Hollywood Forever - Chapter #1 The Menthol Samurai

The Menthol Samurai

The four o’clock in the afternoon sunshine was almost enough to keep me inside. When you're quitting smoking, the last thing you should be doing is hanging out on window sills. I looked out for a moment under breaking pieces of sun and tried to take one of those glorious smoking free deep breaths. The crows sitting on the telephone wire clicked their heads in slow frames per second movement. I glanced at the Hollywood Hills in back of my lower level flat, and forgot where I lived for a minute.
I lived in the last brick building in Hollywood, just a few blocks south of the Hollywood Hills and about half a block south of the moderately nice houses that decorate the otherwise dissolving streets. Mine was the only brick building on the block, and was a nice tuck away for some of the Yacht club runaway east coast carpet baggers posing as film groupies that came to play in Hollywood with their old college buddies.

A memo to the casual observer:

If you hate on a city, it will shower you with hell. Los Angeles, Hollywood, is alive, and is constantly testing you to make sure you don’t develop into a diseased being that it can cause harm. If cities could have stopped the concrete revolution, they might not be as angry.

I rented the apartment from a woman who held it for twenty years, but has been living with her husband in New Zealand for the past five and kept it secret from her husband just in case they got divorced and she needed to run back to California. I understand that. I found a picture of her, the owner, in the closet; A beautiful blonde sitting in a bathtub with a row of pearls around her neck. Her leg hung off the tub, but everything looked a little too perfect. Replicated nostalgia is just plastic, but since I found it again, it was real. Yes.
I made my way out from under the old archway that hangs over the front of the building and turned down the street, which, no matter what time of year, is always well-shaded and quite cold during the late afternoon hours. I passed by an old alley which was legendary in the eighties, as Hollywood still was back then, for the soon to be pop culture gutter punks doing their works under the cliché moonlight that flooded old alleys long ago but had to be recreated in these modern, those modern, times. During my time there, I had taken to writing poetry and putting it up on those amazingly organic alley-brick wall for the young actors attending classes across the street to check out while they paced, reading their lines over and over again outside the playhouses at the almost end of the block.
I saw my apartment manager holding a balling up a piece of paper in his hand.
Slopping down, crumbled paper in his hand,
Rob Larry,
Apartment Building
Manager

was just doing his job.


"What’s good, Rob?"
"Taking these poems off the wall."
"It's an alley Rob."
"If I leave this up, then everyone will start
putting up poems."
"What would be wrong with that?"
"Think of how many poems I'd have to take
down then."
"I see. Can I have it then?"

I grabbed the paper from his hand and continued on my way, laughing and mumbling to myself at how funny it was that we had taken care of most minute precautions, had meetings for days on end about what could go wrong, but couldn’t account for apartment managers. No matter how much you plan for something, it is the unaccounted for that will always try to take away your progress. You must take into account then that you will have setbacks and be prepared to deal with that loss. Most people do not deal well with the loss. It is the addiction to security that keeps most people from realizing potential. That was never a problem for me. As quick as I picked up a habit, I could replace it with a new one.
Everything had started already before it actually happened. It usually does. I headed around the cold corner and made my way onto Sunset Boulevard, leaving behind brick buildings and lampposts for a giant neon beer bottle that was becoming a monument because of the longevity of that campaign. It was late fall and early winter all the time from the months of October to February in Los Angeles, and for the most part, the sun was always high atop the West Beautiful Mountain range. Since most people drive around in L.A., it is never really much of a thought, but I will tell you, there are a lot of people pushing shopping carts out here. I was stopped by one of the shopping carters whom I would have normally wallpapered to the rest of the scene, but I noticed a box of Newport 100's sticking out of his shirt pocket. The marvelous green was brilliant against the shadows of the street.
"I'll give you 50 cents for a smoke," I said to him, licking my soon to be cracking lips with the thought of nicotine, not minding at all that it was menthol.
He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a tattered soft pack of Newps, pausing for a moment on his movement to look up at me. Smiling, he pulled a smoke from behind his ears, which, until he had reached for it, I hadn't realized the extent of the soil and dirt that had canyoned itself between the crevices of his skin.
"This one?" he asked.
"I'd prefer one from the pack, if it's all the same," I explained to him.
"Whole pack, two bucks?"
I began to explain to him my plan on quitting, but my time was limited, and all I really wanted was the cigarette, and not another long drawn out life changer with someone who has far less then I. "Here's a buck," I said, placing it in his hand and feeling a thick level of dirt separating our touch, save a glance of the pinky. He nodded at me and smiled.
"You'll be back," he laughed, slightly. "You'll be back."
I thanked him and started up the block, moving with my originally intended pace, pleased with the free market system of trade. The wind was not as cool as the menthol, which was my first drag off a square in three days. It was especially strong, but I figured that was just because it was a 100, and somehow the filtration of the smoke was different. I was never much on the scientific explanation of things. Another drag seemed to calm things down for a moment.

