#Vehicle Transport Los Angeles

[diytransport]

Vehicle Transport In Los Angeles: The Easiest Way To Move Your Car

If you're looking for a trusted vehicle transport service in Los Angeles, DIY Transport is here to make your car shipping experience seamless and stress-free. Whether you're relocating, purchasing a car, or simply need to move your vehicle across the country, we provide top-notch door-to-door vehicle transport solutions. Los Angeles, with its bustling traffic and sprawling urban area, presents unique challenges for moving vehicles, but with the right service provider, you can rest easy knowing your car is in good hands. In this blog, we’ll answer common questions about vehicle transport to help you understand why DIY Transport is the best choice for vehicle transport in Los Angeles. Vehicle Transport Los Angeles

1. What is vehicle transport, and how does it work?

Vehicle transport refers to the process of shipping a car or other vehicle from one location to another. At DIY Transport, our service is designed to be simple and efficient. Once you book our service, we pick up your car directly from your desired location, whether that’s your home, workplace, or another spot. We then transport your vehicle safely and deliver it to your designated drop-off location. With our door-to-door service, you won’t need to worry about driving to a terminal—we handle everything for you.

2. Why should I choose DIY Transport for vehicle transport in Los Angeles?

DIY Transport stands out for several reasons. First, we provide a door-to-door service that takes the stress out of transporting your car. Our professional team is highly experienced in navigating the complexities of Los Angeles vehicle transport, ensuring your car reaches its destination without delays. We also offer competitive pricing, so you can enjoy peace of mind without breaking the bank. Whether you’re shipping a sedan, SUV, luxury car, or motorcycle, we have the expertise to handle any type of vehicle.

3. How much does it cost to transport a vehicle in Los Angeles?

The cost of vehicle transport varies based on several factors, including the distance of travel, the type of vehicle, and the time of year. However, at DIY Transport, we work hard to provide affordable and transparent pricing. When you request a quote from us, you’ll receive a detailed breakdown of the costs involved, so there are no hidden fees. We also offer different shipping options, such as open transport and enclosed transport, so you can choose the solution that best fits your budget and vehicle type.

4. Is my vehicle insured during transport?

Yes! One of the key benefits of using a professional service like DIY Transport is that your vehicle is fully insured during the transport process. This means that in the unlikely event of any damage, you’re covered. Our carriers are licensed and insured, giving you extra confidence that your car is in safe hands. We prioritize the safety of your vehicle throughout the entire process, from pick-up to drop-off.

5. How long does it take to transport a vehicle to or from Los Angeles?

The duration of vehicle transport depends on the distance of the shipment. However, DIY Transport is known for its efficient and timely service. For vehicle transport in Los Angeles, we strive to offer flexible scheduling and deliver your car within the timeframe that works for you. Whether you need quick delivery across state lines or a longer cross-country journey, we’ll keep you informed of your vehicle’s status every step of the way.

Why Choose DIY Transport for Vehicle Transport in Los Angeles?

Los Angeles is known for its heavy traffic and complex road networks, which can make vehicle transport a challenge. By choosing DIY Transport, you’ll benefit from our extensive experience in navigating the unique landscape of Los Angeles. Our vehicle transport service ensures your car is moved with care, professionalism, and speed.

From individual car owners to dealerships, our clients trust us for reliable, on-time deliveries. Whether you’re moving a car for personal reasons or handling a business transaction, we tailor our services to meet your needs. Plus, our customer service team is always ready to assist you with any questions or concerns during the process.

Conclusion

When it comes to vehicle transport in Los Angeles, DIY Transport is the name you can trust. We provide a hassle-free, affordable, and fully insured solution for shipping your vehicle, with a focus on delivering excellent customer service. Whether you need to transport a vehicle across town or across the country, we’ve got you covered. Contact us today to learn more about how we can help with your Los Angeles vehicle transport needs and get a free quote on your next shipment. Visit DIY Transport to get started!

[coastalcartransport]

Los Angeles Car Shipping: Efficient and Safe Vehicle Transport

When you need car shipping in Los Angeles, professional services provide a reliable and efficient solution. Whether relocating, purchasing a car from out of state, or needing long-distance transport, experienced auto transport companies ensure your vehicle is in good hands. With options for both open and enclosed carriers, they cater to your specific needs, offering protection and peace of mind. Los Angeles car shipping services feature real-time tracking, insurance coverage, and trained drivers, ensuring timely delivery. Trust local experts to handle your vehicle safely and efficiently, making your car shipping experience seamless and stress-free.

[hope-for-the-planet]

From the article:

Above the whirring of 300,000 cars each day on Los Angeles’s 101 freeway, an ambitious project is taking shape. The Wallis Annenberg wildlife crossing is the largest wildlife bridge in the world at 210ft long and 174ft wide, and this week it’s had help taking shape: soil. “This is the soul of the project,” says Beth Pratt, the regional executive director, California, at the National Wildlife Federation, who has worked on making the crossing become a reality over the last 13 years. She says she’s seen many milestones, like the 26m pounds of concrete poured to create the structure, but this one is special. “To be able to put my hand in that soil and toss it on and know that we’ll be putting milkweed plants that will flourish for monarch butterflies, or picturing the first mountain lion paw print on that soil,” she says, fills her with hope. “It is wonderful to watch this habitat take shape.” The plot is a native wildlife habitat that connects two parts of the Santa Monica mountain range, with the hopes of saving creatures – from the famous local mountain lions, down to frogs and insects – from being crushed by cars on one of the nation’s busiest roadways. With nearly an acre of local plants on either side and thick vegetated sound walls 12ft high to dampen light and noise for nocturnal animals as they slip across, it’s an unprecedented feat of engineering. Imagination, too. The project began in 2022 through a public-private partnership that brought together many organizations to cover the $92m in costs, according to Caltrans, the state transportation department. Research shows that wildlife crossings save money because it limits animal interactions with vehicles.

