I have no job, I’m at the brown coffeehouse off Hollywood where the girl who does her homework hides under her hoodie and the waitress with the varicose veins and aggressive boobies forgets my coffee needs refilling and doesn’t like my kind. In walks Glenn Danzig.

I will in fact be hanged in the morning. Or worse. They allude to it, they make bets on it in the halfway desk around the corner past the black alloy bars of the door and the thicker black bars of the gateway. They’re purposely not quiet about what’s coming to you, but purposely vague: “Permanent Conditioning.”

A long time ago, before you were a tickle between the thighs of your great-great-great-great grandfather’s mother, three apes ruled as kings on a long-lost jungle continent.

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Strange illnesses... cattle mutilations... and a pervasive change in the color of the sky. These were only preludes to the earth-shattering events of June 15th, 1971.

Coming up, I drank some water. Sat on a bench. Watched kids watch gorillas watch people. Picnic of children and mothers in dresses pick nits from the fur of the family tree.

Knock at the door. What the hell? I hate this shit. Nobody knocks on your door when you own your house because they know they get the business end of a Glock in their face. What time is it? 11 am. Who is it? I am not to be fucked with.

Glancing out the passenger side, I see a girl in a Honda Civic, angelic and orderly, looking at me through the raindrops on her window and the raindrops on mine. I grin, embarrassed. She smirks. She's beautiful.