The fall winds calmed
down
the smog that holds the city.

The restaurant I worked in was a three level Japanese themed temple to good times and young girls from the valley. It was lit up with Christmas lights all year round. Outside of the Shogun Style wood gates that surrounded the parking area. A few protestors, not as many as we wanted to hire, but enough to elicit a response, were carrying crafted picket signs and walking in an oval. It was not time for circles yet. The signs read, "Stop the Bussing System," and "Put Us on the Chart." The man with the bull-horn was yelling slogans in Spanish, which I didn't understand (You would have thought that for that reason they would never want me to lead any of this). I walked through the wooden gateway entrance that lead to the bottom floor of the restaurant, when Henry Pacheco, who had been marching with the rest of the protestors, saw me and broke ranks. His smile was kind but his eyes held rings like a sliced open redwood whose rings had widened so much they just dissolved into blackness.
"Why don't you step up, eah? You just want to walk in there and continue. Like nothing is happening? Man, we getting screwed. Bus Boys, Cooks, Maids, Gardeners. We run this fucking city, eah, but we get no love. You know what I mean? This aint no movie"
He moved in closer, perhaps thinking that his actions would cause me to retreat, but I never did that if I had a choice.


Eventually, you would always end up exactly where you started, so why not tackle things head on. In those days, the last of the analogue evolution, I was to tell nobody of what we were doing. There were enough in our company for me to have outlets for what I new, but for people like Henry, who I had become friends with while on this assignment, I wanted to tell because it would have given him strength and perhaps allowed him a bit of peace on his hour and half ride on the tight locked buses that crawl along the streets in the heat like dried elephants sinking into the asphalt.
I looked at him and smiled best I could, trying to communicate with body language, but being subtle with a person who is being real with you is hard. Perhaps that is why New Yorker’s do so poorly in Los Angeles. Here, it is everything that is not said that makes all the difference.
"Hey man, you can't side step any of this. Either you're with us or not. Sooner or later it's all going to go down eah, and your choice won't be as easy then, you know what I’m sayin’? Now, why not decide now and march with us?”
“When it is my time to march, I’m going to do more than that Henry, I can promise you that,” I said while moving past him. “I can’t be seen marching with you yet. It’s not in the plans. Wasn’t written in the schedule.” I moved on and hoped that he wasn’t at the point where he was ready to kill. We hadn’t turned it up to that level yet. In fact, we needed to keep it close, but not to that level so that we could maintain momentum. He went back to the oval and went into to the first floor, welcomed by the sounds of a Raider/Bronco Monday Night Football and old Beastie Boy songs that made everyone feel safe.

