Bright Fires Burn Fastest

by Unknown

  ‘Roger Carrol’ it read, ‘Born to act, born to live. He was taken from us, God needed another angel.’

  A vague snap of recollection hit Lucas.

  He was in the Hollywood Cemetery, ‘Hollywood Forever’. He remembered thinking it was a great idea with whoever the hell he had been with.

  A cackling squawk filled the air again and Lucas turned to see one of the massive peacocks at its full height spanning its tail and raising itself up towards him.

  “Fuck off you bastard”, he yelled, waving his hands.

  All the peacock did was hiss at him from the back of his throat.

  It would be bloody peacocks in a cemetery for actors and Hollywood starlets.

  Lucas, desperate to escape waved his arm and caught the blue beast somewhere near the chest. A squeak filled the air as it fell back crumpled in a heap of utter beauty and distain.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Lucas heard a voice bark.

  Turning, unable to see straight he saw two guards striding towards him, arms outstretched.

  Lucas began to run, well stumble. His head thumped and his throat screamed for water. His legs failed to work as he hobbled from grave to grave passing so many names of those now forgotten who were immortal once.

  The guards were getting ever closer and he turned to see how close they were. As he did his right leg caught the edge of yet another bloody peacock that had been hiding in a bush.

  For a second he regained his balance but it was too late. With an almighty crash he landed in the lake.

  There he lay looking at the oncoming guards and the peacock that had felled him and began to drink in the filthy water.

  The guards stepped forwards and beckoned him closer. There was no escape. Guilt began to nag. This was not how to find April, not at all.

  *

  Lithe bodies and loquacious libidos penetrated everything.

  Men spewed dollar bills from bulging wallets, or empty ones, the drive had them by desire. Broke tomorrow but hard tonight may as well have been written above the door.

  April took in what was a strip club in the heart of where this kind of thing was created. Yes, prostitution and women using assets was the oldest trade in the book but here in Hollywood they took it to another level.

  Stunning women with tight bodies promenaded obvious beauty and also their apparent desire to grind themselves against any man no matter his station.

  The girls didn’t want to but this was California. Its not what the truth renders real, its what the mind makes happen.

  Foxy Go Go’s. ‘Go hard, Go Home or Go Foxy’s’ as it said over the bank of bottles behind the bar.

  “So this is it,” Len from The Redbury party stated to April.

  A girl covered head to toe in tattoos was upwards on the pole, fully extended and lowering herself down inch by inch. Out of work actors, models and escorts perhaps. Professionals most definitely.

  “Here we don’t do hands, we don’t do stuff in the back and we definitely don’t go home with a client. I don’t give a shit who wants to bounce you.”

  April nodded, words were still lost as she took in a girl walking past in a red bra and knickers who looked pretty enough to be a supermodel, let alone a stripper.

  “You come here by nine every day, without fail. You sit at the bar and watch. We are not unrealistic to expect you to give your best against a troll. You wont find many here though but you pick someone you can imagine fucking and go over to them. Flirt like it’s a date, except on this date you take your clothes off over there.”

  Len pointed to a bank of black sofas elegantly decorated with black velvet and incrusted faux rubies along the tops.

  “You take them for one dance, no more. They will want more, hell, if I wasn’t gay and you were here I would too. You bring them back to the bar. They buy champagne, it’s all you drink. You dance them four times every hour for two hours. On their last dance you can go longer, harder. You say goodbye. You find someone else. No one wants a comfortable stripper who gets lazy. No one wants a comfortable client who thinks he can barter or get anything gratis. Moment hands go wondering or you smell trouble you press one of the ruby’s in the chair. Panic buttons. He’s fucked, you’re free from him. That’s your brief, you get $500 a night plus tips from any mope not realising what he is paying for and how much. Savvy?”

  April nodded, “Of course. Got it, got it Len.”

  “Good. And if I haven’t said it now I will. You fuck up once you’re out, plenty more like you.”

  April nodded again, it’s all she could seem to do.

  “Look, have a look around but be quick, you are on in ten.”

  “What?”

  Len, for the first time, let a look cross his face that showed just why he above anyone else with a brain and a few friends was running a strip club in Hollywood.

  “Trial’s over April, yes or no?”

  “Yes”

  “Fine, changing rooms are there. Pick anything you want and do me a favour. Don’t embarrass my hunch.”

  In the rooms where Len had pointed she met some of the other strippers who wanted to ensure the new girl didn’t take any of their hard earned bucks.

  One girl, Alisha, showed her the rack of clothes. Well, not really clothes more coverings. April thankfully always kept her vagina in neat shape though with the crowd building and the upcoming audition she dry shaved facing a large mirror.

  She chose black suspenders and a bra. She borrowed Alisha’s make up and went long on eye shadow and lip-gloss. If she didn’t have to fuck them she could at least come across like she would.

  “Look, April. Remember, they want you far more than you could ever know.”

  April looked at Alisha, “Thanks”.

  So she did just that.

  She had never been one to hold back so she took a deep breath, a glug from the open bottle of Grey Goose next to her and walked out.

  Foxy Go Go’s was buzzing.

