X LA

I play the Moonlight Sonata in the Hyundai Sonata, bidding it farewell. I say goodbye to the spider that lives beneath the side mirror. I walk away from my companions, the time we had together now separating, but for each of us our time would continue beyond the end of the quest. I take a last look over my shoulder at the car, standing by itself in the airport lot. A fog had descended over the city, though it was just visible beyond the veil, like part loaded geometry beneath the skin of a game. I smoke a cigarette on the post-American soil, wondering what was next for the nameless landmass that had been the fifty states. Perhaps it would split, as the Byzantine and Roman Empires, or East and West Germany, or Ireland and England. Or perhaps it would shatter, hundreds of citadels rising from the ashes at a constant state of war against one another, eventually evolving into orcs. Or perhaps it would enter a Renaissance, leading the way for other collapsing empires in the 21^st century, drawing upon the grief of losing one’s country as being reflected by, and therefore in solidarity with, all other people around the world experiencing their homeland be taken away from them. Or perhaps the First People retake their land, returning North America to how it had been for millennia, bringing about a new age of Nativistic Excellence, forged in the fires of dead Empire.

The country formerly known as the USA had been humbled. Its citizens no longer shouted, but spoke softly, carefully. They no longer demanded Uncle Cunt-Butts Chipotle & BBQ Spiced Gravy all over their food, instead they would nod in appreciation at the sacrament of a crumb of salt. The Post-American tourist now spoke multiple languages, enjoyed local culture and travelled with only what they could carry. The world noticed.

I entered LAX, trying to open the airlines app so I could check-in, though after forgetting my password, resetting it, going through two-factor authentication, logging in again, the password not working and starting the process again, I realised I had walked all the way through security. I looked around, nobody was working. A few other travellers passed through, equally perplexed by the lack of security, but we laugh about it and walk on. Empty shelves that once held perfume, cigarettes and V-Bucks were now covered in candles piled on top of each other, the glow lighting the way through a twisting corridor and out into the airport terminal.

The building had been turned into a Cathedral, with great stone columns supporting a ceiling frescoed with planes and clouds set against a sky of blue quartz. Enormous stained-glass windows are dedicated to the science of aeronautics, with the Wright Brothers standing as saints aside the first aircraft, tilted upward so it resembles a crucifix. I walk across the floor decorated in representations of the mathematical equations of flight when I hear footsteps run behind me. I turn around.

“Hey, it’s you!” they say.

“What!?” I shout.

“I like your writing.”

“You’re welcome! Thanks for reading. I don’t really think of myself as being involved in the process really, more that I sweeping away stone that has already been chiselled, we get to find out what’s beneath together, you know? That’s fun, isn’t it. Do you write?”

“Yeah, I used to, but you know, it’s hard, I don’t like what I write.”

“Ah, who gives a fuck. If you want to write something down, do it. There’s plenty I’ve only thought about and not written down, it disappears. Give writing a go. You can do whatever you want.” I say, winking. I pull out a pack of cigarettes, offer them one, and we smoke as I wait for the plane to come in. Just as they are about to leave I shout at them to stop. Turn around. I throw something in the air. They catch it. Pull their hand down, it slowly opens. It’s the keys to the Hyundai Sonata. They look back up, but I am gone.

I go up the stairs one at a time, sighing quietly at how inefficient boarding was. Could they not see that I was fast? I could get my bag in the overhead storage, sit down and look at my phone in less than four seconds. At the speed we were going I would never get on the flight, living the rest of my years halfway up a mobile staircase. Eventually, miraculously, I board the plane and make my way to my seat.

I look around at the people nearby. Some alone, some in couples, others are families, friends, we are all sitting down and waiting patiently to leave what had been America. Part of me is nervous, expecting Armitage Shanks to appear from behind a curtain or some other atrocity to happen and once again I would travel thousands of miles in the air, violently convulsing for hours. But instead, nothing does. The plane reverses from LAX terminal, approaches the runway and takes off. I look out of the window, back at the city, the hills, the mountains, down at the desert, down at the clouds, down at nothing. There is nothing. I turn on the in-flight movie and watch a limousine covered in blood arrive at an airport.

