff of straightness and

fall for someone her own sex. It took something that didn‟t try

to just seduce her body, but her mind.

      Maria not only had that, but her physical attributes sealed

the deal by creating no further barrier to Jalila‟s decreasing

resistance than what one classic rock band from the distant past

referred to as “Can‟t fight this feeling”. Resistance was now

diminishing at a rate exceeding her suppression of desire. This

wasn‟t just some ever-so-hip Hollywood lesbian Lindsay Lohan

trip. Throw a billionaire dick in their face and they‟re off to

the races, flipping quicker than a flapjack at a Rotary Club

fundraiser. No, this was the desire to mingle amongst the DNA of

another, and sometimes sex was the only route to get to this

state of spiritual symbiosis- albeit one that came in a born in

East LA Hispanic female wrapper. In the laws of attraction,

Jalila was used to getting what she wanted. This here was a

challenge. She knew La Cont had many lovers. All she had to do

was blur the line to get on the list.

    With all this love in the room, nobody really noticed the

quiet woman in the back with a scarf wrapped around her face.


    Raw was actually the antithesis of militant. By amassing a

stockpile of arms, his goal was to get as many guns as possible.

It was only logical to conclude that the more he stockpiled, the

less everyone else had. It wasn‟t that he was so much into using

them as he was into others not using them. There were other ways

to fight the powers that be, increasingly rabid in their

desperation. Better it be a united effort. He was more of a

caretaker than anything, really.

    Sensing the tables had turned, and that people were no

longer scared of them, the corporate government responded in

kind. Martial law began to be imposed on a grand scale. Those

flashing lights at intersections which had merely been automated

cameras were now augmented by stationary robotic machine guns,

courtesy of corporate sub-contractor Samsung, makers of audio,

video and now, death components. Indeed, this was no science

fiction, as a cursory glance on that arbiter of online info, revealed:

     In 2006, Samsung Techwire, a subsidiary of Samsung Group,

announced a $200,000, all weather, 5.56 mm robotic machine gun

to guard the Korean DMZ. It is capable of tracking multiple

moving targets using IR and visible light cameras, and is under

the control of a human operator. The Intelligent Surveillance

and Guard Robot can "identify and shoot a target automatically

from over two miles away." The robot, which was developed by a

South Korean university, uses "twin optical and infrared sensors

to identify targets from 2.5 miles in daylight and around half

that distance at night."

    However, the salad days of unchecked industrial military

spending were now being threatened. Most people were not only

unable, but more importantly- unwilling, to pay taxes anymore.

Tax evaders were now seen as heroes and financial pioneers. And

what that meant to Raw and his main lieutenant Steven was

employing increasingly creative ways to take out these robotic

little death-machines.

    Steven knew these robots were only good to their masters as

long as their data was fed to those who monitored and actuated

them, far from harm‟s distance. Cut that off and they had

nothing. And for Steven, it didn‟t take but a bucket of Sears

house paint to disable the sensor eye of these robots. The death

merchants‟ R & D department hadn‟t counted on such resistance

yet from the “sheeple”. Once the powers to be struggling to

remain there caught on, it wouldn‟t take much to make a few

minor accommodations to fire these death-babies in a 360 degree

direction once their sensors were tampered with or


    Touché. The militant forces soon caught on to this and

countered by blowing these robots up from a distance to

themselves, even as the robots became increasingly clandestine.

These bastards were now being forced underground, and who knew

this retreat of the surveillance state underground would be

catalyzed by a can of Sherwin Williams flat white #3?

    And so the increasingly privatized army countered back with

their Humvee-mounted rayguns, which of course was nothing but a

big microwave intended to cook protestors and dissenters from

the inside out manufactured by the good folks at Raytheon. Or in

the words of oncemore:

    The Active Denial System (ADS) is a non-lethal, directed-

energy weapon developed by the U.S. military. It is a strong

millimeter-wave transmitter used for crowd control (the "goodbye

effect"). Informally, the weapon is also called the pain ray.

    And all it had really taken for the opposition to retaliate

was a basic understanding of the properties of wave reflection

and refraction. Mirrors and tinfoil gave new meaning to the

phrase “back atcha!”

    It was a land grab, really. There was a whole new real

estate boom occurring, as in the boom of artillery and

explosives on real estates. With the weakened will of the

dissolving federal government, the state government finally had

more of the dominion they‟d always wanted. What it also meant

was no federal funding. Since the hierarchy and structure at the

state level was already in place, it was now solely up to it to

generate its own assets. And that would come primarily from

where it always had- the taxes of the working poor in the land

of milk and humvees. But nowadays, instead of burning draft

cards, people were burning their driver‟s licenses and state ID

cards, already scoring a minor victory. So much for the national

ID cards.

    As for the state of California, at the moment it was really

more concerned with protecting its own assets. The Huntingtons,

Chandlers and Hahns were not going to give up without a fight.

For so many of the unemployed looking for any means necessary to

feed their families, becoming a security guard became a desired

job. Allegiance to one side or the other, no longer a casual

option, was now a life and death decision.

    Sure and soon enough, division and strife broke out between

counties and municipalities. Upstate, Owens Valley had decided

they‟d had enough of supplying dirty ol‟ L.A. with their own

water runoff from the Sierra Nevada. Aside from the

proliferation and sprawl of gangs into their previously peaceful

territory, what had Los Angeles ever done for them?

    It was purely reactionary…the current state of things from

the previously current state of things. People had digressed

from living off credit to not being able to get any more credit

to pay off the previous. The cycle had come full to its

inevitable conclusion- they were now debt slaves. If the state

couldn‟t control them, the corporations finally owned them- the

final profit margin. Perhaps Shakespeare hadn‟t been kidding

about that pound of flesh shit after all…the new merchants of

Venice (CA this time), as it were.

    Backs up against the wall in terminal debt with no apparent

escape route, the animal in people came to the fore. It was if a

crack dealer had gotten them all high for free for years,

suddenly deciding to cut all off and call in all debts. And

should you refuse to pay, there was now the state militia to

assume the role of bill collector.

    Raw knew this better than anybody, fueling his rhetoric

with it- utilizing the ready and multiple hordes of terminally

unemployed TV and film writers. The writers‟ strike, ended in

“mutual mediation”, had proved to be a farce, and disintegrated

again. The writers now were slaves, essentially disposable in

this new era of thoughtless, therefore mainly scriptless, new

formula. Employing their services in exchange for food and

shelter, Raw had speeches assembled by them.

    One morning he addressed his young charges this morning in

front of the old toy factory amidst the warehouses of the

downtown Arts District:

    “What happens to criminals when you threaten their

livelihood? Well, our „leaders‟ are finding out, aren‟t they?

This here anarchy‟s beginning to disrupt their social order, and

it‟s making them nervous, y‟all…real nervous. Usually they‟ve

had a way to deal with it. Nuclear bombs have always been great

for that, most excellent for keeping you, i.e. the masses, muted

and on-task, the task being whatever the whims of these self-

appointed masters may be. So wake the fuck up on this, brothers

and sisters! Corporations run things, not countries. If

anything, the only thing unified with all countries is

incompetent government. In an industrialized society,

corporations run things.”

    Nobody knew that better than the particularly shell-shocked

and primarily homeless Iraq War vets whose ears Raw was bending.

Sure, they‟d come for the free food and hordes of young

attractive tail running around, but they‟d stayed for the

message attached.

    “War ain‟t nothing but corporate welfare!” shouted one

particularly grizzled and faded vet with one good eye, one

disabled arm and two semi-automatics.

    Raw smiled, and continued:

    “Makes sense, doesn‟t it? Now, if nuclear bombs are going

to destroy everything, why would companies use them? Well,

that‟s exactly why the fuck they haven‟t. They don‟t want to

destroy their product, their plant…their own resources! It‟s

that fuckin‟ simple. I mean, of course we had to test a few back

in World War II on the Japanese, of course- but they weren‟t

white, so it didn‟t count, right?”

    The mainly emo-grant crowd‟s reaction was more rabid than a

Smiths reunion concert, Raw pausing for dramatic effect before


    “It always surprises the shit out of me how many of you

don‟t get this. If they give up, they have nothing- nothing over

us. And they will never do that. If it comes down to us or them,

well…as a brilliant English man once said, “here come the warm

jets”. And the reason those motherfuckers are warm is because

they tote those nuclear bombs, the same ones they- they being

the corporations- held over us before when they had something to

lose. And now that they don‟t…well, just put it this way-

McDonald‟s scares me a hell of a lot more than Al-Quaida.”

    Recently, living quarters were beginning to get cramped for

Raw and his growing army, but that was alright. Then again,

maybe Los Angeles was getting too small for them.


    Sure, the writers had their strike back in 2007 or so,

thinking they‟d claimed victory, but it soon proved a hollow one

indeed. They‟d been thrown a couple peanuts for increasing

online content by an industry that knew it was exclusively

headed that way. Perhaps these writers even knew that, but a few

months of no income was all it had taken to scare them, getting

farther and farther from making those mortgage payments as they

became closer and closer to living on the streets.

    The production executives had millions of dollars on their

side- they could wait this out, always could and always would.

They knew that going in, but played along to make the writers

feel they had at least the illusion of some power. Indeed, these

power brokers placed more economic security in the hands of

their slave-labor Mexican maids and gardeners. Now, there was

something they could not live without!

    Yes, the tide of popular culture was certainly changing.

Whereas “Cops” had been a perennial staple of syndication, the

zeitgeist had shifted 180 degrees to a show called “Criminals”,

from the point-of-view of law-breakers as they hunted down those

persistent lawmakers. Since they were criminals, they weren‟t

looking to arrest cops, just injure and kill them. Then there

was “Tweakers” a reality show hosted out of some dude‟s garage,

one that put the talk in talk show. This dude and his buddies

huddled over the open hood of a car, transfixed by disassembling

the engine block just so they could re-assemble it for next

week‟s episode.