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Tesla Robovan Prototype, 2024. An electric, autonomous vehicle the size of a small bus, designed for transporting up to 20 people and/or cargo. Revealed at Tesla's We, Robot event in Los Angeles, the are no details yet about when is will become available, how much it will cost or how far it will travel on a single charge. 

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Morgan Stephens at Daily Kos:

California is gearing up for a high-stakes clash with President-elect Donald Trump over environmental policy and immigration—and it’s happening before Trump is even sworn into office.  On Monday, Gov. Gavin Newsom issued a bold warning announcing he would intervene if the Trump administration rolls back the federal tax credit for electric vehicle rebates. If the credit is removed, Newsom pledged to provide a state-funded $7,500 rebate for electric vehicle buyers in California.  “[Z]ero-emission vehicles are here to stay,” Newsom said in a press release. “We will intervene if the Trump administration eliminates the federal tax credit, doubling down on our commitment to clean air and green jobs in California. We’re not turning back on a clean transportation future—we’re going to make it more affordable for people to drive vehicles that don’t pollute.”

California’s environmental transformation has been nothing short of remarkable.  Los Angeles was once shrouded in a thick haze of smog, and the state struggled with dangerous air quality into the late 20th century. Following the creation of the California Air Resources Board and the Federal Air Quality Act, both in 1967, the state began to dramatically improve its air quality. And now California is a national leader in the fight against climate change. It recently reached its goal of 100 days with 100% carbon-free, renewable electricity for at least a part of each day. The state hit another milestone this year, with more than 2 million zero-emission vehicles sold in the state.  "This milestone comes a little over two years after California eclipsed the 1 million ZEV sales mark," Newsom’s office stated in a press release. But the fight isn’t just about clean cars.  California Attorney General Rob Bonta is preparing for a legal showdown with Trump over immigration policies, including Trump’s planned mass deportations. 

In a recent interview with The Nation, Bonta made it clear the state will take every available step to protect its immigrant communities—no matter what the Trump administration throws at them. “I’ve been preparing and readying for this possible moment for months, and in some cases years, depending on the topic,” said Bonta, adding, “They want to do what they want, when they want, how they want it, even if it violates the Constitution or a federal statute.”  Bonta’s team is also worried about “the harm that will be visited on Americans, including Californians, that will be the result of unlawful activity and, in the immigration space, xenophobia, racism, discrimination, fearmongering, scapegoating,” he said.

California is a key state in the battle against Donald Trump in his 2nd term, just like his first term.

[constantkwrites]

City of Stars Ch.5 (Officer K x Reader)

gif credits

Words: 8009 (I went insane on this one) Masterpost | Chapter 6 (in progress)

comment if you want to be tagged in future chapters

tags: @loriiisthings @birdandherblog @lilyletham @cherrylush117 @zanydruid1985

**********

The Inspector works long hours, longer than most. K follows as she leaves the precinct. She doesn't take a Spinner– doesn’t have one. He wonders if it’s by choice or circumstance, but the answer doesn’t change anything.

Instead, she boards a rickety transport. A ground bus that looks barely held together, its engine wheezing like it’s on its last breath. K follows in his vehicle through air traffic.

The bus rattles its way past Greater Los Angeles, past places that barely qualify as part of the city anymore. The highrises thin out. Glass and steel give way to skeletal ruins, the remnants of abandoned expansion projects. The neon glow of downtown gives way to flickering lights, then to nothing at all.

No one sane comes out this far.

The bus heaves to a stop. She steps off.

They’re at a cemetery.

K steers his Spinner down a few blocks away, kills the engine. He follows on foot. He keeps a safe distance moving between mausoleums and tombs, watching as she weaves her way through the graveyard’s uneven paths.

It's a forgotten place. Pre-Blackout. Some of the grave markers are smooth as river rocks now, their names erased by time and acid rain. It would be hard to see in this low light, but not for K.

She moves with purpose, navigating easily in the low light.

She's been here before.

K watches as she stops at a grave.

Whose is it?

A friend? A family member? Someone she lost on the job? 

Farhadi?

No. The LAPD wouldn’t let his body rot in the outskirts of LA. They would have kept him close, buried in one of the sanctioned sites, a name engraved in polished stone. This is a place for those who slipped through the cracks. Those who never belonged.

She stays there a long time, silent. 

And then, she reaches into her coat–

–and brings out a rose.

A rose.

Is it real?

He watches the way the petals catch the dim light, the way the stem bends just slightly, soft with fragility.

It must be.

No man can capture the raw beauty of nature, no synthetic imitation could ever match the fullness of it. The flush of its petals, the deep red. It is perfect in a way nothing in this city is.

It must’ve cost her something. A flower like that? Not synthetic, not one of those cheap fakes sold in the city. This one is real. Grown somewhere, cut fresh. 

A thing not meant to survive in a place like this.

