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4SOUTHLAND TALESor was taken by a UCLA art student who saw the black and white aestheticas cruise control for “classy photography.” In the photograph, there wereall of these black umbrellas opened on the beach. Something about theimage of even a single black umbrella seemed so bizarre to us, and in thispicture, everyone on the beach had one. This distilled the LA experiencefor us- an illogical choice, unquestioningly co-opted by all.After we completed a confusing transfer that no one was willing to helpus understand, we rode the second bus to our intended destination, and webegan to feel a certain loneliness that we were about to walk the beachwithout someone to hold hands with.When we reached the beach, there wasn't a single black umbrella insight, which made us consider that the picture might have been an artificialconstruct. We should have expected that from a place like this.As we glanced out toward the end of the Santa Monica pier, we spottedthe Mariasol restaurant, where atop its yellow roof was a distinctly postJuly 4th image of a camo-clad soldier on a gun turret, pointing his highpowered rifle at the beach. This was something that, before Abilene,would've been terrifying, but after Abilene, it's merely a commonplacecomfort.Abilene- that name was stuck in our brain as we made our way downthe pier, toward the restaurant, and as we were climbing the stairs to enterthe Mariasol, we realized why. The man sitting on the turret, behind thatrifle, was Pilot Abilene. This poster boy was strategically located in the oneplace that seeing a celebrity would be a thrill, and seeing a high-poweredrifle would be a chilling reminder of where we are as a country. This wasour celebrity sighting, and it should have been enough, but we neededmore. We realized that if we were to look Pilot in his injured eye, it wouldbe an LA experience we could recount for a lifetime. We knew we wouldn'twince at the sight of him, or get thrown off by his disfigurement- that scarencircling his eye, with its tail slicing down to his lip. The scar vaguelyresembles a question mark, but there's no question as to how it happenedthe story has been recounted in every profile done on Pilot, and there havebeen many. The look of the injury isn't that severe anymore, because likeeveryone else in this state, Pilot had a plastic surgeon do enough work thathis injuries aren’t jarring to look at, as long as we don’t think about themilitary-industrial complex that saw Pilot Abilene as a recruiting tool fortheir ugly war.

SOUTHLAND TALES5Our bus trip to the pier felt like destiny- we had found him- a hero and alegend- and best of all, no one was around him.We walked through the Mariasol, with its skinny perimeter windows,and rows of tightly packed tables.We exited the restaurant from a side-door and stepped onto an elevatedplatform which connected the Mariasol to a recently repurposed buildingused to launch boats carrying supplies and workers out to the TidalGenerator. Out on this raised platform, we turned a trashcan upside-down,then stepped on it, and this was enough to allow us to grab onto the edge ofan outcrop in the building that wasn't covered by the blinding yellow roof.We hoisted ourselves up, and began practicing what we'd say, PrivateAbilene, Thank you for your service- no. Pilot, we miss seeing you on TVno. Mr. Abilene, so sorry for intruding- yes. That was the one, we decided.We wanted to apologize to him.All of this preparation was for naught though, because atop theMariasol, we found ourselves unable to speak, while face-to-face with oneof our favorite actors, and the barrel of his massive rifle. He winked hisscarred eye at us, then offered a four-word introduction:“Bang.”“No! Please no,” we gasped, ducking, but in his smooth sweet Southernaccent, Pilot assured us:“Stand up. I’m just messin’ with ya.”We did as he requested, and we waited for further instructions, butPilot seemed to notice something on the screen of the laptop attached to histurret, and he became completely distracted- like we weren't even there.The fact remained, we were there, and we currently are still there so,yes, at this very moment, we're on the roof of the Mariasol, staring at PilotAbilene, and just behind him is the massive four-legged Tidal Generator,anchored in the Pacific Ocean.This is the way our vacation begins; first with a “bang,” then withsilence.We've spent so many days staring at a screen, focused on Pilot, that wedon't feel awkward about staring at Pilot, as he remains transfixed withwhat's on his screen. We can't see what he's watching, but we do notice thatthe back of the laptop has a circular black and white sticker on it, and thelogo on the sticker has two rifles crossed over each other. Instead of therifles forming an X, they form a cross, like a crucifix, and we have to

