Goddamn junkie whore. She was gone and time was shifting again.  There was some ghostly, unseen Nazi storm trooper’s boot grinding down on the top of my heart as I sat there on my couch, groping for the hazard button from the accident of my pathetic life that had me pinned in a crazy, twisted wreckage with salvation just out of reach.  I prayed the next petrol lorry rounding the bend of my mind would run me over and explode in a sickeningly beautiful orange and crimson flame. I longed for the release of my own death.

I unloaded and reloaded my .45.  I’m not sure what I was thinking. I am too much of a coward to try to kill myself.  I just really wanted to see her face once more as I burst into her bedroom and shot the dick off her AIDS-infested, tattooed-musician lover.  All I could do was mumble, Fuck you, Jerry, as I took careful aim on Springer and blew a five-inch hole out of the back of the now smoldering 21-inch RCA.

Gunplay in my building in the wee hours was nothing new, but it would surely bring my old jackbooted comrades around inquiring about the nature of this months seizures.  Another gun-cleaning accident and another TV.  I was in hell.

Los Angeles is a miserable place to be alone, a depressing desert suburb with too many broken down, ugly 70s strip malls filled with lying backsliders. Sometimes it simply oozed a bad-smelling puss.  L.A. is a town of beautiful sunlight and beautiful people willing to break your heart if they find the tiniest weakness in your armor.

I was torn between wanting to kill her and wanting to tie her to her bed so tightly that only her eyelids moved and make love to her until she came so hard she would stop breathing.  Maybe I’ll do both.  Guns and women are never a good mix, but life without either one seems wrong somehow.

Who am I kidding acting like a tough guy?  I wanted to cry and whimper and have her hold me tight.  Instead, I just killed my second TV this month.

(ALPHA) Never, and I mean absolutely never, fall in love with a junkie!

No matter how much rehab, no matter how many times they work the Twelve Steps, they have been so damaged by all the abuse they received as a child and all the bullshit they slung as an adult that they can never be fixed.  At least not to the point that when they tell you they love you, they are not telling some shade of lie.  They will break your heart in a nanosecond and make you feel like it was your fault in the first place for having dared fall for someone as screwed up as them.

Some psychic I am.  I should have run away screaming the first time she leered at me, sizing up my jugular vein, trying to figure out how hard she would have to bite to get the blood out. Maybe it was the vinyl catsuit, or maybe it is because I really can see what others don’t. I saw in her the potential to be my perfect mate and best friend.  It could have been so sweet. But no, as soon as it started to get too real, a few cracks in the armor, it went sideways.  As soon as she realized that I truly loved her for who she was and not the game she was slinging, it was all over. Taillights.

Why do they always wait until it’s way too late to stop the madness?  Like the dumb ass who kills seven people in a McDonald’s before he shoots himself. What do these miserable bastards think? Would the next one of these people please save us all just a little bit of grief and cap yourself first?  Sounds great in theory; unfortunately, I would be out of a job.  That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, I suppose.  If I never have to open one more file and get into some screwball’s headspace, well, that would be just fine with me.  I am weary of this so-called gift.  Not that each new nut job is so far beyond the pale of the milk of humankind that’s not it at all.  The terrifying fact is that it is just the opposite.  It’s that they are so damn predictable.  The fix is in by the time these people are 7 or 8 years old.  By then, if they haven’t had their little bones beat until they are black and blue or all their orifices probed lasciviously by some trusted guardian, then they got the opposite: no contact whatsoever.  They got the message that they are useless, unloved, and unwanted by anyone.  Sadly enough, that is all it takes to grow a monster in this world.  Another human time bomb is unleashed to figure out how to best manifest his or her particular brand of craziness.  The miserable part about it is that the rest of us are not innocent in the process of the madness.  We see it going on and do nothing; we let the weeds take root in the garden.  All the time we know so much better and usually tell people at gatherings our fine opinions on such matters.  It’s a messy thing, being a gardener. So we wait, and the infection festers, until … until I get another file full of nightmares.

Find the crazy one.  Sweet Jesus, if that were the only navigational tool I had we’d all be suspect. Not one of us doesn’t have our own brand of kink. Learn how to read people’s auras and you will be amazed at the insanity we are all capable of.

