The Lofty Riches - Now Available

You can pick it up at Skylight books zine rack for $2, the magazine rack at 'The Shop' inside the Standard Downtown for $3.

Or order thru this blogsite.

Just send $700 dollars for a complete collection. Including 9 other Novellas. These stories are only available thru the website. That's why it's $700. You read it right. $700. If you send me $700, what you recieve will blow your mind. It might include some chocolates and all novels will be hand bound by Author. I might even use special paper. It will also come with a special note from the author.

Jean-Marc
Hollywood 2000
Icon
A Practical guide to the Universe
Summer Novella 2004
The Race
Ship of Fools
Venice Via Venice
Skyscraper

and The Lofty Riches.

Call me first before you send the money. $323-660-0793$

Phase 2 Start the Design work

Trashvella Press is currently prepping the short story with a provisional title of 'The Lofty Riches'. Designing and printing will take place downtown.
The D.I.Y. festival deadline is closing in. Get ready!

Chapter eleven - The Art Riot

The homeless are tearing apart downtown.
It was bound to happen. The National guard is too tired to do anything. They've got orders to protect themselves and government property and retreat quietly. They could care less what people are doing to the downtown area.
It's gonna take an entire Marine brigade to retake downtown. It's a great time downtown. It's a shooting gallery for the private security firms. They're using all kinds of weapons to break down the masses. Perfected by the Russians. The Russian Heartbreak was the tactic of choice. It's not anything new. It's nothing personal. Don't take it personally.
But your too busy breaking and burning and thrashing your way into the buildings. The private security firms can only protect certain buildings. No street is safe. You don't even really care. The hardcore hole up inside the Standard Hotel and are blown to pieces with heavy rockets and gas bombs.
It's ugly but the Marines finally take Los Angeles back after a couple weeks; Thursday Art Walks are planned by the surviving counsel members.

Chapter ten ~ The flight of the Concord

Andre Balasz keeps a Concord parked for rental at his hotel, The Standard Downtown. He charges a massive one time fee, but only the best for his guests. It breaks all kinds of city codes so you can imagine hiding a Concord is fucking expensive.

Mr. Bettlebum now has enough money to pay for the Concord rental and fly out of here. He's just gonna wheel it down to the start of the runway at Figueroa and 1st and jam it in first gear and get the fuck out of here. There's been no time to pack. This all happened so fast.

The Riot at the Alexandria has spread. The Art Walk has turned into a riot. Crews are slashing each other and spraypainting over each others art. The National Guard isn't doing anything for some reason. It's a super drunken brawl. All those dudes that think they know it all are getting smashed. The Concord is parked in a special place. It's hidden under a tarp. Everyone's so busy that nobody even thought to look under there.

Mr. Bettlebum is now driving a Ford super pick-up truck. It looks like something out of a Mad Max Movie. He's bought this truck for this special occasion. He's built a special garage into the Rosslyn and keeps the truck there. He hits the garage door opener and a hundred people flood in. He punches the gas and runs over most of them. The others see what's happening and are now fleeing from the vehicle. Just another way to die in the riots. Run over by a heavy truck.

He runs up 5th and down Flower cuts into the parking structure.

He pulls into to the parking structure, pays the valet with a briefcase and hooks up the Concord, then he backs it out onto Hope Street. Where it dead-ends into the library. He proceeds to drive it up figueroa until its within driving distance of the runway. Mr. Bettlebum has to stop and unlatch the truck and then get back in the truck and drive it off the road. Then he runs back up into the Concord.

The metal steps clink clank and he shuts the door behind him and presses a button to pressurize it. Mr. Bettlebum bolts into the cockpit and preps the Concord to takeoff. It's just a matter of lighting the engines and hitting the gas really. The Concord flies itself. Mr. Bettlebum hits the ignition and pushes all the way forward on the gas. The Concord builds up speed in no time and lifts off the runway. The Concord pushes up into the atmosphere. Flying up and up and up.

Mr. Bettlebum is getting out of here. Somewhere where nobody cares about nothing. He's probably gonna fly it into the ocean., or Fiji. He's still pretty upset about Cindy. He presses some buttons and pulls the super jet out of auto-pilot. He pulls it around and flies low thru the streets. A lot of people in the streets. Flying by the people so fast, you can't even tell that they're people.