6SOUTHLAND TALESwonder if all injured soldiers receive such a sticker in exchange for theirsacrifice.Without looking at us, Pilot issues a demand that barely sounds like aword:“C'mon.”He pats the open seat on the turret, and instead of asking if this is atrick, we follow his order.“Sit.”Our nerves buzzing, our fingertips tingling, we sit next to Pilot on theturret.“Watch this.”We again follow the order we're given, and we look at the screen of thelaptop.Pilot taps the screen, and our eyes follow his finger.At first, we misinterpret what we're seeing as B-roll of David Lynch’sDune.A sandstorm in the middle of the desert begins to cover a body. There'ssomething familiar about this figure, this massive man. We can only seehalf of his face, but we're almost certain it's Boxer Santaros. Since all ofBoxer's movies deal with some form of disaster- natural or otherwise- it's asafe bet that is Boxer in the sand.“What’s the name of this movie?” we ask.“Life.”This explains the lack of opening credits, and the fact that Boxerremains in the fetal position for two full minutes of screen time, but itraises numerous other questions that we aren't sure we're allowed to ask.We pay attention to the laptop screen, hoping that it will provide someanswers, but the footage has no cuts. We watch the sandstorm whip, andit's only when the sand-level surpasses Boxer's nose that his eyes open, andhe sits up.Dunes below, sand in the wind, smoke in the sky- Boxer looks up,seemingly questioning, Is this a war zone, or just Texas? Which heprobably followed up with the question, Is there a difference between thetwo anymore?Boxer gets to his feet, the sand swirling around him, and he searches fora landmark. Anytime we've seen a movie with a character in the desert,they're always in trouble- like that scene from Casino- De Niro, in those

SOUTHLAND TALEShuge sunglasses, watching Pesci kick up dust in a fast-approaching driveacross the sand. In a voice-over, De Niro presumes that he'll be shot andburied in the desert, and in this situation, he had an advantage comparedto Boxer- at least the weather was nice in De Niro scene.Boxer looks down at his feet, and there sits two nearly-buried itemswhat looks like a small metal case, and what might be a backpack. Heblinks sand out of his eyes, then reaches down and picks up the metal box.After pressing his thumb on the print-reader, Boxer is able to get the caseopened. It appears that sitting atop a smooth red velvet interior issomething that looks like a mix between a handgun and a syringe. Boxergrabs the LED adorned syringe- its chrome glinting, its red liquid nearlyglowing- then he hungrily plunges the needle into his neck. We wince, asBoxer's eyes go wide despite the swirling sandstorm, then he drops to hisknees.We aren’t sure if this is an act of suicide, or a desperate attempt byBoxer to sustain himself further in the unforgiving desert as he waits forhelp. All we can think about is our friend, Brendan, who came back fromFallujah with shrapnel in his legs, and how he has an addiction to shootingLiquid Karma into his veins. Brendan would go to great lengths to get hishands on Liquid Karma, and to this day he can't stop talking about what atranscendent experience it is. He would ramble on-and-on about howLiquid Karma expands one's consciousness, and provides the spiritualeuphoria akin to soaring with eagles. He also said the same shit aboutmushrooms too so we mostly just ignore his drug reviews.We're jolted by Pilot, who reprimands us:“Hey, pay attention. Watch the screen. I need your help.The, uh, the thing of it is. we need to find out how to stopthe end of the world and it's not going to happen with youlooking out toward the beach.”“Um, the end of the world?” we ask, hoping we heard Pilot wrong. Webegin to scan the beach, then we look to the gun on the turret.“Don't worry- everything that's happening out there onthe beach is fine. I haven't even shot this rifle before. I'mmostly stationed up here as window dressing.What we need to focus on isn't out there, it's right here,on this laptop screen. Ya see Boxer lying there in thesand? I know he looks like he won't be getting up- like7