    In other words, all previous conventions of society were

being, much like that car engine, being torn down. The only one

building anything up again was the tweakers, and that was only

because they were high.

    You almost had to be nowadays. It was too unreal otherwise

(or maybe it was too real). However, one thing‟s to be said when

the constraints of society fall by the wayside: deviant

creativity flourishes, unconstrained by what we used to call

morality. This was putting Jalila in the most creative space

she‟d ever been. Ever been to an Aztec-themed restaurant where

they perform a ritualistic sacrifice in front of you before your

meal? One complete with the still-pulsing heart of the pollo

you‟re about to enjoy being held up by the hand in homage to the

god of the sun by a waiter dressed as a holy priest? Nothing

like it!

    Or how about the Altamont dinner theater, where you get to

watch the waiters dressed as Hell‟s Angels beat the shit out of

anybody sitting too close to the stage where a Rolling Stone

cover band circa 1969 plays away? Yes, without pesky moral

restraints, creativity and commerce can conjoin. Drive-by‟s were

now no longer confined to just automobiles and streets. They

could now happen on speedboats in Emerald Lake, or perhaps

between truckers in the Grapevine pass to LA County. No rules

anymore that way. Everybody was crossing borders these days,

whether geographical or ethical.

    There was even a beer commercial out there in pitch-perfect

tune with the times. It started off with a camera panning across

an urban, as most of them were increasingly becoming,

battlefield. Yup, one never sees a good rural battlefield

nowadays. This battlefield is one strewn with casualties with

slow, mournful music- a funeral dirge vibe if you will. Suddenly

we hear the unmistakable “fffffzzzzz” of a beer can opening and

someone from offscreen yells “Par-tay time!” before a smarmy

announcer intones, “After a hard day on the killin‟ field, it‟s

time for a coldie, brah!”, as the strains of “The Boys Are Back

in Town” overpowers and kicks the ass of the dirge, and revelry

occurs with the surviving soldiers tossing a football around and

drinking it up in good ol‟ U.S.A. fashion.

    In the final analysis, it was the gardeners and maids more

than their gringo masters who were much better equipped to deal

with a huge depression, being quite accustomed to a lowered

standard of living, always looking in from the outside. Now that

it was striking scores of white folks, it was officially a

depression. And depressed they certainly were, denial of their

dire straits no longer an option- forced to cooperate with each

other as opposed to isolate from each other. Clearly, they

weren‟t used to this shit.

    Yes, this is where the hood-rats had the mall-rats beat.

They knew to watch each other‟s back, not stab it. Some of these

previously materially endowed soon switched their shopping

habits- from finding $500 jeans that fit their ass to pawnshop

guns that fit their mouth.

    And Raw? He just thought the shit was funny. Fuck their

spoiled, weak asses? What had they ever done for him?

       “Look at all the people!”

       Freddy scanned the perimeter of Griffith Park from his

vantage point with Jalila on this particularly clear day. One

could actually see downtown from the observatory- and downtown

Santa Monica at that. Freddy looked through his lens again,

focusing on a man walking down the street.

       “Freddy, put that down!”

       Freddy set down the assault rifle with the 100x scope

he‟d been sighting his quarry with seconds prior.

       “Damn, Freddy. You spend more time with that rifle than

your camera nowadays.”

       “Well, you know what they say…”

          “I know…you‟d rather be caught with a gun than without


          “Damn straight.”

          “Don‟t you think you might have a slight problem?”

          “What do you mean, Jalila?”

          “What do you mean, what do I mean? I‟m talking about the


          “All in self-defense.”

          “Four times in the last two weeks?”

          “Hey, we live in interesting times.”

          “I don‟t know. I think you like shooting people more than

shooting video anymore. I mean, self defense is hot, murder is


          “Give that one to your gal pal. It‟d make a great song


          “Maria and I are just good friends. What are you- jealous

now? Anyway, quit trying to change the subject.”

       “Look, Jalila. Raw needs men that can fight…soldiers.

I‟ve spent my whole life being a made pussy, and I‟m so over


       “Oh, I see. Now you‟re Mr. Big Man with a gun.”

       Jalila shifted her right breast in her sports bra. Damn,

it was getting hot and it was only 10 am. She didn‟t have the

necessary humor to entertain Freddy‟s inadequacies.

       “Oh look at me! Mr. Big Gun Dick! Look out, my gun dick

is bigger than yours!”

       “I already told you! I was defending myself.”

       “And you don‟t think you might have killed at least one

extra person you didn‟t need to?”

       “Who‟s checking?”

       “You should be! Just because you can doesn‟t mean you


       “Look who‟s talking now.”

       “Exactly. Look who is. I know death as well as you, but

you seem hell-bent on passing me up.”

       “Well, I have- haven‟t I?”

         Jalila adjusted her other breast, “See what I fucking


         Freddy was beginning to turn her off big time. And this

wasn‟t even the reason, really. And it wasn‟t so much that he

was turning her off, but just that he wasn‟t turning her on.

         That was OK, because somebody else was.


         “WWCD…what would Che do?”

         This weighed heavily in Raw‟s mind as he biked to his new

downtown HQ from a supply run. Starting a revolution was not as

spontaneous as it seemed- especially nowadays. What with their

Homeland Security databases, satellites and GPS systems…hell,

the bad guys had all the cards these days. How safe was his new

location- this once-a-toy-factory? It wasn‟t like you could

romantically sit around the fire with your bayonet and bottle of

Uzo like Che and the boys in a secluded jungle anymore.

         And where would three decades or so of television

detectives have been without abandoned warehouses where

adversaries met at some clandestine downtown location? It was

almost like their close cousin, the waterfront docks.

       And then there was Lieutenant Steven‟s annoying new

girlfriend. Oh, he thought he was so cutting-edge going out with

a homeless woman! And here was this crazy bitch riding shotgun

on missions with him 24/7 nowadays, she- the Yoko Ono of eco-

terrorism, the epitome of a revolutionary coattail rider. Raw

knew sooner than later she would compromise Steven‟s future

missions. Something had to be done.


       Raw jerked around from his bike. The car behind him

honked again as Raw noticed the red light which had been green

probably at least half as long as his last thought. Driving in

this dirty city was becoming an increasingly dangerous affair,

what with all the unrepaired damage from the quake and roving

gas bandits.

       He quickly accelerated, pumping the pedals with maximum

effort. As he crossed the intersection, the mounted camera on

the traffic light pole flashed. Raw knew he would never get used

to this sensory-jarring ever, but this time it was followed by a

barrage of gunfire from a gun mounted within the camera box. It

was also trained on Raw, who took a quick right to a side

street, narrowly escaping what could have been the end of his

life. It indeed was for the Guatemalan family of four in the

barely legal Dodge minivan behind him, but Raw did not have time

for hero duty when his own ass was on the line.

       As he frantically pedaled for his life, he heard the

amplified wail of the firetruck sirens, Doppler-effecting their

way towards the scene, their direction of travel towards him

audibly betrayed by their increasing pitch. After all, Raw

wasn‟t so sure if these firetrucks would be so friendly to him.

Who knew what was mounted on those things nowadays?

       He didn‟t have to wonder too long, for within seconds a

dozen or so Iraq vets on mountain bikes poured out of a side

alley to his left, providing armed cover for their new


       Raw saluted them briefly before he coughed out loud,

raising the bandana around his neck to cover his nose and mouth.

For a town with such dramatically reduced industry (especially

as of late), it was sure getting harder to breathe in. Raw

thought, “Shit, pretty soon I‟ll be like one of those Koreatown

Asians wearing those strap-on air-filter facemasks.” Immediately

sensing this trap was meant for him, thereby ending all future

daytime outdoor activities. After all, it‟d be harder to find a

black man in the dark.

       And had he known a little something more about science,

he‟d realize this was due to an increasing level of methane

creeping into the atmosphere.


       TMZ…those vultures didn‟t want to have anything to do

with her. She wasn‟t a creature of the corporate media. The

hordes of roaming and foaming paparazzi on the street had become

more ruthless and feral; most of them orphan children armed with

digital cameras and the energy to do whatever it took to get

their photographic prey. Stalking celebrities was now done with

a primal and predatory urgency. But this LA Cont…she was of no

use to them. Her art served to raise awareness, not divert it.

Times were becoming such that the world she inhabited rubbed

shoulders with Raw more often than not, and they would either

have to make peace or be forever divided.

       Obviously, it was up to Raw to extend the olive branch.

The only justification of his past action was that Maria served

as a totemic sacrifice- a blow against the infotainment empire.

And whereas the paps had no use for her, Raw indeed had use for

the paps. Why not? They had the perfect skill set he was looking

for: tireless and persistent tenacity toward the fine art of

stalking. All he would have to do was redirect them toward

different prey. Now was not the time for a black man to seek a

leadership position using the “proper channels”. Sure, one had

tried before- even thought he had a shot at the brass ring,

getting only the brass monkeyfuck instead. Yes, once this man

was forced to talk racism, he made the mistake of addressing the

American public as mature adults.


Carrying a gun, shooting with a gun, dirty animal

Carrying a gun, carrying a gun, watch your face, carrying a gun

Carrying a gun, carrying a gun

The animal dies, with fear in his eyes, with a gun

Don't touch him, don't touch him

Stay away from him, he's got a gun

-Lou Reed

          Girlfriend had hit the jackpot. And she wasn‟t letting

go. Steven was torn- relationship or career? Yes, the karmic

tables were turning. It was now he being the one tired of being

with someone probably not good for him, which he was

unfortunately good at. Yes, he excelled in unhealthy unions with

the opposite sex. Clarissa‟s altered paradigm of stability had

deemed him the catch of her life, and she was holding on for

dear life.