Carefully, quietly, she leaves it on the grave. A wordless devotion, left for someone who meant the world to her. Someone who deserved a gift of genuine beauty, even if it can only last a moment.

She doesn’t leave right away.

She sinks down onto the cold earth, next to the grave. A slow exhale as if shedding the weight of the day. Her arms rest over her knees, shoulders slump forward. She’s comfortable here. Familiar. She’s done this before.

Then, she speaks.

“Hey,” she says, quiet. She’s talking to the grave. “I’m so sorry I took so long to come back. I know I promised I’d visit more… I’m bad at promises.” 

Her chin rests against her knee. "Long day. Long week."

A pause.

"Long life. Ever since you left."

She huffs, tired. "You’d hate it here."

K listens. 

“The precinct’s worse than ever. I think they’re going to can me soon.” She shifts, runs a hand down her face. “Or worse. Bury me in paperwork until I suffocate.” A humorless snort. "They want me to fail. I swear to God, they’re throwing obstacles at me just to see how long it takes before I finally break. And it’s like– I got a fucking case to solve." The words come out harder, laced with frustration. "It’s big. Cops might be involved in a trafficking ring. Serious shit. And no one wants me to get anywhere near the truth. Course they don’t. Pigs protecting pigs. Nothing new."

K logs every word into his VID-7. A sleek rectangular scanner of sorts, LAPD issued. Perfect for recording audio, location, images. 

The Detective displays open distrust toward LAPD. Possible disloyalty.

Joshi will want to see this.

Then–

"Oh, I didn’t tell you. I got a new partner. Well… not exactly new. It’s been a week or so. His name’s K." A deep breath before she continues. "I don’t know what to think of him. He’s calm. Way calmer than I’ll ever be." She huffs, almost amused. "Never talks. Makes it hard to figure him out."

She pauses, then laughs. 

And it’s–

Beautiful.

K likes the sound.

He shouldn’t, but he does.

“He’s really handsome though.”

K pauses.

The recording stops. He doesn’t restart it.

For a second, he wonders if he misheard her.

But something in him tightens. A feeling. Fleeting. Unnameable. A sensation, something that makes him too aware of himself. The shape of his own body. His long face, his aquiline nose. Engineered and artificial.

He’s a model. A product. Good looking, yes, in the way all of his kind are– not that K sees it, anyway.

But hearing it like this–

Soft. Unassuming.

Not a critique. Just a thought spoken into the air, like it means something.

She laughs again, light, easy. Like the idea genuinely amuses her.

Like it’s good. Like it’s true.

His pulse spikes half a beat faster.

K exhales, steady. Tries to ignore the way his skin prickles, the way his fingers flex against his palm. The instinctive need to respond. To correct her, maybe, or to ask why.

He swallows. Forces himself to refocus.

She continues, unaware of his tense presence.

"Mister Perfect. Calculated and collected. He seems to have his shit together. Literally everything that I am not. It should piss me off..."

K exhales through his nose, waits for the rest.

"But it doesn’t."

She hesitates a bit. "He can be a little rough, though. Like the time he pulled me off some guy. I was gonna beat the shit out of an asshole and he yanked me off.” A snort. “But to be fair, the bastard punched K first. Unprovoked. So…” She trails off.

“I know you’d disapprove… but I’ve seen it happen too many times. Saw it happen to you. I should’ve stopped it. Should’ve done something… and I didn’t. I was too young. Too weak.”

She drags her fingers through the dirt, absent, restless. Trying to distract herself, maybe. Trying to smooth over a wound that never really healed.

Then–

"I think he’s lonely."

K’s breath stalls. Not a sharp intake, just a sudden stillness, like something in him stopped working for half a second.

Still not recording.

"He just follows orders. He doesn’t seem like he wants to be here." A pause. "Anywhere. Not in the precinct, not with Joshi. not in his own skin. Something’s wrong. I don’t know what, but…"

She trails off. Shakes her head.

K doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe too deep.

"It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with himself unless someone tells him. Maybe that’s why Joshi likes him."

K looks down at his hands. 

"I don’t think he knows what he wants," she continues after a pause. "Or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t think he’s allowed to have it." 

His throat feels tight. 

"I get it." She leans back against the worn stone of the grave, tilting her head skyward. The city isn’t visible from here, no stars, no highrises cutting into the clouds. Just open sky, wide and empty.

"I don’t think he likes me very much. He’s just–" she stops again, struggling for the words. "He keeps everything so close. I don’t know if it’s fear or caution. Maybe both. I want to ask him, sometimes, if he’s alright. But I don’t think he’d tell me."

She’s right. He wouldn’t.

She just looks at the grave. And looks tired.

This… unsettles K.

She’s not supposed to see through him. 

K is a ghost in his own skin. He is careful. He’s meant to be careful. He keeps his head down, keeps his movements precise, keeps his emotions– or what feels like them –buried beneath the surface. Nothing to latch onto, nothing to pry apart.

But somehow, she sees him anyway.

No one wonders about him.

But she does.

He watches her, sitting there, tired and soft-spoken in the dim light, her words slow and thoughtful. She shouldn’t be thinking about him.

K swallows. His pulse ticks in his throat. His muscles coil, tense. He fights the impulse to do something– to step back, to walk away.

He clenches his jaw, resets himself.

This is dangerous.

Not because of the job.

