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What do you know? Even the gods get junk mail.
“It’s not women. It’s humans. Can’t live with ’em. Can’t kill ’em all.”
Aelita isn’t what I imagined an angel would look like. She’s about as ethereal as a zip gun. She walks like she’s about to call in an air strike or buy Europe. Donald Trump in drag with her enemies’ balls in a candy dish on her desk, right next to the stapler.
Besides getting my ass kicked, my main accomplishment on this trip has been to massacre an incredible number of completely innocent clothes. I’m the Joseph Stalin of laundry.
This is not a precise or subtle situation. This is a situation for mindless violence and brute force. First good news I’ve had all day.
“You do have a habit of pissing on other people’s welcome mats. But, when a gentleman gives you a booty call to a massacre, it’s easy to forgive him. Ciao.”
I came ready to fight Genghis Khan and I walk in on a shut-in playing the biggest Dungeons and Dragons game in history.
I’ll be great as soon as I get a cigarette, a drink, and a lobotomy.”
THERE’S ONLY ONE problem with L.A. It exists. L.A. is what happens when a bunch of Lovecraftian elder gods and porn starlets spend a weekend locked up in the Chateau Marmont snorting lines of crank off Jim Morrison’s bones.
