So it was not with frivolity that I went to that storage locker on Glendale that night. It was not with gaiety that I pulled the fraying string on the overhead light, unlocked the corrugated metal gate and surveyed my equipment. Indeed, it was with a heavy heart that I hefted my shotgun loaded with consecrated Earth, coiled my whip braided from Nepalese prayer beads and sheathed my twin daggers (forged on the Winter Solstice and cooled in the waters of the Nile's Source) inside of my wife's bright purple velvet mini robe. That last part especially was just chock full of deliberation and intent and was absolutely on purpose, I promise. I was not at all intending to don my sweet black leather duster and opened the wrong closet because I was still next-day drunk -- no, the robe was a talisman; it was, like, blessed by a Canadian Frost Monk or something. Word is bond.
"Hey, I snap pictures of accidents that I pass on the highway! I'm normal, amigos!" -- Mario Lopez
And so laden with sacred weaponry and profane intent did I mount my steed -- a beaten and ill-used 2005 Kia Optima -- my grim purpose beating inside of me like a second heart. With even grimmer purpose did I then mount the 4 Line toward downtown after the Optima refused to start. With the grimmest of all purposes did I stumble off that bus in West Hollywood, after being rudely awakened and shoved toward the exit by the surly Vietnamese driver who bizarrely muttered of "inhuman wails" and "terrible screeching" and "too many farts."
When I eventually arrived at my frightful terminus, I clambered over the towering brick wall to the Lopez compound, fell onto a tree, caught my "protective" mini robe on an errant branch and went stealthily spinning into the wet earth below. I cunningly feigned unconsciousness for an indeterminate period of time. When I at last awoke, it was dark.