Should We Be Worried About Drones?

Are you morally obligated to kill a murderer? It is the only way to keep people safe. Yet did the act of killing somehow bring you down to the same level as this guy? No. Some people are just better off dead unfortunately, and if somebody has to do it, it may as well be you.

This is the philosophy of many online forums dedicated to hunting down those who kill. These vigilante streamers are collectively known as killcels. They specialise in hunting down the destroyers in our society: serial killers, domestic terrorists, mass shooters, political assassins. Popular Tiktok videos of killcels involve hunting down local murderers with high powered rifles with laser sights, running through forests at night and taunting them with 2000s era club classics.

Killcels themselves had their own nemesis, which the entire community was focused on in the hot June of ‘25. Somebody had been using drones packed with high explosives, flying them near the killcel brigades before exploding in a violent fashion. Sometimes they would appear whilst they were launching an attack against the local serial killer, others would be followed home before the explosives would detonate as they stepped out of their car. They called him Droneboy.

Drone warfare had been practiced around the world, with the biggest user being the United States. It only makes sense that the escalation of weapons technology would eventually find its way into the hands of everyday citizens. Even the most well-armed foe, with years of military experience, multiple blackbelts in martial arts and heavy body armour would be blown to pieces by a bomb strapped to a flying toy you could buy at Walmart. This asynchronous combat had been used against civilians in other countries for years, but now it was happening to Americans, they had entered a new level of fear. 

The killcels gather round a table made from a big empty bobbin of wire. We are at an undisclosed location at Sylvan Heights Bird Park. The men around me are twitchy, AR-15s in their hands and cocaine in their veins. 

"What’s the deal with this Droneboy? What is he, an experimental musician?" I say, smirking.

"He hunts those that are hunting the hunters."

"Some say your vigilante justice often goes wrong, you kill innocent people regularly, as well as multiple bystanders. Is Droneboy not just doing what you do to others?"

"Do unto others as you would hath done to you. You're right. We're all going to go to hell for what we've done. But that doesn’t mean this guy can just fly a drone at our best soldiers and wipe them out like a call of duty killstreak."

"He should come out and fight us properly. Mano-a-mano." Says one guy with a katana. 

"Why would he do that? He's winning." I say.

"We're evolving. We have tactics. Disguises. Our own drones that can elimate his drones. We run drills of what to do in an explosive attack." 

They demonstrate for me, throwing themselves flat on the floor, arms pulled over their heads. I stand awkwardly above them all whilst a parrot cries from a nearby tree.

They demonstrate some of their other counter measures. Smoke grenades, fireworks, antisignal wave disruptors, net guns, trained pigeons, armour umbrellas, air cannons, lidar camera jammers, surface to air frequency modulators and good old fashioned guns. Killcels now wore experiments hearing aids tuned to the sound of a drone flying, giving them early warning as to when a strike might take place. These bozos were armed, dangerous and more paranoid than a 12 year old taking its first bong hit.

Droneboy had responded to each of these counter measures with his own. He would fly drones far above his targets, cut the engines and bomb down vertically and silently before exploding next to a killcel soldier. Other times he had installed failsafe systems, so even if the signal was cut, an AI on the drones computer would identify and lock on to the targets, chasing them down until its battery ran out. Droneboy had tried aerial camouflage, armoured units, high yield explosives, drones designed to be destroyed before splitting off into a series of cluster bombs, remote control cars stuffed with C4, randomised gearing on the drones so its signature sound was replaced, liquid thermite barrels and so on. 

The killcels and drone boy were locked in an endless arms race, constantly responding to changes in tactics with their own modifications. Online they portrayed killcels as Wile E. Coyote and Droneboy as Roadrunner, a humorous reference to the evolution of combat design between these two foes. I begin to ask them about their history of divorce, but they all tense in unison.

