Diablo in BurbankA Chapter by Judas Hammer Leaving Burbank on a midnight run after losing a fight to the Devil....... Chapter 1 I was driving on a dark road in the northern section of the San Fernando Valley. My gas tank was heading toward E quickly. I had to leave the beautiful city of Burbank on a mid night run. Surgen my fat, bald headed, glasses clad roommate had admittedly come under possession by the Devil. This was the third time Satan had taken him over after long drinking bout lead him to suicidal thoughts. We prayed and kicked Satan out and the drunk, chubby Mexican, usually went to his room and fell face down on his bed, bathed his own slobber. That night was different. He hid behind his bedroom door leading to his living room. He had just finished off two bottles of vodka. He had discovered the girl he was screwing had become with child. His only choice was abortion. I tried to talk him out of it, but talk was cheap when you’re the clubhouse for old Scratch. I sat on his sofa; tired of this cheap performance of the Exorcist. He was a walking and eating Latin liar that was never to be believed. A person did so at his or her own peril. The night started off average as it always had. We were at the table playing dominos when the insanity took control. He received a text message with a picture of two, used pregnancy test: both read positive. What a weak fat twat sat next to me. Tears in his eyes as he drunkenly repeated the mantra, ” I don’t want to be responsible.” A sickness arose in the pit of my bowls. I knew this little being had no chance. Two weeks ago he bragged about cumming inside of her: like he was a man. He strutted around the living room, gut hiding under and a white wife beater t-shirt. He grabbed a pack of cancer stick and headed out the front door to the railing over looking the court, as though he slain a whole pride of lions. He crooked eye was blinded by the over hanging security lights. That night flashed into my head as he sat at the table tear staining his glasses. His friend Sean the skinny, crew cut drug addict who had the counting skills of a calculus instructor and Phil the stout, Colombia who worked at the sports store in studio city, whose claim to fame was helping Britney Spears buy skiing gloves had left with their condolences; one went left the other went right, into the cold night air. He kept drinking his lips stuck firmly to the bottle. I tried to take it from him. This mistake I would regret, trying to disarm the fat child. He stumbled around like a toddler room to room repeating the mantra, “ I don’t want to be responsible.” He would drunkenly storm from his apartment outside and leaned dangerously on the top railing like a fat Weeble Wobble, stumbling down the stairs. He ran to the landing and called his family, ranting in Spanish. They asked him where he was, but he wouldn’t tell them. I was obvious until then: that was a common call. The drunken dial from hell. His father’s only advice was to sleep it off. No one came. No one stayed. He was on the broad road to hell with an Iphone and vodka on his breath breath. I tried to keep him in the apartment. It was an impossible task, but the suicide was an act. After he again scanned the room for demons and attempted to jump out of the kitchen window, he headed out the door again into the night. Anger had over taken my once peaceful spirit or maybe it was the disgust for this weak ball of blubber. As he walked out of the door I grabbed him by the flab under his neck. It felt like a fleshy, empty hot water bag. I told him I didn’t fear his demons and to stay in the room because my baby-sitting duties where over. I saw boldness come across his flabby jowls as his face twisted with rage. He punched several holes in the door. I started packing my things; at that point I knew there was no point. I was a wrap. Done. I had been there before, this was a common living situation in the city of fallen angels. He sat on the couch and stared at me as I packed my bags. He dialed the police on the cell phone, “ You want to f**k with me!” I heard the dispatcher come on the other line. He drunkenly slurred that I was going to attack him. He told the police dispatch my social security number he had memorized. I didn’t stop nor say a word. My inner voice told me to keep packing and to get out of there as soon as possible: the devil had won the night. I moved my suitcases to my car and placed them in the trunk, he then gave the dispatch my license plate number. This beast! I was in the middle of a set up! I had to stay cool! Cool as a Burbank street when the air came onto the mountain, and then into the valley of hopelessness. I remembered I had no gas when I double checked the meter. I headed back to the apartment. Surgean called his father and relayed the same information. I was on the clock. He followed me up stairs. He dumped a pot of water on the floor. He grabbed cups and smashed them on the floor, jumped on his phone again but this time he slipped on the water and fell onto the shattered pieces of ceramic. I reached into his pocket and took any money he had. I ran down and jumped into my car. I was nervous as a cold sweat came over me. Burbank was a Nazi cop city! What if they caught me! I could not bail out! I had to make a run for the 5 highways on ramp a mile away. Staring into my rearview fearing at any moment the Burbank boys in blue would hit me with the lights. I found the on ramp and hit the five north. My gas tank was below E. I had taken seven dollar from my fat, ex roommate and had three of my own. The first gas station I found was open but the cashier would not come to the window. They must have been in the back chanting Hindu prayers of good luck and no robberies. I took a chance and made a left. I always make a left when I trouble. I came to a large gas station and put ten dollars in my tank, then asked direction to Van Nuys and attacked the highway on my way to the Starbucks parking lot. I had slept here before. I knew Van Nuys like the back of my hand. I could live homeless in the city for a while. I had done it before. I made it to the coffee shop off Burbank blvd. I had spent many a lonely Friday night banging away at scripts or editing films to the backdrop of an Armenian conversation or a young, longhaired, dirty vampire trying to convince a man that dragons and UFO's were real. I pulled to the back of the large parking lot, under a bright streetlight, took out my blanket and covered my head. It was four o’clock and eight o’clock would be here soon. I feel into sleep, still numb from my ordeal. I woke knowing I would have to devise a plan. I had one at the corner of my brain planned incase Surgan showed his true colors, which did not surprise me. The very moment the sun greeted my eyes, I would make the call: the one to my salvation. © 2013 Judas HammerAuthor's Note
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Added on March 16, 2013Last Updated on March 16, 2013 Author
Judas HammerThe City of Angeles, CAAboutI like to write, live in La and write and make short films. and more..Writing
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