          At first Steven thought he could change her. Surely she‟d

understand the significance and pressing urgency of what he was

doing nowadays. But, no…all Clarissa had seen was his star

power. She‟d seen it until it blinded her. Imagine…her with a

handsome anchorman! She was his queen, and he her king- all the

world their future Camelot. It was all she could do to pick out

the many fashions and accessories she‟d need in her soon-to-be

fabulous life.

       Matter of fact, she‟d taken to secretly cutting out

pictures of models wearing all that would be hers from the

glossy glamour mags she pored over at the Border‟s. It was

really only a matter of time before a half-alert (but mostly

bored) barista noticed her clipping away at magazines she had

plucked from the rack downstairs, ready for some conflict to

break up the day.

       “Excuse me, ma‟am.”

       This chestnut-haired and kohl-eyed girl in the Borders

apron knew that calling a woman losing her youth by this moniker

ripped open her coquettish façade. There was nothing like this

antiquated colloquialism to make a woman feel bland and old in

one goofy wavering syllable. Yes, there would be no bullshit

“Miss” addressed to her older ass from this younger and cuter

adversary- an insult in itself. Add ma‟am to the mix and you‟ve

doubled up on this certain flavor of fuck you.

       Clarissa didn‟t respond the first time (after all, that

wasn‟t directed towards her). Despite this, the barista repeated

herself, but this time with more volume and even more


       “Ma‟am, you‟re either going to have to pay for these

magazines, or…”

       Clarissa exploded, “Or what? You going to call the


       The barista rolled her kohl eyes in disgust as if to say

“you didn‟t get that?”


       “Are you serious?”

       By this time people in the store were being sucked out of

what they‟d been reading and into what they were hearing, their

hungry eyes tuned into this new spectacle.

       “Look, I‟m going to have to ask you to please tone it


       “Why? So I can go to jail nicely? So you can humiliate me

in front of all these…”

       No need. Clarissa looked over the girl‟ head, realizing

she‟d done just fine for herself in that regard. She had the

rapt attention of the whole 2nd floor of the Border‟s now. It was

if Damien Rice and David Gray were doing an in-store

appearance...together. That kind of attention.

          “How much? How much do you want? You know…what you don‟t

think I have- money!” spat out Clarissa.

          “I don‟t know. How many magazines did you destroy,


          “I‟m not a ma‟am!”


          This was too much for Clarissa, who whipped out her cell

phone- a pink Razor.

          “We‟ll see who‟s the ma‟am here, missy. I‟m calling my

boyfriend. He‟s famous and has money and is handsome. And you‟re


          “Handsome?” The barista almost betrayed herself a


          “You know what I mean! I‟m getting his credit card info

right now!”

          And at that point the young girl didn‟t care anymore. She

may have well as been the cover girl for “Don‟t Give a Fuck”

magazine at that point. Nowadays, her bosses told her to never

question the payment sources that ran through, just accept them.

If that was the customer being a crook to someone else, what did

it have to do with their corporation? In an age where the

musicians from the 70‟s weren‟t that far from their own, all

that was solid was turning to air. There was a recession going

on, after all.

       And so Clarissa was banned from Border‟s.

       Out of shame she did not tell Steven, and now she spent

her days dreaming at the library down the street, dismantling

their mags for her “wish book”. It was only a short matter of

time before she was noticed by an angry librarian. She had

security escort Clarissa out, later letting the city of Los

Angeles know that this one was not responsible enough for one of

their library cards for the rest of her life. It didn‟t matter

anymore anyway because Clarissa now had a crystal-clear picture

of all the things she‟d soon have, tucked away in the mail-order

catalog of her cranium.

       So now Clarissa would go to Starbucks and get her Vente

Mocha with the shot of caramel that she liked so much that she

almost tipped the barista, but declined to do so, knowing the

tips would be seized by the shift supervisor anyway. Even

Clarissa wasn‟t that crazy. Sitting in her tiny and

uncomfortable chair (designed that way to move coffee-swilling

asses in and out), she noticed a lady sitting next to her. She

was about 40 or so, confidently poised and well-dressed as she

scanned the screen of the Mac Powerbook in her lap. Clarissa

noticed there were many women like this- wearing fabulous

clothes with great hair and nothing to do but sit in Starbucks

all day and not have to work or worry about bills before going

back to their fabulous homes and their fabulous lives, just

waiting for them. She was more than a little jealous already.

       As Clarissa peeked at the monitor of Ms. Powerbook, she

noticed the lady was reading an article on (where

glamorously idle women such as her obtained most of their news).

Right there on the screen was a sidebar ad for Channel Five- the

station with a heart, but really just struggling to keep a


       “My fiancé‟s the anchorman for that station…” Clarissa

beamed, and as if it needed to be said, “…Steven.”

       The woman shifted away from Clarissa at the same time her

eyes shifted directly on her.

       “Steven Jung? The nightly guy at Live on Five?”

       Clarissa beamed even more, nodding her head as the lady

took in all that was Clarissa, who, despite some new clothes

(courtesy of live-in lover Steven), was mostly wearing insanity.

       “Is that so?” the lady muttered, hoping these words would

conclude this crazy-lady confrontation.

       “Can I show you something?” said Clarissa as the lady

sighed silently, knowing her reply had only prodded and fueled

her to proceed:

       “Want to see what I‟m wearing to the Emmies?”

       Clarissa pulled out a folded up page of a magazine from

her dirty backpack next to her caramel coffee and half-eaten

lowfat cranberry frosted square. She unfolded the page to reveal

a grease-stained picture of a model walking down a runway in a

Versace gown.

       “My man‟s getting one this year. I mean, how can he not?

He‟s the best reporter in all of Los Angeles. And it‟s a number

two market, you know.”

       And at this point the woman opted not to tell her that

last she‟d heard and seen, “Burning Man” hadn‟t been part of the

Channel 5 news-team for at least six months (or however long ago

that big scandal was). She looked at her fancy watch suddenly.

       “Wow, look at that. It‟s almost 11. I have a hair

appointment. Gotta run.”

       Why agitate things with reality, especially with someone

who wasn‟t operating within it?

       But Clarissa was already elsewhere- back to day-dreaming

her ballroom gown dreams. Speaking of which, there was simply no

better show for her than “Dancing with the Stars”. It had it

all: the glitz, the glamour, the stars, the dancing…everything a

delusional dreamer like Clarissa desired. No further (or

initial) thought was necessary. However, she had bigger fish to

fry. When she discovered Steven no longer worked at Channel Five

(for real), it was like the oxygen had been yanked out of her

atmosphere. She didn‟t like her new man‟s ways as of late- way

too clandestine for her enquiring National Enquirer mind. Sure,

they‟d had talks about it, usually something like:

       “Steven…don‟t you miss…”

       “Hon, I don‟t need to talk about it.”

       “But don‟t you miss it?”

       “I‟m doing something much more important now.”

       “But Steven, what‟s the use of doing anything important

if nobody sees you do it on TV?”

       And had Steven not let his moralistic hubris get in the

way, he‟d know she was dead-on in her crude assessment.

Reporting on one grand celebrity bust- say, Miley Cyrus in a

coke-fueled ménage a trois- would register far more in the

public consciousness than some starving African babies who were

always doing that anyways. Where was the news in that?

       Clarissa wasn‟t about to lose her ticket to the big-time

and see her Vogue dreams dissipate in the stratosphere. Hell no,

this girl was more than ready for her day in the sun. No, this

current state of affairs simply would not do. Even if Clarissa

had to march down to the station herself, she‟d get her man back

on the air. Whatever needed to be done. In that sense she was

very much like Malcolm X: by whatever means necessary.


       Jalila had been the one to contact Maria initially,

telling her she was so sorry to hear what Raw had done to her,

how he‟d done her so very dirty. And she‟d told her that if

anything needed to be done about that, she was in a position to

make something happen.

       But even as she had her eye on Maria, something told

Jalila that someone else did as well. Call it intuition, call it

ESP, call it paranoia even, but Jalila just called it like she

saw it. Yes, it- whatever it or what or who was. It needed to be

brought to the light, for now it was lurking in the darkness of

the back corners, exuding an imminent pall. Jalila knew what

needed to be done, she just wasn‟t sure how yet.

       Freddy had trained her well, and by this point this

Persian was up to snuff on a handheld DV, able to hold her own

against the most aggressive of those TMZ weasels. And it wasn‟t

as if she had been idle with it either. While Freddy had been

spending most of his time “protecting” himself in “self-

defense”, Jalila had been chronicling Maria‟s mercurial rise in

the underground in all its high-definition glory.

       So on this particularly record-setting hot August night

(107 degrees in mid-city!), Jalila sat in the Langham apartment

she shared with increasingly-absent Freddy, poring over

performance footage that she‟d taken of Maria on more than

one(or five or ten) occasions.

       Meanwhile Freddy was busy helping others. He was doing

people a favor, really. Anybody driving a maroon PT Cruiser and

listening to Dave Matthews -or heaven forbid, Good Charlotte-

couldn‟t possibly be really happy; they couldn‟t honestly have

anything to live for. That‟s where Freddy would come in. He‟d

trail them for awhile, without being seen of course. Not a big

deal. He was used to that. He wasn‟t like those mostly over-

sugared under-age paparazzi flies, buzzing annoyingly all over

their prey. No, he was a documentarian- king of the video

credibility hill, and no stranger to the fine art of stealth. It

was also very ironic fun to stalk those TMZ creeps and “shoot”

them. Show „em how it‟s really done- for good, their gutted

morality scraped from the human landscape.

