PEP Squad

PEP Squad

An iridescent glow reflected off of his mirrored aviator sunglasses. He exhaled a plume of white vapor and studied its ascent into the clear, black night sky. The wharf was cold this time of year, too cold. A writer, one of those many conventional men no longer studied in schools, once wrote that the coldest winter of his life was the summer he spent in San Francisco. Some things refuse to change.

A wall of fog inched across the bay. It was late and the streets were empty aside from a few tired tourists meandering back to their hotel rooms. In his three years on the force, Officer G. knew the city well. Nightlife was restricted to a few well-known locations and it was rare to see a native San Franciscan wandering about after dark.

Officer G. leaned on the door of his squad car. The infamous pier stretched out before him and faded into the swirling black depths of the bay. An observant tourist could still see the shrapnel scars left on the outer walls of the adjacent buildings.

A wedding. A bloodbath. Thick smoke from the ensuing fire billowed for hours. Some type of bomb. The bride and groom were consumed in the blast at the moment of their eternal vows. Until death do you part. That was the old saying. While the rest of the country mourned, the people of the city saw it as a new beginning.

Later that evening, they stormed the office of the mayor. The mob, in its insatiable frenzy, tore through the corpulent bureaucrats with ease. The government had given them everything but their own lives. A familiar multicolored banner of every visible hue, ubiquitous around these parts, ascended and the mob cried out in prideful joy.

The vibrant standard ushered in an untold era of progress for the city. Subsequent weeks of looting and pillaging gave way to a nascent new order, an order founded on true equality. San Francisco became once again the shining beacon of light in the medieval darkness of the nation. Likeminded individuals of all breeds flocked to the golden city.

Fog crept onto the pier and Officer G. sauntered to the water’s edge. In the distance stood a foreboding island fortress. Churning, icy currents surrounding the fortress provided a formidable deterrent to any who dared escape internment. Citizens apprehended for reeducation were whisked away in the middle of the night and brought to the solitary island. Little was known about the curriculum, but educator positions attracted some of the brightest minds from nearby universities.

Officer G. glanced back at his squad car. The tourists had cleared the streets and a persistent silence fell upon the wharf. Behind him stood glimmering skyscrapers, graven monoliths of progress against the unbearable cruelty of nature. Tiny shards of light adorning their edifices housed the denizens of the proud city. Officer G. strolled back to the vehicle.

The car started with a meek electric hum. Officer G. backed out of his parking spot along the wharf and turned right onto Embarcadero. Night patrol was routine. Few emerged from their well-lit domiciles on these cold nights. Fewer still emerged during the day.

Since universal basic income had been signed into law under Governor Mark Z., there was little reason to leave one’s apartment. A living wage, thanks to the philanthropy of Silicon Valley benefactors, could be earned by viewing one dozen or so hours of targeted ads per day on a smartphone or tablet. Violent crime had dissipated throughout much of the state. However, San Francisco maintained a sizeable task force.

A shrill, crackling static noise from the car radio split the silence. Officer G. jumped in his seat and fiddled with the radio. A deep female voice filled the car.

Dispatch. Officer G., do you copy? Over.

Copy. What’s the situation, Captain? Over.

Battery in progress. Suspect was last seen on foot heading north on Hyde. Exercise extreme caution. Over.

Copy. Over and out.

***

A lanky, awkward man was climbing a steep slope somewhere around Russian Hill. At his side was a squat, rotund girl panting in strenuous effort. The two had been walking together for several minutes after deciding to leave the bar where they met that night. The man arrived at the door to his apartment and waited for the girl to catch up. She spoke to him in a hushed tone.

Thanks for bringing me out tonight. I really had fun.

Y-you too.

The girl giggled and stared into the man’s eyes. She moved closer and embraced him. He craned his neck, and with a great deal of nervous apprehension, brought his lips towards hers. Right before their lips met, the horrible cacophony of screeching car tires caused them both to snap their gaze up the street.

Officer G. slammed on the brakes, and flinging the door of his vehicle open, drew his Glock 22.

Freeze!

The man stumbled away from the girl in shock and raised his hands. In the confusion, the girl ran with surprising speed down the street from the scene.

I said freeze!

The man placed his raised palms on top of his head but it was too late. Officer G. double tapped the trigger of his Glock 22, sending two .40 S&W rounds square into the groin of the suspect. The man keeled over, clawing at his crotch in agony before losing consciousness. Officer G. lowered his weapon and produced a portable radio from the pocket of his hot pink squad uniform.

Captain. Officer G. reporting. Suspect is down. Over.

Copy. Report to HQ for debriefing. Over.

Officer G. strolled back to his squad car, its standard issue rainbow paint job sparkling under the bright light of the nearby streetlamp. Slamming the door, Officer G. started the vehicle and pulled out from the curb. He switched the car radio on and tuned into his favorite music station. The Village People’s “Y.M.C.A.” started playing and he drove off into the dark San Francisco night.

