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I walk back to Las Palmas. Tom Hardy and the bike are gone. All that’s left of our time together is some scrape marks on the street and a small pool of gas. I must have cracked his tank. Good.

I don’t go into Max Overdrive but cut into the alley next to it. Behind the dumpster is something wrapped in a dirty tarp, with stones holding the edges down. I kick the stones away on one side and toss back the tarp. And get my first look at the Hellion Hog in—how long? Well over a year. I would have loved to have it when I was back Downtown, traveling with the Magistrate and the Havoc. It would have burned all those chop-shop bikes and Frankensteined hot rods to the ground. Nothing can catch me on the Hog. I picked it up when I was playing Lucifer and running Hell. One hundred days of weirdness I never want to repeat in this life or any other.

The bike isn’t the kind of thing you pick up at your local dealership, or any custom shop on this plane of existence. The handlebars are wide, swept back, and pointed, like they’re part of an aerodynamic longhorn. When you kick the Hog up high the engine burns cherry red. There isn’t a speedometer because, as far as I know, you can’t top it out. I was never able to, and I pushed it until Hell’s asphalt bubbled and melted behind us. The point is, the bike is a motherfucker. Or it was.

Right now, it looks pretty sad. It’s covered in streaks of dirt where humidity or maybe rain splashed up under the tarp and ran down the sides, leaving dried-up rivers of dirt and dust on the seat and body. There are cobwebs between the spokes on the wheels. Dead leaves and the shriveled carcass of a rat by the back tire. I brush some dust off the seat, swing a leg over, and sit down. Ugly as the Hog is, it still feels good. Like it’s been waiting for me. Vibrating. Waiting to tear up the road again.

We’ll see.

Someone—probably Candy—thoughtfully put a lock on the front tire. Even dead, she was always thinking of me. I can’t stand the idea of going back into the store to ask for the key, so I take out the black blade and slice the thing off in one clean motion. Then I just sit there for a minute, getting a feel for the bike again. Also trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing. I’m too restless to go home and face the tarragon, but I can’t think of anywhere I want to go either.

The Hellion Hog doesn’t have a key because no one can ride it but me. I get a grip on the handlebars and kick the bike to life.

The sound is more like an explosion than an engine starting

. The Hog stutters a few times, blowing out grit and whatever little bugs or hobos were unfortunate enough to nest in the pipes. I rev the engine a few times until the sound dies down to a steady jet-engine growl. With it still running, I climb off and shove the dumpster against the alley wall. Then I roll the bike around it so the front wheel is aimed at the empty street. I should have bought sunglasses while I was at the grocery. The sun coming off the water is going to be murder on my eyes, but it’s a small price to pay to feel something like myself again.

I kick up the stand, shift into gear, and hit the gas. Come out of the alley like a torpedo heading west to nuke Venice Beach. The Hog rattles my bones and teeth. Shatters my eardrums. My heart is going about two hundred beats a minute and I can’t quite catch my breath.

It’s the best feeling in the world.

The Hog is massive, but I don’t care right now. I lane-split through Hollywood traffic, scraping car doors and knocking off side mirrors—a jerk move, but I’m still upset about my shopping fiasco.

At a light, a guy pulls up next to me and points a pistol in my direction. A little pocket nine-millimeter. Adorable. He road rages at me like a jabbering gorilla. From what I can make out, he doesn’t like my driving skills. Of course, he has a point, but he also has a gun, which makes me apologizing out of the question. Anyway, I’m faster than him. When he pauses to take a breath, I snatch the pistol out of his hand and drop it in my coat pocket.

When something like that happens, most sensible people back off and live to scream another day. Not this guy. He wants his gun back and steps out of the car to get it. But the dummy keeps one hand on the driver’s-side door. So, when I kick it closed, his fingers get stuck between the edge of the door and the car body. The light changes and I leave him there with mangled purple fingers and a life lesson I can’t quite figure out. But it will come to me.

To sum up, I got run out of a grocery store by Barney Fife, and I’ve had a knife and a gun pulled on me. Allegra would say it isn’t healthy, but instead of putting me in a worse mood than this morning, today it’s the opposite. I’m back on the Hog; I managed not to get shot, stabbed, or arrested; and I have no idea where I’m going. Just like old times.

I finally decide to head west, toward the ocean. That’ll clear my head. I like the ocean. I don’t get there much, but I like the noise and the waves. I just hate beaches. All those merrily colored coolers and people baking on towels. Zinc oxide on their noses and sand up their asses. College dudes in too fuck to drunk T-shirts and tan girls with bright bikini lines showing off the few inches of skin that aren’t going to get cancer when they turn forty.

I blast up the 101 to the Ventura Freeway and all the way west to Las Virgenes Road, where I head south toward Malibu—land of blue skies, surfers, billionaire beach bunnies, showbiz has-beens, and dope dealer up-and-comers. Plus, the home of my favorite ghoul: Teddy Osterberg.

When I call Teddy a ghoul I don’t mean he’s a creep or anything. He’s a real ghoul—he eats people. Mostly the dead. At one point he was going to eat me, but now he’s dead, so fuck him and all his dirty little secrets.

Lucky for me and the local rich-kid wannabe gangbangers, no one in the Osterberg family wants anything to do with Teddy’s broken-down house or his graveyard collection. I forgot to mention that. Teddy collected graveyards. Brought them in from all over the world, set them up on his estate like trophies. At night, he’d dig up a body and have a feast. Sure, Teddy’s place is in the heart of Malibu, but what Realtor is going to touch a place with this kind of history? And what are they going to do with all the bodies in all the graveyards? There are over a hundred corpses out here. Do you dig them up or pull a Poltergeist and just pretend you did? No, no one is touching Teddy’s playground for a good long time. Which makes it the perfect little getaway for me when I need to clear my head.

The only sounds are the roar of the waves across the road and the low thrum of power lines at the top of the hill where Teddy’s house stands. The low buzz and occasional crackle are oddly soothing. Like ghost whispers or electric blood pumping through miles-long veins. The sounds are another reason I like it here.

There’s a large oak tree up the hill, so I take the short walk to get under its shade. The tree is surrounded by a circle of old tombstones. English. Each one two hundred years old or more. The markers are all jammed together like sliced bread. Someone didn’t want them, but they didn’t want to throw them away either. I don’t know what the hell to make of them.

I’m still thinking about it when a shadow comes up behind me and a familiar voice says, “Shopping for yourself or a friend?”

I turn around to Samael and say, “Just admiring the view.”

He comes closer to the headstones.

“I know a few of these names. Old-timers. But no judgment. Everyone ends up in Hell these days, so what does it really matter?”

“I didn’t dream about Heaven when I was Downtown. I dreamed about L.A., but there were some days I’d have settled for the pearly gates.”

“Funny. In all the time we’ve known each other you never said that before.”

I look around at the other graves.

“I guess with Heaven closed to mortals, it’s been on my mind. Poor slobs living so-called good lives, praying for Heaven and ending up eyeball-deep in shit with all the other losers.”

“It sounds like you actually feel sorry for the righteous.”