But because for a fraction of a second– too quick, too quiet, almost nothing at all–

He doesn’t hate it.

He crushes the thought before it fully forms. He shouldn’t want this. 

And yet–

His hand tightens at his side.

And yet.

Before he can stop himself, he brings his hand up and sinks his teeth into the soft flesh between thumb and forefinger.

A rare thing for him to do.

But it grounds him.

The pain is sharp, immediate. It pulls him back to something solid.

She reads him too well. Sees too much. It’s not supposed to be like that. 

He presses his teeth down harder. Feels the sting. The warmth of his own skin against his tongue. The small manageable shock of being in his body– something he so often forgets.

This, he understands.

Not her words. Not her.

She sighs, fingers drumming idly against her knee.

K lets go of his hand, flexes it once, twice. Feels the ache settle deep into the muscle. The sting lingers. Good. He needs it to.

She drops her head forward, looking at the grave like she’s waiting for something. A response that will never come.

Softly, almost absently, she speaks.

"I’d like to trust him. I think he’d make a good friend."

As if she’s imagined a world where he is someone worthy of trust.

Of something more.

"Sorry for talking too much," she says. "I know you don’t mind, but still. I’ll be back. I won’t take this long next time." 

She pushes herself up, brushing dust from her coat. Glances down one last time. Her gaze lingers on the grave, on the rose. K watches as she hesitates just for a second.

Then, with another sigh she turns and walks away.

The recording is unfinished. Words half written. K stalls for a minute, and decides he’ll finish the report later.

He waits until she's gone.

Only then does he step forward.

The grave is a simple thing. Unmarked, now that he’s close enough to look. No name, no date. Just a stone sinking into the earth. A sign of an eternal resting place.

K takes his VID-7 and sweeps the area with it.

No biometric readings.

He frowns. He adjusts the scanner’s settings, runs another pass over the site. Still nothing. Worse than nothing–

It’s empty.

A grave that isn’t a grave. 

That doesn’t make sense.

He stares at the results, brows drawing together. That’s not possible. She wasn’t just visiting a plot of dirt. He saw it in the way she stood there, heard it in the way she spoke.

He photographs it all anyway, capturing the scene in perfect clarity. The stone, the dead overgrown roots, the single red rose left behind. A piece of evidence if that’s what this even is.  If Joshi asks, he’ll have something to give her. 

He stares at the Scanner’s display. Flicks through the results again. No coffin. No bone density readings.

What is she doing, visiting a grave with no one in it?

His gaze drifts to the rose. He should bag it too.

His hand closes around the stem. Slowly, carefully. The thorns press into his skin. Not enough to break it, but enough to remind him that it’s alive. That it once was, at least.

He holds it. Just holds it.

Joshi wouldn’t care. She’d look at the report, skim through the photos, probably make some passing remark about the Inspector’s sentimentality. The rose wouldn’t mean anything to her.

Something tightens in his chest.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid.

But he wants to keep it.

His fingers graze the soft petals, careful, like the touch itself might break it. He’s never held something like this before. Never felt something this fragile. He’s seen flowers in advertisements, on holograms flickering in the streets, in memories that don’t belong to him– but never like this. Never real.

A useless thing, delicate and fleeting, something that will wither in a handful of days. But he wants it.

Because when was the last time he held something that wasn't cold? When was the last time he touched something that wasn't built, but born? When was the last time he had something that belonged to him, just him, without orders, without programming or purpose?

Never.

He brings it close. The soft petals kiss his lips. 

The rose smells earthy, sweet. Fitting of a delicate thing. Nothing like the artificial perfumes clogging the air of downtown, nothing like the sterile nothingness of his apartment.

Something else entirely.

He feels wrong for wanting it. Feels selfish.

It doesn’t belong to him. It was hers. It was left for someone else, meant to be mourned over, meant to wither where she placed it. It had meaning. It cost her something.

And yet– he wants.

He swallows down the guilt, tucks the rose into his coat like he’s afraid the world might take it from him. The petals press against the inside of the fabric, delicate against the synthetic weave.

Then, finally, he straightens. Steps back.

The grave is still empty. Still nameless.

But at least he has something.

**********

K follows her home.

She takes the public transport again. The drive back to the city is long, the roads stretching dark and empty beneath his Spinner. The sky is a thick, hazy black. It takes a while, but they eventually reach her building. It’s well past midnight when they do.

The neighborhood isn’t the worst in the city. But it’s not far from it.

A working-class sprawl, patched together with recycled materials and rust. Buildings packed shoulder to shoulder, towering into the smog. A mix of exposed metal, cracked concrete and cheap polyglass. 

The streets are alive with movement. Vendors calling out, people huddled under makeshift parasols, figures biking into alleys where the light doesn’t reach. K drifts his Spinner further up, watching as she disappears into the lobby of a highrise.

It’s not a place for cops. At least, not the ones with rank.

The Inspector’s building stands at the edge of the district. Tall, narrow, wedged between two larger towers, its walls streaked dark from years of acid rain. It was once something better. K can see it in the structure, in the remnants of old decorative paneling near the entrance, in the faded company name stamped above the doors. Repurposed like everything else in this city.

Did she choose this? Or did she just end up here?

K lands the Spinner a street away, high up on the rooftop of a battered building. Not too close to be seen. Not far enough to lose sight of the life inside the tower.

Minutes drag on.

An apartment lights up. Hers. She lives high up, 32nd floor.