8SOUTHLAND TALEShe'll be buried in the desert- but he'll be fine. I know this,because I've seen this happen before- not just Boxer doingLiquid Karma out by Lake Mead, but all of this. So here'swhat I propose, I'll help you understand what'shappening here, but if you disagree with me, please,challenge me. I need your observations so we can fix this.We can't let everything play out like I know it does. Thecountry depends on us changing. something. I need youto help me understand what that 'something' might be. Iknow you came up here to get an autograph or a picturewith me, but sometimes life asks for more. I came to LA tobe a TV star, and ended up on a turret; you came to LA tomeet a movie star, and now you're on a turret too.I need you, and I can see you asking yourself if it hadto be you, and truthfully, it didn't. You just happened tocome to me, so I'm using it to my advantage.”We don't know how to react to this moment. We did want somethingfrom Pilot, and now he needs something from us, so there's an awkwardbalance being struck here. Carefully, we ask, “What if we don't find outwhat needs to be changed?”“Maybe you don't have to. There's this process that Iwant to try out. I learned about it back in Iraq. I wasspeaking with someone who worked on the USIDentproject when they first got authorization for it under ThePatriot Act. He was a programmer, and he said that histeam was one of the major players in developing theback-end for the system that's beaming us this feed. Dueto the high likelihood of another attack after El Paso andAbilene, this guy's code was written on a strict timeline.His guys had to deliver on the project ASAP. Myprogrammer friend said that there were so many bugswith the surveillance systems- cameras only working ona stationary rotation, cameras not getting IPs, camerasstraight up not receiving a signal- so to troubleshoot this,one of the techniques one of his guys would use to check iftheir code was broken or the access lists were fucked up,was they would explain aloud what the code was

SOUTHLAND TALES9supposed to do, to a rubber duck on their desk. Thatstupid little duck would sit there, and it would stare at theprogrammer as he went through the code, line-by-line,and the idea was that by having to explain what eachpiece of the code meant, the programmer would noticewhat was broken when he couldn't explain it away. So, Iguess what I'm asking is. will you be my rubber duck?”We nod, and quietly confirm, “Yes.”“Thank you. Oh, and in that case, you're gonna needthis.”Pilot reaches into the pocket of his olive green army pants, then takesout an orange bottle of suntan lotion. He gives it to us, and even though weput on some suntan lotion for the TMZ tour, we know this direct sunlight isgoing to be a problem, so we apply a second coat.Once we smell like a piña colada, we hand Pilot back his lotion, and wemake good on our promise, by focusing on the laptop screen.Boxer, for the second time since we've arrived, rises from the sand like aburied relic being hoisted by a crane. As the sand pours off Boxer's massiveframe, it fills the open pockets of his khaki cargo shorts.At first, it was difficult to gauge just how imposing Boxer Santaros is,but as he removes his green hoodie and T-shirt, to shake out the sand, itbecomes obvious that Boxer isn't being CGI'd in his movies- he really isthat big, that defined, that cut.Once he puts his shirt and hoodie back on, Boxer digs up the backpackat his feet, then straps it to his back. He chooses to leave the metal case andthe syringe behind. That needle could be worth good money if someonewere to sell it to TMZ so it's better that it remains out in the middle ofnowhere.We try to read the expression on Boxer's face, and his bewildermentbetrays a cool he's effortlessly flaunted in so many summer blockbusters ofthe past. We're immediately keyed into Boxer's dilemma, because he's not astranger- he's a familiar man in a strange situation- and that's not soforeign to us anymore.Seemingly ready to begin his trek out of the desert, Boxer braces againstthe sand-salted wind and looks into the horizon. Deciding on a direction,he begins to walk, and in a chilling twist, the feed follows him. At first,we're unsure of how this is occurring, but then we look to the right of Pilot's

10SOUTHLAND TALESscreen, and we see that the sight on his rifle is surrounded by a little bluering, confirming, yes, it's recording everything. This means that someonehas the sight of their rifle trained on one of the biggest movie stars in theworld, as he does drugs and wanders around the desert like Hunter S.Thompson with a marginally better receding hairline.“Who's watching Boxer?” we ask Pilot.“We are.”Boxer stops walking and as the frame expands, we see that he's at a forkin the road.“Two roads diverge in a desert-storm, and BoxerSantaros could not travel both, so long he stood, andlooked down one, as far he could.”“What the fuck was that? Did you just deliver a soliloquy?” we ask Pilot,who smirks, but doesn't take his eyes away from the screen.We peel back this new comfort and remember that Pilot Abilene is nextto us, and he asked us for a favor, so we pay attention to what the screen isshowing us, instead of over-analyzing what we hope isn't a slam poetryhabit Pilot has acquired.Finally making a decision, Boxer flips up his hood and braces againstthe punishing sandstorm. He chooses the path to the right that bends intothe undergrowth.From the rifle sight, we follow Boxer for a very long time, and we beginto wonder how our California vacation turned into this.Boxer becomes smaller and blurrier in the frame as even the zoom onthe rifle sight can't keep up with the trek. Before Boxer disappears from thescreen, the feed abruptly switches. No longer are we watching BoxerSantaros; Now, on Pilot's laptop screen, we're in a first-person view,following behind a US Army soldier who's wearing a gas mask.“That's supposed to happen. The feed is supposed tojump. They control what we need to see. All of this issupposed to happen, all of this is supposed to be seen.”“Why does this need to be seen?” we ask.“Because we need to protect America. Land of the free,home of the saved video files of every moment of your lifeso you can never escape your past.”