       Yes indeed- he‟d follow the unhappy ones to their dens of

discontent, and do them a favor; blow whatever brains they had

left out. Besides, it made for great practice. He was already

better than almost all the Iraq vets working for Raw, but most

of their nervous system was shot from the post-traumatic stress,

effectively ruining any concentrated precision.

       “If only Jalila understood me a little more” he thought

as he whistled “Steady As She Goes”, concentrating hard not to

waver his scope currently sighted on an obviously unhappy guy

driving a Hyundai Excel and listening to Jack Johnson. Between

those two factors, there was no way that man could possibly be

at peace with himself. Speaking of sight, Freddy also had his

eyes on bigger and better things, like bombing. That‟s where all

the action seemed to be.

       “Why should that Steven have all the fun?” he thought. It

was almost a curse to be known as the documentary guy. If you

were good at one thing you weren‟t seen as anything else. He

didn‟t want to be a victim of the ages-old malady in this town:

being typecast.

       But there was work to be done for now. Freddy had to show

those pesky bicyclists- teach „em a lesson. He was sick of the

way they always slowed one down in traffic. It was downright

dangerous. Why, somebody could get hurt! And Freddy was

determined to show them how and how much. He knew once he hit

his first bike, it wouldn‟t be him doing the hurting.


       “We increase daily, they decrease daily. We prosper, they

are humbled. We flourish, they are drying up……sounds good,

doesn‟t it?” said Raw to his assembled troops. “Now, where do

you think I got that from?”

       No response as Raw scoured the young, dirty faces in the

alley he was addressing them from.

       “The Cure?” meekly said one in the crowd.

       “Depeche Mode?” inquired another.

       Raw shook his dreads, and spoke up again, this time

louder, “Wrong, wrong and wronger. Alright, I‟ll tell you…it‟s

from ancient Rome, but I took the liberty of slightly altering

it. The original quote goes „they increase daily, we decrease

daily-they prosper, we are humbled-they flourish, we are drying

up.‟ Now, which one would you rather be?”

        “The first one!” a young boy shouted out.

        “Yes, put that on the cover of No Shit magazine. I don‟t

think anybody here would disagree with you on that one, son.”

        Raw looked out at the throngs of unkempt orphans, “And

how are we going to get there?”

        “Take it!” said the kid again.

        Raw faux-strained his ears before replying, “Take it?

Isn‟t that we‟ve been doing all along…taking it?”

        “Take it from them!” one of the vets shouted out. Nobody

had been fucked harder by the United States than these guys,

especially by one particular uppity ex Naval officer who had the

nerve to try to be their commander-in-chief after stripping most

of their benefits away.

        “Alright. That‟s what I‟m talking about. Ladies and

gents, have you ever heard the term „fake it until you make


       A few nods, and a grumble here or there before Raw

proceeded, “You see, we‟ve been faking long enough. Now is the

time to make it.”

       “Make it happen, you mean!” shot back one of the kids.

       “There you go, thinking on your own. Good, very good.

Now, would that be possible if you were busy doing what they‟d

actually like you to be doing?”

       “What‟s that?”

       “You don‟t know, junior?”


       “I‟m talking about banging and slanging. The powers that

be, but won‟t be for long if we have something to do about it…

well, they couldn‟t be more thrilled about you kids shooting

each other…and yourself, up. Shit, son- you guys make their job

easy. You practically do it for them yourself. You do the

dividing so they can do all the conquering. You do shooting

yourself in the foot one better-the face, chest…all that. We

have a civil war going on already amongst ourselves. The blacks

versus the Mexicans. The Blacks versus other blacks and Mexicans

against other Mexicans. What kind of shit is that? How‟s a

revolution get started like that?”

       Raw narrowed his gaze at the crowd, “Now, we gonna be

fake or is it time to get real?”

       He knew two things needed to happen for anything to

change, continuing:

       “But you guys didn‟t start this problem. Two things you

don‟t talk about in American society: religion and politics. And

that has proved our downfall. Historically, those have been the

dual primary methods of controlling and suppressing the

populace. Keeping them in the dark, as it were…and they‟ve been

doing a bang-up job.”

       But isn‟t it the job of this humble teacher to enlighten?

Therefore, for us to evolve as an enlightened species, these two

issues- religion and politics- must be held up to the light and

not only examined, but analyzed and scrutinized. Now, that is

the essence of educational reform. Start mixing these things up

in what we‟re learning. You just might get some different

results instead of the same old, same old.

       Freedom of choice…shit! They give us a narrow range of

topics we can discuss to make us think we have a choice. You can

talk about that all you want, anywhere in every which way, but

don‟t talk about this!”

       He‟d had them at “no shit”.

       And Raw wasn‟t just whistling in the dark, for dark days

had indeed descended from the anus of the underworld. Even

previously mundane events such as yard sales were getting

heated, perhaps because there were so many of them in close

proximity, generating friction against each other. The sellers

would beg like a homeless man bestowed with a bunch of stuff he

can no longer store. Perhaps they, like him, were finding

themselves shut out of a neighborhood- the no kids on the block,

as it were.

       It didn‟t take that much, really…the start of the great

racial divide. To anybody driving by on the 101 southbound

freeway around 7:30 on a busy Wednesday morning, they‟d see two

people pulled over on the shoulder. Look just a second longer

and they‟d distinguish one car exponentially nicer than the

piece of shit behind it. A further glance would connect a well-

dressed blonde lady as the driver of the nice car- a black

Mercedes S class convertible- and a middle-aged Mexican man as

the driver of the second vehicle- a battered Nissan pickup.

       The further curious would notice an argument brewing,

with the lady as the obvious aggressor and recipient of the

minor back-bumper damage. And although the man‟s truck‟s front

end was way more damaged, it was apparent by his timid manner

that he was most likely at fault, and perhaps uninsured.

       Being an attractive blond lady, this brought out the good

Samaritan in another white and red-blooded male motorist. As

soon as he pulled over, he began to assume the role of knight

protecting a damsel in distress, joining in on the aggression

toward the other driver.

       What he didn‟t know was that this driver, meek as he was,

was being followed by his brother and two nephews in another

truck not far behind. Being that these two nephews were straight

up Boyle Heights gangbangers, they wasted no time pulling over

and ganging up on the lone white boy, who clearly had not

counted on this surprise public ass-beating.

       This, in turn, caused a work-truck full of other white

males to pull over, get out and beat on the new aggressors,

further flip-flopping things. However, by this time, one of the

Boyle Heights boys had made a quick cell-phone call to his

nearby homies already on their way to join in on the freeway

fun. It was now lit- the spark that set Los Angeles racially

ablaze amidst all the already-existing natural damage.

       It had been building for a long time by now anyway, like

a forest fire repressed by developers for years, the fuel only

becoming dryer and more combustible each passing season that the

fire remained unquenched. And finally, the Mexicans had the

population numbers on their side now to do some real damage.

Basically, it was on, and even Beverly Hills was no longer safe.


“There will come a time when the world will be filled with one science, one truth,

one industry, one brotherhood, one friendship with nature…this is my belief.”

-Dimitry Mendeleyev


“Children can‟t be our future because by the time the future

arrives, they won‟t be children anymore.”

-George Carlin

         Maybe there was hope after all. People had the power to

change things. Yes, things could happen. Anything was possible

with sweet determination. Too bad Momma Natural didn‟t quite


         It would have been bad enough if it had been one twister,

but not the multiple tornadoes that hit LA: multiple,

unprecedented, dirty gray twisters. Suddenly, that which did not

exist, did- and so that which was prepared for most was not. Los

Angeles was one big bent-over virgin ass waiting to be violated

for the first time.

         Not being a basement-heavy city, most people found

nowhere to submerge themselves. Aside from the obvious

casualties, the tornadoes reaped a far bigger toll: a shift of

the psyche. After fire and earthquakes, the tornadoes had sealed

the deal. LA had now seen it from all sides: Earth, wind and

fire. The sky above was no safer than the earth below. Refuge

was as sparse as peace of mind. And this was crucial because

with no sense of security, there was no sense of anything solid

to hold or hang onto. The stoicism thinly capping America‟s

panic hadn‟t been scratched off, much as it was violently torn


       Society requires an anchor to hold it down, but now the

water was too deep for any anchor to latch onto anything.

Nowadays, getting shot in the face was as easy as ordering a

pizza had been in the oh-so-taken-for-granted increasingly

dimmer recent past. LA had never seen twisters before, except

those on multiplex screens from bad disaster movies. It was like

God had taken a blender and made himself an LA smoothie. The

city was tattered, battered and scattered beyond all repair.

Indeed, if there was ever a town that didn‟t mix its ingredients

well, it was Los Angeles. Anyone doubting that should try to

switch a rich Jewish family in Beverly Hills with an immigrant

one in Boyle Heights. No difference, my ass…as they say.

       Further east, the casualty reports from the Palm Springs

area kept pouring in. It had simply become too hot and the

recent earthquake had done much to break down the fragile

infrastructure keeping things unnaturally cooled down. The grays

were dropping like flies and the gays were running away. Add

some seriously destructive sandstorms, and it was way too much

for even them to clean up. Palm Desert was becoming a desert

again, this time minus the palm. The stench of death rapidly

filled the air, before it dried up and blew away quick as it

came. When the world around you begins to smell like a big warm

man with underarm odor, you know the end is near.