From this distance, he only catches glimpses. Pieces of a life not meant for him to see. She steps into view, closes the door behind her. Old hinges, flimsy locks. She throws her coat onto something out of sight. She leaves the frame for a moment. When she comes back, she’s in more comfortable clothes. Barefoot. Unarmed.

At ease.

This is her home.

The only place she should be able to breathe, be free of scrutiny. It feels… indecent, watching her like this.

K exhales, looks away. Tiredness presses behind his eyes, into his skull. He needs sleep. 

This isn’t efficient, the following, the long drives. He needs a better way to track her. Something less… personal. 

The rose is still in his coat.

He puts the Spinner on standby and sends out the drone. It hums to life, lifting into the air, its sensors sweeping for movement, ready to alert him if she leaves.

He catches another glimpse of her crossing the room. She grabs something. A book, then she flops down onto a couch and starts reading.

Or tries to.

Minutes pass. Her head tilts slightly, her grip on the book loosens. It slips against her chest, her fingers going slack against the pages.

She’s fallen asleep.

She must be exhausted too.

K leans his head back against the seat. It would be wise to get some rest as well, just an hour or two. Enough to keep pushing on.

He thinks of something… sweet.

The rose. The way the petals felt between his fingers, impossibly soft. The way it smelled, earthy and real.

Joi, waiting for him whenever he goes home. The way her voice fills the empty space.

And then– nothing.

The deep, sweet nothingness of sleep. The empty place where he is nowhere and nothing.

K exhales, and lets himself fall asleep.

**********

It continues.

He wasn’t expecting to find her here.

Calavera’s is a forgotten pocket of the city, wedged between crumbling buildings and humming street lamps that flicker like dying stars. An open air food court, if one could still call it that. The tables are rusted, the benches broken. The ground is slick with oil and covered in half melted toxic snow.

Here, no one looks at anyone for too long. No one asks questions. Not with the brothel just a few feet away, its red lights pulsing in the dim air. Men and women and everything in between wait on the steps for buyers. The walls flash with holo-ads promising escape in a body, in a drink, in a pill.

He’s standing at a table, a safe distance away from his partner. She doesn’t know he’s here.

The Inspector sits at a table alone, oblivious to him. She looks exhausted. Her schedule borders on masochism. For two days K has tracked her through the city, watched her refuse rest, refuse food, refuse anything resembling comfort. Like she's allergic to downtime, like stillness might hurt worse than pain itself. K can take a lack of rest, but not her. He wonders how longer she can push forward before she can’t anymore.

Off-duty, she chases ghosts. Contacting families buried under forgotten missing person cases, trying desperately to find some hidden truth in the cracks. Trying to uncover how deep the rot goes, how far it reaches within the LAPD.

Quietly, silently, a man slides into the seat across from her.

K narrows his eyes. A meeting, off record.

The Inspector straightens, subtle but tense. Shoulders pull taut beneath her coat, and even from a distance K can read the suspicion in her body. She doesn’t trust him.

The stranger is nervous, fingers tapping restless patterns onto the worn plastic tabletop. He’s thin, gaunt beneath cheap clothes. A tremor shakes his hands, quick and desperate. His eyes dart left, right, left, right– anywhere but her face. 

K edges closer, eyes fixed on them, straining to catch their voices beneath the endless noise of the market.

“You’re late,” she says coldly.

The man flinches, hunched into himself like he expects to be hit. His voice is thin, jittery. “Had to make sure I wasn’t being followed.”

“Paranoid?”

“You should be, too.”  he spits back, wringing clammy hands together. “They’ll slit both our throats if they know we’re talking.”

"I'm careful enough."

He lets out a bitter laugh. “You Copper types never are. I leaked what I had– pictures, videos. Thought you’d actually do your jobs, shut it all down. Turns out nobody cared enough.”

K’s eyes narrow.

The leak.

This man, he's the whistleblower. And the Inspector hasn't reported a word of this to Joshi.

This is bad.

She leans in slightly. “That was you?”

He nods. “I worked the ring from the inside. I saw where the shipments went. Who signed off on what.” He lowers his voice. “I can name names.”

She doesn’t give him space to breathe. “Tell me everything. Who did you work for? Where? How long’s it been running?”

He recoils like a rat, eyes darting. “N-not yet. I’m not handing over shit unless I get something first.”

She watches him carefully. “Like what?”

“Safe passage. Off-world. Somewhere they don’t own.” His eyes flick up to hers. “I’m not stupid.”

She’s unreadable.

“I was a surgeon,” the man blurts, uncomfortable under her gaze. “Not a trafficker. I didn’t kill anyone. God, I’m not a murderer. I just... put people back together after they were taken apart.” A beat. “You’d– you’d do the same for the kind of creds they offered.”

Her voice is ice. “So what changed? You grow a conscience, just like that?”

The man swallows hard. Looks away. “They started bringing in kids.”

Silence.

She goes completely still.

K sees the shift. The tension that coils up her spine. The flicker of anger behind her eyes.

Then– she snaps.

She lunges forward, fist gripping the man's collar, twisting it tight enough to choke. He squeals, terrified, wriggling like a worm on a hook. She yanks him forward.

"You knew and you kept cutting?"

The man’s eyes widen, panic breaking through. He tries pulling away but she holds tight.

“I– I didn't have a choice!”

“You always have a choice!”

