Sunday. Superbowl Sunday.

Would all the psychics in LA be busy booking bets? We were about to find out.

If you remember, there was a late night discovery the evening prior of a psychic in Anthony's very own neighborhood operating out of a small booth in the parking lot of 7-Eleven, next to the Wendy's, across from the Chevron.

Determined, we skipped breakfast and went right for our next fortuneteller. After piling in the car, I put in one of the 17 Elvis Costello cd's I had bought the previous day (I left that tidbit out of the last installment... we had stopped into the Hollywood Amoeba Records...I am going through a phase), and we were off on our 45 second drive.

From the intersection, we could see the psychic shack's "Card Reader" neon a-glow. This seemed like a good sign. We pulled into the mini-mall parking lot, took the empty space marked with a white placard reading "PSYCHIC READER PARKING ONLY" and then in smaller type "VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED AT OWNERS EXPENSE". The bold red warning matched the bold red paint of the establishment and I wondered to myself before getting out of the car, "How could anyone prove that I am not a psychic reader?"

The curtains of the tiny building (had it been a 1-hour photo stand in previous life???) were closed, but an open sign was displayed in the window and our hopes were high. Anthony knocked confidently on the door. A moment passed, but there was no answer. It's not like someone inside wouldn't have heard us... the place is about the same size as Anthony's SUV (it's a hybrid, so don't hate).

We walked around the joint a few times, peaking in, so disappointed. It was then we noticed the posting above the door: "SORRY I MISSED YOU. FOR AFTER HOURS APPOINTMENTS PLEASE CALL (XXX) XXX-XXXX".

So call we did. Anthony was on the line with Mrs. Lin, whom, judging by the Chinese characters on the side of her building, the liberal use of red, her phone number ending in three 8's, and my racial prejudice, was certain to be an all knowing Eastern mystic. Her house was nearby and she could see us now if we hurry.

We got though one more third of an Elvis Costello song before pulling into Mrs. Lin's driveway. (We knew it was her driveway, because there was another red and white sign reading Mrs. LIN.)

It was a substantially fancier house than that of our last psychic. It seems as though all those 8's (not to mention her clairvoyance) brought her great fortune. We continued on the driveway to the back of the house and parked near the luxury cars and golf equipment in the carport.

When we came to the door we were greeted by a middle aged white woman with elegant grey hair wearing a navy blue salwar kameez. Was this perhaps the great mystic's house servant? Private yoga teacher?

No, this was Anthony's psychic.

We entered the house and Anthony was scooted into a room next to the entrance. "Mrs. Lin" mumbled something about if we can do this quickly then everybody gets to watch the Superbowl. (It should be said that I'm doubtful this is the real Mrs. Lin. More sinister plots can be imagined, but my suspicion is that when Mrs. Lin decided to retire she ceremoniously to bequeathed her business to her #1 costumer, this mysterious rich white lady.)

Erika and I took to the couch in the adjacent living room. Common threads emerge from our last psychic's house. Plastic covered furniture. A mostly white but still entirely tacky interior decorating. Erika points out the gaudy clear plastic lamp that serves as the centerpiece of the room. I snap a photo of it and my camera phone makes a loud noise. Erika silently yells "Shaddup!!"

My compatriot and I are dying to hear what the psychic is saying through those walls. And we almost can, but the damn front door is open and the noise from the busy suburban boulevard wins the battle of decimals.

Erika crept up to slowly shut the front door, but a full close seems too loud and risky. The remaining sounds slipping past the frame still managed to drown out 90% of what is said in the other room.

The suspense didn't last long. Anthony's palm reading couldn't have taken more than 10 or 15 minutes. "Mrs. Lin" seemed in a genuine hurry. I mean, she was nice and all, but I got the distinct feeling that her heart wasn't really in this. I wasn't the one who got the reading, but, if you ask me, she also didn't come off as particularly gifted in the psychic arts, or, at least not focused.

She let us out through the back door. A nicely dressed man, probably her husband (and not Chinese!), was awkwardly pacing on the other side of the house desperately avoiding eye contact with us.