         And then, as quickly as the sandstorms started, they

stopped. However, as quickly as they stopped, a flood of

biblical proportions barged in, pretty much sealing the deal…the

finishing after the sanding as it were. It soaked and immersed

everything and everyone in sandy mud before drying up and baking

it all in a big sediment cookie, the dead senior citizens‟ bones

being the chips in it. Palm Springs- RIP 2012. It‟d seen its

day. It hadn‟t really been meant to last anyway, but Mother

Earth never bothered to inform its inhabitants when their lease

expired before delivering the final blow.

         And why should she, after all? It wasn‟t like the human

species had done her any favors by raping and polluting her like

a drunken, pillaging Mongol for the last century. Pragmatically

speaking, some people were better off dead in this new old

world- reduced to the bacterial breakdown of their elemental

composition, back to the carbon and nitrogen which had

previously composed them. Indeed, the sum of their parts was

worth more than the whole. It was now these fossils‟ turn to be

fuel. Sure, dinosaurs had had their day in the sun, but nowadays

there were a lot more humans than there ever were of them to

inevitably snatch the fossil crown away from their extinct



       Jalila was on the hunt. She was not about to sit by and

be passive, knowing full well that La Cont was in jeopardy. The

performance footage had shown her all she‟d needed to know. LA

Cont had a dangerous stalker- one that needed to be stopped.

Jalila knew she‟d never be able to look at herself in the mirror

with the knowledge of lying idle while someone she deeply cared

for was being stalked like an animal.

       “Hunt or be hunted” thought Jalila as she posted fliers

for Maria‟s next gig- this one in the Arts District of downtown

Los Angeles. She knew her prey would be there- anxious for a

chance to snuff Ms. Contreras.

       “You are going down” muttered Jalila as she headed into

the Groundworks Coffeehouse on Traction Avenue, a flower of a

café amidst the dirty and sun-drenched industrial rubble of

nearby Skid Row. She couldn‟t help but notice a crazy-looking

lady in a flower-print dress staring blankly into a laptop

utilizing the free wi-fi that this urban oasis provided.

       “What is this? Crazy bitch week?” wondered Jalila, while

at that table, Clarissa marveled at the preponderance of recent

celebrity deaths. A lot of them were suffering major depression,

having lost most of their audience as nobody had time to do much

of anything more than just get by. Scandals and bad behavior

simply didn‟t get them noticed anymore, but death bought them a

ticket to immortality.

       That is, unless they were of the unworthy

status…something of the caliber of a sitcom star. Nobody was

holding their breath for the demise of Jim Belushi or Charlie

Sheen. No, you had to be someone special nowadays to die and get


       “Steven‟s special” thought Clarissa. “Not only that…” And

her mind wandered as she thought of what a huge insurance policy

he probably had- what with him being a huge celebrity and all.

Maybe she couldn‟t jump-start his career, but she could sure get

him some much needed exposure in the public eye. And maybe, just

maybe- get herself a little sumpin‟ sumpin‟. If she had to do a

little sinning to get him elevated to sainthood, so be it.


       Business as usual for Steven. Another assignment from

Raw. This one was a big one- taking out the CNN (AKA Caucasian

News Network) building on Sunset and Cahuenga. Time for some

serious MSM (mainstream media) takeout. Five years ago he would

have felt guilty about the collateral damage it would have

caused to nearby Amoeba Records, but that place had been out of

business for a few years already. The only things people used

CD‟s for anymore was makeshift mirrors and shanks in the pen.

          This time Steven had company, except he didn‟t know it.

However, Freddy sure did. After all, when you want to master a

skill, you must learn by observing one. Freddy had shadowed him

all the way over here. Yes, Steven had quite a rep in the

underground nowadays. However, he was a humble sort of fellow.

Pragmatic, too…as far as he was concerned, it hadn‟t taken much

more than a little online research to learn how to build bombs.

Hell, you could get anything online: cookie recipes,

prostitutes, lawn furniture, overseas brides…wasn‟t technology


          So Steven merely applied himself. And it was the perfect

job. Beautiful, really. The destruction of the CNN Building was

beyond simply destroyed. It was totaled. It simply refused to

exist anymore. A wonder of technology in its own right brought

to its knees by another wonder of technology.

          But was there anything that new about destruction?


Nightclubbing we're nightclubbing

We're walking through town

Nightclubbing we're nightclubbing

We walk like a ghost

-Iggy Pop

       “Hi, I‟m calling about your ad.”

       “The private security one?”

       “Is there another one?”

       “Well, uh- yeah, but…what exactly can I do for you?”

       “Um, I guess you could say I need to be secure about

something…and yes, private is good.”

       “Then let‟s be.”



       “OK, but look. I need to find out if I can get someone


       “Hey…private! Can we arrange a meeting at, say- where the

Starbucks used to be at the Sherman Oaks Galleria?”

       “That‟s not very private, is it?”

       “It is now. It went belly-up about six months back, along

with the economy. You from these parts?”

       Yes, I just haven‟t been frequenting the Galleria

anymore. They‟re very rude there, you know. Especially at that


       “It‟s not there anymore.”

       “So why are we meeting there?”

       “Well, that‟s why.”

       “But what if…?”

       “If? You mean as in…if I asked that, if I asked her out…

if I had that, if I was this or that…if only I could understand

that…if only I could play guitar like Eddie Van Halen or

football like Jerry Rice or make pornos like Jenna Jameson. It‟s

the biggest word in the English language…if. There aren‟t a lot

of ifs, ands, or buts in this. In this transaction, no matter

the weather...we stick together. Comprende?”

       It was all he could do to refrain from finishing that

sentence with a “dumbass” (followed by an exclamation point).

       “Oh well, you see- I‟ve been going to another place

nowadays. It‟s downtown. I mean, it‟s nice, but the music isn‟t

as good. I mean, you never hear them play any Coldplay. It‟s all

just a bunch of punk rock, especially by that awful lady that

used to be a reporter.”


         “Yeah, that nasty bitch.”

         “What‟s it called?”

         “Groundworks. They‟re a chain. Not as big as Starbucks,


         “Fine, just meet me there if you like instead- say, four

PM this afternoon? That work for you?”

         “Uh, sure. But what about being private? Seems very

important to you.”

         “Look, I‟m a pro. Trust me on this. It‟ll be just fine.”

         “But how about the other place? Wasn‟t that your idea?”

         “Trust me. We‟ll be just fine.”

         And had Clarissa a lick of sense, she would‟ve known

never to trust anybody who, not asks but, tells you to trust



         Freddy clicked his cell phone off, muttering to himself

as he shook his head in disbelief: “Where‟s this chick from,


       Still, money was money. As we all knew then and now,

money talks and bullshit walks. Being that most transactions in

this new old age were of the black market variety, shadiness was

part of the deal in Freddy‟s burgeoning mercenary business.

However, this was not to say that this lady didn‟t sound like

she was out to lunch like a motherfucker. She may have had a

full six pack, but she sure as hell was missing the plastic

thingee holding it together.


       It hadn‟t taken much detective work on Jalila‟s part to

figure out who‟d been following Maria. And she‟d fallen onto it

by accident, although there are no real accidents in the final

analysis. She‟d seen the fliers posted all over town:

                    HAS ANYBODY SEEN MY BABY?

                    PLEASE CALL 323-868-DAYS
                         REWARD OFFERED!

       She‟d found the dog, or at least one that looked like it.

Jalila called the number and the crazy lady went on and on and

on about how this evil reporter lady had killed her other dog.

After watching all that footage of Maria‟s stalker, Jalila

realized this was the stalker, and there was her motive. Of

course, it was one of those Hollywood ditzes who cared more for

the animal race than the human one (what with our messy human

emotions and uncomfortable intellect). Problem solved on

Jalila‟s end. This lunatic need not pay her dime one as Jalila

would be the one handling any payback.

       And all it took for Jalila to track her down was to

follow her back home after she saw her in the crowd of Maria‟s

last performance. Except there really was no home to speak of.

Yup, ol‟ Lina had pretty much lost everything in the recent

great stock market crash around the same time she lost her home

in the great LA fire. The only things labeled great anymore were

disasters, whether they were man-made or natural.

       What Lina claimed for her dwellings nowadays was an

abandoned facility right up her alley, located on a scrabble-

scratch stretch of downtown Olympic Boulevard, an area that

seemed so desperately ripe for reinvention and resurgence even

as close as a few years back before the downtown renaissance

became a bitter joke. She didn‟t have any people to share her

place with, yet she was not hurting for companionship, for this

was no ordinary facility. It was what used to be, and indeed

(under Lina‟s tutelage) still was, an animal shelter. Even

living amidst skid row, she never suffered any shortage of food.

       Looking the way she did nowadays with her battered and

tattered look, it wasn‟t anything for her to blend in with the

locals unnoticed. Although that would have bothered her in her

ever-so-bright, shiny and non-scarred past, it worked to her

advantage when she went out on nocturnal excursions, armed with

an old ex-husband‟s nine iron. After all, it was time for some

serious night-clubbing. She would slink into the shadows of the

night, slipping into darkness (her new old friend). She would

then find some unsuspecting vagrant passed out or asleep (which

was pretty much the same for most of them). Even with her bony

49 year-old female limbs, it didn‟t take too much. Yes indeed,

these fellows were way worse off than her, and would soon be

worse off than anyone that still had a pulse. In the immortal

words of the Thing from the Fantastic Four, it was “clobbering

time”. As her nine-iron smashed their noggins like an egg, they

never knew what hit them.

       The only hard part for this ex-actress was getting her

prey‟s recently-deceased-asses into the red plastic Target

shopping cart she brought with. There were more than enough

grimy blankets and greasy sleeping bags to cover the dirty, dead

mess she‟d toss into the cart. She‟d actually gotten quite buff

doing this…sure beat all those aerobics (low impact!) classes

from the pre-Pilates era she‟d ruled and roamed amongst.

