God and Aliens

I've been a Christian since 1998 - going to Church in spurts, reading the NIV, doing Bible Study, engaging in fellowship and ministry. I've hung out with some immensely dedicated Christians and I'm mentored by the world's most popular pastor: Rick Warren. But, boy do I have some questions about God! Big questions. You could say universe-sized questions. And there may not be any earth-bound Christians around to help me sort things out. . .

Big God, Little Earth

So God did create the universe, but is our little planet the only place He hangs his crown? Why is the bible just about us Jews and Gentiles? Is there a bible for the planet AR415? How about TZ672? If there is a civilization on Mars, would there be a Martian bible too? And what would that bible contain? It would have to be about Jesus, wouldn't it? Or would it? And it would most likely be written in Martian or whatever the dialect is called. What kind of relationship would the Martians have with God? Would they call him God or some weird alien pronunciation of God?

I don't know how the God that created the universe and everything in it would simply select one orb out of trillions to adopt and reign on. And the mystery does not end here. Within this tiny fleck of a planet, God had selected The Jews as His Chosen People. Whoa! Are The Jews the universe's only chosen people? Or, does each inhabited planet in every galaxy have their own Chosen People?

(It's probably important for the reader to know that I was born a Jew and converted to Christianity after my first wife passed away. Although I am now a disciple  of Jesus, I will always feel a strong bond with the Jewish People.)

Alien Redaction
As a narrator of The Book that bears his name, Mormon presents himself as a redactor. He quotes and paraphrases other writers, collects and includes whole texts by other authors, contributes running commentary, and also writes his own narrative. He writes about the process of making the book, both in terms of compiling the works of other prophets and also in terms of engraving the words on metal plates. He alludes to content that is left out of the book, and refers to a larger collection of records at his disposal.

Couldn't we posit that extra-terrestrials would be supernaturally endowed with a similar work ethic? 

According to the Book of Mormon, a Nephite was a member of one of the four main groups of settlers of the ancient Americas. The other three groups are the Lamanites, Jaredites and Mulekites. In the Book of Mormon, the Nephites were a group of people descended from or associated with Nephi, the son of a prophet who left Jerusalem at the urging of God circa 600 BC and traveled with his family to the Western Hemisphere, arriving in the present-day Americas circa 589 BC.  If God could orchestrate the movement of prophets from The Middle East to The Americas, surely he could migrate other disciples through the space / time continuum onto rotating spheres anywhere in the void.

And then, of course, there's the beliefs of Scientology. Eternal controversy has focused on Scientology's belief that souls ("thetans") reincarnate and have lived on other planets before living on Earth. So, perhaps these thetans were also A Chosen People of God - but on some glimmer of fused chemicals a billion light years from Earth. Since God knows all the shortcuts, it would be child's play for Him to whisk a convoy of thetan space shuttles to the Bonneville Salt Flats, The Amazon, or Siberia.

Among the advanced teachings of Scientology is the story of Xenu (sometimes Xemu), introduced as the tyrant ruler of the "Galactic Confederacy." According to this story, 75 million years ago Xenu brought billions of people to Earth in spacecrafts resembling Douglas DC-8 airliners, stacked them around volcanoes and detonated hydrogen bombs in the volcanoes. The thetans then clustered together, stuck to the bodies of the living, and continue to do this today. Scientologists at advanced levels place considerable emphasis on isolating body thetans and neutralizing their ill effects. 

I don't need to toss criticism at Scientology and Mormonism here. I mention these religions only to illustrate their globe-trotting and extra-terrestrial inferences. Would we accept a bible that contains the Book of Mars? The Book of Ursula Centaurus? No, I expect not. But why not? Are we just comfortable with Jesus' earth-bound miracles, his fisherman disciples? 

The Net Result

From gotquestions.org we get this: "As to whether there is life on other planets, we simply do not know. So far, no evidence of life on the other planets of our solar system has been found. Considering the nearness of the end times, it is unlikely that man will progress far enough to visit other galaxies before the Lord’s return. Wherever life exists or doesn’t exist, God is still the Creator and controller of all things and all things were made for His glory."

The statement reads like it was written by a politico. And how does anyone know when the end times will be upon us anyway?