The restaurant had three levels, the first of which was a sports themed spot with multiple televisions to show all of the games, but since it was Monday night, one image played on every screen. The Raiders were favored by 6, and everybody bet them pretty heavy, as they tend to do in the south land, having never recovered from their move up North. By coming down to Los Angeles, they made all of California their fan base, which also made them the number one merchandise seller domestically. Needless to say, we advertised heavily with the Raiders. Tim Brown ran back the opening kick-off, and sent the entire bar into a roar. I looked at the display on my cell phone and noticed that everything was moving a bit different now. The numbers jumped and bled over themselves. The men on the television molded into old GI Joe action figures. I couldn't quite make out the numbers. The silver dripped from the black. Figuring that sometimes Sunset Boulevard stays on you for a while, I went to wash my face in the bathroom but found myself in a line anchored by a girl struggling to maintain her balance but could turned around long enough to manage half a smile during her struggles with gravity.
"This shit makes me piss like a horse," she said, shooting the rest of her Patrone.
"That so?"
"It is! Damn, I had finals this week ya know, so we figured that we'd go out and celebrate.'
"For your finals?"
"All us. We are ALL celebrating!"




The girls’ faces down the line starting did strange bends on me, but she continued on, and as she did, her words became inaudible. The door to my left kept swinging open under the pushes from shooting sushi chefs sporting various bandanas.

"So, how long do you think we'll be waiting for the bathroom? I'm gonna go on the floor for sure if it's over five minutes more. What time is it now? Are you listening. HeeeellllllllooooOO?"
I noticed her waving her hands in front of my face, and I waved goodbye to her, heading through the side door after one of the sushi chefs. On the other side of the door were two waitresses doing shots while scooping out bowls of miso soup.
"Man, not having bus boys is the worst," one of them said, digging her dirty hands in a big bowl of tofu and tossing it into the soup bowls before cleaning her nose with her sleeve. They were both wearing tight black stretch pants which outlined their backsides so that they bulged out in anime exaggeration.
Noticing me staring at them, the brunet, who was so beautiful that everyone in her home town told her to come out to Hollywood, only to find the town full of girls who were told that, tried to get me to look her in the eyes.
“You should clock in.”
I knew something was wrong but kept laughing anyway.




“Are you O.K.?”
Neither of them stayed around to hear the answer to that question, flying in between swings of the door back into the general population to spread fingernail infected miso soup. Pacheco’s voice was resonating in my ears with each step I took up the stairs. I new we were doing the right thing. At any moment of execution, there is an opportunity to falter just a bit. That was not going to happen with us. At that moment, I was loosing control. That was unaccounted for. I should have never taken that cigarette from the Shopping Carter. Stay on message and don’t deviate. I suppose that was my fault and Pete’s good fortune to take into account that I would deviate because of desire. The room was moving around now, and I knew that I hadn’t had anything to drink that day and had only smoked one L – even that was much earlier in the morning and was only to wake up with. From around the corner, one of the Sushi Chefs popped his head out and started nodding at me. Not wanting to be rude, I nodded back. We both stood their nodding.

"So, you know how things are going down right," he said, arranging his knives quickly on the table in front of me while looking back up at me a nodding. "Good idea to stay in here. We'll all be out on the floor, so when they move the tables away, everything will be clear. Look out for Little Tom, he's on the prowl tonight. Glad to have you aboard. Everything pays off tonight." He shook my hand in a complicated handshake that I just went along with, and disappeared through more doors in the back.
Little Tom was the owner of the establishment. He stood about 6 feet 1 with off blue eyes, a West Hollywood haircut on an ex jock who so refused to age that he had pectoral implants put in which he routinely got lifted and resulted every year. Since he prided himself on sleeping with the latest 19 year old that walked through the door, the rest of the crew often got to hear stories of her grabbing his chest in the heat of passion and being shocked at the immobility of the, how did they call it, yes, “a fake man tit.”
Somehow I finished my climb up the back stairs that led to the upstairs kitchen and opened the door on the top, finding myself in the back of another, busier kitchen with the dishwashers who had their bare hands sizzling against the steaming plates, bowls, coffee cups, glasses and silverware. “So you all decided to stay, huh? Interesting choice.” Whether they heard me or not over the blasting ranchero music I couldn’t tell you. I could tell you that they were washing dishes faster then anything I could remember, which to tell you the truth at that moment, wasn't much. They didn't look like they were in on everything, but they weren't too happy with me staring at them either.
"..The fuck you lookin' at - hm?," one of the older ones said to me without stopping his work. He wasn’t one of ours. Not yet.
I turned quickly and walked without words through the kitchen, which was now most certainly moving as I did. The second half Waiters rushed by with giant bins full of edamame pods that were for sure popping out and juggling all by themselves.

