Sunday, March 25, 2012



Los Angeles is the real Magic Kingdom. It’s a special place where millions of dreams are crushed, but thousands of dreams come wildly true. It’s that ratio that keeps them coming here from Bumchuck, Indiana and Ball Gag, Iowa. And when they get here, they’re in for a rude awakening. Rock legend W. Axl Rose, born William Bailey in Indiana, said it best: Welcome to the Jungle, baby! You gonna die!

I don’t need to tell you my name just yet. All you need to know is that I was born of this soil. Raised right here on a quiet working class street called Lesser Street in blue-collar Norwalk, California a suburb between Los Angeles and Long Beach.

I despise those who come here and ruin my city, my Los Angeles. They blaspheme by calling it L.A. instead of its proper name: Los Angeles.

They’re weak. Dreamers. Losers.

They were not raised on these streets where scary monsters came out a night. They didn’t hear stories of the Boogie Man, or the Mexican kids talking about a bruja, a witch, named La Llorona who moaned all night crying for her murdered children. Plus, it was never completely dark because of the glow from the Golden West oil refinery three miles away in Santa Fe Springs, The sky was a pulsating orange color, and the air smelled of sulfur, of cow manure from Dairy Valley, of honeysuckle, and night-blooming jasmine.

They are invaders and leeches.

I will prey on them. I am their master.

I am the Magician and tonight will be my fourth kill.

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