Mr. Bettlebum wants to fly thru the hole in the Park 5th building. He flies low enough to pull up in time and clip the tree in the middle of the vacancy. Then he turns back on the auto-pilot and goes into the back for a drink with some new robots.

Chapter Nine ~ The Homeless Hotelier

Mongo has long since gone and outside thru the window now, I can see it's dark. Night has come. I double lock the door and decide that I'll just stay inside tonight. Something doesn't feel right. I've got 300 channels anyways. Maybe I could work on that New Mexico resort business model. It's my head wound and all that whiskey still swimming around in my system. I roll over to the other side of the bed and grab the remote control. I turn it on. It's the mother of all video systems. 7ft. by 4 ft. screen.
Some gameshow is on.
That's when the door comes flying apart.
Before I can grab my gun or alert anyone they've made it halfway into my room and I'm lying in bed. I reach for my desert eagle and fire and drop one of them, that's when the other throws a gas canister and ducks into the bathroom to put on a gas mask. Fuck!! Theres' no way to go. I blow a couple holes thru the wall where I think this burgler is hiding, but there's no way to tell if I really hit him. I wait until the smoke builds up and try to run thru it all and out the broken doorframe to the hallway. I trip over the dead body and fall into a wall. My eyes full of this smoke; and now disorientated, I find my way along the floor and out into the hallway, but it's too late. Someone is standing over me. He puts a cloth over my mouth and I black out.
I wake up choking, and start vomiting. My head and mouth are taped shut so most of it goes out my nose and somehow by scraping my face against the floor, i loosen up the tape and the vomit can come out now. Coughing. I'm laying in a warm pool of liquid with somebody next to me. Someone is either knocked out cold or dead. I concentrate on breathing and moving away from the vomit and warm sticky substance. It's dark in here, I can barely see. My face is covered in the sticky substance. I can feel an engine and try not to vomit again. It's so sick in here. The car lurches to a halt.
A car door. The trunk opens up and somebody pulls me out of the car and puts me over his shoulder. I'm carried a short distance and then flung into a wall. I think I just broke some ribs. Ouch. Then the this man lays the other next to me. He's sobbing. I must have killed his partner. He can tell I'm concious and kicks me in the face. Ouch. I bounce my head off the wall and black out again.
Waking up while he pulls the duct tape off my face. He jerks at it wildly, doesn't get it off and then just leaves it in tight cords where he was pulling.
"I'm sorry Marvin, but I've got to kill you."
"Bettlebum," I say, "I havn't seen you in a long time, bettlebum."
"You killed Cindy."
"Yea, well, sorry about that bettlebum," I say, "I'll have her fixed."
"The holes are too big, and they don't make that model anymore." He says, then he takes out his gun and puts it down on the desk. He opens the desk drawer and starts to explore, he grabs a hand grenade, "This is really going to hurt."
"Look," I say, "What do you want? You like a good deal. I can give you some perks at the hotel. I know one of the penthouse suites that could be available tomorrow," I say, "I will buy you enough robots to make Cindys funeral look like a real funeral."
"Fuck you Marvin," He says, "I want all your untrace-able cash, and I'm out of here."
"Fuck you Jean," I say, "You want that untrace-able money still, you can have it, you'd really kill me over untraceable cash and a fucking robot, youre still upset over that robot?"
That's when Jean puts away the hand grenade and brings out a little billy club that he's found and proceeds to beat me until I'm dead.
My body is thrown into riots that have spilled over onto 5th and Main. Jean has a mechanism on the roof, just a shopping cart on a sling, he pulls the cart to it's starting point and loads the body inside and then slings it off the roof. He's been aiming for his brothers building for years. He finds smaller framed men make more distance. My body flutters among the acrobat dancers and plunges into the riots below.

Chapter Eight ~ The Etoile Detective Agency

"I'll go get ready." Cindy says.

"Okay, darling."

She goes into the waiting room for the office and grabs some clothes from her bag. It takes her 25 minutes to find a dress and now she has to match it with some shoes. That takes another 15 minutes. Then she spends 10 minutes at the bar trying to explain away another drink. Mr. Bettlebum has nothing better to do though. He loves it. He won't have it any other way. She could take another 3 hours and he won't even remember what they had planned. She's actually pretty fast today and gets it together in under an hour.