The Trial

Franz Kafka The Trial

It was a bright cold day in April, and a disheveled man lay dead on the floor of an empty courtroom. The court had been adjourned just an hour ago and the deceased man was all that remained in the aftermath of what had been a quick and decisive trial.

The trial began early in the morning. The Prosecutor, drawing from decades of legal experience, arrived before the courthouse had even opened. In his hands he carried a grande Starbucks dairy-free latte and a synthetic patent leather briefcase. Inside the briefcase was a meticulously crafted legal case, the rhetorical equivalent of a high-caliber rifle. His arguments had been honed to perfection the night before. His evidence was foolproof. His dry-cleaned suit was immaculate and his silk tie shimmered with a confidence found only in the most seasoned of legal professionals.

The court convened and the jury filed into to their ranks. The Judge seated himself at the head of the courtroom. The Prosecutor strode into place and neatly arranged his notes on the oak podium. Silence befell the courtroom. The Prosecutor produced his case, a two thousand page opus of remarkable logic and insight. Every line had been personally written by The Prosecutor, every image, chart, and graph hand-selected.

His case was a masterwork of legal knowledge and expertise. A graduate of the esteemed Harvard Law School, The Prosecutor was a formidable opponent in the courtroom. In thirty years of criminal investigations The Prosecutor had yet to lose a case. He excelled at debate. For every argument, he had several counter-arguments. For every counter-argument, he had several more counter-arguments. He was a master of both logic and emotional appeal. Juries were said to have regularly been brought to tears from his heart-rending soliloquies.

The trial began and The Defendant was nowhere to be found. The jury grew restless with boredom. The Prosecutor remained collected and determined. Attempts were made to call The Defendant, each attempt resulting in the call going straight to voicemail. After forty-five minutes had passed, the doors of the courtroom swung open and The Defendant shuffled to his podium.

The Judge was furious. Hushed, nervous whispers could be heard from the jury. Banging his gavel, The Judge called for order and the courtroom fell silent once again. The Defendant carried with him no briefcase, no folder containing a legal defense. The Defendant, in an unprecedented decision for this type of criminal investigation, had selected to represent himself. He wore no suit, wore no tie, and instead wore a simple t-shirt and jeans. The Prosecutor eyed The Defendant with an air of superiority. It would be a short trial.

The Prosecutor stood up and began to pace. The evidence was clear. Fourteen years ago the accused party was found to have been in possession of illegal image macros with intent to distribute. Federal investigators had confiscated The Defendant’s hard drive from his childhood home and uncovered over nine thousand contraband images and animations saved to the disk. More incriminating, however, was The Defendant’s Internet history.

The Defendant’s Internet Service Provider had disclosed that during a span of roughly six years The Defendant had frequented hate sites, whereupon he first encountered the aforementioned illegal image macros. Under executive order of former president C. Clinton, the possession and distribution of illegal image macros, known colloquially as assault memes, was a capital offense. While such hate sites had long ceased to exist, their ugly mark had been left on the Internet.

The Bureau had since been tasked with finding and destroying all traces of illegal image macros. Numerous raids had been conducted on flagged individuals; individuals who had frequented hate sites in their youth and were thought to have once been in possession of digital contraband. The Prosecutor strutted to the projector, and producing a flash drive from his breast pocket, showcased a curated selection of images confiscated from The Defendant’s hard drive.

A crudely drawn cartoon frog appeared on the screen. The frog smirked at the jury, a Mona Lisa smile of mischievous intent. Members of the jury began to shout and scream. One woman even began to cry. The Prosecutor looked away from the projected image and stared at The Defendant.

The Judge called for order. The crying woman had collapsed onto the courtroom floor and had entered into a spasmodic fit. She was escorted out on a stretcher and the trial resumed.

Harvard Law School had prepared The Prosecutor well for such gruesome cases. Cybercrime prosecution was the fastest growing and most lucrative field of law. Possession with intent to distribute illegal image macros was a capital offense in all 193 U.N. member states, and a war crime in the United Kingdom.

His fate sealed, The Defendant stared down at his podium and avoided eye contact with The Prosecutor. The Prosecutor switched the projector off and turned his gaze to The Judge.

Your Honor, the evidence is unmistakable. The Defendant is a sick and twisted individual. For six years, he collected such ghastly, repulsive images. For six years, he spent his nights on vile websites. For six years, he festered in a pool of bigotry and hate. Men like him do not deserve to see the light of day.

The Judge prompted The Defendant for a closing statement. The Defendant had not uttered a word since the trial commenced. The Defendant, without speaking, walked from the podium to the projector and pulled out his iPhone 12 S Space Gray Edition. The smartphone connected wirelessly to the projector, and after a short loading time, displayed a single image on the screen.

An unshaven, obese version of The Prosecutor appeared clad in an over-sized black suit and a black fedora. The man in the photo held the tip of his fedora down with his left hand and clenched a replica samurai sword in his right.

The jury howled with laughter. The Judge couldn’t contain himself either, and after hastily acquitting The Defendant of all charges, joined the sonorous chorus. The Prosecutor, humiliated at his staggering defeat, pulled a small derringer from his suit pocket and shot himself in the head.

