hes in bed. When he opens his eyes, he finds about a half-dozen Angels in his bedroom. Get dressed, they tell him. Hes no dummy. He does what hes told. Outside are about a dozen more Angels. They rev their bikes loud enough to peel paint off the neighbors houses and roar out into the canyons over the Hollywood Hills, with my reporter friend riding bitch on the back of some guys bike.
"The thing about those canyons is, theres a lot of bodies buried out there. A million years from now, archeologists are going to understand us completely from all the bones of the dead TV producers, junkie musicians, porn stars and coke dealers scattered all up in those canyons. And my friend doesnt know if hes going to get laid or stomped or shot in the head and buried in a shallow grave. Then they round a corner and he sees the lights and hears the music. The Angels promised him a party and, sure enough, theres a party going on.
"But an Angel party isnt a regular kind of party. Theres a lot of guys on massive doses of acid, playing William Tell with fifty caliber handguns. Theres knives flying by and gangbangs and more beer than in all of Milwaukee. And heres my little artsy-fartsy weekly newsrag lit major buddy trying to be Cool Hand Luke with it all. The thing he said, though, and I believe this, was that after a while he really was cool with the savage craziness. The party went on all night and into the next day, and the way he put it, You can only be terrified for so long. "
"I guess youre still looking for your happy place on this trip," said Lulu.
"Working on it. I figure Hell cant be any worse than Houston. "
"Are we close to the bottom, Lulu?" asked Shrike.
"Damned if I know. It just keeps going do
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