This is the border between two worlds. On one side is the bleak, hot, noisy concrete jungle of Los Angeles. On the other side is the deep, dark, ever-moving ocean with its waves constantly crashing against the sandy beach. The sound of boats in the pier clank together and against the dock as the sound of waves roll on and on. Its a full moon night; a night primed for crazies…as if L.A. need anymore crazies.
A neon colored vanagon wagon comes crashing off of the freeway exit, narrowly missing a lamp post…but clearly hitting a garbage can, one of those ones with the picture of a crying Indian. The driver rolls down his window in passing and yells apologetically out the window, "Sorry! My Indigenous, bro! Nothing personal!"
The van continues along the beach front boulevard. He passes several other vans, all with mounted surf boards on their roof racks. He has a board on his too, right next to the commercial grade roof mounted satellite dish and shortwave radio antenna. The driver swirves frantically to any shadow that seems to creep on to the road. He is clearly on the edge.
He reaches his destination, a pier of boat houses. He brings his van to a California stop, and swings the door open jumping out. He realizes the keys are still in the ignition. He frantically turns back to get them, then is racing down the wooden dock to #616. He is mumbling something as he searches for the right house. He almost puts his leg through a whole in the dock as he finally finds #616.
"LET ME IN MR. OFFICER BRIGGS SIR!" The young man yells. He is wearing a hibiscus print shirt unbuttoned over a white tanktop, and baby blue shirts that don't quite clear his mid thigh with a broad white stripe on either side that ends in an slit-cut open chevron. Despite the mildly low light of the full moon night it is clear to see that the young man is no stranger to the sun. His bronze skin is a stark contrast to his light clothing. His bleach blond hair is naturally that color; it is pulled back over his ears and stays in place with the aid of product and a pair of gold rimmed avaitor shades.
"YA GOTTA HELP ME, DUDE!" He bangs harder on the storm door of #616.
Finally, someone comes to the door. Four sets of deadbolts and chains are undone. Along with the sounds of unbolting of locks, the young man hears the sound of someone cocking back the hammer of a revolver…something large, a .45 Magnum…maybe bigger.
"Whoa! Whoa! Dude, its me, Johnny!" The young man frantically says to reassure the resident behind the door. "I live in space 503…not the house, but the parking space…I-I'm in trouble, bro!"