The Golden Goose of Los Angeles Extended Edition
Copyright 2016 Travis Adams Irish
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
I. Lament of the Natural World
II. Drive Thru
III. Hotel Room
IV. Back to the Start
V. Survival 101
VI. National Hero
VII. Let the Games Begin
VIII. Anthony Pezzloni
IX. Long Night
X. Brave
XI. Hell on Earth
XII. Mothers & Dogs
Other books by T. C. Clover
Connect with T. C. Clover
Acknowledgements
Dedication: For Tatyana Alexandra Khorishko, the desert rose that survived the blizzard; my inspiration, and someone I love very much.
To my father and siblings (in alphabetical order): Robbie Griffith, James Sellers, Jodi Sellers, and Shane Sellers.
To my mentors Jacque Turner-Schettler and Don Miles. I hope this work does justice for the wisdom that you have shared. I’m grateful.
To Lonna Marie for performing a beautiful, original song. Please visit: www.LonnaMarie.com for more great music.
Twitter: @LonnaMarie
Performance and Editing by Lonna Marie
Song Lyrics by Travis Adams Irish
To Tierney Roberts for your beautiful and inspired cover artwork. Please visit: www.TierneyRoberts.com for some incredible designs.
Twitter: @TierneyRoberts
I. Lament of the Natural World
For those who have borne witness to what drives the incumbents of nature; their lives will be filled with: sorrow, elation, intrigue, and fear. As a means to an end or the ingredients of a new beginning, the wheels of nature turn; not like the gears in a precision clock, but as the wheels in a game of chance.
Sorrow: In desperate moments we are filled with despair as the door that was always open, warm and friendly, is forever bolted shut, creating a yearning for those mother’s milk feelings to return.
Elation: During that same moment, miles away, amidst the lonely drawl of poverty, a soul is carried out of urban hell, wiping away the tears of a single mother who no longer needs to bear twice the burden to survive each day.
Intrigue: A powerful hurricane marches forward, bringing forth its minions of windy soldiers to create devastation. Many are captivated by the majesty of the destruction, illuminated bolts of lightning tearing through the sky, massive trees being torn from the ground, and a chaotic harvesting of human symmetry as architecture is returned to the earth whence it came. Those who observe this destructive lightshow and the battle against inevitable change, feel freed from their shackles of symmetric routines, and are eager to provoke life on the edge of chaos to escape the mundane consistency of daily existence.
Fear: From that place where you are resting, taking in words with confidence in what lies ahead, a poisoned syringe of denial keeps you from facing mortality. The concept of human nature is folly as there is only nature. Beneath those effervescent bonds that make life wholesome and worthwhile lies the terror that all cherished bonds will eventually expire. Below the surface of this architecture, and fragile symmetry everyone declares as a safe haven, is the unsettling knowledge that a hurricane will someday march over our lives, leaving a path of destruction that creates sorrow for us, elation for some, intrigue for others, and fear for all. There is no greater arrogance in human history than suggesting that we must let nature take its course. On the contrary, we are on a course with nature, and the only difference between sustenance and starvation, satisfaction and solitude; is the acceptance of life on the edge of chaos as a constant companion.
Woe to thee who have sought shelter from this turbulent game of chance; they will soon discover that their shelter has been nothing more than a tiny seashell being pursued by the unstoppable high tide. Nature’s greatest caveat is that it has no emotion, only the incumbents who are awarded with a beginning, and those who are dammed to an end.