SOUTHLAND TALES11We hear, “How long is this storm supposed to last?” crackle over thefeed, and the soldier on screen looks back toward the camera, then says,“Doesn't matter. Just keep on keepin' on.”Not only do we have video, but we also have access to the audio feedsfrom the mics they have in their gas masks. The soldiers become thesubject of this surveillance-state film that Pilot is screening, and wepresume that were being beamed this information from the USIDentservers.We thought that the US avoids filming their soldiers because if anyinjustices are committed, the Neo-Marxist Underground will totally freakout. Once the left began their campaign of total equality at any cost, theinfighting on their side became so severe that now two groups- the classicDemocratic party, as well as the Neo-Marxists- will get bitchy at aperceived act of impropriety so this filming-ban was logical on the currentadministration's part.We briefly had considered that this is a Neo-Marxist feed that Pilot wasgetting via the alter-net USIDeath, but none of the Neo-Marxists havemade a shoehorned and awkward cameo yet, so we know they aren'tfilming this. No Neo-Marxist could stay off camera for this long. In the end,it doesn't matter who's showing us this- what matters is they're showing uswhat leads to the end of the world, and it's up to us to alter the narrative,and avoid the ending.The soldier on the screen pauses for a moment, then asks, “Any sign ofhim?”The frame pans left, then right, in quick succession, and we're nowcertain that we're watching footage from a helmet-cam. Along with thephysical “no,” our cameraman says, “He must have wandered outside of theperimeter. This is a restricted area.”“So radio the general and get authorization to enter the restricted area,”the soldier on-screen says, as he resumes walking.“Command, can you get me General MacArthur?” we hear ourcameraman request, and we realize that we're not the only ones listening inon the feed.“For what purpose, over,” we hear crackle on the feed.“This is private Aldrich, requesting authorization to enter the restrictedsector of Lake Mead,” we hear our cameraman say, as he continueswalking.

12SOUTHLAND TALES“Bridging in the general,” Command responds.“General Teena MacArthur here,” is the next voice on the line, and wedidn't expect it to be a woman's voice, but it is.“General, we're tailing a man who appeared in sector 19:55, request tocontinue into restricted territory 19:69 to apprehend the trespasser.”There's a pause, then the general comes back on the line, “Recently, wehad detected two Treer SUVs cutting through the desert, but we lost themin the sandstorm. authorization approved to continue into the restrictedarea.”“I'm with Private Spillane as well,” our cameraman discloses.“Permission granted for the both of you. Keep me abreast to any and allsightings of the trespasser, and keep a lookout for two black Treer SUVs.”“10-4, General,” our cameraman radios, and when he looks up, we findthat the soldiers are at the same crossroads that Boxer arrived at.The soldier on screen turns, and asks, “What do you think? Go for it?”“Aren't you just a little curious?” the other soldier responds.Before a selection is made, the feed switches back to Boxer's desert trek,but something is off. What we're watching immediately feels wrong- thefootage has time-jumped- the sun is now setting. We're still watching himfrom a rifle sight, but is it the same rifle sight? Did this armed voyeur trackBoxer as day became night?We look to the sky, and see the sun burning brightly above us.“This is happening in the desert outside of Lake Mead?” we as

Tales, resulting in this novel. If you're already confused, turn back now. The manuscript you're about to read is the entire Southland saga. This novel is 100% free. If you paid money for it, someone ripped you off. If you'd like to support me, my novels are available on Amazon, here. If you'