They pick up the El Dorado at the valet station and wait around another 20 minutes or so. The sun is casting long shadows at the valet. The metal pedestal that the valet rolls out and sits behind is dinged up and dirty. The valet are tired, the replacements should be here soon, so all they do is count their money. They might lead you to believe that the El Dorado is coming soon, but it isn't. They're waiting for the afternoon shift to arrive. Mr. Bettlebum and Cindy are oblivious.

Both of them hop in. They pull the car up to the road barrier. Bumping into it and coming to a sudden stop. Cindy drops her stuff. Mr. Bettlebum turns the dial on the radio. The road barrier slowly lifts up, the tractor engine on the other side pulling it. KCRW is the station. Santa Monica was untouched by the earthquake and is transmitting just fine. Electro plays softly.

"Whoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" Cindy screams.

The car roars out of the gate while the security forces provide cover fire.

"It's getting dangerous out," Mr. Bettlebum says, "It wasn't like this last week."

"Maybe we should go back."

"No way, with this money, we'll have it made."
"I know," Cindy says, "We can never go back."

"You're right about that."

They drive fast down Grand. As soon as they turn down 5th, they can see the art walk in full swing. The shadows are getting longer. Parking is impossible. They end parking on the sidewalk. That's when Rudy shows up.

"You know you can't park here," Rudy rolls up with his lights on, "If you leave it here, I will tow this car," Rudy can see that they're getting out and walking away, "Okay." He picks up his radio and speaks some cryptic language. A tow truck pulls up before Mr. Bettlebum and Cindy can turn the corner.

"I guess we'll take the train back, darling." Mr. Bettlebum says.

"Don't worry about the car honey," Cindy says, "We can go pick it up later."

They dart down the street and make their way to 5th and Main. The crowds have really built up. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves. A lot of drunken revelry. All kinds of crews battle arting in the street. There are no cafes here. Just sidewalk bars and Electro-Jazz. They're playing a tribute to daft punk. It's a gas. They get caught up in the flow of people, thru the galleries, stopping at the wine stands, then thru other galleries, then stopping at more wine stands and continuing to the other galleries. You're going to love it here.

"Darling," Mr. Bettlebum grabs Cindy at some MOCA exhibit, "What did we come down here for?"

"For this," Cindy says.

"I love the art walk."

"Me too."

"I feel that we came down here for something else," Mr. Bettlebum remembers, "Oh yea, we've got to get over to the Rosslyn."

"Oh yea."

They finish their wine drinks and arm in arm make it down the street to the Rosslyn hotel. It's spooky but the clerk will open the door if you give him $5 bucks. A strange sensation having a 25 ft. plexy glass wall close behind you. Where is the fire exit? There must be a fire exit. Mr. Bettlebum studies the lobby as Cindy spins on the marble floor. He leaves her to spin as he finds the elevators and pushes the button. Cindy stops spinning and joins him at the elevator.

"It's so lonely out there."

"Yea, it's a lonely place." Mr. Bettlebum says.

The clerk sees them floundering and yells something about the 3rd floor and to get out of here. Bastard. The elevator is not working. The stairs are in plain view from the elevator. A steady stream of people have been walking in and out of the place. Cindy and Mr. Bettlebum walk up the stairs on their way to the third floor.

The stairwell is pretty clean actually. Barren. Someone runs a tight ship. They find the third floor and a doorman demands a $1 entrance fee. Sounds good. They pay. The doorman sits back down behind his podium and writes something down.

Inside is a free for all, yet most of these lowlifes know Mr. Bettlebum. Nobodies met Cindy but they are sure happy to see her now. Mr. Bettlebum finds out that the owner of the building has been dumping dead bodies all over town. Making them look like accidents and the such. On his way out he buys a grab bag of dope and throws some high fives. Cindy waves goodbye. They head back downstairs to talk to managment.

Take off

All the New Yorkers are freaking out! The people from Dubai don't care. The professional atheletes, cracky the pirate and most of the fine fine people down at 6th and flower don't seem to notice, But's that down the street. We are now deep inside Parcel Q. The hanging gardens rival Babylons. Don't worry all you New Yorkers. These pilots are the tops. They do this everyday. When they're not doing this, they are playing video games about doing this. Huge Jetliners in and out of skyscraper lined runways.