II. Drive Thru
In the early moments of dusk, the sunlight clings to the horizon like an overprotective mother, shining down for too long on one face, and unabashedly neglecting the other. This is the typical array of colors displayed in Los Angeles right after a late spring rainstorm. Cars pass by under the streetlights like rats scurrying in search of food, pleasure, and companionship. Rory Chambers sits in the tan leather driver seat of his small, teal Nissan Altima. His stomach growls fiercely and he doesn't remember the last time he had something to eat. Rory looks around the car at all the garbage that has accumulated in just a few days; not caring anymore about what potential passengers might think. Amongst the many wrappers and drinks, he glances at an issue of Time Magazine® with a picture of himself on the front cover. In the photo, he is happy, graceful, debonair, and a true vision of American prosperity. The headline reads ‘Rory Chambers Man of the Year.’ He bows his head wishing that the magazine article were never written and that he could somehow erase the past few years of his life…
A yellow sports car disappears from the front of the line in the drive-thru lane where Rory's Nissan is currently idling, waiting to pick up his food. There is only one more vehicle ahead of his now, a large, black SUV; just one more vehicle away, he tells himself eagerly; from sustenance and some minor comfort.
Rory looks at himself in the mirror, his once confident, happy expression now replaced with doubt and mistrust. Beneath his somber brown eyes the skin bears dark circles; his face is covered in thick stubble, and there is a wise yet hopeless look in his eyes. He looks much older than a man of thirty thanks to enormous amounts of stress and sleepless nights. Rory glances down for a moment at his jeans, worn and somewhat muddy from running these past few days. He is wearing an extra long, blue T-shirt, which is the only presentable part of his appearance aside from his short brown hair.
Rory closes his eyes, meditating on these thoughts; going over the events of the past few days in his mind. He rolls down his window to get some fresh air, resting his left elbow on top of the door frame as he tries to relax. Rory watches the taillights of the black SUV in front of him in a hypnotic state of calm. After a moment, something briefly registers in his ears drumming through the peaceful silence; something moving, slowly at first and then picking up speed.
Immediately following this new sound, Rory feels a sharp sting pierce the skin of his left upper arm, and simultaneously, a stabbing pressure deep into the muscle tissue just above his elbow. His face instantly turns a pale white and he tries to pull his arm away, realizing that the sound was footsteps approaching his open window. However, his attempt to pull away is rejected as his attacker grabs Rory’s arm firmly and pulls it out slightly so that his elbow is protruding from the car. As he glances out the window, he notices that his attacker is a large man of about six-foot five, wearing a black track suit, stylish black business hat, and expensive sunglasses. As the blood drains from Rory's arm, the older man holds a white, sterile container just below his elbow being careful not to spill a precious drop.
"Easy there, Rory!" The large man exclaims with a tone of entitlement. “All I need is one pint and then you can go about your day. Don’t struggle; I would hate to have to cut you again.”
Rory cries out at the instant and unmerciful pain shooting up through his arm with a curdled, electric throbbing force. He can feel the warmth of his blood flowing slowly down the back of his arm and he cries out again, gritting his teeth
as the knife is removed from his flesh. The large man firmly grips the inside skin and bicep of his upper arm, holding it steady while the blood drains into his sterile, medical specimen container. His bloody knife is now pressed tightly against Rory’s arm with the tip pointing toward Rory’s neck.
“Almost done,” the older man reassures Rory as if talking to a small child, “I just need a pint, but you already know that don’t you, Rory?”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Rory asks, still wincing in pain, and trying to jerk his left arm away while using his right hand to pry the man’s fingers from his upper arm.
“I wouldn’t try that, Rory,” the man says in a cold and raised voice as he releases Rory’s bicep and holds the knife closer to his throat.
“You wouldn’t kill me,” Rory shouts with defiant, animal eyes, “I am your fucking golden goose!”
“Wrong, Rory,” the man responds, holding the knife closer to his throat, “I will kill you if you don’t let me have a pint. Remember, you’re not special… Your blood is special.”
“Ow, you sonofabitch!” Rory exclaims, watching helplessly as he waits for the specimen container to fill with his freshly cleaved blood up to the one pint line. He glares out the windshield; both the man and beast within him unable to accept this penetrating trespass. His eyes dart around wildly, trying to find a way to destroy his assailant. The Hispanic family in the SUV ahead of his car is staring back at him with expressions of shock and terror. He looks up at the older man who appears to have also noticed the family.