His breath hitches. “Please– they would have killed me!”

Her grip tightens, shakes the man like a puppet in her grasp. “Better dead than lay hands on kids! How many did you butcher, you sick fuck?”

He shakes his head, frantic. “I don’t–”

“How many?!”

“I don’t know! A dozen? Maybe more! I didn’t ask questions!”

“Who signed the transfers?!”

He whimpers, tries to shrink into himself. She shakes him hard, rattling the words out of his lungs. He looks around wildly like someone– anyone –might help him.

“Give me a name!” she hisses.

His face contorts. Ugly, desperate.

“No,” he croaks, clinging to that one scrap of power. “Not until I’m safe. You kill me, you get nothing. I’m the only one talking, nobody else even gives a shit!”

K tenses from his vantage point. One hand rests near his weapon. The situation is spiraling.

The Inspector breathes hard through her nose. Her grip doesn’t loosen. Her hand trembles– not from weakness, but from restraint. Rage radiates off her like heat.

The man’s voice breaks again, shaky, pathetic. “I’ll give you everything. Records, logs, names, shipment dates. Just get me out. Get me off this fucking planet.”

She holds him there a second longer. Studying him like she’s trying to decide if he’s even human.

Then, with visible disgust, she lets him go.

He slumps back, rubbing at his throat, eyes wide and wet and glistening. A rat with nowhere to hide.

“You don’t deserve to get out,” she says quietly.

She stares at him, jaw tight, chest rising and falling as she fights to keep steady.

She breathes in slow. In, out. Forces herself back under control. She calms with one last inhale.

“Fine,” she says, voice low. Controlled. “I’ll get you out.”

K stiffens instantly. What the hell is she doing?

The man’s eyes widen. “You will?”

“Off-world, untraceable. But you give me everything. No holding back. I want names, files, routes. If you so much as leave out a single name–”

“I won’t,” he blurts. “I swear.”

This is beyond bad. She’s promising an accomplice an off-world escape. Behind Joshi’s back. Behind everyone's back. This isn’t just reckless, it’s illegal. A breach of protocol so severe it could end her career, maybe even land her in a cell. Joshi would crucify her if she knew.

She opens her mouth to say something else.

And then–

Boom.

A sharp crack splits the air. 

The Inspector jerks back violently as a bullet slices past her arm, grazing her shoulder. Blood bursts from the sleeve of her coat like ink.

Another shot rings out. Misses. The table in front of her explodes in a rain of splinters.

Chaos detonates.

Dishes clatter, hot broth splashes across the pavement. The people around them scream– raw, terrified –and scatter in all directions.

The informant bolts. Gone in a blink, slipping between cracks.

The Inspector staggers back, dazed. One hand clutches her bleeding shoulder, fingers slick with blood. But the shock only lasts a heartbeat. Her eyes flick upward and search for a shooter immediately.

There’s a silhouette perched atop a nearby rooftop, barely visible in the skyline.

She moves without thinking. Her boots slam against pavement, adrenaline slicing clean through pain. K immediately follows after her. She leaps, catches onto a drainage pipe and climbs– swift, desperate, nearly feral. K watches in disbelief as she pulls herself up, hand over hand, moving like something wild and reckless. She reaches the catwalk and disappears upward, running full tilt five stories into the sky.

K follows immediately, grabs the same pipe. He pulls himself up and climbs onto the catwalk. He sets one foot on it–

The metal gives way.

He flinches back just in time as the side rail collapses in a shower of bolts and rust. The ladder twists with a wrenching screech, tearing away from the wall.

“Shit,” he curses.

He jumps back to the ground, boots skidding on wet concrete. Looks around– fast. Finds another way. There’s a fire escape just an alley over. He runs for it, cursing every second she’s alone up there, but he’s fast. Built for perfection and precision. He can make it in time. He reaches the fire escape and climbs upwards with inhuman speed.

Above, the Inspector makes it onto the rooftop and breaks into a sprint.

Ahead, the shooter is already running. Rifle strapped to his back. An old make, heavily modified. He reaches the ledge and jumps across to the other building.

The gunman lands hard, rolls, recovers, and keeps running, like he’s done it a hundred times.

The Inspector doesn’t stop. She pushes harder, runs recklessly after the gunman–

–and jumps.

She doesn’t make it clean.

She slams into the rooftop edge, hard. Her body jerks, fingernails scraping against concrete as she slips. She kicks uselessly as she dangles over the four story drop.

She claws at the ledge. Blood smears across the rooftop edge as her boots slam against the wall, struggling for grip.

For a terrible second, she hangs there, barely holding on.K doesn’t wait, sprinting across rooftops now, still two buildings away. If he just moves fast enough–

Then she snarls through gritted teeth and hauls herself up. She stumbles forward, nearly collapses, but forces herself into motion again. Still bleeding. Still running. 

K leaps down, closing distance. He's just one rooftop behind now. He can catch up. He sees her shape vanish around a corner.

Then–

A dull thud rings out in the air, and everything falls silent.

K's pulse spikes. He clears the last jump and bolts toward the sound.

He rounds the corner–

And stops dead.

She’s on the ground.

Collapsed on her side, blood pooling beneath her head. Her coat's soaked through, crimson spreading fast. The Inspector– brilliant, reckless, infuriating –is sprawled across the rooftop like a broken thing. K gets on one knee and checks for bullet holes immediately. There are none, to his relief.