On our way out, Anthony noticed a golf match playing on the big screen tv and small talked, "Oh, are you fans of golf?"

And with a strained politeness the psychic simply answered, "No."

On that flat note we exited the house. Unexpectedly, "Mrs. Lin" stood a

Sel sat by the fire in his favorite set of jeans, he had just gotten out of the shower and had been reflecting on his life as the hot water drizzled across his frame, and the steam rose the condensate across the glass panes of his shower.... Cinda was out of town for the holidays, and he was here alone. The holidays were always a bitch for him, he never had anyone except his sister around, and now he didn't have that. He had also just discovered the appearance of another sister he didn't even know existed. He really thought when he first met her that she was some reporter digging for a story on the Midian super kid that rose from street garbage to Infamy and fortune...in a town like Midian it was an incredible story, he simply insisted on a blood test and when the results came back positive he was dumbfounded, he still had not told Jon. He had not told anyone yet.


The time he had spent out of Midian on business really let him see how much venom the place had built up in his system...or maybe it wasn't Midian, maybe he was just bitter from getting thing he always wanted, and having them ripped away, he should be used to it... he absently rubs his back, feeling the scars that line all the way up it, he flashbacks for a second to the medical table when he was younger...just a few years after his parents died, he heard the screams of the other kids around him, and felt the drill and the crunching sound echoing through his bone and flesh as it ground his way into his spine... the bastards didn't use any anesthetic, he felt every moment... his 'dad' at the time had sold him into medical slavery for the sure soldier program. yeah, the wonderful foster care program... he went through some of the worst torture you can for three days while they reconstructed his spine. he saw the rotting faces of the kids that died right next to him in the cage...the smell, he almost evacuated his stomach right there from the vision that always haunted him in his sleep. he starts and snaps out of it swallowing hard to curb the bile that has built up.

Once the sickness has subsided he finds himself staring in the fire again..where was his thoughts? oh yeah... things he lost. his mom and dad... eventually his sister as well to her own devices, and his. all of his friends in New Branson upon coming to this shithole, at least this one had been good to him in the business realm. seems he traded happiness for money. some trade. all of these things had been eating at him before that trip, now that he had come back, for whatever reason, he was seeing more of what he did have on his side.. Cinda, always there and loyal to him, nearly at his beckon call. he loved her...truly, but that was so hard for him to admit, even now, an why was it so hard for him to quit looking at other women? was he really that much of an asshole? He refused to admit it, and he would fight it, he wanted so bad to be loyal, he just hoped he had it in him. Then he had Jon, the constant and trusted father figure that walked in his life...he never told Jon that he looked like the guy that sold him to those fucking doctors. He didn't think he needed to know, not when he tried so hard to make Sel love him. Sel did love the guy, he truly was the father that Sel never had. Then there was Jenna and Parx, Jenna was like His mom, he called her Mama Bear for a reason, and she insisted on the title, but everyone of the old BMS crew was like her kids, she loved them all.

Now, other people of mention. he reaches up his hand and taps his chin before reaching over and grabbing his rum and coke on the rocks, the glass clattering against the frozen cubes as he sips the drink. Esha. yup, Esha. His best friend and confidant, She meant the world to him, he would literally kill for her if needed, god forbid someone to face him after wronging her on any sever level. then there was Ember, now there was a complicated subject...Ember Ronas, the fireball detective of what was the MPD. He had the biggest crush on that woman, and probably still did. What was not to like? She had fire, attitude...and she was funny, kind of a klutz. put always played it off in a way that made you smile, and most of all, she was loyal, loyal to anyone she cared about, and Sel knew deep down...she liked him the same, she was just incapable of handling that fact...but he could not just sit around and wait for her to realize her own feelings. He knew though, that if she didn't care about him, when his name hit that investigation cabinet so many times...she would not have made his papers hit the shredder... Even now, if she showed back up and said that she wanted to pursue something, he was not sure where that would leave him and Cinda...

Now, how about Ro. The papa bear and guardian of the old BMS family, he was the one that talked Sel into joining the MPD in the first place, Sel rationalized it as being for the deal Ro gave him, but truth be told...in the end he would hav