“Sorry, brother,” the older man announces with sincerity as he pulls the bloody knife away from Rory’s neck, “but this is taking too fucking long and the cops will be here soon.”
“No!” Rory pleads as the man slices the back of his arm again, even deeper this time, and he shrieks from the pain as if red hot fingernails just scratched right through his skin. He protects his arm instinctively, jerking it back into the car. Droplets of blood spatter on the tan leather upholstery and soak into his T-shirt with every movement of his wounded left arm.
The older man reaches into the car to regain his grip, but Rory pushes the gas pedal and rams the black SUV ahead of him, sending the Hispanic family into a frenzy of horror. He pushes the pedal down further and hears the sound of metal grinding and scraping against metal as the family’s vehicle starts to move forward a bit. Just when his attacker is about to reach inside Rory’s car again, the vehicle lurches forward as the family’s black SUV pulls hastily out of his path. When his car starts to move, Rory reaches out and swats the sterile container out of the man’s grasp and it hits the asphalt, spilling most of his valuable blood all over the drive-thru lane.
After the family pulls straight ahead toward the other side of the building, Rory turns the wheel of his car hard to the right, and it recklessly jumps the curb, making his way into a gap of traffic and onto the open road. His car bounces violently on its chassis causing his bloody arm to slam against the door, and he soon feels the stainless steel door handle getting hung up on the sinewy, exposed muscle and flesh from his deeply wounded arm. Rory cries out in severe agony; physical and emotional, closing his eyes tight for a half second as he speeds toward an escape on the busy city street.
“You motherfucker! You sonofabitch! You selfish piece of dogshit!” The man screams after Rory as he watches the car leave the parking lot, jumping the curb out onto the street, before speeding into traffic. He removes a pistol from a concealed weapons holster that is secured to his back under his track suit. With a hateful gaze, he fires the pistol at the rear right corner of Rory’s car as it speeds down the street, hitting just the rear fender and trunk before the car is out of pistol range.
Inside the car, Rory ducks down when he hears the gunfire, shocked that someone would actually shoot at him. He presses the gas pedal and the car flies over the asphalt to safety. As he sits up in the driver seat, he feels intense throbbing on the back of his arm and his sticky, warm blood is now soaking the inside of the car door and driver seat. His heart is pounding and he is sweating from his brow with adrenaline. Tufts of his short black hair are sticking to his head, mixing in with the perspiration here and there. Rory fumbles clumsily with his right hand in the car’s center console and retrieves a cell phone. He winces with agony each time he has to move the steering wheel, but seems to relax a bit as the car finally comes to a stop at a red light. His hand is shaking as he thumbs through his contacts and dials a familiar number, placing the phone next to his ear. The stoplight turns from red to green and he drives swiftly again, pushing the gas pedal with fierce energy. He hears the phone ring a few times and his expression turns sour as he senses that the call will soon go to voice mail.
“Hey, Rory,” a familiar young woman’s voice answers.
“Kelly! Oh my god, Kell, I need your help, babe,” Rory pleads into the phone without hesitation, knowing that he is quickly losing blood.
“Oh my God, Rory, what’s wrong!?” The woman asks with genuine concern.
“I’ve been attacked,” Rory blurts out; his heart is still racing and his breath is coming out in heavy gasps. “Kell, some fuckhead attacked me with a knife and cut my arm open, I’m losing a lot of blood and need your help right now.”
“Holy shit, Rory, shouldn’t we be getting you to the hospital?” The woman asks with concern; clearly shocked by his words.
“The hospital is too fucking dangerous for me; you know that!” Rory states with certainty. “My Goddamn blood is worth over five-hundred thousand dollars a pint! Every asshole in the valley wants a pouch of the shit, and now these fuckers are stabbing me… NO HOSPITAL!” Rory shouts, making sure that she understands as he drops the phone on the passenger seat to make a right hand turn.
