FYI: The Larkin Chronicles are also my accounting of criminal goings-on that I have been called (by my angels) to report. If anything awful should happen to me, I've informed my friends to contact the SF police, and a couple independent detective agencies (since SOME of the local cops may ALSO be involved in these crimes, thus cannot do their job). Give them this link: "gay-bible.org/larkin". Therein dwell my notorious chronicles (originally named "True Tales from South of Market"), shining brazen in the light of day for all the world to witness.

Or simply show them this page.

I have also provided a convenient link for my allies to download these Larkin Chronicles, "gay-bible.org/share/Larkin.zip", in the event my web site and/or blog should be sabotaged or shut down. Always a possibility, as some criminals are also damn good hackers...or an eventual court decree may demand their removal from public scrutiny. Anyone reading this who cares to advocate on my behalf, is also welcome to download "Larkin.zip". These chronicles will INCLUDE all my "Friendly Ghost" installments, one more each day until completed.

NOTE: I will release a new installment each day...no less than 5 parts total, no more than 7. Interested parties must RE-download each time a new installment is posted. And overwrite or delete the previous Larkin download. Thank you for your support!

These chronicles are a convenient gathering of my observations in this matter, to make it easy for law enforcement or PI's to do their work. I trust I will not get into serious trouble...in fact, this will probably be my debut into public renown as a freelance psychic detective. The fact I've DOCUMENTED these crimes--and posted them to the world via my web site, ZekeBlog, and Usenet--is also good protection...since "they" know if I'm messed with, their geese will be cooked for sure!

In fact, even if my sudden demise is NOT their fault, they'll be in hot water anyway (think about it)...so they'd better start hoppin' REAL SOON to round up the BEST and most GORGEOUS bodyguards they can afford, to protect and honor me. Since they now have a VESTED INTEREST in not just my survival, but also my well-being and even more: my HAPPINESS. I mean, next time I get in a bad mood, a wild hair up my ass just might trigger mayhem!

I know my paranormal skills are increasing dramatically these days...as so many lovely parables have occurred in such a short time span, they cannot POSSIBLY be mere coincidence. And one of the extraordinary things about my recent psychic adventures, is that several people close to me have finally WITNESSED these small miracles that--until recently--I only experienced by my lone some. For one, my fantasy of becoming a psychic detective has begun to manifest in reality, thanks to the rabid demands of my Larkin adventure (psychic bootcamp)!

The new owner of Muddy Waters on Church Street (near Market)

witnessed yesterday (unexpectedly and humorously), my detective skills. His name is Hank: a friendly hard-working young cuss, Asian features, and my very first witness! Here is what occurred:

!!! WE INTERRUPT YOU FOR THIS SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT!!!

Before anyone takes offense, allow me this redeeming (and LIKELY) hypothesis:

Such a unique destiny as mine demands an equally unique challenge, most important: a TOUGHENING of one's mettle. The usual nurturing friendships would surely NOT fulfill This Mandate From Up Above. I therefore extend my utmost gratitude to both my enemies and seemingly clueless friends alike, for having the GUTS to play this out: a most difficult role, massively grievous albeit sacred.

"We have no enemies, only teachers." (Buddha)

"Love thine enemies." (Jesus)

WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULAR SHOW

He numbers among a cluster of jerks who frequent Muddy Waters, and usually sit outside, puffing their tobacco in the doorway...which smoke gets sucked into the coffeehouse like a vacuum. They are also HELLA homophobic. I confronted one such loser--a fat toad of gross proportion and face--who I caught ranting about faggots, how he wants to kick 'em all out, remembers a time before any of them moved here.

(As if! As if not a single queer were born in Baghdad by the Bay. Oh, sophisticated San Francisco!) I walked right up to him and said: "What a vulgar attitude! You're just a parrot for Michael Savage!" (M. Savage is a shock jock on SF radio station KNEW, 910 on the AM dial. He foments hatred and hysteria against homosexuals, liberals, the homeless, and other assorted, long-suffering minorities.) Toad-man just stared at me with those buggy eyes. I continued: "Why do you hate gays so much?"