K’s eyes flick ahead.

The gunman is still running, already putting distance between them. He’ll be gone in seconds if K doesn’t move now. His eyes return to her, then to the corner she turned just seconds ago.

And the picture becomes clear. 

The shooter didn’t outrun her. He waited, hid just out of sight, let her chase him down, then caught her off guard and hit her with the butt of his rifle. A clean hit. Just enough to knock her out.

K can still catch him.

He runs the numbers. If he leaves her now, gets moving immediately, she has a high chance of survival. High enough to justify it. She’s tough. She might pull through.

He curses, low and bitter, and lunges forward into a sprint.

He makes it ten steps before something wrenches him back. His legs falter, his momentum breaks. The urgency is still there, coiled in his body, but it’s going in the wrong direction.

He stops.

He looks at her again and something twists sharply in his chest. She’s reckless. Impulsive. Infuriating. She should be written up for not reporting this meeting.

But…

The idea of leaving her there feels wrong in a way that numbers can’t justify.

He curses again, more violently this time, and turns back.

He drops to his knees beside her, breath heavy, fingers already working to assess the damage. Blood trails down from her temple. Her breath is shallow. Not good, but steady. She’ll live.

Still, she looks… wrong like this.

Soft. Crumpled. Her face slack in unconsciousness, lips parted slightly as if she’d been about to say something before the blow landed. He hates the sight of it. The stillness. The quiet.

His hand brushes her coat, and his training kicks in.

He doesn’t forget.

Duty above all.

From his coat he pulls a thin black case and opens it.

Inside, a Needlewalker.

It's a spider-like drone the size of a coin. Sleek. Quiet. Black as oil. It unfolds in his palm, legs twitching to life as it calibrates, then stills. He watches it for half a second– blank, detached –then slips it beneath her coat.

It skitters out of sight.

The Needlewalker will record everything. Joshi will want intel, proof of what happened. She’ll want to know what the Inspector says, who she speaks to, where she goes next. The feed won't go directly to Joshi. She wouldn't bother with something so menial. It'll go to him.

K then wraps her in his own coat.

She’s already wearing hers. But his is warmer. Thicker. The night wind cuts hard up here. He lifts her carefully, arms under her shoulders and knees, mindful of her head. Her weight settles against him– heavier than she looks, all tension and blood and exhaustion.

As he carries her back to the Spinner, something beneath his ribs aches. Not violently. Not even urgently. Just a slow, hollow pull.

She’s his partner. She needs medical attention. He’s just doing what needs to be done. But when he looks down at her– face slack, lashes clumped from blood, mouth drawn in pain–

He tells himself it’s nothing.

He carries her down the fire escape, slow and careful, boots slipping on wet metal and then asphalt. Her head rests limp against his shoulder and blood still leaks slowly into his coat. He carries her gently a few streets down to his vehicle. People stare with wide eyes, questioning, untrusting. He pays them no mind.

He reaches the Spinner, sets her down gently in the passenger seat. Reclines it so her head won’t tilt. Her coat’s soaked through. His, wrapped around her, isn’t much better.

He works in silence.

From the center console, he pulls a few gauze packets and presses them gently to her temple. The cloth blooms red against her skin. The bleeding’s slowed, but the swelling is bad. He watches her face for signs of pain as he cleans the crimson.

Nothing.

Her arm’s worse. He peels back the soaked sleeve. Just a graze. It’ll be painful, but not dangerous. Still, it won’t heal unless she rests and she’s in no condition to be on her feet. He dresses her wounds. It’ll hold until he gets her to the Medbay at the LAPD.

He looks at her after he’s done. She’s too still. It’s… strange. He regards her a moment longer, then exhales and pulls out his comm.

It rings, once, twice, then–

“K,” Joshi snaps. “Where the hell are you?”

He doesn’t waste time. “The Detective made contact with a whistleblower at Calavera’s. She didn’t report to command.”

There’s a pause.

“…She what?”

“She arranged it off-record. She didn’t know I was there. They talked a bit, but there was a shooter on the rooftops– took a shot at her. Might’ve been a warning. It wasn’t clean.”

Her voice is ice. “Jesus christ. Where is she now?”

“Out cold in my Spinner,” K says. “Took a blow to the head. Gunman waited for her around a corner. She went down hard.”

“And the informant?” Joshi asks tightly.

“Gone. Possibly the one who leaked the media files last month. She promised him off-world passage in exchange for a full intel drop– names, files, accounts. The whole nine yards.”

Something slams on the other end– metal, maybe a hand against her desk.

“She promised what?” Joshi spits. “Who the hell does she think she is?”

“Just as surprised as you are, Madam.”

“She doesn’t have the authority to offer coffee, let alone a ticket off-world. She’s just signed her own death warrant. Does she even realize that?”

K says nothing. He watches the blood congeale against his partner’s skin.

“She needs medical,” he says quietly. “Possible concussion, lacerations. Might need–”

“Why the fuck are you bothering me with that?” Joshi snaps, cutting him off. “I don’t give a shit if she’s pissing blood and missing teeth. Get on with it.”

K swallows. The cold he felt earlier presses harder now, tight beneath his ribs.

“Should I book her, Madam?”

A beat of cold calculation.

“No.”

K frowns. “Ma’am?”