“Shhh. Drone at 10 o clock in the morning.” Says one of the killcels. We all crouch down as a drone flies overhead. Nobody knows if this was going to be an attack or some dad with a YouTube channel. The drone passes and we all start to relax again.

As I leave the group, I can’t help but think how pointless violence was. People making robots to fight other robots other people had made, what was the point in any of it? They may as well play Street Fighter 2.

Later that evening I watch the news. A report about a dust cloud is interrupted with breaking news that Droneboy had attacked again. A group of killcels had chased a spree killer who had circular saws around his boxing gloves, cornering him in a children’s play area. The killer slid down a slide and into a ballpit as the killcels emptied round after round at the bulletproof glass protecting the playzone. Helicopter footage shows a cloud of paper airplanes flying towards them before falling. Each of the pieces of origami was laced with a deadly poison made from the bodies of rare millipedes, when they hit the floor it would begin to bubble and melt. It dissolved the killcels within a few seconds, leaving the spree killer to continue his wild of murder. Who did this Droneboy think he is? Lady Justice or Judge Dredd? Either way, this bizarre terrorist engineer showed no signs of slowing down his attacks. Sometimes you just had to accept things, dance in the rain, and hope that things would get better by themselves.

 

LAX

“and that's how I got to be the governor of Los Angeles.” said Arnold Schwarzenegger, taking a cigar from the ashtray and taking a big lungful of Cuban tobacco. I look over at his stunt double with a skin tight green lycra hood over his head wait to one side of the set while the green screen is sweeped of debris. We're on the set of Terminator 5 set for release next year. I have been trying to get this meeting since I'd arrived in Los Angeles and it seemed fitting for it to take place on my last day in the states. Arnold Schwarzenegger sits across from me in a wicker chair dressed in his signature leather jacket and jeans. Terminator make-up is applied to bits of his head and glints in the high noon sun thrown from a 1000w redhead.
“So tell me about this new Terminator flick.” I said.
“It's a reboot, but also a sequel. A paraquel. I play the role of a terminator sent back in time then is stuck in an alternative reality. The film flashes forward to the present day, where I have been aging. This is the first film where we really explore the philosophy of what it must mean to be a Terminator. It is a cybernetic organism yet has the ability to learn, a metal endoskeleton surrounded by living tissue. What are the differences and similairities between humans and machines? We hope to explore that in the next Terminator movie. That and time travel.”
“So what has the Terminator in this film been doing?”
“Since he saved Sarah Connor's parents he started a career in politics and is now lobbying for restrictions on research into robotics. This terminator is a member of a community. One day a terminator from his future is sent back in time in order to assassinate him and he has to try and keep himself safe whilst also trying to find out why the terminators will exist.”
“Is there action?”
“Let me tell you, the action in his movie will blow Terminator 3 out of the water! We have the director of Fast and Furious to come in to film, there's Tom Hardy playing the evil futuristic terminator, Emily Watson to play Terminator's wife, Justin Timberlake to play John Connor and Dwayne Johnson as a detective, who also turns out be to be a robot.”
“Sounds like that's an all star cast Mr. Schwarzenegger. What other projects do you have in the pipeline?” I said, watching the action taking place on stage. The stunt double rides a flaming car like it's a surf board before leaping off whilst 760 miniaturised cameras begin to take pictures.
“I'm also going to make a sequel to Pumping Iron.”
“Excellent.” I said. We chat a little more before Arnie is called back on set.
“I'll be right back.” he walks off. I can't help but feel disappointed he said 'right', missing an opportunity to deliver his famous catchphrase. I pack up my notes into my bag and go back out to the car.