Besides, what with all the smoked rock and missed meals these

guys had (or didn‟t), these lil‟ bum fellers usually didn‟t

weigh more than a buck fifty or so anyway.

       But more importantly, Lina‟s hunds and katzen were

becoming increasingly used to, and even fond of, this new puppy

and kitty chow Mama brought home most nights. Still, even 101

Dalmations couldn‟t take the place of her one remaining pet. If

it was the last thing Lina would do, she‟d find her little

Warhol. They‟d been through so much together, from the day she‟d

laid out a few G‟s for him at the Brentwood pet store to the

decline of her career…

       “The 1980‟s- now there was a decade”, reminisced Lina.

“Everything was so big, so shiny…so new”. Her eyes welled up

with nostalgia, “It was a goddamn golden age!”

       Recalling her daytime drama glory years in front of a

cast of the dozen or so strays in her abandoned shelter, Lina

played out scenes of “Days of the Week” from her glorious past.

She‟d dress up some of the animals in costumes she would craft,

acting out scenes from old episodes of the show. And maybe

sometimes Fluffy would end up playing the doctor having to break

the news her lover had a terminal disease, or occasionally

Snowflake would have to play the elusive other woman. The great

thing about delusion is that it is very flexible in its

parameters of what works.

       The last real role Lina had been offered was for an old

lady…sort of. She recalled that meeting, the one with her agent

and the hipster writer who wore his overpriced reading glasses

like a badge of honor. The glory years of the 80‟s were almost a

decade behind her when this over-caffeinated shill had pitched

this “comeback” to her.

       “Lina, I think this is gonna do for your career what

„Pulp Fiction‟ did for Travolta.”

       “I didn‟t like that movie. It was too weird.”

       “Yes, but you don‟t see him hurting for work anymore, do


       “Well, now that he‟s doing decent studio films instead of

that god-awful independent movie crap we‟re all supposed to

looooove so much. Well, I don‟t! What was wrong with those

movies he did in the 1980‟s? Those baby ones? Or how about that

one where he was a personal trainer?”


       “Yum…he sure was.”

       The hipster writer/creator smiled at her agent, who just

shrugged. The irony was too great. Of course she had to be

detached from his sly sensibilities of the zeitgeist pulse for

this to work. These here were the same elements that made such

things all the rage in this fin de siècle: Elvis‟ ‟68 comeback

special (albeit a few decades post airing), the hipster‟s

chic/nerdy, previously BC (birth control) glasses (but now

screamed “Hey, I‟m smart AND hip!), dry martinis suddenly being

ordered by the boatload in clubs all over LA…all that. Over a

decade had passed since her heyday, and her post-modern ironic

hipness factor was only second to a Flock of Seagulls reunion.

Inversely, her career had cooled off so much that she was so

cold she was hot again. The writer narrowed his fashionably

bespectacled gaze at her, continuing:

       “Anyways, are you ready for this?”

       Lina sighed. Who was this Hollywood baby trying to

impress? Even taking an infomercial gig would have been better

than this meeting. Undeterred, he spilled it out:

       “OK, first of all, we want you as the lead.” OK. He had

her attention now.

       “The show is gonna be called G-GILF.”

       Lina almost g-gulped at this. “Gah-gilf?”

       “That‟s right.”

       “What the hell is a gah-gilf?”

       “Well, we can‟t say it on the air.”

       “Why not?”

       “OK, hold on to your leg warmers here. It stands for

“Great Grandma I‟d Like to Fffff…you know.”

       “No, I don‟t. Sorry. I don‟t listen to the Beastie Boys

and watch Quentin Tarantano films.”


       “You say Tarantino, I say Tarantano…whatever.”

       Lina‟s agent cut in, “Fuck, Lina. It means Great

Grandmother I‟d like to fuck.”

         “Are you out of your mind?”

         Was she hearing this right? Were they asking for her to

play a great grandmother? Mr. Hipster cut in:

         “Look, it‟s going to be four generations of females- the

adorable little three year old girl, her teenage dropout mom…”

         “But that means she had her when she was in like, high


         Her agent and Hipness beamed back at her, “Yep. And then

there‟s her mom, who‟s in her early 30‟s…”

         “The grandma” cut in Lina‟s agent.

         “Thanks, I got that…” shot back Lina, “…so you want me to


         “Wait, I‟m not finished yet!” cut in the boy wonder.

“It‟s called G-GILF, not GILF. Then there‟s her mom…the great

grandmother, who‟s in her late 40‟s.”

         “But I‟m only 39!” said Lina, who actually was two years

older than that.

         “Lina, the great…the G-GILF- she‟s going to be the

hottest one of them all. That‟s the beauty of it. We‟ll make the

rest of them frumpier and dumpier, trust me!”

        “But you want me to play older?”

        “All the easier to make you the hottest one. I mean, do

you think Estelle Getty on the „Golden Girls‟ is really that


        “Tom, I don‟t know how old she‟s supposed to be. All I

know is that she‟s old! And old is the last thing I need right

now for my career. Isn‟t the whole point of reviving it to show

that I‟m not? I mean, maybe older- but not OLD.”

        “Just think about it, sweetie. Men all over America will

be fantasizing about schtupping a great-grandmother for the

first time in history!” shot back her agent. “TV history in the


        “That‟s disgusting!” Lina lowered her Carrera shades back

down off her honey-blond highlights, “And to think you were

going to offer me another shot at daytime!”

        “You mean soap operas? Those things are dead as dirt.

It‟s 1997, for God‟s sakes!” shot back the hipster. “This is a

gamble, sure. But it could get you noticed.”

        “Big time” said her agent, not so much convinced as he

was tired and desperate for it work. “Let‟s face it…daytime

dramas are for housewives and fags, and we‟re losing that to

that damn Oprah Winfrey. And it doesn‟t look like she‟s going

anywhere soon.”

         “Except on a diet” the writer chimed in with a friendly


         Lina‟s agent cut in, “Look, Lina. Open your mouth. I have

something you need to take in. It‟s like this- at this stage of

your career…”

         And he was dead-on, for at this point in television

history, the timing was just not in her corner. She was still a

few years shy of Lifetime and Hallmark Channel movies (soon to

be a refuge for all TV actors on the wane) and comeback reality

shows. The agent continued:

         “…you can‟t not take risks. Straight up, you don‟t really

have a lot of…what‟s the word…um, options. It‟s either this or

an infomercial for Ginsu knives or a „where are they now?‟

appearance on “Hard Copy”.

         “Oh, I like that Bill O‟Reilly guy on that show. He‟s


         “Lina, listen to me! I‟m not playing around, god damnit!

Where are they now? Shit, you know where you‟ll be if you‟re not

careful? A one-bedroom in Koreatown!”

          “I‟m out of here!” screamed Lina as she tore out of

there, straight to the Beverly Center for some the instant

panacea only a shopping fix could provide. Nobody deserved to

hear such terrible things told to them like this.

          “Damn, if only I knew that „G-GILF‟ would be so huge”

sighed Lina as she cut up some bum-chunks for her increasingly

feral brood of pooches. Maybe I can‟t go back in time and fix

that, but…”

          Lina turned to the entertainment section of the LA

Weekly, finding what she was looking for, bitterly smiling:

          “Payback‟s a Cont!”


“The future is ended by a long sleep.”


       “I don‟t do ride-alongs. I work alone.”

       She nodded, “We don‟t need a car for this, silly. I live

with him.”

       “I didn‟t mean a drive-by!”

       Clarissa looked around the coffeehouse suspiciously,

“Shh…this is secret, remember? Mr. …”

       “Mister What-am-I-doing here?” was what Freddy really

wanted to say at this point as Clarissa continued:

       “Well, maybe this‟ll clear things up a bit”.

       She slid an issue of US Magazine she‟d been reading

across the table under Freddy‟s nose.

       “So what? Amy Winehouse OD‟s again? That‟s not even news

anymore. If she didn‟t, now that would be news.”

       “Not that, Mr. X. By the way, that‟s what I‟m going to

call you.”

       Freddy shrugged. Fine with him. The less she knew about

him, the better. But she wasn‟t done yet:

       “Now, open up the magazine.”

       Freddy brought his face up to a more horizontal gaze as

Clarissa whispered, “Page forty-four.”

       He nimbly thumbed his way to page 44, where an envelope

was tucked away.

       Clarissa tapped his arm, “Open it”.

       Freddy opened the envelope, finding a check inside for

the agreed-upon amount of five thousand dollars, except it was

from the checking account of Steven Jung. He cleared his throat:

       “Um, Ms. Clarissa. This isn‟t going to work. I need a

cashier‟s check.”

       “Oh, don‟t worry. You can cash it alright.”

       “That‟s not what I meant.”

       “Trust me. I know how to sign his signature like nobody‟s

business. Where do you think I got this dress…these shoes? Plus,

I‟m giving you the whole amount up front!”

       “Yeah, from his bank account and made out to…”

       It was at this moment he truly realized the magnitude of

her delusion. He looked on the „PAY TO‟ line and in her

handwriting (or at least a close forging of Steven‟s) was simply

written: Mr. X.


       She was one tired Cont. She‟d been working on new

material with her band all day.

       “Aye, I should have never worked with that idiot from the

Foo Fighters” she muttered to herself. No wonder he‟d been

kicked out of the band back in the 1990‟s. That‟d be the last

time she‟d pick a guitar player based on his resume. Besides, he

was shit in the sack.