Something was wrong.



"You can't be in here," squeaked out a voice from behind the dazzling edamame show.
"That appears true enough,” I said. She was wondering about me.
She laughed at my ignorance and came up to me.
"Give me some of your smoke, I'm out."
"I'm sober."
"Are you sure?"
"No, I'm not sure. I'm sober."
"You're sure not sober."
"No, I'm sure of being sober."
"So you are?"
"Sure?"
"Great."
"Is it?"
That last one got her. The edamame dropped and she headed out the door. Young girls who just got here to become famous look great from behind, so I followed her. Out the door, I was hit in the face by a shot of Jager that was attached to the flailing hand of a- what did he say he was?
"Fucking USC Law man! You got that fucking right! Who’s got anything to say to me now! Nobody, that's who! I did it today bro, and you know where the big money is bro? Immigration law! Yeah, these fucking people will pay just about anything to stay in this country." His friends cheered to America and finished pounding their 22 ounce Asahi’s. On the way up to his face, his struck me under the chin with his.

"Whose gonna say anything to me now!" he sprayed at me.
I congratulated him on his recent accomplishment and made my way into the main crowd of people who were eating sushi out of pool tables they had turned into huge eating troughs stood over by people stuffing their faces with raw fish and sipping soup with bacteria of a thousand doors, dishes, glasses, and wet rags.
Into the main room filled with Korean Girls on the dance floor and white girls on the bar. There were four sushi stations in the middle of the dance floor, each with sushi chefs hard at work in the middle of the madness. The sweat from the dancers was mixing with the Oxygenless air. A young honey started grinding up against me, and I felt three of her assess moving up and down. This I has no control over and I exploded all over myself.

Relentless Beats..
……..and then
they weren’t.

A single blast in the air silenced everyone. Bus Boys were standing at every doorway with guns. I was against them, thinking that they would give the wrong image for our movement, but Pete insisted that we needed them in the beginning. From behind the still setting dust of the blast, Henry Pacheco stepped into history and spoke the first words of freedom.


"You all are now part of the movement, Eah! Mr. DJ, if you could please put a little something on for everyone to mellow out with."
The DJ was apparently too busy being paralyzed with fear to hear him, but was quickly convinced as his crate full of Old School Beat breaks went flying with a warning blast from the sharp shooter standing on top of the bar with the white girls, who were as still as real Americans were when hunting for Buffalo about 1000 miles east of here a few hundred years ago. Henry smiled widely for the first time in all the times that I had known him, rubbing the scar he had gotten from a rodeo bull down in Guadalajara when he was 9.

"The shit is going down man. So go down, eah! Check out the outside. It's all for you man. Welcome to the fight!" He put his arm around my shoulder and I walked with him toward the entrance, the sounds of A Tribe Called Quest's Bontia Apllebum bouncing around in my ears. It was how I planned it to be, and felt fortunate, at that time I felt fortunate, to be there for that moment in the history of California. We walked down the stairs, past the shaking waitress and the shocked customers who were not expecting so much entertainment for their dollar. It was there mistake. After all, we were in Hollywood. If not, we couldn’t have got away with any of this.

"So what now?" I asked him.
"You decide once you get out there."