Christiananswers.net contributes this: "The Bible does not teach that intelligent life exists elsewhere in our universe. Although our all-powerful God could have created such life had He desired, it seems rather obvious from Scripture that He did not. The timetable for this present universe is measured by God's dealings with us. It appears that God has created the human race, on the planet called Earth, as the sole beneficiary of His fellowship. This fellowship is of such a unique design that we are told that God's only true extra-terrestrial creations—angels—are eager to observe it in action. It is our privilege to be the center of attention in our vast and wonder-filled universe."

And from the secular answers.com: "If there were life on other planets, this would have been mentioned in the Bible. But since the Bible makes no mention of life on other planets, Christians should not believe in these science fiction stories. 

God created human beings as the pinnacle of His creation. God makes no mention of life on other planets and it is therefore not necessary for our salvation. Everything necessary for our salvation has been given to us by God the Father through His Son Jesus Christ.

But then, as if the writer has just let out a lungful of stale air, he continues. . ."Yes if there was life on other planets, Jesus would be their God, too."

In or Out of The Bible

I could easily fill up one hundred iPads with quotes like those above. The bottom line perhaps is this: if The Bible does not mention God or Jesus on other planets, stars, asteroids, orbs, spheres, comets, black holes, or nebulas - then God and Jesus does not exist out there anywhere. OR. . . God and Jesus do enjoy hanging out with their chosen people on trillions of planets all throughout the universe - but this news just got left out of The Bible.

What do you think? Is God on Mars any more of a miracle then the parting of the Red Sea? Does it make sense to you that this tiny, puny, insignificant speck called Earth is the only thing in the universe that contains life forms created by God?

I don't buy it. Not for a minute. Not in The Bible does not mean not in The Universe. 

What Does God Really Look Like?

I suspect it's only natural to expect humans to portray God as a strong- looking, muscular, gray- bearded man. We've portrayed Jesus as a young, handsome, kind, bearded fellow. But the real story is that we in The Natural haven't the foggiest notion what God and Jesus really look like. There's a darn good chance that Jesus was a short, dark man with kinky hair and a scraggly beard.

The Christian Church in Europe and The West have done a remarkable job at casting God and Jesus. Historically, Jesus and God could never have been represented as dark men. The world as we know it would have been turned upside down by this realization. But Jesus and his disciples looked more like Ethiopians than Englishmen. Even in Mel Gibson's The Passion of Christ, the actor playing Jesus was an American looking a bit like an Italian portraying a bloody Spaniard. 

I would think that most Christians today don't think about what I think about. These folks like their God to look like a muscular, chiseled Charlton Heston and their Jesus like a scruffy Orlando Bloom. 

But if you really believe in God, you know in your heart that He is not a person. How can He be?  And if you really believe in Jesus, you also know that He could never look like Orlando Bloom, Johnnie Depp, Brad Pitt, or Christian Bale.

I propose that God does not have a physical embodiment. How can He?  And I propose that God could not really be a He at all. And I'm totally okay with this realization because it gets us closer to what God really is - The Great Power, The Grand Creator, The Universal All. 

Perhaps all is God. Perhaps God is weaved info everything made or created. Perhaps that is what the ancients referred to as The Holy Spirit. I think the world would be better off removing all mystical elements surrounding God and Jesus. 

I suspect it's only natural to expect humans to portray God as a strong- looking, muscular, gray- bearded man. We've portrayed Jesus as a young, handsome, kind, bearded fellow. But the real story is that we in The Natural haven't the foggiest notion what God and Jesus really look like. There's a darn good chance that Jesus was a short, dark man with kinky hair and a scraggly beard.

The Christian Church in Europe and The West have done a remarkable job at casting God and Jesus. Historically, Jesus and God could never have been represented as dark men. The world as we know it would have been turned upside down by this realization. But Jesus and his disciples looked more like Ethiopians than Englishmen. Even in Mel Gibson's The Passion of Christ, the actor playing Jesus was an American looking a bit like an Italian portraying a bloody Spaniard. 

I would think that most Christians today don't think about what I think about. These folks like their God to look like a muscular, chiseled Charlton Heston and their Jesus like a scruffy Orlando Bloom. 

But if you really believe in God, you know in your heart that He is not a person. How can He be?  And if you really believe in Jesus, you also know that He could never look like Orlando Bloom, Johnnie Depp, Brad Pitt, or Christian Bale.

I propose that God does not have a physical embodiment. How can He?  And I propose that God could not really be a He at all. And I'm totally okay with this realization because it gets us closer to what God really is - The Great Power, The Grand Creator, The Universal All. 

Perhaps all is God. Perhaps God is weaved info everything made or created. Perhaps that is what the ancients referred to as The Holy Spirit. I think the world would be better off removing all mystical elements surrounding God and Jesus. 