"Because they fuck each other up the ass!" was his uncivil reply. "News flash," I retorted, "heteros boink each other in the rectum, too. It's a form of birth control." Toad-man then looked away from me, did not utter another syllable. Several "comrades" (partners in crime) were sitting around The Toad, one of whom was amiable to me in the past. So I said: "Steve, tell this guy he's wrong." But Steve was mum, shrugged his shoulders. Three others there also remained silent. "Aren't you all a bunch of sorry suckers!" I declared, pointing to a wiry rodent of a man: "Especially you, who walks around with petitions for liberal causes. No skin off your back to correct this fool's anti-gay bigotry!" He remained silent, like the rest. Disgusted, I entered the coffeehouse with a new appreciation of just how deeply rooted homophobia remains, even among native citizens of "Gay Mecca"...even right here in the gayest neighborhood on the planet: "The Castro". (Oh, sophisticated San Francisco!)

They have a ring leader: a pot-bellied, weak-kneed curly-gray-haired 1st-generation Irish-Amerikan called "Robert"...also a blatant cigar smoker.

Jerkwads gravitate around him, including The Toad. They are mostly loud-mouthed, macho-bravado goons, with Robert as their anchor and raison d'ideotie. He is a house painter, hiring lost souls under the premise of honest employment. At least, that's the draw, the surface appearance. Loser types gravitate in Robert's direction, like orphaned asteroids...and I don't think they're all looking for work.

(Eventually, my complaints about the tobacco smoke got to the previous owner, Hisham...a Palestinian who owned the small chain of three Muddy Waters, the other two on Valencia Street: one near 16th, the other, 25th. Two months after my unpleasant confrontation, signs were placed in both sides of the door well, forbidding tobacco smokers from that hotspot. But Hisham was personally rude to me, mocked me for complaining...and gave me no credit for raising his awareness.)

Sorry for the lengthy flashback, but it was a necessary fill-in for what follows. In sum: there's a nasty little crowd hangs out at Muddy Waters, with this prick "Robert" at the helm. They do not like me; in fact, they loathe me. The hostility towards me is so thick, I couldn't cut it with the keenest scimitar: I'd need a Star-Wars-grade laser beam. And I thought until yesterday, it's solely because I'm an outspoken gay activist, and they're hopelessly, viciously homophobic. Naive little moi!

Now let's return to the near-present, that is: three weeks ago...which by then Hank had replaced Hisham as the owner (and Muddy Waters on Church Street renamed "Church Street Cafe"...this new owner's got a very practical business acumen).

I was sitting there alone as usual, enjoying my coffee when I observed a scummy low-life rummage through the doorway trash bin for bottles and cans. (This goes on several times a day, by the shabbiest slimeballs you couldn't imagine.) Bad enough he spit and blew snot chunks in the entranceway: he also scowled at patrons (including myself), and loudly cussed. Which this day (as opposed to countless previous times I've witnessed such depravity by an assortment of unsavory baboons), inspired me to approach the cashier: a petite, angelic Asian-Amerikan lady (as so many are, like fairies or elves). Also very considerate and joyful.

Anywayz peoples, back to my story. So's I walks up to the cashier, and suggest she remove the doorway trash bin, in order to put an end to these obnoxious scenes...which no doubt are bad for business.

Several days later I return to the coffeehouse, notice the entanceway trash bin's absence...look up to see Hank tending the register. I order an iced tea; Hank says, "This drink's on the house. My wife told me about your idea to move the garbage container inside." Wow, did I swell with pride! Several moments later, enjoying my drink, Mickey-Mouse "Robert" steps in, belligerently questions Hank about the trash bin's disappearance. To which Hank replies, "I decided to move it inside". Robert asked "Why?" Hank responded with a non-verbal shoulder shrug. (That's when I realize Hank's a Cool Operator.) Robert storms out, exclaiming huffily about the homeless denied their cans and bottles.

