Los Angeles

By Jessica Lake

The Los Angeles played a strange role in Wicked City.

What was surprising was the Los Angeles were always amongst us. It’s just that it’s hard to tell them from the Crazies.

Once you get their drift? You can spot them a mile away.

Say you’re in the fourth grade. There’s an oddball. A body who falls for the same prank every single time. They never seem to get it.

There’s this endless trust. You moan, “Dearest, come just a bit closer. I promise. I’ve really, really changed.”

And they always come.

The Los Angeles can’t help it. You see it in their nature. They can’t but give you another chance. After all, isn’t it the moral thing to do?

I read somewhere that some get off on suffering. On my mother’s grave. So that means we’re doing them a favor.

When a body can only do good in a Wicked world, that makes them what?

Shark bait.

Enough about Los Angeles let’s talk about you and me.

The bottom third ignores the fuckers. They just get on with their shitty day to day lives. Morally perfected? WTF?

The middle third can’t stand the fuckers.

“That’s not fucking virtue. It’s DNA. They’re goddamn robots.”

Then the center third talk and walk like a little robots.

“Sinful behavior. Does not compute.”

The top third are the epitome of the worst.

The blessed Devoted.

Those sanctimonious bastards pray to the Los Angeles. They beg for forgiveness.

Naturally, that embarrasses the hell out of the Los Angeles.

“Dearest, I am not divine. I’m simply on the Autism Spectrum. It’s my neurodivergence.”

Me?

My father was a goddamn Los Angeles.

His was a horrid life. Dad was a good sheep. And the wicked fleeced him every chance they got. He died penniless and happy.

Thankfully, moral perfection is not my bag. Me and sin go way back. We are quite happy together. Him on top.

Let me tell you my certain truth.

Moral perfection does not make you an Angel.

But it doesn’t make you human either.