       She walked into her kitchen to retrieve her weed from the

Nutella jar she stored it in for her post-practice ritual of

listening to playbacks of the day‟s rehearsal. Instantly,

something didn‟t feel right to her. Being tired, her senses were

somewhat dulled, but basically she didn‟t give a fuck about

anything after her artistically frustrating day. She grabbed the

weed and her pipe, walking back to her living room, where she

slapped on a burned CD of the day‟s sonic tribulations.

       The nervous rhythms spilled out, and she listened with

the ear of a classical conductor. The plodding bass counterpart

came in with the staccato drums as Maria took a hit of the dum-

dum stick, closing her eyes and exhaling. She took a quick

follow-up hit before getting up to spin and dance to this mess,

humming and scatting as she searched for the right combination

of melody and words. Suddenly a loud buzzing crash kicked in as

Maria opened her eyes.

          “There goes that shitty guitar player, fucking it up


          As she twirled around she saw a manic Lina with a nine-

iron smash her stereo, suddenly realizing at least this wasn‟t

the guitarist‟s fault.


          Jalila was leaving him. He could feel it. After all, it

was why they were sitting stool-to-stool in the faux-glamour of

the dimly lit bar near Freddy‟s apartment, the one where Jalila

no longer spent any time at. Right now he was willing to do

things he normally wouldn‟t do just to get a chance at

reclaiming once again what Mr. Lewis (Huey, not Jerry) had

called “the power of love”. Nothing makes a man want a woman

more than her leaving him against his will. Obviously, what he‟d

been doing hadn‟t been working out too well. And if it took

taking shots of Jose Cuervo down at the R-Bar on 8th Street in K-

town, then so be it.

          The jukebox was bumping some latter-era Clash,

specifically “Clampdown”, an apt metaphor for these ever

repressive times if there ever was one. Being they both had a

mutual appreciation of the Clash, this was as close to playing

“our song” it was going to get for Freddy‟s fractured

relationship. As the truth serum of the Agave-soaked worm began

to set in, Freddy bent towards Jalila‟s beauty that couldn‟t be

dimmed even by the ridiculously low light level of this joint-

the silhouette of a Byzantine Goddess.

       “I‟m torn.”

       “You mean ripped?”

       “No, definitely torn.”

       “Like „between two lovers- feeling like a fool‟?”

       “No, don‟t you wish, though.” Freddy huffed internally.

Who did this chick think she was? Sophia Loren? Bridget Bardot?

Debby Boone?

       “Ya wanna hear what I have to say, Jalila?”

       Oops. There went his eager-to-please ass-kissin‟ veneer

of prior civility, peeling off from the suppressed hostility,

courtesy of that evil little man, Jose Cuervo.

       “You guys want another one?”

          Freddy looked up at the beaming 22-year-old struggling

actress bartendress suddenly in front of them. It was funny how

diligent she was in her service when he brought Jalila along.

          “Dos mas…Patron this time.”

          She gave him a “someone‟s getting lucky tonight” wink and

turned around, necessitating the need for Freddy to shout out

“Make it Patron!” as if she had suddenly sprinted a football

field away from earshot. He turned back to Jalila. Now he needed

to make quick nice.

          “I really value your opinion, Jalila. I‟m torn about what

to do.”

          Jalila placed both her hands on his left hand anchored on

the bar.

          “What‟s wrong, Freddy?”

          “Nothing, just somebody made me an offer is all.”

          Jalila took one hand away. “Still messing with all that,

I see.”

          Without really realizing he was, Freddy began to

instinctively retreat his hand from under hers toward the refuge

of himself:

         “I‟m sorry. You‟re right. I don‟t want to bother you


         Jalila tugged his hand back with hers, slapping and

trapping it with her other hand. “Cut the bullshit, Freddy. Just

tell me.”

         She took her trapping hand away from his, placing it

under his jawline and gently swiveling his face (and

accompanying gaze) toward her suddenly empathetic emerald eyes.

         “Please, Freddy. I‟ll listen. I promise.”

         “OK, I…” Freddy stopped talking as the bartendress

quickly deposited the shots of Patron in front of them, giving

Freddy a “looks like somebody is gonna need to get a room” look

before wandering toward the bar, pretending she had suddenly

become interested in yet another armed private security firm

commercial deluging the TV airwaves on the establishment‟s

plasma widescreen.

         Freddy continued, “Jalila, I was offered five grand to

take somebody out.”

         “On a date?”

         “Kinda…I guess you could say that. Their last one.”

       “Ohhhhh. I see. No offense, but…so? I mean, I thought

that‟s what you do nowadays. I mean, Freddy the bounty hunter,

soldier of fortune…gun for hire, stone-cold killer- all that.”

       “How did you know?”

       “Oh, puh-leeze! Do you think I‟m stupid and dumb? I saw

where that road was leading with you. Isn‟t that what you

wanted? Isn‟t that your whole deal nowadays?”

       Freddy wasn‟t sure if this was irony or congrats on

reaching a personal goal, but with the Patron quickly warming

his innards and clouding his mind:

       “Except it‟s someone I know. And you do too.” He had her

attention now.

       “Who…who, Freddy?”

       “Wait, I can‟t.”

       “Freddy, c‟mon now. It‟s me, Jalila. Your…” She quickly

caught herself. His girl she was no longer.

       “OK, but…” Freddy paused, almost smiling, thinking semi-

quickly to himself, “Maybe I can hold this off a little bit…get

what I want too.”

       Yes, maybe that bartendress was right.


       Raw couldn‟t go anywhere nowadays. His notoriety had

forced his life to new levels of cloister-itis. Aside from being

personally armed with a Tech 9, he was firmly ensconced by his

own secret service detail of armed teenagers, many of them

former emo-grants, emboldened and endorsed by a sense of renewed

purpose with the opportunity to retaliate against their prior

fascist oppressors. Fortified with the strains of Morrissey and

the Cure pulsing through them and the winds of change blowing in

their dark bangs, they were finally vindicated. They were

beginning to feeling the freedom that only participation in

power can bring.

       Even though his downtown warehouse confines were spacious

and the willing availability of supple supplicants at an all

time high, Raw felt trapped.

       “Shit, I feel like Tony Montana minus the cocaine” he

remarked, looking over at the 18 year old goddess of a Korean

girl curled up with him in an old school butterfly chair. She

laughed at this, vaguely aware that he was referencing a Latin

gangster from some old movie, this- the cinematic national

anthem for thugs nationwide.

       “What good is all this if we have to live underground?”

       “This place has a basement?”


       The puzzled look on her face was enough to inform him she

was even more vague on what a metaphor was, just as one of his

Iraq vets burst into the area.

       “Sir, time for target practice.”

       Raw snapped out of his idyll with the K-town bettie on

his side, grateful for a detour from his current diversion. He

had a purpose…at least for now.

       “Right. Got it all set up?”

       “Yes, sir. Freddy‟s actually using it right now. Wants to

make a bet with you, he says.”

       “What? That he can outshoot me?” Raw laughed, “I don‟t

give a fuck. Those white-boys are so damn competitive!” Then

with a healthy level of paranoia, he thought “He‟s spending more

time shooting guns than footage. What‟s up with that?”

       The vet nodded as Raw followed him into the huge area

that used to be a loading dock. The irony of housing and

training his child-army in a former toy factory didn‟t escape

Raw. Projected onto a huge back wall was footage of the US

Senate deliberating like they always did, assembled in Congress

as Freddy shot away at this padded projection wall to his

heart‟s content before turning to Raw with a grin:

       “I‟m getting pretty good at this.”

       “Well, yeah…they‟re all sitting ducks.”

       “I agree. Let‟s notch this up a bit.” Freddy held up a

remote in his hand and clicked it. The footage suddenly sped up

and various Senators rose and sat in rapid progression.

       “Now we‟re cookin‟ with gas!” yelled Freddie as he peeled

off a round, hitting one of the senators as the footage froze

upon impact, triggered by a sensor behind the screen whenever

any human image was hit. Raw looked at Freddie with a smirk,

       “Shit, guess he didn‟t have a lot to…”

       Before he could react, Freddie responded with another

shot, this time nailing a corrupt New Mexico Senator in the side

of his balding, tanned old head.

       “I got your red state! Yee-haw!”

       Raw picked up his assault rifle and fired a few, quickly

nailing another senator before yelling to Freddie, “He‟s from

Ohio! Swing states are worth more points!”

          “Oh yeah, how „bout this?” Freddy fired again, “Say hello

to my little law!” And damned if he didn‟t nail a senator from

New York, upping the ante for Raw.

          This fun and games proceeded for about another half hour

or so before the digital projectionist congratulated them both

on a great exchange of lethal volleys.



“Let‟s hear it for Americans everywhere…we‟re fucking doomed!”

-Chrissie Hynde

          She started singing that old song from her favorite era,

when Steve Perry of Journey had been so oh-so-hot with his

perfectly feathered hair, snug jeans, hightop sneakers and

tiger-stripe tanktop. To Lina, that was how a rock star should

look! And Lina didn‟t know back then (until a few years later)

that he hadn‟t even hit his stride with that excellent solo

album, showing that he‟d been the one in the band with all the

talent, making her wish her name had been “Sherry” (just like

the song).

       And even though that wasn‟t her name, another one of

Lina‟s wishes was coming true. Yes, she had her now- this

Mexican gal was at her mercy. She continued singing softly…

       “Who‟s crying now…”

       Maria Contreras was not fully conscious, but what she

most certainly was was kidnapped. Initially assaulted, then

abducted and now currently and most definitely kidnapped. As

quick as they were scattered, the last few moments of her prior

consciousness flashed back to her- the nine-iron cracking the

back of her head. She felt the headache swelling behind her

eyes, threatening them practically out of their sockets.

