The Journey Begins

This was the story. I knew this, deep in my soul. It would be the kind of event that, in the proper hands, relayed by the greatest writer this planet, this universe, has ever seen, would shake the moral structure of our great American society, all the way to its foundation. My source at the Los Angeles County Jail, a young starlet I'll only identify by the first name, "Lindsay", who was serving 1000 consecutive one-hour sentences for repeated aggravated driving while overly self-aware, had informed me that LAPD and members of the FBI were currently searching the grounds of a Hollywood Hills mansion owned by former NFL superduperstar Mike Vick, having already uncovered the remains of over 5,000 toy poodles, and one labradoodle. The scene she described was so grotesque that I could not shake the image from my mind, even without having witnessed it.

As we sped toward the mansion, driven by my personal chauffer, Danica, K-Ro and I sat in silence, looking out the windows at this beautiful city as we tried to think of happier things to avert our thoughts from the scenes of suffering we were about to experience.

"Stop the car!" I suddenly shouted, "Bum Fight!!!"

"Oh, hell yeah!" K-Ro exclaimed, instantly cheered.

Two homeless boys stood on the sidewalk, both holding sharp stakes, with a crowd of about fifty more homeless men, women and children encircling them. I walked through the screaming mass of smelliness to the edge of the circle.

"Who's the money on?" I asked the closest dirty bastard. He looked at me like I was insane.

"Ain't got no money,"the dirty bastard said, "but I got this grocery cart full of cans on the Mexican."

"I'll take that bet," I said, "K-Ro!" K-Ro immediately appeared holding out a small ivory box. He opened it for the dirty bastard, revealing a sterling silver crack pipe engraved with the initials GWB. I looked at the fighters.

"Let's get it on!"

It wasn't even close. My guy, a skinny white kid named Billy fought like, well, a Mexican, and poor Jorge never stood a chance. I walked up to Billy and ruffled his hair. He couldn't have been older than 13.

"Nice moves in there, kid," I told him, motioning toward the bloodied and dying Jorge, "You earned this." And I tossed him the sterling silver crack pipe.

"Thanks, mister!" Billy said, genuinely moved.

"Now I have a little job for you," I told him.

"Anything, sir."

I wrote some instructions on a card and handed it to Billy.

"Take this grocery cart filled with cans to my hotel," I ordered, "The address is on that card, along with some instructions. Give it to the concierge when you arrive and he'll set you up with a bottle of Jack Daniel's"

"Gee, thanks!"

"Now get outta here, you little ragamuffin!" I told Billy. As he pushed the cart down the street I felt a deep sense of satisfaction; I always feel that way when I help those less fortunate. Just then a police cruiser pulled up behind my limo. I stepped over Jorge's lifeless body and walked to the cruiser.

"Wow, sir, I'm a big fan!" the officer said, recognizing me, "I've got a couple of questions: what happened here and can I get an autograph?"

"I have two answers for you, officer: there was a bum fight and yes you can."

"That's awesome," he said, "bum fight you say?"

"Yeah, see that kid over there?" I pointed the pen toward Billy, "He killed that Mexican."

"Ouch," said the officer, "Did you happen to hear about the scene at the Vick place."

"That's where we're headed."

"Just terrible about those poor animals," he said, "Someone should kill that son of a bitch."

"Maybe we should get Billy to," I joked. He laughed aloud.

"Thanks for the autograph," he said, "I'll see you at the Vick place." He waved and drove away.
I looked at K-Ro and nodded. He nodded back. We both knew it was time to continue our journey, no matter how disturbing the scene might be. A homeless man was busily washing the windows of my limo as I slid in the back seat. K-Ro punched the dirty bastard hard in the kidney and threw him to the ground.

"Get the fuck away from the car, you piece of trash!" He yelled, giving him a kick. As he slid into the seat across from me, I could see the look of dread in his eyes. Like me, K-Ro is an animal lover, and neither of us were looking forward to what we were about to see.

"Let's go," I said to Danica, and we continued toward our destiny.

Decision Time

"So it was a non-story?" K-Ro asked as he continued folding and neatly stacking my freshly laundered underwear into a perfect facsimile of the shops and taverns that lined the trading district of the village in which I was raised. During his brief tenure as my personal assistant, K-Ro had learned, with astonishing precision, how to read my moods, and he was trying to cheer me up.



K-Ro could tell I was feeling low by the stoic, somewhat arrogantly self-confident countenance I displayed. It is an expression I learned and adopted after carefully studying my close friend Bill Clinton during one of our frequent trips to Fat Rosie's, Bill's favorite Bangkok bathhouse. It is the look of a man struggling with a difficult decision.



"I'm not sure, bro," I finally replied, "You've forgotten the Scientology temple in the square."



"Oh my, silly me!" He squealed, quickly and expertly erecting the temple with several stylish leopard-print bikini briefs. Perfection.



"But Snoop Dogg wasn't dead, right?" he asked, surveying his work.



"No, just baked, bro, really baked."