An image of my blue brother’s imminent arrival floats up through my mind soup…

I unloaded my Colt and put it on my t table.  I braced myself for the energy. Sometimes, I just can’t handle being around cops. Their energy tends to be murky, and their auras are always such dirty, muddy colors. People don’t understand why they end up like that. It’s not the cop’s fault, usually. Sometimes when I walk through the squad bay and the light is just right, I’m startled by someone’s bright auric colors.  I just don’t expect to see it in that place. It’s usually a rookie straight out of the academy or some kind of tourist wandering in a place they don’t belong. Once, I saw these weird Peter Max colors and shapes radiating from this acidhead who was getting booked.  The strange thing was that, as I watched him emanating all his weirdness, it all started to come apart for him. The rush ended and something like fear took over, or maybe the realization of his same old reality flashed in.  Either way, he would have been better off not seeing the weirdness that way.  Even if the natural way is slow or doesn’t work at all, if you are not ready, it’s really the only safe way.  It’s the only way you have some kind of grounding framework and some control.  Some way to go out and come back without leaving parts of your mind all over hell’s half-astral acre.  On the very old maps they had very good reasons to write: THERE BE DRAGONS HERE. There are things that go bump in the night, and they are not all benevolent.  That’s where the New Agers have it wrong. It’s not all light and love; it’s light and darkness.

OK … he’s out in front of the building by the Land Cruiser, time to look pathetic …

I was never a cop, but I spent enough time in the military to understand the fraternity of it. They can’t really afford to be to open to anything strange or nonstandard. The questions that would arise would put morale into a tailspin. They tolerate me just as you would a barely controllable tool like a chainsaw. You can do really amazing things with it, but you can never take your eyes off it. It’s just too dangerous. What we need to understand as a society is that these people get their murky, ugly auras because they are constantly working with and inputting the worst and the most disgusting thought forms our society comes up with.  Someday, every two years, cops, teachers, and health care workers will all be given six months to go on a healing retreat to recharge their souls. Until then, everyday cops will become just a little bit more like the perps. The Irish probably do so well because as wacky as it gets, they have that built-in religious framework. But faith is a hard commodity to come by with the really weird stuff. There is just no context to put it in. That’s when they send for people like me.  It’s not so much that they want answers, it’s more like they just want to farm out the madness.  Spread it around a little, give it to the spookies, it comes from their world anyway, so let them deal with it.  They think it comes from my world. Wouldn’t it just be nice for them if that were true. Then they could go back to their 2.5 children, houses with manicured shrubbery, and pretend that devils do not walk among us. Well, I can’t pretend I know where they live and, worst of all, I know what they think.  And let me tell you, it gets a little damn lonely. Try finding a date that will do more than just screw you when you tell her you see ghosts.

“Honey, what are you thinking about?”

“Oh, not much,” I might mumble. “Just thinking about a gas station attendant in St. Louis who is trying to figure out how to molest and kill a busload of retarded girls that just stopped to fill up.”

It doesn’t matter that two days later you can show her the headlines that tell all about the burned corpses of the girls they found in the woods an hour from the gas station after the attendant confessed.  I’ve tried to show them that, and then they really become afraid of you.

Kat was different. Maybe because she understood the horror, too. She would just say, “It’s OK, baby. Let it go. Make love to me instead.”  So I would.  I would make intense, fierce, passionate love until all the spooky little monsters in my mind left because all that remained was the beauty and honesty of my love for this woman.  She liked the ride; she liked it just that way.  She had her own monsters that she wanted to forget about.  As bizarre and strange as our love making was, there was a grace and a peace that would settle over both of us, and for a short time we could hold each other and look into each other’s eyes and know that we actually loved and were loved by another.  That love, no matter how terrifying this world could be, that love actually existed.

The problem is that with a junkie, there really are no ex-junkies.  A junkie always holds on to a little bit of game, just a little bit of control.  Just enough that separates them from everybody else.  Without that little bit of control they feel lost, and feeling lost to a junkie means death.  So they separate just a little, and if they feel themselves merging with another as you do when you love, they just vanish. No notes, no warnings, no good-bye. Just gone. Empty.

