"If you say so."
"He knew I wasn't his."
"But he still raised you. Give him credit for that."
"He wanted me dead."
"Hell, boy. At some point, all fathers want to kill their sons. Just like all sons think about killing their old man. They're too much alike or the're not enough alike. It doesn't matter. What's beautiful is that they don't do it."
"Are there other nephilim around?"
"It's not like there's a newsletter or anything, but as far as I know, you're the only one."
"I used to worry all the time about being boring. Suddenly boring looks pretty good."
"Try not to sing too many sad songs for yourself. The universe already hates you. Self-pity isn't going to help."
Whenever the hammer has come down in my life, I've always wondered what my father would do. Then I usually do the opposite, but I still always think of him first. But now I'm seeing my mother's face instead of my father's. And I'm thinking about Alice. And Candy. And Allegra breathing fire into Parker's eyes. And Vidocq, who isn't a father, but who makes being a man easier than any of the men in my family.
I flick my cigarette butt at a rat that's stalking a couple of pigeons in the parking lot.
"You know what I'm thinking right now?"
Kinski is silent for a minute.
"That you really want a drink."
"Yeah, but that's too easy. I always want a drink. Guess again."
"You're back wondering if I'm crazy or not and leaning toward crazy."
I nod and take few steps in the direction of the Mercedes.
"Actually, I'm not. I'm leaning toward I don't give a goddam. I'm sick of Heaven and Hell and angels and nephilim and all the rest of it. I knew what I was doing there. And no one told me that I'm not who I am. Be a fallen archangel if you want, but leave me out of it. I don't want to be part of your soap opera. I don't want to be mythological."
I start back for the Mercedes, but it looks ridiculous to me now. A brain dead cross between a giant grasshopper and a Cubist Corvette. I walk past the car and into the shadow of a lampost at the corner of the lot. Kinski watches me go. As I slip into the Room of Thirteen Doors, for just a second, some annoying part of my brain whispers, "You know that thing that you're doing right now, going from a parking lot to the center of the universe and out again? That's pretty seriously mythological."
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. If the Viagra and illegal Traci Lords videos don't get you going, then the Japanese tentacle porn will.
New York has short con cannibals and sewer gators. Chicago is all snowbound yetis and the ghosts of a million angry steers with horns like jackhammers. Texas is crisscrossed with ghost railroads that kidnap demon-possessed Lolitas to play strip Russian roulette with six shells in the chamber.
L.A. is all assholes and angels, bloodsuckers and trust-fund satanists, black magic and movie moguls with more bodies buried under the house than John Wayne Gacy.
There are more surveillance cameras and razor wire here than around the pope. L.A. is one traffic jam from going completely Hiroshima.
God, I love this town.
I NEED FOOD. I need booze. I need to smoke a cigarette outside a bar where you can hear people dry humping in the alley behind the Dumpster.
I walk from Max Overdrive to the Bamboo House of Dolls, sucking down stage-six smog-alert air and lingering over a sunset as bloody as the fall of the Roman Empire.
People stare and point at me as I go inside. For a second I have that anxiety-dream paranoia that I'm not wearing any pants. But no one's laughing and I've got a pocket full of money and a knife tucked in the back of my jeans, so I think I'm covered on the pants thing.
More girls smile at me going into Bamboo House than have smiled at me in my entire life. There must be a scar-fetish convention in town.