LITMIR.BIZ

      I WAKE UP on a pile of smoldering garbage and leaves in the old Hollywood Forever cemetery behind the Paramount Studio lot on Melrose, though these last details don’t come to me until later. Right now all I know is that I’m back in the world and I’m on fire. My mind hasn’t quite kicked in yet, but my body knows enough to roll off the burning trash and to keep rolling until I can’t feel the heat anymore.

      When I’m sure I’m out, I struggle to my feet and shrug off my leather jacket. I run my hands over my lower back and legs. There’s no real pain and all I feel are a couple of blisters behind my right knee and calf. My jeans are a little crispy, but the heavy leather of my jacket protected my back. I’m not really burned, just singed and in shock. I probably hadn’t been on the fire too long. But I’m lucky that way. Always have been. Otherwise, I might have crawled back into this world and ended up a charcoal briquette in my first five minutes home. And wouldn’t those black-hearted bastards down under have laughed when I ended up right back in Hell after slipping so sweetly out the back door? Fuck ’em for now. I’m home and I’m alive, if a little torn up by the trip. No one said birth was easy, and rebirth would have to be twice as hard as that first journey into the light.

      The light.

      My body isn’t burning anymore, but my eyes are cooking in their sockets. How long has it been since I’ve seen sunlight? Down in the asshole of creation, it was a dim, perpetual crimson-and-magenta twilight. I can’t even tell you the colors of the cemetery where I’m standing because my vision goes into an agonizing whiteout every time I open my eyes.

      Squinting like a mole, I run to the shade of a columbarium and crouch there with my forehead on the cool marble walls and my hands over my face. I give it a good five or ten minutes then lower my hands to let my eyes get used to the bloody-red light that seeps through my lids. Little by little, over the next twenty or so minutes, I open my eyes, letting in minute amounts of glaring L.A. sun. I mentally cross my fingers and hope that no one sees me hunkered down against the wall. They’d probably think I was crazy and call a cop, and there wouldn’t be a damned thing I could do about it.

      The muscles in my knees and legs ache before I can open my eyes all the way and keep them open. I sit down against the cool building to take some of the strain off. Though I can sort of see now, there’s no way I’m marching off into full daylight for a while. Instead, I stay in the shade and take stock of things.

      My clothes are burned, but wearable, if you ignore the burning garbage smell. I have on an ancient Germs T-shirt that my girlfriend lifted from a West Hollywood vintage shop for me, worn black jeans with holes in the knees, a pair of ancient engineer boots, and a battered leather motorcycle jacket, strategic points of which are held together with black gaffer’s tape. The heel of my right boot is loose from when I’d kicked the living Jesus out of some carjacking piece of shit after he dragged some screaming soccer mom to the pavement at a stoplight. I hate cops and I fucking hate goody-goody hero types, but there is some shit I will not put up with if it happens in front of me. Of course, that was back then, before my trip down under. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I saw the same scene today. I’d probably still put a boot into the car thief, but I don’t know if I’d let him walk away.

      Right now there’s something more important on my mind—the fact that these are the exact clothes I was wearing when I got demon-snatched. When I’d hit the pavement down under I’d been naked. That got me my first big laughs, stumbling around trying to find my footing before I puked myself in front of an audience of fallen angels. After that, the laughs were mostly about my physical abuse and humiliation at the hands of one devil dog or another. Trust me on this—Hell is a tough room.

      It’s been a long time since I’ve seen these clothes. I go through my pockets to see if there’s money or anything useful. There’s not much. There’s nothing in my pockets but twenty-three cents and an empty pink matchbook with the name and address of a Hollywood bail bondsman printed on it. I don’t even have the keys to my apartment or the old Impala my father left me.

      I feel just above my right ankle and a genuine wave of happiness hits me. The black blade is still there, strapped to my leg with strips

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