The answer was a cult. The photos on the table were of a secret compound, ritual torture, captives, dried blood, shining blades, mystery symbols.
People are buried in LA’s psych industry all the time.
I'd need a sledgehammer to bring down a real tombstone. But for this one a crowbar should do it. I carry it back tucked into my jacket like a criminal.
A pipe bomb knocks the lead Armada over and on its side. The blast came from a gym bag on the curb. Two pedestrians were destroyed in a hurricane of blood and skin and white bone.
It's a cruel carnival, dog fighting. Injected with steroids, fighting dogs are forced to tread water in pools and pull weights. They are hung by their jaws, taunted with lashes and starved.
Since Viagra made blue the new green, every drug company on earth has been working to engineer the second part of the sexual equation: a drug to enhance female libido.
There is a single thought that explains the wretched existence of every compulsive gambler I have encountered: She doesn't hate that you gamble—she hates that you lose.
They don’t dick around with a visitor’s badge at the front desk this time. I’m brought directly to the executive conference room.
An ATF agent taught me how to do this. I talked about rock concerts with him the day I saw him blown up by the tripwire his feet found before his eyes.
And he points out that the pseudo-intellectual costumes of these groups—Nazi, Communist—can easily be exchanged for one another.
Known to few, and constantly disappearing, there is a hacker's bounty board called Bobba's Wake.
Three immense men come out of the SUV at once. I hear a shotgun. I see a staccato muzzle flash. It’s a ballistic slug fest in the smoke.
The actor's empty chest cavity was stuffed with valentine chocolates and left waiting for Jian's wife at the fuckpad she thought was a secret.
The Russian Pharmacist is an old man now. Another life ago, as a medical doctor in the KGB, he used vials and syringes to bring the tortured back to life so they could be tortured anew.
The black armored forces killed twenty one guards and wounded three dozen more. Some of the action was caught on shaky video.
"In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies.” It’s a code phrase. I’m supposed to know the response and I don’t.
The LAPD Morgue lists unclaimed bodies on their website. Sad economics are what prevent most of these bodies from being claimed.
I have eight tattoos on my body and they are all book covers.
A tongue specialty got her promoted to Fly Girl by a first year point guard phoneme. The ceremony was private.
The report I generate itemizes the kinds of files that are still there like a garrison of the undead: the text files, the doc files, the system files.
There are the constant thoughts about how this calm facade of civilization will be shattered any second now. There's the electrical overload in the brain of being always on, always ready.
After the bomb squad robots are done, the dogs go in. And then the chief makes a decision, a statement is released and the roads are re-opened.
Every smart hacker I've ever known played RPGs growing up. Defeating computer security is about learning the rules of the game and then trying to succeed within them.
There will be a hovering congestion of corporate logoed drones: FedEx, Amazon, Apple, Garmin, Verizon, Google—all of which will of course share their information with the government.
Five billion dollars in diamonds make it to India each year. They are escorted by private security companies and mercenaries.
The gambling duo lead me into the dark heart of Chinatown and then they disappear down an alley in which lanterns are dim pastels warning and not guiding.