He only made it half way down the stairs with me, at which point Henry turned back around and moved into the upstairs shadows which wrapped around him like cloak being delivered to a spirit that had passed a test of worth. He had work to do that I couldn’t be associated with. That is what I thought while tasting harsh menthol under the puffed out gums of my teeth.

Into the light

I stepped out into the night and saw the restaurant surrounded by mounted LAPD officers and a larger number of protestors then before. The drivers-by honked their horns and waved fists, but that was all. For sure now, for sure, this was not a normal menthol cigarette, nor was it an all together normal Monday Night. There were no longer cheers coming from inside the first floor bar. The L.A.P.D division of the mounted police was in front of the restaurant, sitting on top of their horses, closing in on the bus boys as they protested. In back of me, the sushi chefs were holding their cutting knifes in attack position, although the plan had not yet unfolded. I saw fingers pointing at me in unison, followed by head jerks from the captain of the horse mounted police officer who started to trot towards me, silhouetted by the spotlight shinning from the helicopter above silhouetting his ride. I didn’t know we had that in our budget.




This is what had become of the new, old west cowboys-They wore reflective shades even at night to show you your fear. As they made their moves towards me, the sushi chefs were given a bit more room, and they took their chance with what they are given, circling themselves around the 1993 Bentley that belonged to Little Tom, who always had it parked right out in front. Each of them started taking jabs at it with their sushi knives, creating drum patterns off the tailpipes, which sent little Tom running down the parking lot inverted drive waving his hands like a grade schooler who had just had his sand castle torn down - his pectoral implants staying still as he raced towards the car.
The cigarette was really grabbing hold now. I should have known better then to take any indulgent products from a Shopping Carter. Most of the HHN have circulated literature explaining that the shopping carters have no filtration process to speak of, which is dangerous in these times of bottled water and oxygen bars. What was once a staple of life had become only obtainable through payment. There is no need to speak of it in science fiction terms because it has already happened.
Behind the approaching mounties I saw group of black shirted Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, El Salvadorians, Guatemalans, and even a few Brazilians bringing up the rear, all making their way up Sunset from the west, carrying picket sings and chanting in unison, "Unity." All of those hours of practice were paying off now.
The picket sings were so many that they created seas of waves rolling over the lights of cars on the busy street, which had come to a stand still. I should have taken that moment to run. Should’ves and Could’ves are never of any help.


Everything is goin’ off nice," said Sigh Rodriguez, A half Philippino half Brazilian sushi legend in the lower Los Angeles region, but that would only be known if you run in the sushi chef circle of things, which I did, so I did. His eyes made it through the increasingly intense glare of the now hovering police and land lights from on top the Mounties. One of them had actually grabbed hold of the spotlight and shone it directly on us. Life has many moments when you either decide to move for yourself or for the greater good. We must be careful which struggle we join.

The police are always more concerned with a crowd of Mexicans then with a crowd of Phillipinos, so they switched the direction of the lights, leaving us alone for a moment, and rode out into the middle of Sunset Boulevard, forming three rows that went four deep to form a blockade in the street.

The faces of the bus boys that didn't strike were pressed against the glass window that walled the third level. One by one, the window splattered red as they were executed for making the wrong choice. The 5th shot broke the glass and sent the beats from the dance floor flowing outside the window.

The bullhorn blared the wishes of the police:




The striking Bus Boys locked arms sat themselves in the middle of the street. Police barricades were going up, and the television news crews were readying themselves to go live. Two more helicopters appeared above, and the spinning blades were holding my attention for the moment.

Concentration flipped.

A crowd of on-lookers and amateur thrill seekers had gathered around to join the various union groups who were all sporting different colored windbreakers. The fat man in front of me busted a mesh cap that had been duct taped many times in the back after years of adjustments. He pulled a ringing cell phone from his pocket.

"Yeah, no problem Pete, they're all here” – He looked at me. “Yeah, he’s here too. Everything is how you wanted it.”

He flipped his cell phone back into is jacket.

