*LA Chronicle Pt:1*


They had stolen from him the gift of life.
Sentenced him to forever walk in the dim silver-light of the moon, never to see the golden sun again. Cursed him to witness his children die of age as time passed him by, leaving him unaffected.
And for what?
Amusement?
He was a two-legged practical joke, existing only for the twisted minds to laugh at. But they were all fools, being everliving creatures you could imagine them knowing better than to fuck with something, someone, that has countless of nights to his disposal to plot his vengeance.
But apparently they did not.
Creatures of the ancient nights, they deluded themselves thinking they were safe, hiding behind the curtains of power, behind city officials, behind manipulated police-chiefs and corrupt politicians.
Ignorant fools, not even the night could save them now.
The Conquistador they called him as his real name was since many nights forgotten, even by himself.
But he had not forgotten their real names, or their faces or their voices.
He would let his fury and anger be known throughout the immortal society.
He would let his vengeance reign supreme like the unforgiving night upon the ones responsible for his thirst.
Their unholy blood would soon flood the streets. His to, he imagined.
The city of angels, governed by the depraved and corrupt.
Yes, he had arrived, finally


* LA Chronicle Pt:2*


They had greeted us as gods, as saviors.
They welcomed us to their magnificent cities and showered us with gold, with delicious food, fine tobacco and beautiful women.
In their golden oasis deep in the dark and treacherous jungles we drowned i luxury. Even the pampered queen would have been jealous of us.
3000 slaves was sacrificed to our honor the first few days.
Little did they know we were men without honor.
We were so blinded by the color of gold that we did not see how the pyramids slowly turned red as our thirst for blood grew stronger.
It is ironic that i am now cursed with that same, but still different thirst.
Perhaps it is Gods punishment.
But i turned my back on that cocksucker a long time ago.
On the other hand, spend one day i a east Los Angeles barrio and you will see that he has turned his back on us as well.
In his absence the pearly gate has been made into necklaces and earrings worn by the filthy rich.
Young men bust slugs over streetcorners and crackrocks.
Still it was not any different 400 years ago.
I remember our laughs as we raped them young native girls, no older than our daughters back home.
I remember how we spread the plague by poisoning their water supplies with rotting carcasses.
The satisfactory sounds of thundering muskets and canons, tearing the limbs of men, women and children alike.
Our grotesque deeds and inhuman atrocities against that culture which i now have learned to admire, made us into heroes when we returned to Spain.
We even dined with the majesty herself.
But all of us conquistadors longed to go back the them jungles, and soon we were back. However we did not find, the second time what we found the first.
Death himself greeted us this time.
For those of us who did not perish by the arrows that poured down from the darkened sky, for those of us who fled, awaited insanity and disease in the marshes and swamps.
This time it was not all that pleasant to return to Spain.
Labeled as a coward, as a traitor, people spat on me like i were an enemy of the queen. I lost my lands, my assets, my wife and five children were made homeless. On top of this i was given the gift of unholy bloodthirst. Forced to feed upon mankind. They had laughed as never before when i recovered from my dazed condition, when i realized that i just tore my wife to pieces.
They never meant for me to survive that night.
Too bad for them, i did.


(A page seemingly from a journal written by the Conquistador.
Found in January 2008 in Peru three months after the Los Angeles massacre)


*LA Chronicle Pt:3*


The dense night reigned supreme.
She had recently awoken from her deep sleep and walked throu the victorian decorated mansion.
The footsteps would have echoed if it was not for the persian carpet silencing the sounds from the heels of her gucci shoes.
The light was dim, the air was heavy and dusty, her few guests would complain about it, saying that the house gives them the creeps.
Penelope Valencia always smiled when they said that because they did not now how justified that feeling really were.
She reached the east wing balcony as her pale, almost lifeless butler served this nights firts glass of red wine as she called it.

From the balcony Penelope overlooked almost the entire metropolitan area of Los Angeles.
All the way from the deceiving calm suburban streets of Hollywood, down to the blood-drenched gangland of South Central.
In the middle, the silhouettes of scyscrapers, representing the financial power rises above the poverty beneath them.
She knew this city like the back of her own hand. And when you have been around doing no good for about 600 years, you get to know youre hand quite well. Infact she has lived there since the founding of it, she has watched it develop from a small town in the middle of nowhere into a gigantic city of sin.
Here, Penelope and her kind could exist and even thrive without any greater risks. After all, a little bloodsucking is not the strangest thing going on on a nightly basis in Los Angeles.
The fact that almost every aspect of mortal society is dominated by Penelope and the kind of hers helps them manouvering in the shadows.

Tonight she has some buissines to attend to.
Over the years Penelope has accumalated a fortune that would place her among the top ten richest people in the States, but ofcourse none of her assets could ever be traced back to her.
Mainly most of her buissines is legal, but the nature of tonights buissines is somewhat criminal, even tough she does not need the money that the drugindustry generates.
But when you are facing eternity it is nice to have something to do, and midnight board meetings is for most of the part not so thrilling.
It is something about negotiating the price of two suitcases filled with cocain in a filthy motelroom with Colombians armed with rusty kalashnikovs that thrills her.
Her favorite part of the drug game however, is dealing with competitors in a violent fashion.
Lately a gang of Mexicans has invaded the lucrative L.A market, this has irritated her.

In the hills of a east Los Angeles barrio, Penelope Valencia sits in the back of her bulletproof cadillac escalade, with her butler as the driver.
Further down the street is the targeted house.
Her 6000 dollar purse starts vibrating, she picks up her cellphone.
- Orders?
-Strike.
Five seconds later, three Suv´s silently pulls up by the runned down house.
Mortals would need binoculars to se the action, Penelope was not so she did not.
Six machinegun barrels sticking out from the windows of the cars.
The warlike noise of six, eighty bullets per second assault rifles, courtesy of the Us Army breaks the silence, the blinding gunfire lights up the dark street.
She makes the effort to smile.
One minute and about 3000 bullets later the SUV´s, seemingly in no hurry takes of and dissapears behind a corner.
Penelope leaves the carnage aswell.

The Following night she reads "with the exception of a gangrelated driveby the city of Angels were realtivly calm yesterday"
The gang of Mexicans was now a problem solved.
Having a police chief on her payroll has once again been helpfull.


*LA Chronicle Pt 4*


What has become of this land of ours?
What atrocities has been committed by those who claim to serve the god of Christianity?
This once golden desert in all its beauty, drenched in the blood of my brothers and enemies alike.
Indeed a savage and merciless beast haunts our land.
Indeed a savage and merciless beast haunts me as well.
It dwells within me, as much a part of me as my reverence and love for Allah.
Allah Akbar, thus God is greater and this dark taint that has infected my very soul will never command me, yet i can not resist its urge.
I will rid my self of this unholy curse, i will redeem whatever wrongdoing i have done to deserve it.
Commitment to all that is right is the path to divinity and paradise, but i fearthat for that me, it will not be enough.
Desperately i grasp but for one fragile straw of hope.
Hidden somewhere in this vast world a lost key awaits its finder, it will reveal the last and true name of God, bringing those who posses the knowledge of it closer to Allah´s divine presence.
In that enlightened realm of godly existence the grace and magnificence of Him will purge this sickness.
But more pressing matters are at hand.
The western people have brought a holy war upon us, and we have brought Jihad upon them.
Apocalyptic times are upon us all.
I shall walk the road to salvation with my sword drawn.
Allah Akbar


*The testimony of Mohamed Al Akhir, also known as Mohamed the last. Written in the year of the Lord 1229, present whereabouts unknown*