Are You Bi-Political?

Pretty much everyone is bi-political from time to time. When you get laid off you're seriously Democratic. When you find a wallet jammed with tens and twenties you're wholly Republican. The beast inside us is the universal moderator on things Political. 

Us As a Whole

You ever get the feeling that God considers all human beings as one massive organism. When I watch the rain, I watch the whole of it. I simply cannot focus on one drop at a time. But, I can take action against all of the rain. I can run for cover to get out of the downpour. I can toss a tarp over a bicycle left outside in the backyard. I can clear debris from my house’s gutters. I can turn off the automatic sprinkler system to save a few bucks. And yes, I know I’m not God.

But that does not keep me from trying to figure out how God works. 

Last night, my wife and I took our Labrador Rocky for a walk. Halfway down a hilly road, Jules, a beautiful chocolate Lab started tuning up for her usual Rocky visit. Her owner and our good friend Sue let Jules out the front door. As Rocky and Jules began tumbling in the front yard, Sue quietly approached.

“Have you heard about Dave?” she said.

We hadn’t heard the latest.

“He passed away last night.”

And then she started crying and fell into my arms. The three of us just stood there. And then came a collection of the usual vocal cliches. My wife and I were deeply saddened.

Dave, his wife Susan, and their spaniel Tulla  left our community in their motorhome about a year ago. Their goal was to travel around America for about 3 years - then decide what’s next. Six months into their dream, Dave got cancer. 

Dave, Sue, and Tulla wintered in Wisconsin as Dave received exam after exam, treatment after treatment. Their original goal was to reach Florida by Christmas. They did reach their destination sometime after the new year.

I decided to pray for Dave and Sue everyday before breakfast. A short prayer asking God to cure, to watch over, to keep strong. I really tried to somehow connect with God on this. I thought perhaps I could hand over my request to the Holy Spirit dwelling inside me. After all, The Spirit would know how to reach God.  Hopefully, I was not the only soul praying. 

A few weeks ago I heard that Dave was failing. The family was now campering in Temecula - about 60 miles from home. Dave was scheduled for a surgical procedure that would drain his system of the debilitating and poisonous liquid that had built up from the disease. That was the news until last night. 

So, what benefit to Dave did my praying provide? Seems that any benefit was for my sake. Making me feel better as a Christian. I was doing my part. I was concerned and I was doing something. We’re told to pray, but Dave died nonetheless.

So we have death and we have prayer. Do we really thing our prayers can stave off the inevitable? After all, we all die. We can pray that the afflicted avoid pain and discomfort. We can pray that the dying go peacefully. We can - but we rarely see our prayers realized.  

That’s why I think God considers all human beings as one massive organism. We should try something. Every person in the world should pray the same prayer day in and day out - something big - like a cure for cancer. One massive organism sending one big message, one colossal prayer God’s way. Maybe this will work. Then we’ll know. And if this doesn’t work, we’ll also know.

The Nazi Skateboarder and the Black Panther Cook

The sky was cold - spoiled milk on brillo. A stack of  Tuesday’s newspapers had bounced from the truck and now lay in pulpy and useless messes across the wet windy metropolitan boulevard. Every second moment, a newsy sheet would reanimate and blow its life out - twisting in the drizzle and wind. 

Past this massacre of current events, the Red Rapid bus slid through a watery intersection and came to a mooring next to the antique green movie theatre. 

“Goddamn…I’m gettin’off. Move your hole out of the way.”

The Black Panther Cook pushed and shoved her route past a fat banker with a comb-over, a tiny Korean lady reading a tiny Korean bible, and a transvestite with a bad head cold.

A pod of middle-schoolers, dressed in the khaki pant/white polo shirt/blue sweater uniform, were cleaved in half as the big black woman pounded a trail out the rear bus doors: these never so abused. 

One poor Latina girl got spun around, dropping her CD player on the wet rubber floor. A Chinese kid’s size 12 stomped on the player as his pack slammed into the head of a shorter sidekick, knocking the Sean John cap off the poor kid’s bald skull. 

The Black Panther Cook, long drained of femininity and humanity, sized like a halfback, dressed in culinary turban, chef’s tunic, black and white checkered pants, gave a hearty double finger to the broadside of the bus as it slipped out of the stop. She jay-walked against the red light on Wilshire, past the incense shack, hot dog vendor and toothless saxophone player. The Black Panther Cook plodded through the Western Transit Center and bounded down three flights of wet granite to the subway below.  