Hmmm, interesting (I put on my thinking cap, never dreaming that Robert would have any interest in a trash can). With Robert now outside and beyond earshot, I come up to Hank and remark, "Well, that's curious, why Robert is upset over this." Hank's unexpected response: "He cares about homeless people".

"Ha!" I guffaw, "how unlikely. He just uses them for drug deals." My thought then, is that he wants certain homeless folks to access the trash for bottles and cans, which once redeemed for moolah, could be used to buy their fix. Naive little moi!

Several days later I return to the Church Street Cafe for my daily java. As I sip and read the paper, Hank summons me from behind the counter: "Psssst!" So I step up, where he hands me a flyer regarding the rules for San Francisco eating establishments, including: "All food-serving venues must provide a trash receptable by the front door, at all times during business hours."

I hand it back to him and chuckle: "Wow! No good deed goes unpunished." And sit down once more, to ponder the situation. Some moments later, I had the answer, and tell Hank to get a trash bin that allows you to deposit garbage, but not remove any (like with spring-activated spikes to thwart retrieval). He appreciates my suggestion, says he'll look into it. Then I ask, "Did Robert hand you this flyer?"

Hank replies, "No. Someone must have phoned the business bureau and complained, because a representative showed up today, told me about the trash bin rule and gave me this flyer." I was amused: "Oh, Robert called in. Obviously." Hank said, "We can't prove that, it could have been anyone." I suggested: "That's how these idiots operate: very surreptitious, secretive. Let me think more on this."

I return to my seat awhile, to ponder the matter...then it hits me:

So I jump to the counter, lean across and blurt in a controlled, staccato whisper directed only to Hank's ears just four feet away: "It's a drug drop! Someone's very perturbed about the trash bin being removed. He doesn't care about the homeless, the few bottles and cans they retrieve. No one would be so upset unless they used it for a drug drop." I add: "Notice how few coffeehouses provide a trash can outside...they're onto these dealers, plus it's really bad for business to have skanky punks loudly pawing through the trash in the entranceway, cussing and spitting, intimidating the clientele. When you walk around The City, observe the coffeehouses, and I think you'll see very few providing a doorway refuse. Who'd compain about this, except drug runners?"

(Note: I might be wrong about Robert, though his behavior towards me--or lack thereof--and that of his cronies (rude, belligerent, threatening) is druggie-typical. The trash bin incident is but ONE key indicator. Evidence: circumstantial. Significance: strong.)

Hank nods, agrees with my surmisal. I grin smartly: "Told you I'm a psychic detective. Answers just come to me; it's a gift! I simply need to be patient, sit back and wait. Problem solved. On to my next case!" And I depart for the day. Stepping out, I turn my head back to see Robert sitting outside on a hard, cold, metal-wire chair (new since Hank took over) that finally replaced the moldy, spit-and-coffee-stained, weather-and-homeless-beat en pigeon-poop upholstered chairs...glaring at me with those rheumy eyes. I pause to smirk back knowingly ("I got your number"), then turn away and walk home, bemused. For I know that victory will be mine, and a new alliance has formed...and my first witness to my growing psychic skills has finally occurred. Fantabulous!

I know Robert et al hates me...but all along till yesterday, thought it was exclusively the homophobia issue. He never directly insulted me, leaving that to his cohorts...but all along, had surreptiously fomented reptilian venom against me: gossip gossip gossip blah blah. Ha! Did I learn something new. And in so doing, also formed a new friendship.

But the most amazing outcome in this jigsaw puzzle (finally pieced together...huzzah!), is that through Hank, another person witnessed my skills as a psychic detective. That alone is a Victory Of No Small Measure. And I am totally confident that such witness is an affirmation of victory against the druggies who think they rule this neighborhood, and bully anyone who challenges them. I quaff triumphantly from The Chalice Of Righteous Jubilation! (And I don't think I'm counting my chickens before they change horses in midstream. Do you?)