I ask Bill to take a long route to the airport. We drive along Venice beach, through Little Ethiopia, down to gentrified Inglewood and San Pedro.
“Did you manage to find the edge of the city?”
“I don't think it exists.”
“That's a shame. It was fun anyway.”
“Remember when I released those wasps in the museum?” I said.
“I liked that day we drove all the way to San Diego and you were like 'Is this LA? Is this LA?'” laughed Bill.
“What was the name of those women we met?”
“Where?”
“At the art gallery.”
“Casandra and Jacqueline.” said Bill, smiling.
“That was a wild night. You remember dancing on the roof of the Aon centre?”
“You fell!”
“Nah, I had a parachute. What will you be doing after this?”
“I don't know. Go get something to eat. Go see my family.” said Bill. We drive along Mulholland and through Glendale, San Bernardino heights then Santa Monica. The Paul Getty Museum, Dodger Stadium, Hollywood Boulevard, the Chinese Theatre, City Hall, LAX. The car parks up outside the entrance.
“Thanks Bill. Take care of yourself.”
“You too.” he said. I get out, shutting the door behind me which rocks the car slightly. I go to knock on his window and he rolls it down.
“I left something on the back seat for you. Live long and prosper.” I say, throwing a peace sign before going towards the departure entrance. Bill looks over his shoulder, then goes in the back. Just where I'd been sitting I left a bag. He unfastens the latches on it and opens it up, inside is a dead dog with it's mouth stuffed with a roll of hundred dollar bills.

I took a window seat as the plane began to drive on the runway and reflected on my journey. The quest for the edge of Los Angeles. It had been a series of thrills and spills but in the end I learned a valuable lesson. I take out a copy of City Of Quartz and begin to read. Partway through I realised the plane was still driving on the runway. I turn to the seat next to me.
“Why haven't we set off yet?” I asked. There's no-one there. In fact, there's no-one on the whole plane. I put the book down and walk up the aisles. “Hello?” I said. The plane begins to turn and I look out of the window at LAX slowly rolling past, again. I go through First Class and pause at the pilot's door before knocking. I wait for a while and was about to go back to my seat when I heard the door being unlocked. I turned around. In the frame stands a naked man.
“Who...who are you?” I said. The man began to walk towards me. Behind him I can see the runway stretch ahead of us and the plane begins to accelerate. I back off slowly, watching as he advances towards me before setting off into a run.
“Who are you?” I shout, running down the aisles. But there is nowhere to go. The plane begins to take off and I scramble through the seats as the floor begins to dip, just about managing to sit down and fasten a belt across my lap. The man appeared from around the corner and stared at me, seemingly unaffected by the sudden increase in altitude.
“What do you want? Who's flying this plane?!” I said. He reached up to his face and began to pull at his top lip. With the engines screaming on both sides of us I watched as he began to unzip his skin. The human form peeled away to reveal an Untitled painting by Rothko. I sat in my chair convulsing as the plane finally takes off back towards England.

Mondrian

Black shuffle steps, raw torn lips, purple and white skin, ottered onto once another like crow, rook, raven, a minnow swims in the lake and leaps onto rocks. Elastic monster masks are contained into DVD slip cases. Cops eat donuts and drink offal flavoured tequila wrung from the bloated tripe. Ash rained from the clouds made from the cigarette smoke from a thousand freelance radicals living in cardboard boxes by the Los Angeles bay. Vampires slide out from orange coffins as Kanye West announces the release of his new album broadcast on podcasts uploaded onto Raspberry Pi's sent over to Africa by clueless billionaires with soft, wet hearts. Failing hipsters smoulder in personal immuno-pods that traverse them around the city, a high centre of gravity and an ease of target lead the burning sputes to tumble down onto the grey destiny. Galileo lying in his bed with his eyes open and the sun coming up from the hills, leaping up from the straw mattress, Galilei writing down concepts of physics that would remain intrinsic to modern knowledge on falling. The reality of cream covered custard pies hit against the face with the plate and the force of an arm. The heel hitting a banana skin and propelling the person forward before the accelerating weight causes them to fall. Video tapes of Jeremy Beadle creeping up on people dressed as an authority figure. Trembling Mondrians.

The Pile

When I see a UFO, I always ignore them.