A brutal wind whipped a Target ad supplement flat into her rubbery face. She grabbed the sheets with her free paw, crushed them into a messy ball and tossed the thing down into the black drippy maw.

With her left hand she protected a large faded Tupperware container, illustrated with stickers such as “White Bait”, “Eat Boys”, and “I Cook, You Clean Me”. Her small horn-rimmed glasses were old school: the kind Denzel wore in “Malcolm X.” A slight trace of vinegar and garlic trailed behind her as she moved on. 

She was a cook’s assistant but told her sister Adele she was a pastry chef. She had been bounced from two assignments in the last year: the first for hitting a waiter over the head with a colander and the second for wearing a Che button on her white tunic. Mr. Friessel at the Union gave her one more chance. She was on a streak of three jobs without issue. 

The Black Panther Cook poured onto the station platform just in time to catch the fading red tail lights of the Wilshire Western.  

“Shit. Fuck.” 

Loud enough for a group of Latinas dressed in white “Custom Maid” t-shirts to startle at the word.

“What you lookin’ at Mommasita bitches?”

The clutch of cleaning ladies shook their heads in unison, looked down, and moved on.

The Black Panther Cook found a pre-stressed concrete pillar to lean on, looked down at the Tupperware and closed her eyes. 

Her mind drifted. The $138.75 check needed to go in the bank sometime tonight. Appointment with Mr. Bonaventura, Parole Officer, Friday. On time this time or back doing time. Her 8 year old daughter Toya, living with an ex in Birmingham. Was it Toya’s birthday next week? Somewhere down the station, an old man couldn’t stop laughing.

The giant orange bus from East Los limped along - a sauna inside. Within, the foggy double-paned windows were dripping with yellow moisture. In the bus’s midriff, a heavyset leather-laden Latino was kissing the neck of his wife. Or was it his lover? Or did he even know her? She stayed coy so he added a nibble. Giggles in Spanish.  

Two pimply white girls in black leather huddled, holding hands, swapping secrets and whatever. Sitting up front, a pale ramrod straight white boy dressed in brown suede cowboy hat, brown duster, brown corduroys, brown jack boots struggled to adjust his insulin drip without moving a muscle. A transient from Miami, bearing an uncanny resemblance to David Crosby (the later years), was holding court in the back of the bus, instructing two black security guards how to use a coffee bean grinder to puree a better smoke of weed. 

“Come on bro…move this freakin’ barge, Jack.”  

The blond, dreadlocked, tattooed Nazi Skateboarder yelled his request to the prim Filipina bus driver dressed to military perfection. She had heard worse – purposely rubbing her nose with a middle finger he could not see. The leathered and lathered Latino kept pecking away at his squeeze. The hard girls kept swapping secrets. One nibbled the other’s pierced ear. The windows kept dripping ochre ooze. With each passing stop, the weather in the bus moved from immensely tropical to downright equatorial.  

“Hey Driver Boy…it’s hot as shit in here. Let’s have some freakin’ refrigeration in this century.” 

Again the finger against the nose. On this bus the ‘AC’ was ‘NG’. 

The Nazi Skateboarder was getting more agitated with each passing bus-stop, with each bump of Fahrenheit. He had a habit of biting his knuckles – each festooned with a tiny red swastika. He thought perhaps he could smash open a window with his skateboard. Naw, his luck a goddamn undercover narc would be on this boat.

He still skated the same board that won him the Western States Championship in ‘99. No tattoos then - no black swastika between his eyes. No drug habit then. No brain freezes then. His last job, swabbing johns with a clean-up crew, lasted approximately seven and a half toilets. El Jefe caught the boy smoking crack in one of the executive stalls on the 17th floor of the Transamerica Towers. The Nazi Skateboarder was lucky indeed to get a full day’s pay out of that gig – his last in quite some time.

“Western Avenue.” Announced the tiny driver.

The giant orange bus slid through a sea of brackish water that had pooled up against the craggy sidewalk. The L.A. rain, not welcome anywhere, beat down heavily on the tarmac. With three taps to a massive air brake, the Filipina delivered her iron ark a nose behind an ancient tilting Toyota van, parked illegally in the bus zone. The Filipina sat on the air horn, vibrating the van and the occupants within. On the van’s passenger side, a rusty door painfully slid open and an old rickety metal walker was thrust outside. A man older than Moses emerged from the drivers side, walked stiffly around the car, slogging through the water. He reached into the passenger compartment and hauled out a very old, very large woman holding a chipped oxygen canister. The old man slid the walker around her, quickly fitting the oxygen canister into a sleeve on the pram. He then secured her hands to the rails of the walker with Velcro fasteners, never looking at her once. Grandpa then walked through the water, back into the car and drove off.  