  So was April.

  *

  This was no ordinary swell. Waves came in sets, maybe some kind of vague formation even if every wave was different. Here though, under the shadow of Scattergood Power Plant between Manhattan Beach and Marina Del Ray nothing was conventional.

  An ugly backdrop, a desolate beach. An area of Los Angeles and the hallowed Golden Coast long since forgotten by those in the hills and those on holiday. Here was defined by streaming rows of immaculate power stations, ripped ex convicts, starving girls jogging towards an audition and top down Jeep’s belonging in the 1980’s.

  Mo looked out over the setting sun splaying and spraying its pink majesty over the entire West Coast of the City of Angels.

  The huge water intake pipes underneath the sea leading out for miles from the power station made the waves behave differently. There were three pipes in all, all running out for 160 metres then going horizontally right to follow the coast and supply the never ending demand of a city reliant on anything but nature.

  The furthest pipe from the shore caused the wave attacking the shore to buckle. The second lifted it again, stronger, faster and bigger. The third and final pipe nearest the beach only elevated this coming crescendo pushing it towards the pink sky and doubled the height of the oncoming brick wall of water. From where Mo stood it was kicking up at least a nine metre swell, the biggest on the coast.

  No one would think to surf here. There was no glamour and no glory, no fame to be had from bikini clad tourists looking to photograph the great unwashed.

  But it was here Mo had to go.

  His final initiation into the gang. Each of them had to find a new break, a new tube to roll, and a new way of doing something done by so many. Like any other art form, the boundaries were merely temporary, there to be overhauled. All of them had done it but him. Here though was cordoned and warded off by the precious lifeguards and the cops that looked out from the high road.

  Sundown meant they all went home though.

  Sundown meant Mo was here alone.r />
  It had to be that way and he knew the risks. His beautiful family at home, his shop. All could go in the blink of an eye or the wrong turn of a fin. Hell though, he would die doing what he loved, loved doing more than anything else.

  The swim out was brutal. Mo could feel the sucking tide pulling at his shins, begging him under.

  The board was the only comfort of buoyancy but with these waves it could easily break. Then what? Mo though let that slide, as did the fear of sharks, paralysis and the thought of missing the perfect wave. These were the chances you took, this was a lifestyle, forget that a religion, never a sport.

  The broken waves rushed underneath his board, the force no less prevalent despite their impact still 100 metres offshore. Darkness was coming and coming fast, Mo paddled faster.

  As he got out to beyond the churn and already broken waves the rollers began to pick him and his board up. Only then did he realise how small he was compared to the blue jaws constantly trying to snap shut on him.

  Blue surrounded him, one breaking over his back. He sunk for a few seconds holding his breath.

  He burst out into the air again and the next insurmountable wave went just under him. His stomach lurched as he looked down 10 metres into the precipice of black beneath him.

  He turned towards the shore and realised he was out, far out. The current was so strong he had to paddle furiously with his arms and kick frantically to keep himself still.

  Time was running out, he was getting tired.

  The waves continued towards the end of their set. Still flicking him up like a rag doll. That moment of hesitation would be the end. All he held dear would fade to black.

  Then he saw it.

  The wave went over the first pipe and broke as expected.

  Then it hit the second. It grew up like a monstrous shadow over the skyline. Mo let out a groan. It was massive, it was the perfect wave. They were always the most brutal, it wouldn’t be an easy ride.

  Then the third pipe. The bitch rolled on, she grew still. Mo turned his Malibu and began to paddle, his breath coming heavy, his limbs felt like lead.

  Way from behind he felt the wave begin to lift him. With a final burst of strength he pulled and clawed at the water with his hands, thumped his feet into the swell.

  Up and up he went. The nose of the board threatened to dip but held its line.

  Mo looked down as he straightened and stood. He was surfing a brick wall, it was like sheer black ice. His feet got to their station and held as he reached the pinnacle of the beast.

  Down he glided along its glassy surface. Slamming his front foot right he felt the wave begin to tilt and topple behind him, over him.

  A blue black surrounded the one man on his board.

  He was floating, cutting along and under the biggest tube he had ridden.

  It took him ripping along the front of the West Coast, 30 then 40 metres he went in land.

  As he approached the shore the wave began to ebb, he had beaten it. It let him live.

  “Fuck, fuck, yeah, yeah”, Mo screamed at the top of his lungs.

  He held his arms aloft as it dropped him twenty metres from shore.

  He slammed the water with his fists, he screamed and shouted for the whole of California to hear.

  He had done it.

  He had been right, as surfers always had been. Dangerous and deadly but the risk was always worth the gain.

  Chapter 4

  Thanks to quick wits and a quicker tongue, Lucas was released from the Beverly Hills Police Station without charge. Lying about his address was one thing, he wanted to come across as a local and not a visitor otherwise it was deportation. However, lying that his non-existent sister had been in a terrible accident and as a result he got so smashed and ended up in a graveyard was possibly his lowest moment. The cops had been kind given their reputation, they had bought his bullshit.

  All he had achieved thus far was hangovers and still no sign of April, not that even he was deluded enough to believe he had even tried.