"Who are you?" I asked.
Union Local 456. Teamsters son!" he said, taking out a half eaten candy bar from his windbreaker.



"You see, we just took on the bus boys as an expansion move out from the east. Don't you read the papers? Anyhow, we've been organizing all the Spanish Speaking groups in the country to try and keep the Democrats out of office. These people are going to back ANOTHER party, you know, so we’ll vote write in for now, keep the Dems out until they give on some huge issues and let us IN, and I mean REALLY IN. Until then we’ll split the vote and we can keep the Republicans in office in order to cause more unrest. We're banking on the electoral college going down, so we've started an early movement – but you know all of this, right?"

He looked up at the bloody windows above and winced for a half a second before taking another bite of the candy bar.

"Didn't really see that one coming though. Tough break. Oh well, organize or else, huh?" He slapped me on the shoulder and looked around to find someone to recognize.

Everyone outside was shaking hands and taking pictures of one another.

"Hey, there's Arthur," he shouted, pointing to a long curly headed man in a much worn faded blue suit, who sat in the middle of the marching bus boys.

His mustache wrapped around his chubby cheekbones as he blurted it all to me.


"Oh yeah, this all pretty standard. Soon they all move back except for a few union leaders and local soon to be running politicians. See that there fellow over there?" he said pointing and twisting and turning, "That's Fernando Perez, he's running for congressman down in East L.A. and will probably do pretty well for himself with this support from the bus boys."

He stopped for a second to tuck his hair under his cap and take a few snap shots with his disposable camera.

"And over there, that's Rita Lorca, You'll see her in the next mayoral election. “Hey Rita, I told you not to wear heals." I looked over to Ms. Lorca and saw her rubbing her tired feet, which had gotten so after two miles of walking and gawking for the camera.
After lighting up a glorious Winston, he started in again. "Ya see," he spoke with winding angel shaped smoke coming from beneath his harried upper lip, "the cops will start arresting a few key protestors, but after the camera's turn off, well go down to the station, post bail, and everyone will be happy. Our labor leaders and a few of the major financial restaurant backers are meeting at this moment in Vegas. That's the life man, Negotiation. That's where I want to end up. You know, eventually. For the movement of course."
"Of course," I said, not wanting to seem ignorant, "But who comes up with the bail money? Where is that going to come from?"


"That's all union dues son. Change costs."
"What about strike funds?"
"You've been in Hollywood too long."

The world spun.

The left over Christmas lights now sparkled and flicked on and off around the entire restaurant, and I flickered on and off with them. You could hear the horses breathing into the cool air as if they were lineman at Soldier Field in December. I slid back slack jawed and melted at his story, looking again out to the street of protestors. My ears stretched out and went with the beat of the tail pipe, which was steadied by the occasional symbol smash of shattering glass. I had no idea who I was.

The world crashed over and over again.

The alarm from the Bentley went off, waking the protestors up, who thought everything had been planned out and arranged, but there was nothing said in any of the meetings about blaring alarms. The Mustache turned to me and looked a bit worried. "No no. That's not how it's supposed to go." New choices now had to be made.




Sigh’s bandana had a rising sun centered perfectly in the middle of his forehead with a Hello Kitty button with a black eye patch colored in on the left eye. He stood up and let it be known that he was the leader of this mini uprising, and seized the moment because it was mad, which is the only available time to seize a moment. The cops steadied their guns on top of their horses. I knew they were using Hello Kitty as a bulls-eye. Little Tom came waddling up, flexing his fake tit implants. His nostrils were so paper thin from all the Yay had done that they seemed to flap in the slight breeze that rolled in from the West Beautiful Mountain Range.