And there she stood. 

The rain ricocheted off the walker’s rails, off the corroding Velcro straps, off the old woman’s bare head. Then, ever so slowly she pointed herself in the direction of a Denny’s 20 yards down the street.

The sweat-soaked riders plowed off the bus as if running from Immigration and Naturalization. The last off the vehicle was the Nazi Skateboarder.

“Hey, busboy”! Gaining the Filipina’s attention for a fraction of a second, he pivoted on his laceless sneakers, dropped ‘trou’, and mooned the bus. The rear bus doors banged shut as the Nazi Skateboarder hoisted his baggy pants and bounded into the pouring rain, chipped wooden skateboard over his head. The Filipina bus driver managed a short half smile as she checked her side mirrors and plied the bus into the wet and slippery midday traffic. The third bare-ass on her bus this year.

The Nazi Skateboarder, rotting board on top of his dirty blond dreadlocks, jay-walked against the red light on Wilshire. He skateboarded through the Western Transit Center and slinked down three flights of wet granite to the subway below. 

Walking toward the steps leading to the Wilshire Western platform, he remembered that Marlboro lodged behind ear and scalp; now just a soggy nicotine-laden mass of pulp. 

“Motherfucka…son of a fuckin’ bitch.”

He quickly ran his hands behind his ear as if his hair was on fire – shaking out wet tobacco. He reached into his ripped backpack, pulled out a fresh cigarette (his last), and stuffed it in his mouth.  

There was a scattering of travelers on the Wilshire Western platform. The odor of the day was cheap rotting wine over 14 hour sweat. The Nazi Skateboarder walked to the tip of the platform and looked through the tunnel. No train. Just that dull gray darkness that signifies everybody’s lives.

He munched on his knuckles, scratched his head, then pivoted on his moldy Chuck Taylors.

“Hey, anybody…does this friggin’ train go to North Hollywood?” he yelled, scratching his head.

Those nearest the Nazi Skateboarder closed up like Pansies at night. The dirty glass elevator brought another batch of commuters down to the platform.

“Hey people…I ain’t gonna bite. Like I said, all I wanna know…does this train go to North Hollywood?”

The Black Panther Cook, hidden from view by the pillar she was leaning on answered, eyes closed:

“Two stops to Wilshire Vermont. Get off. Go downstairs. Take any train.”

The Nazi Skateboarder smiled, revealing two evil looking gold teeth. “You see…see, there are still some Good Samaritans left in this friggin’ hell-hole. Thank you. Thank you. Whoever you are.” 

He languidly strolled to the invisible voice of the Black Panther Cook. He studied her for a few seconds. She looked at him like a banker looks at a beggar. 

“You a chef or somethin’?” said the Nazi Skateboarder.

“I am a chef or something, right” The Black Panther closed her eyes again. 

“Hey, I used to work in a kitchen; cuttin’ up vegetables, sausage. Crap like that. Done other things too. I waited on tables once. Hey whadya got in that container of yours?” The Nazi Skateboarder pointed to the Black Panther Cook’s Tupperware luggage.

“What’s in here, none of your business.” She moved forward to look for approaching train lights, noticing the front page of “Hoy” had made itself into a tent over the third rail.

“Yea, okay, that’s cool. Your shit is your shit. But look, what’s your gig? You freelance or what?” The Nazi Skateboarder followed her to the lip of the platform.

“I freelance. That’s right. My freelance hat, my freelance jacket,” she held up her Tupperware, “my freelance kit.” With no train coming, she backed away from the edge.

The Nazi Skateboarder rolled his unlit Marlboro in his mouth. “So look, you godda business card or something. See, I can do this kinda work.” He paused to scratch. “Here’s my problem, every goddamn time I get an angle on some cush job, some freakin’ thing comes up, somethin’ gets in the way.”

“Yea, something gets in the way. Like liquor?, pills?, crack?…that what gets in the way? I can smell you from here Tarzan. How you going to hold onto employment” She stared him down like a probation officer ready for retirement.

He smiled that gold tooth smile and scratched his head, bit into a knuckle.