The jury laughed even harder.

All Tomorrow’s Parties

St. Elliot
For Thursday’s child is Sunday’s clown.

The 2013 Isla Vista shooting signified a watershed moment in my personal life. I had moved out of Isla Vista only a year before, leaving behind Santa Barbara for what I thought would be the last time. Isla Vista is an unincorporated town bordering the Pacific Ocean, home largely to students from the adjacent UC Santa Barbara and Santa Barbara Community College; it is Southern California distilled into its absolute essence. The town has a reputation for its house parties and bohemian surfer culture. It’s not uncommon to walk around on a weekend night and end up invited to an ad hoc party provided your group contains a girl or two.

On its surface, Isla Vista is a fairly welcoming place. It’s easy to talk to random people when you’re both in varied states of inebriation. By the end of the night, you’ll often find yourself with a larger group than you had initially gone out with. The drunken friend, in all his inescapable ephemerality, is among the most agreeable of souls. He is excitable, earnest, and adventurous. You will never see him again beyond the night you met. Your haphazard plans for hanging out again will fall through despite his prior insistence.

Californians love to make plans and never follow through with them. If you don’t have a specific date and time set to meet with someone, they will never show up. Even if you do, they still won’t show up. It’s somehow acceptable here to make arrangements at the end of a conversation and silently disregard them the following day. Word is most definitely not bond around these parts. I’ve often postulated whether alcohol is the only substance holding our postmodern social fabric together. Alcohol makes what so many find unbearable about company temporarily endurable. It’s no small wonder that mastery of the fermentation process was one of our earliest agricultural achievements.

Beyond the opaque façade of revelry and distraction, Isla Vista can be an incredibly sinister place. When you are not invited to the parties, when you are alone, the entire town comes to resemble a rowdy bar in which you’re the only sober person. Being in a bar while sober is a test of patience. The drunken man exists on a mental plane far apart from the sober man. His freewheeling speech and brazen antics become unwelcome provocations on your limited patience. Some men become aggressive while drinking, and though I consider this to be an exceptional circumstance, their presence can often sour a night out.

No more is the sexual Pareto principle in effect than in Isla Vista. I can imagine it has only gotten worse with the advent of online hookup apps. The top ten to twenty percent of young men in regards to appearance and reputation have unlimited access to the affections of the young college girls populating the town. In a place known for its laid back culture and open-mindedness, the competition for sex is a constant Pyrrhic war of deception and deceit.

Your status as a young man is proportional to your sexual desirability. Young men do not compete so much for economic or scholastic achievement, as they do for the favors of women. Even the perception, manufactured or legitimate, of sexual prowess among your peers is enough to catapult you into the upper echelons of social status. Men want to be you; women want to be with you. The former case inspires an effete, but caustic jealously among your male peers. Those unable to compete with you in the extended domain of struggle are hell-bent on hindering you, damaging your reputation and dragging you down with them into the mired pits of involuntary celibacy.

French philosopher Jean Baudrillard wrote that in Santa Barbara, the question you always hear is, “What are you doing after the orgy?” To paraphrase from a friend on Twitter, Elliot Rodger asked us, “What are you doing when you are not invited to the orgy?” During my time in Isla Vista, I arrived at the inevitable conclusion that violence would one day come to this town. Someday, someone would snap under the immense psycho-sexual burden bearing down on them and lash out against man and woman alike.

Elliot Rodger was a victim of Isla Vista, as much as those whom he killed were victims of his unfulfilled desire and rage against a society that enables unchecked lust and hedonism. While I must profess that, for the sake of public record, I do not endorse his murders; I understand completely the unfortunate series of events that led to their occurrence. Reading through My Twisted World, one comes to comprehend the entirely foreseeable and deterministic character of his birth and upbringing. What the media, in all their faux outrage seems to have missed, was how a young man of his breeding and background would invariably choose the fatal path he walked.

Elliot was born of an East Asian mother and a Northern European father, creating at birth the genetic aberration of the Eurasian or Hapa male. The Hapa is a castaway Frankenstein monster of East and West, a byproduct of mass transit and globalization unfairly rejected by both of his disparate cultures. The sexual marketplace of Isla Vista predominately favors those of the tall, fair Nordic phenotype. The ‘surfer dude’ of California is in fact a blond, blue-eyed male of impressive stature and physique. At the outset, Elliot was unsuited to his future life in Isla Vista. This, coupled with a detached father figure and an isolated adolescence, would portend his eventual rejections and untimely demise.

While race is seldom a deciding factor in one’s fate, one can often internalize unwanted or undesirable aspects pertaining to their racial phenotype. The rejection that hurt Elliot the most was not at the hands of any girl, but the initial and lifelong rejection of Elliot by his father. Fathers want to see themselves reflected in the visage of their sons, an insurance of their reproductive success. It is likely this phenomenon that underscores the primeval demands for marital fidelity and unspoiled brides. Fathers have yet to learn, if possible, to empathize with the biological results of their interracial pairings.