       Speaking of her head, the back of it was against a pole,

one the rest of her body was tightly tied to. As her eyes‟

consciousness caught up to her ears, Maria looked around to see

there was a 5‟x 5‟ or so caged enclosure surrounding her on all

sides: north, east, south, and west. And of course, there was

that same crazy lady who had quickly whisked her off from her

very own previously secure apartment to this dank space. There

was nothing cozy about abduction.

         And she wasn‟t alone. By her side, a dozen or so dogs

were yapping loudly. Lina addressed them with an evil coo in her


         “Dah-lings, have you met Ms. Contreras?”

         A hoarse croak of protest crackled from Maria‟s mouth as

her throat raced to catch up with her eyes and ears, not really

believing what they were hearing and seeing. Lina flipped a

rancid piece of carnita over the fenced enclosure, prompting a

chorus of hungry barks. She then picked up the smallest (yet

most frantically loud) of the bunch, an angrily shaking


         “Does this look like a dangerous dog to you?” Lina shook

her head as the little dog rabidly pursued its blind aggression.

         “Normally, he‟s not. But you see, little Nagel…named

after my most favorite artist from my favorite era of art…he, he

hasn‟t eaten in about…oh, two or three days. And now he sees

that piece of meat at your feet. Sure, it‟s putrid and all that,

but you know what? My little pookie here doesn‟t much care at

this point. He‟d do anything to get at it.”

         Lina put her head down next to the violently shaking

mangy mutt, flaying spittle from its dirty little chompers.

         “What‟s that, honey? What did you say?”

         She put her head back up, never losing her malevolent

eye-lock on Maria as her fire-scarred face grew a spiteful


         “Lil‟ Nagel says he‟s starving.” She suddenly laughed to

nobody in particular. “Get it? he‟s my little starving artist.

Isn‟t that just the most? And he says he‟s so hungry he‟ll eat

almost anything. Let‟s find out what the definition of

„anything‟ is, shall we?”

         She set the dog down on Maria‟s side of the makeshift

wire fence that it was too short to jump over on its own. It

instantly gobbled the piece of rotten meat in no time as soon as

Lina released him.

         “Was that good, Nagel? Is baby still hungry?”

         The dog warily scurried toward Maria, who despite

struggling as much as she could, only emboldened the Chihuahua

to get ever closer to her increasingly-obviously-bound feet,

making a few passes of nipping and retreating.

       “Ooh, I think he is” said Lina as Maria looked down,

painfully aware she wasn‟t wearing shoes anymore, right before

the tiny yet vicious canine made another pass, leaving a

stinging sensation, the red scratch on her toe quickly filling

in with blood. The other dogs went crazy, straining against the

fence they began to sense they were stronger than.

       Lina laughed, picking up and tossing in the dirtiest and

meanest poodle Maria had ever seen. Its bitterly famished,

little self wasted no time in making a beeline for Maria,

lunging at her calf with its bared fangs.

       CRAAACK!!!! The immediate sharp pop that can only be a

gunshot pierced the air, with all eyes (human as well as canine)

reflexively turning toward the source.

       “Some things you can‟t just replace- like a Warhol!”

yelled out a grinning Jalila, pistol in one hand and a shaking

little Chihuahua cradled against her breast with the other.

       “Baby! You‟re alive!” screamed Lina as Jalila put the

glock to the dog‟s head.

       “Sure about that?” Jalila cocked the glock and fired

it…into the air.

       “Unless…” She smiled at Lina, nodding toward Maria.

“Wanna trade?” By this point the dogs had all panicked from the

gunshots, running toward the back of the building and away from

the man-made (or female-made in this case) violent sound.

       “No! Boys…boys! No!”

       Lina ran after the dogs, suddenly seeing the slight crack

of the open back door she‟d neglected to check, frantically

trying to get there before her brood. She barely made it, but as

she did she tripped and smashed her face on the edge of it,

drawing blood. Even in her decreasingly conscious state she

could feel Nagel and the dirty little blood-hungry poodle

rapidly ripping apart the (partially plastic) flesh covering her

right cheekbone. Within seconds the larger hounds were tearing

at her limbs.

       They weren‟t as hungry as the starved poodle and

Chihuahua, but these were Hollywood dogs, after all. Who were

they to pass up a free meal? No knowing the next time they‟d get

one. As Jalila quickly unbound Maria, it was violently apparent

that Lina was quickly becoming a human gift-bag to these hungry

hounds. While dog was man‟s best friend, starving dog was

certainly no friend of cruelly deranged Lina. She had lived by

the dog, and was now dying by the dog.


       Clarissa awoke with a start. Perhaps it was the flash of

light from outside, or the sound of the door previously

separating it being kicked open by the armed security troops.

The one apparently in charge rushed up to her, his assault rifle

approximately a yard from where she lay in the bed Steven and

she shared.

       “Where is he? What have you done with him?”

       In this moment, her Camelot came crashing down around

her. That mercenary she‟d hired had turned on her! Say goodbye

to the unlimited credit at the Beverly Center, the idle brunches

at all those cute cafes dotting La Brea Avenue…

       “We have a warrant for the arrest of Steven Jung!”

       What? Was she hearing them right? Clarissa blinked,

checking to see if this was all a dream. Sure, they wanted her-

but in a different way than she had thought only seconds before.

They not only wanted her, but they needed her. Her mind began to

spin a little dance:

       “This is gonna be huge…probably, no- for sure gonna be in

all the papers. It‟ll be a big deal. Why, I‟ll practically

become a…”

        She beamed inside and out, mouthing the word,

“…celebrity” before looking up at her baffled antagonists:

        “Let‟s go down to the station, fellas. It‟s on Sunset,

right? What…what are you looking at? Let‟s go. We got work to


        Fuck Norma Desmond. This girl was the one who was

definitely ready for her close-up. Where was TMZ when you needed



        Where Steven was was where Freddy was. Fred had found

him, to warn him of what would happen to him should a certain

femme fatale have her way. There was no way he was going to let

Clarissa‟s version of the story get to Steven before him. Steven

would never know how his life was one bogus check away from

being terminated by Freddy, who had tracked Steven down to the

Channel Five studio off Fairfax Boulevard. Steven wasn‟t so much

anti-Station Five as he was anti-media nowadays. It was almost a

hobby- some people fly model airplanes and some people blow up

news stations and media outlets. From their prior experience

with clueless mainstream media, eluding security on the lot for

these two had been as easy as the chords to a Green Day song.

And now, near the back entrance of the studio, Freddy saw

Steven, wearing what looked like a bulletproof vest…he had to

get to him.

       “There he is!” shouted a young voice. Before Freddy had

time to react, a shot rang out. Freddy slumped to the ground

instantly, a pool of dark blood wetting the back of his Urban

Outfitter jacket. By this time, security guards poured in like a

swarm of overfed hornets. But it didn‟t matter. Within the next

minute or so, as the song went- Freddy would dead. He would die

never realizing that Raw‟s troops had received slightly outdated

intelligence on his cancelled murderous (for profit) intent with

Steven. Now it was his turn to be cancelled.

       Steven, blissfully unaware of all this hulubaloo,

switched gears in a split-second to adrenalized panic. Why were

his own troops firing on him? There could only be one reason.

The underground which he had been so eager to embrace was

betraying him, serving him penance for past sins in the

mainstream media. By this point, the staff and crew in the news

studio were aware of the commotion. Inside the master control

booth, news director Bob was in the midst of conducting the

nightly “Live at Five” news. At the sudden sight of his ex on-

air talent running into the studio with a bomb strapped to his

chest, he began to mutter:

       “Oh my…

       Steven jumped in front of the middle two-shot camera

(after all, he was a pro). “You want ratings! Rate this!”

       As soon as Steven blurted this out, he bypassed the timer

connected to a switch strapped to his vest chest, hitting it as

millions of viewers witnessed the live shot of a lifetime (or

more appropriately the end of one). As the evening anchor in the

studio blew up mid-sentence, the last beat of the station with a

heart belonged to Steven‟s mangled body, blown to pieces amidst

the rubble.

            If only he‟d known what had really betrayed him most

of all was his misguided quest for true love. In the final

analysis, isn‟t that what we all live (and die) for?


       Yes, Raw had been tipped off about Freddy, and of course

he had dispatched his legions to avert disaster. But now, it was

all too late…way too late. Not only were some of his best and

brightest gone, but instant heat upon him and his remaining

resources and personnel necessitated an immediate change of his

base of operations. It was time to leave Los Angeles. And he

would have to leave today.

       And so he quickly had his dreads shorn, adopted a

different wardrobe and assumed a new identity, one replete with

fake ID he had lying in wait for just such an occasion as today.

As he left town in a car that had been arranged for him, he

passed through Wilshire Boulevard one last time, the same one

he‟d biked down years upon years. Slumped down in the back seat,

he noticed the backsides of two stunning women walking hand in

hand on the sidewalk to his left, their lustrous black hair

swaying in the early evening air.

       “Damn shame…two beautiful Asian women like that…”. He

sighed to himself, “Oh well, guess that‟s Koreatown for ya.”

       Raw knew somehow he‟d be back. The battle for Los Angeles

was far from over. But as his car drove off, there was something

he didn‟t know.

       Amidst the omnipresent construction rubble of the torn

down Ambassador Hotel across the street, a flower bloomed

between the cracks of a gang-tagged concrete wall…a beautifully

alien intrusion at peace with its scarred surroundings.

       Within seconds, a shivering little Chihuahua sniffed

before it lifted its tiny leg to mark its territory. One of the

women shouted at the little dog.


       “Aye, that fucking dog!” La Cont muttered as she looked

over at Jalila.

       And if one looked hard enough, they could almost swear

that the little dog laughed: at them, at all the other humans in

this city, at us all.

       And after all, why not?

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