It walked into my office smoking weed. I made it share. What did this arrogant piece of probably dick, singing and singing ass. Just ass. Want. What did it want from me. You have to protect yourself unless you can convince it over vodka shots at the Hollywood Hotel at the bar at noon. Coming from time zones, known only to them. They will be punished. No, I did not want to see it of It. Again. We order ten drinks. I am the private investigator with the hat and who drives a cab around and around Malibu. Who taps into his passengers memories but becomes torturously fixated on his own. He’s a Serf. I have written that no one believes me including me. Half of the time, it’s one of the multiples. I blame them. The price of water doubled every day. People in LA paid for the farmers’ water in the Valley. What bribes. Who said they could only rise to the top, one politician at a time. My policy is to leave guns in the hotel room when going out. Too much intrusion. If I wanted to kill you, which I do not, I could wait. Or we could do it here. We did it there. They are an evil chorus, the multiples. They are my babies and I know why I am here. They need me even if they are unable to make me go away. We are attached and they weep for years on end. I know when they’re fucking, I can smell the juices from it. Not unlike the way a vampire can smell the suggestion of blood on a sharks inner teeth. It’s a story about the pull of the past set in the future, in a Los Angeles downtown roof top filming jumpers usually from West Hollywood where the whores jump. We have succumbed to the lie of hope. We have lost everyone. I got into the car with It. We got out of Dodge with absolutely nothing but what we wore for the next too days of changing trains. I sit in the dining car playing cards. We had to stop by some nowhere recharge desert ever-after-point populated by people who have turned nocturnal to escape the searing heat of the day. I met Andrew over vodka shots in the bar of the Hollywood Hotel.