The crowds at Universal Studios were just as bad as I hoped they’d be as the beginning of the Labor Day weekend kicked in. I knew I was safe in the masses, wearing my wig and moustache as I moved with the throngs of people attempting their last chance at a summer vacation. I had overextended my stays at the local bathhouses and knew it was only a matter of time before they would realize I was a fugitive.

I had bought the small 9mm handgun from this desperate drug addict off of Hollywood Boulevard who, peddling imitation sunglasses and colognes, realized he could sell me a higher priced ticket item.

Now here I was, standing in line, wearing the cheap Oakleys across my face the scum threw into the deal at no cost, while I felt the heavy metal barrel of the gun in my pocket.

I wondered what these families would do if all of a sudden I started randomly firing into the crowd, ending their desperate search for joy from plastic dinosaurs stuck in the middle of the San Fernando Valley. America at its finest: spend $40 per person for a “Hollywood” adventure while charging you $8 for a hamburger and $6 for a beer. The one upshot was you could purchase beer while waiting in line to go on E.T. the Ride since Seagrams now owned Universal. Meaning? You could get rip roaring drunk and forget how miserable your life is, at least until the depression settles in that you are in fact nothing but a complete loser sitting in a boat watching a mechanical T-Rex.

Is America entertaining itself to death? Perhaps today I could prove them right by openly firing upon the crowd.

But inside of me I really wanted revenge upon the very family that had ignored me: Mike, Greg, Fran, Drew, and that asshole Eric.

“Excuse me,” asked an East Indian man next to me, his gentle accent suddenly soothing me. “Have you bin on dis ride?” From behind him peered his shy wife, wearing a thin bathrobe and a red dot stuck in the middle of her forehead. “My wife, she is nervus but I keep tellin’ her it’s fun. Yes?”

“Oh sure, tell her she’s got nothing to worry about.”

“Oh good. Tank you berry much, berry much,” he said appreciatively. “It’s fun here in da movies.”

“Yes. Fun. Movies.”

“Tank you berry much.”

I reached into my pocket and gripped the gun handle; my sweating palms wrapping around the trigger because I suddenly wanted to blow this man away. Someone else who made me feel less than! I was weaker, and I couldn’t take feeling like a third class citizen anymore!

As I continued to move forward in the line, my eagerness was slowly getting the best of me, but I couldn’t help but be moved by the gentleness of the old Indian man and his wife behind me. Could my act of violence be thwarted by their naïve innocence?

And then I saw them: a couple in line nearby that reminded me of that dyke Fran and that asshole Mike. He looked pompous, conceited, and quite handsome. The rage grew inside me, the hate fuming my need to strike out. I wanted revenge on that Mocha Daze group, and I knew the only way to make them listen was to demand their attention.

I pulled the gun out of my pocket and FIRED into the air!

People dropped to the ground, screaming in terror, realizing I was in no way part of the themed entertainment.

The Indian man looked at me, horrified, as I pointed the barrel gun at him, warning him and his wife NOT to move.