  He lit a cigarette and looked back at the oppressively large and decorated police station. Jesus, even that looked like a film set.

  He was lost without hope, and even worse without cause. So far he had amassed that April would ‘probably’ live in a beach town. Well that was fantastic considering there were six along the western coast, all big, all hectic. And that was about it. He should go there, that he knew.

  However, a nagging pain that only a drink would solve was ever present. For a fleeting moment he nearly admitted that he was an alcoholic, which he clearly was, but decided to head uptown to a bar.

  This would be the end of it, searching would begin again tomorrow. He was wasting it all, New York and the dizzy heights of Christies were all but a faded photograph in a long since abandoned frame at the bottom of a rotting box.

  Who was he kidding? Did he just come here to fuck himself up? April was meant to be the blockbuster.

  He was determined to change but he never could without that last drink. One more before the bar closes, the last shot, the last hurrah. The last good thing he should do before eternal sleep and the nightmares began.

  Before every detox comes a blowout, before every good deed comes a bad one. Before every prayer comes a sin. Before every death comes one last shot at salvation.

  April was just that.

  Three hours later.

  Seven pints, seven tequilas and some absinthe.

  He was evicted pretty quickly, getting Californicated in the day seemed perfectly acceptable in the movies but come the evening these bratty staff needed to turn tables and not downgrade a place already seemingly broken.

  The next bar was called Hank’s and was off the bottom part of Santa Monica, just on the cusp of oblivion until one reached the coast. Lucas pulled the heavy bathroom door open and looked out over the floor of the main room. It was everything he had come to expect from here really. Beautiful women, beautiful men, ugly chicks, cocks in frocks, open gays, Goths, punks and there at the end of the bar like a humming bird far too close to a flame sat a possible conspirator, he had the same wild look. Lucas stood and watched this guy talking utter nonsense to the barmaid, asking for her number and repeating to himself over and over again. The company of thieves is thick.

  Lucas’s arm caught the guys as he tipped backwards on the barstool.

  “Man, I think you’re almost done.”

  Lucas grinned and finished what was left of the short glass of bourbon in front of him.

  The guy spun, “Get you’re fucking hand off me”.

  “I mean, its home time.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Lucas let that slide, he was suddenly very bothered by the shady lithe figure in front of him. He looked arrogant, self obsessed and had no comprehension of balance or anything resembling decency, he couldn’t even hold himself together at this time of the day.

  “Fuck off”, the guy said again, “Don’t you have something to do tomorrow?”

  Lucas clicked his fingers at the barmaid who begrudgingly poured him another drink. She couldn’t give a shit the state Lucas was in tomorrow, more drunk equalled bigger tips.

  Then Lucas cackled. It wasn’t a laugh, there was no happiness in it, only hollow loss.

  “I have nothing”, he spat covering the bar in spittle and whisky.

  The guy looked hard at Lucas, “What do you mean?”

  “I came here to find someone and I can’t find them.”

  “Well you are not exactly trying are you”, the guy said back with just as much force.

  Lucas swung and raised his fist to strike. Utter drunkenness and the fact the guy was much bigger wasn’t the best move. He caught Lucas’s arm, bent it over the bar and punched him twice in the side of the jaw.

  The dull thumps were all anyone heard, it had been that quick. The barmaid looked across and only saw Lucas slumped on the bar, about time she thought.

  The thing at the bar now bleeding, not the other man talking to t
he barmaid was everything people despised. Lucas would watch the world burn if he could be king of the ashes. He was disgusting. Wasting both time and talent of a forgotten prophecy of greatness. A talented drunk with the promise of so much, only to spurn it at the slightest obstacle, at the basest temptation. Wrapped up in his dream he continued on no matter how many he affected, broke and lost along the way.

  Throwing two twenties down on the bar the guy beckoned the barmaid, “Make sure he gets to some kind of home.”

  She took up the money and looked with an expression as if to say ‘not fucking likely.’

  *

  April sat on the front steps of her place in West Hollywood listening to nothing but crickets chirping. It was not yet dawn and she sat in stillness, enjoying the quiet.

  She ran a hand through her blonde hair and rubbed her knuckles over her face. She was so tired.

  Foxy Go Go’s had been busy, it had been a Friday night. Now it was Saturday morning but weekends didn’t matter to strippers, Saturday night was their Monday morning commute when deals were done and money was earned.

  In truth April was having doubts, hence the insomnia. She was cash rich but once again nowhere near anything resembling a normal life, whatever that was. She had tasted something like the future in New York for a brief week of euphoria amongst turbulent days. Now that was gone, long gone.

  Instead she arrived at a large room every evening and then waved her assets in the faces of married men or fucked up singletons.

  What would her parents say? What would Lucas do?

  Failure tasted as bitter as the filtered coffee and cigarette she was inhaling on. If any rumours she had heard about LA were true then this was the most base of them all. Worse still she wasn’t even a fucking actress looking for a part, she was a nobody with nothing left but her looks.

  She wasn’t doing it for any reason but to survive. She was living to survive not surviving to live and enjoy life.