I wonder if she thinks of me at all, or has she somehow managed to compartmentalize her feelings in some little locked box in the attic of her heart?  It scares me because I know that if she doesn’t treat those feelings with the love and honor they deserve, one day they will find their way out like some mad Houdini and merge with other unfelt things. Then those unfelt feelings will roll right over the ramparts she erected to stop them, and she will have no choice but to die. Choosing not to feel things means after awhile, you can’t feel anything and you lose the ability to understand yourself. You become a stranger inside yourself, but it’s only a temporary fix, because eventually something will trigger all of those mixed-up, jumbled-up feelings, and you will get both barrels of life right square in the face.  By that time it’s too late. You’ve got the cancer, your last lover gave you AIDS, you shot some bad dope.  You’re so far off your course that you can no longer use your higher powers of intuition and your spirit guides can no longer help you.  The white light you’re heading for that you think will be your salvation is nothing more than an iceberg that the vessel of your life is steaming straight toward in a cold, black sea.

No, at that point you’ve failed your test here on this Earth plane.  They say it’s alright, that you get many chances to try again until you pass your test, but wouldn’t you think you would want to get it right in this incarnation?  To really hold nothing in your heart but love and to finally be free.  To finally pass, move on to the real work of the universe, and be of some use.  Easier said than done, I suppose. I mean, look at me: I just killed Jerry Springer.

“Bobby D., you in there? Robert Doucette, are you alright?”

Lieutenant Thomas Quinn, Los Angeles Police Department Bureau of Detectives: my handler and, as much as he can be, my friend. He used to call himself an intuitionist.  He even had it on his business card. I think that is why more than anything else he got assigned to the spookies. Not exactly a stellar career move, but hey, life is like that; you tend to end up with your own kind. Tommy told me a story when I first met him about what he called his intuitive journeys. He said he awoke on Sunday morning with a strong desire to drive out to Malibu. After what he determined were directions from a very small voice, he ended up on Encinal Canyon Road on a very dreary winter day. He found a man about three miles up from the Pacific Coast Highway facedown on an abandoned road in the death throes of a diabetic coma. If Thomas hadn’t rushed him to the nearest clinic, the man would have been dead in 20 minutes.  Tom would never admit in a million years that he’s psychic.  The truth is you can’t openly call yourself a psychic and hold a spot in the Bureau of Detectives. But as much as he allowed himself to travel in the ether, he was one of us.

Most people are psychic to some degree or another. In fact, most highly effective people are. The Henry Fords, the Ted Turners, the Joe Torres, the Gandhis, the Joan of Arc’s these people are downloading information straight from the source.  If you follow truly effective businessmen’s decision-making processes back to the source, you would be startled to find out that almost all had a system of relying on a still, small intuitive voice inside them. Sure, they may have had a great education. Or not. They may be very gifted. Or not. They may or may not have some special expertise. However, if you ever get a chance to ask them about their actual decision-making process, and if they are honest with you at all, you will learn a very funny truth and a key to living up to your own true potential: What these people have learned to do is to base their whole careers in fact, their whole lives, on nothing more than a psychic hunch, a gut instinct. The reason they are so successful as opposed to most people is that by training or by accident, they have learned not to edit their intuitional information through a filter or some neurosis: fear, worry, doubt, hate, low self-worth, or, for that matter, love. Any emotion will add a certain flavor or color to the information, and the negative ones tend to block it all together. Listen to Ted Turner speak. Is he smart? You bet he is, but there is something else: He is outrageous in what he says because he does not edit himself. That is what most people do – they edit themselves to fit into some kind of self-deceived, proper place in society. What they really do is cut themselves off from the source of information that has fed all the sages, the mystics, the greatest thinkers the human race has ever known. Not Ted; he understands that to edit himself would take too much time and signal to the mind soup that he really doesn’t want the data in the form that it wants to come to him. We know where the brain is, but not one person who has ever lived can tell you where the mind exists. They can’t tell you where the edges are.

Read the rest of Chapter 1.