“Okay, Rory, tell me where to meet you so we can stop the bleeding,” she instructs in a soft, sweet voice filled with empathy.
“I’m at the Double Ambassador Inn just North of L.A.,” Rory says with a feeling of relief for the first time, “in room 207.”
“Okay, Rory, I’ve got my kit and I’m on my way out the door!” Kelly exclaims with urgency. “Wrap your arm in a towel and hold pressure on the wound; I’m on my way.”
“Thanks,” Rory says briefly before hanging up the phone and tossing it into the passenger seat.
He drives rapidly toward his hotel now, feeling less alone in the world, but no longer as secure as he did before this whole nightmare began. The sunlight is quickly fading in the now crimson sky, almost as sickeningly red as the blood draining from his left arm. Rory stares defiantly at the murderous hues of the sunlight, feeling betrayed by the world as his car moves slowly up a small concrete incline toward his hotel.
III. Hotel Room
Rory is lying on his bed in the dimly lit hotel room waiting for Kelly. There is a blood soaked towel wrapped tightly around his upper arm, and he holds it taught with a painful grimace, watching for Kelly’s headlights to shine through the cheap, tan hotel curtains. His bloody shirt is in a pile on the short, brown carpet below the bed; lazily tossed aside moments ago, exposing his muscular upper body and pale skin. He closes his eyes in disbelief for a moment, remembering the recent attack at the fast food restaurant. In his mind, he envisions the furious strike of the knife deep inside his arm, spilling his blood into a sterile container as if someone were tapping a keg of beer. The backside of his arm still bears a sharp, stabbing pain each time his heart beats, and every movement inspires electric pain from his damaged triceps. Rory rolls over on his right side,
turning his back to the door, watching the blank television, feeling an overwhelming connection to the empty, dark gray screen.
Soon he sees headlights drawing symmetrical patterns and shadows on the walls as a car passes by the window and comes to a halt. Then the lights go out and he hears the soft tapping of Kelly’s delicate little fist on the door. Fortunately she doesn’t wait for him to answer, and after a short pause, makes her way into the hotel room, carrying a First Aid Kit and some extra gauze bandages. Rory rolls over slowly, showing Kelly a weak smile as he sits up straight on the edge of the bed, holding the towel tighter as he rises.
“Quite a shitty day you’ve had, my friend,” she admits with her soft, sweet voice, looking at the blood soaked towel around his arm and smiling at him with her bright blue eyes.
Kelly sets the First Aid Kit down next to Rory on the mattress then moves to a cheap wooden nightstand near the bed and turns on the small, black freestanding lamp.
“We need to clean it first,” Kelly states, looking at him with an apologetic smile.
Rory looks up at her from the bed, still missing his ex-girlfriend, but even more now that she is married. Kelly still looks amazing at the age of thirty-three. He glances down at her wedding ring, then turns uncomfortably to the other side of the room and points to the ice bucket with his right hand. The large diamond is out of his line of vision, but he can still feel its presence in the room, a roadblock between him and his fondest memories. Kelly smiles at him quickly, assuming his pain has worsened, and walks over to retrieve the small, tan ice bucket from the dresser near the bathroom. He watches her walk in her black stockings and matching skirt with a white, silk button-down blouse. She has a petite figure and is naturally well endowed. Despite his wounded arm, he feels an old hunger coming back for his old lover and best friend.
As she steps over to the bed he admires her brunette hair with blonde highlights, a stylish compliment to her elegant demeanor. Only someone like Kelly could pull off a sexy nurse with him experiencing severe pain, and have it be just as tantalizing. Rory admires her plump, moist red lips and smooth white skin as she holds the ice bucket under his elbow. He smiles at her rigidly, trying not to show that he is feeling any pain. She goes into the bathroom for a moment and returns with a wet wash cloth, then delicately removes the towel