“I do what I do off-hours. Like you don’t fire up the pipe from time to time. Don’t get up in my face now. I might just toss you in front of the train, then see what’s inside your Tupperware.” The gold teeth again.

The Nazi Skateboarder took a step toward the Black Panther Cook. She could smell his Marlboro/Wild Turkey/Subway sandwich breath. She held her Tupperware a bit more firmly. 

A young Catholic priest in collar and blue jeans walked past. He was reading an out-of-date edition of Newsweek and did not notice The Cook or The Skateboarder.

The Black Panther Cook took another gander down the tracks then turned to the Nazi Skateboarder, breathing him in… 

“You a Hitler freak or something. Answer me this: how you going to sit in front of a hiring manager with that thing between your eyes? I’d go cross-eyed just looking at you.”

He pondered a sly answer then said, “Self expression, woman. I’m a walking performance piece. I got tattoos on tattoos.”

Another Wilshire Western stuck it’s nose into the tunnel between Normandy and Western. The train inched its way as if propelled simply by gravity. Commuters were streaming onto the platform now.

“Say Gary…or Murray…or whatever the hell your name is…look I just finished a gig at the Wilshire-Ebell. I’m tired. I’m heading home to change for another one at the Hollywood Bowl. You want a job cutting up zucchini, or paper dolls, or whatever? I suggest you get yourself over to the Culinary Workers Union but do yourself a favor – buy some foundation at the cosmetics counter and solder it over that swastika.”

“Chef Boyardee, look just gimme your card. I’ll tell them I know you. You give me a recommendation. Done deal. Do a dirty white boy a favor, huh?”

“You ain’t gonna get a card from me. I’m not gonna give you my card.”

The whistling train wheels shook the collected multitude from their day-ending stupors. People started herding into boarding packs.

As the Wilshire Western poked into the station, The Nazi Skateboarder looked directly into the black horn-rimmed eyeglasses of the Black Panther Cook. 

He turned himself off, as if trying to remember lines that will never come. Then, following an impulse, he reached for the cook’s Tupperware.

“Give me that fuckin’ thing.”

Surprised, the Black Panther Cook held firm to her container. The Nazi Skateboarder tried to pry the container out of her vise grip. 

Had The Nazi Skateboarder looked into her ebony eyes..really looked, he might have been witness to every wrong heaped on that black woman, every injustice she had had to endure, every cheap trick, every fast scheme, every asshole and bastard that had taken from her, every hurt, every pain. She never threw out anything. Never forgave anything. It was all there. 

Had the Black Panther Cook taken an equal look, she would have been the one spectator to every father’s fist, every sexual transgression, every leather belt tearing into a young boy’s flesh. And worse: to the cruelest abandonment. To endless tears, and to zero hope.

God gives us free choice. Most sell it.

Somehow, some way, a rusty switchblade showed up in the hands of the Nazi Skateboarder. The Wilshire Western softly came to a stop in the station and humanity piled in… 

At least nine out of the fifteen police reports didn’t get it right. Five of the reports stated that the Black Panther Cook ripped off the cover of the Tupperware, took out a small blue .22 and pumped it all into the chest of the Nazi Skateboarder well before the knife point entered her chest. 

One report said the gun went off at exactly the same time the knife entered – both suspects dying simultaneously. 

Two reports had it that the Nazi Skateboarder threw the knife at the Black Panther Cook shortly before she fired six bullets into his head.

Another version stated that the first two shots misfired. And that the Nazi Skateboarder charged the Black Panther Cook - knife pointed at her chest - she firing the four remaining slugs - one bullet after the next. He falling dead from the bullets. She falling dead from the knife half pushed into her body. 

Three of the remaining reports were written in Spanish…and three in Korean – so there’s no telling what those said.

No one was quite sure where all those hundreds came from. The Tupperware box perhaps.

One thing all the reports agreed on: The Nazi Skateboarder and The Black Panther Cook lay on the wet station concrete like two lovers asleep on Santa Monica beach.

The Filipina bus driver’s shift ended at 5 pm. Because it was Tuesday, she met her Fiancé Ray at Lorry’s Play Den in Pico Rivera for their usual dinner. Over Chicken Mole and Carnitas, they watched the KTLA news story of the murders on the Wilshire Western station. The Filipina recognized the mug-shot of the dead Nazi Skateboarder broadcast on the news - then remembered she needed to pick up her uniforms from the dry cleaner before they closed at 8 pm.