I had just returned that morning from investigating a hot lead. Police had found Snoop Dogg lying motionless on property belonging to former NFL superstar Mike Vick. Assuming he was deceased, EMTs transported Snoop to the morgue, only to have him re-animate after receiving a quart and a half of embalming fluid. The story seemed like a dead-end, but I wasn't convinced.



"My source tells me Vick is still in custody," I said, "There must be more to this story." I looked at K-Ro. He was staring at me anxiously awaiting orders.



"Tell Danica to bring the car around," I said. I had made my decision.



"We're going to the Vick mansion."



"Oh, goody!" K-Ro squealed.



"Oh, and K-Ro," I said, "There may be trouble, so bring your Iphone, just to be safe." His face melted with grave concern.



"Set it to 'stun'," I added, trying to reassure my faithful servant. At that moment, my own Iphone delivered a telepathic surge announcing an incoming call. It was my source at the LA county jail.



I turned from K-Ro to protect the identity of my source and whispered into the phone.



"Lindsay?"

Sports Wrap-up

I arrived at LAX late Saturday afternoon. The flight was not unpleasant, aside from the usual small disturbances involving the Middle Eastern passengers, whom were beaten and bound, so as not to evoke fear from the fairer skinned travellers. I, being of dark hair and complexion, might have easily been mistaken for Arabic, yet I was allowed to go undisturbed, for, as one of the crew said to me, "Even if you are a terrorist, sir, to lose our lives to one so dashingly handsome and brilliant of mind would be an honor, not a tragedy." I assured the captain that I am a man of peace, unless you cross me, and all were safe in my presence.

Upon disembarking the aircraft I checked my cell; there were 842 unheard messages. It seems that my one night stand with Jessica Biel affected her more than I realized. "Damn," I said to myself, "Time to change my number again." I deleted the first couple of messages, but stopped on the third, hearing a male voice.

"Wow, sir, I can't tell you what an honor this is! My name's Pete Carroll and I coach the football team here at USC, uh, that's the University of Southern California, and my friend Will Ferrell gave me your number and said you'd be in town. I can't begin to tell you what an honor this is! Anyhoo, I was wondering if you'd do me the honor of giving the pre-game speech to my team this afternoon. I don't know, these kids seem to have lost focus a little and I can't think of anyone better to re-instill the winning attitude than you, sir."

Of course I would do it. There is nothing more rewarding in life than helping youngsters down the right path, and few things help people, both young and old, more than hearing me speak. I would have to put my original reason for being in the City of Angels, the Michael Vick story, on hold for awhile. I'm sure you're familiar with the Vick story of which I'm referring; that is the grand opening of Tasty Pit, the new Korean barbecue restaurant co-owned by Vick and the rapper DMX.

I called my new agent, Karl Rove (who I was able to lure away from his previous job with promises of unlimited power and intellectual stimulation), and told him to get me the gig.
K-Ro (pronounced "crow"), as he preferred to be called, informed me that kickoff was only a half hour away and he was sending a limo.

I arrived at the locker room ten minutes before kick-off, without a prepared speech but enthusiastic; these kids would remember this moment the rest of their lives and I would make it worth every second. I stood outside the door as Martha Stewart finished her warm-up set.

"Now remember, in order for my home recipe breath freshener to work, you have to take it at least thirty minutes after ingesting alcohol, but if used correctly, no police officer can detect the scent on you. Now get out there and kill those motherfuckers!"

The applause was deafening as Martha exited the locker room. She slipped her phone number in my shirt pocket and gave the international "call me" sign as she brushed past me. Before the noise died down I slipped through the door and stood before them. The din grew higher momentarily before my eyes told them to sit down, shut up, and listen.

"You're just boys. Pathetic little boys. Scared. This isn't a game. This is war. That's not a football team out there, it's the VC. It's Charlie. You're gonna go into their village, you're gonna rape their women, you're gonna kill their babies!" These kids were scared. I had em. "You're gonna do whatever you have to do to win this war!"

I turned to one kid, looked like the kicker,"You, you little puke, do you use steroids?"

"No sir, no!" he stammered.

"Why the hell not? You wanna be a fuckin loser?" I looked over at Coach Carroll; he had wet himself.

I kept it up for the next five minutes. When I finished, I looked the team over. It's amazing how much they had grown in the past few minutes. I knew they were ready.

"Okay, guys, teamwork and sportsmanship on three."

It's impossible to describe the sense of pride I felt watching those kids perform on the field of battle. Facing an opponent so strong, the mighty Vandals from the University of Idaho, those brave young men, children really, fought and scratched toward their collective destiny. The ultimate result: USC 38 Idaho 10. Only in Hollywood.

I walked out of the stadium, my feet barely touching the ground, and nearly ran over K-Ro.

"What up, bro?" I asked.

"Forget the restaurant opening," he said, "it's not happening. Mike Vick's in jail."

"Why?"

"Police found a body on his property," he said, "it was Snoop Dogg."

"Mother of God!" I said.