"Get the hell off of my car. You want to keep your job?" he said with the tone of someone who couldn’t deal with the fact that physical dominance only lasts through your late twenties.
“What job?” I said.
Sigh was laughing hysterically and momentarily turned into a Hyena on me. He grabbed Little Tom by his neck and pulled him up to the top of the car, holding him as a shield from the aimed guns.
"Take a look around little man. There is no more job.” With that, Sigh pulled his sushi knife from his belt and sliced open Little Tom's Chest, causing one of his implants to fall out onto the bending leather roof of his car. He screamed in pain, and the Sushi chefs cheered in delight.




"Now that sure as well was not supposed to happen," the mustache said to me, all of a sudden looking very human. The union leaders were all on their cell phones trying to figure out what was going on. The fat man who never introduced himself to me was snapping his camera, and fumbling to reload. The cops, not knowing if this was part of the staged protest that they had not been told about, did not move. Rita Lorca strapped on her high heels and conceded some votes for a bit of safety. The windbreakers also dispersed from the scene, which allowed the television crews to get in even closer.

Maybe we had brought in too many cameras and helicopters.

Sigh cut the leather roof with his sushi knife and jumped through into the driver’s seat, throwing the bleeding little Tom to his passenger’s side.
"Keys Nigga," Sigh said with a monotone voice.

Shaking and urinating on himself, Little Tom handed the keys to Sigh., who after jiggling in his hand, looked at me and said very calmly,
"Make your choice now."
I looked around at my options, the organized or be executed bus boys on the street, the false labor union leaders, the Dudley Do Rights in black, and the previously dancing booty grinders smoking cigarettes of their own on the steps, none of them menthols I would guess.

I looked in Little Tom’s eyes and saw the eyes of every boss I ever had, and suddenly felt very much like pushing the knife in. Two of the Mounties noticed the chaos and charged towards us, trampling the fleeing union. Sigh turned the key and hit the gas, but the car stalled out in a whimper.
"What's going on," I asked impatiently.
"Oh man, this is a stick. You know how to drive stick?"
"I'm in no condition to drive," I told him.
"Well then, this is not turning into a positive situation, is it?" He laughed even harder as my cell phone rang.
"Damn fool, did you see that! You're gonna owe me big time fool!"
"Who the hell is this?"
"Damn fool, didn't you see the game. Aw shit, you gonna owe all over this town fool."
I hung up the phone and looked over at little Tom.
"Fucking Raiders never cover the spread," I said to him, and started laughing along with Sigh.
The cops were now only a few feet in front of us. From out of nowhere, jumping in through the torn out convertible roof was Diane Rodriquez, the only female sushi chef of the bunch. She hoped on Sigh's lap and turned the keys in the ignition.

"If your hand moves anywhere, I'll toss you out to the world, understand?"

Sigh nodded while laughing, throwing his hands up in the air as if he were signaling for a touchdown, and kept them there. Diane took off directly at the Mounties, sending them and their horses flying towards the sky. I turned back, for the last time, to watch them crash. All the while we were being video taped, which made me slightly nervous, but I figured that everything was changing now anyhow, and I could keep a low profile somewhere. Los Angeles was, at the very least, a very big place. How would any of this effect the campaign. Could I continue with it? What a shame it would be to have put all that work in and not be able to see the pay-off.

Thoughts of work in my moments of murder.

A hoof came flying through the window knocking out Little Tom instantly, and then broke off from the horse and stayed caught in the windshield. The leg moved, kicking Little Tom in the face repeatedly. Out of the back window, I saw the rest of the Mounties taking off after us, which sent the striking Bus boys taking off after them, and left the sushi chefs to pilfer the restaurant bars, cheering us with 22 Ounce Saporos yelling "KOMPI!"

We drove just fast enough so that the camera’s could catch us. That part was all going according to plan. If you are not in complete control of each and every moment of your life, you allow someone else the opportunity to control you. One mistake can cost you if it comes at a very wrong time. That damn cigarette.

All I heard after that was a thumping base approach out of nowhere, and then some type of explosion. The car flipped over and the lights went out. The last thing I heard was the sound of a shopping cart moving over the cracks of the sidewalk.