Joshi exhales at the other end of the receiver. When she speaks again, her tone is different– measured, sharp.  “She wants to go rogue? Fine. Let her dig through the shit if it gets us something useful. And when it all blows up in her face, when she finally fucks it beyond repair? That just makes it easier to hang her with it later.”

He swallows. Discomfort beats nervously in his chest.

“And K– You’re not her partner. You’re my eyes. I expect you to act accordingly”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” she finishes. “Debrief with me tomorrow. Alone. You're dismissed for today.”

The line goes dead.

The only sound left is the soft hum of the Spinner and the low, rasping breathing of the Detective. 

He lowers the comm slowly, then looks at her again.

What a mess.

K exhales and slips turns the comm off. He starts the engine. The car purrs smoothly, its thrusters warming in the cold air.

Besides him, she stirs. It’s just a twitch at first. Her brow furrows. A faint groan escapes her lips.

He turns to her quietly, watching.

Her whole body lurches upright, breath ragged and sharp. Her hand goes straight for her holster.

The gun is drawn in a blink.

“Hey–” K starts, voice calm. No sudden movements. “Easy. It’s me.”

She’s a wild thing. Pupils blown wide, chest heaving. Confused. Cornered. Her eyes dart everywhere, not recognizing the Spinner, not placing him immediately. 

“Where–??” she demands, voice hoarse. “Who the hell–?”

Then she sees him.

Recognition flickers in her eyes.

She goes still. Not relaxed– just still. The gun stays raised a second longer, trembling in her grip. Her gaze flicks down to the bandage on her arm, the bloodstains, his coat around her shoulders. Her breath hitches, then slowly, her arm lowers. She drops the gun in her lap with a thud.

“I was in the area,” K says with an even voice. “Heard a shot. Found you unconscious.”

She presses a hand to her head, like she’s trying to keep it from splitting open. A wince flickers across her face. She looks nauseous. “God, feels like someone dropped a building on me.” 

She swallows, grimaces, then looks at him again. Less wild now, but wary. 

“...Were you tailing me?” she asks, voice low.

“No.”

She snorts, then immediately regrets it. Everything hurts. “Come on, K. Don’t insult me. You don’t breathe without orders. Least you could do is be fucking honest about it.”

He exhales through his nose, slow. Controlled. “I was just in the area. That’s all.”

She narrows her eyes at him. Tries to read him. But she’s concussed and swimming in fog, and he gives her nothing. “…You really expect me to believe that?”

“I expect you to believe I didn’t want you bleeding out alone on a rooftop,” he replies.

That shuts her up. 

She’s convinced. For now.

Her shoulders drop slightly. The tension bleeds out of her entirely. She sighs and slumps back against the seat, wincing again as her head hits the rest.

Her fingers curl around the edge of the coat, tugging it a little tighter. She doesn’t look at him when she says it.

“…Sorry,” she mutters. “For raising the gun.” She covers her eyes with her arm and stills.

K simply nods. He watches her for a moment. “You need medical,” he says quietly. “You’re concussed. I can take you to the Medbay.”

She doesn’t move. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Don’t make this difficult.”

“I’m not,” she mutters. “I just don’t need a hospital.”

He turns toward her, sharp enough to make the leather groan. “You took a blow to the skull.”

“I said I’m fine, K.” She lowers her arm, staring up at the ceiling. Her voice is flat, tired. “I don’t need a full scan and a dozen questions and some overpaid bastard charging me five thousand Eddies to tell me I should lie down.”

“You’re not in any condition to–”

“I don’t have the money, alright?” she snaps suddenly. “I can’t afford it.”

K blinks, caught mid-thought. He wasn’t expecting that. K stares at her. She doesn’t look at him. Just keeps her eyes fixed on the windshield, jaw clenched so tight he can see the muscle twitch in her cheek.

She doesn’t have the money? Then how the hell did she afford the rose?

Nothing about her makes sense. He’ll have to figure this out later.

She leans her head back, eyes closed now. Her voice goes quieter. “Besides. Waste of resources.”

He turns to look at her, frowning.

“What?”

“I said I’m not worth the trip.”

She says it plainly. No bite, no sadness.

K sits back slowly, the sound of the rain filling the silence between them. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t even know what to say to her anymore.

Instead, he revs the engine and takes her home.

**********

The ride to her neighborhood was painfully quiet.

They reach her street. K lowers the vehicle at an empty spot beside some food vendors. The Spinner lands with a low hiss.

He powers down the engine. The cabin dims, leaving only the soft glow of the dash and the steady tap of rain on the windshield.

“I can walk,” she mutters, already reaching for the door handle.

K cocks an eyebrow at her.

She steps out and doesn’t make it three steps before she stumbles to the side and throws up into the gutter.

K follows at a slower pace, watching without a word. Arms crossed, looking at her with a raised eyebrow.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, breath ragged. “Don’t say it.”

“I didn’t.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was.”

I told you so.

She glares at him, weak but defiant.

Then she sways again.

K steps forward just in time. She doesn’t fight it when he slides an arm around her back. She leans into him, most of her weight shifting into his side.

“I got it,” she mutters.

"Clearly."

"Don't be a dick."

"Then don't try to walk.”

She mumbles something under her breath, too tired to argue.

She's so hardheaded it could drive K crazy. Good thing he's nothing if not patient.

She leans heavier into him with every step. By the time they reach the lobby, she's not even pretending to walk on her own anymore.

The lobby is dim, lit by a single flickering panel overhead that buzzes like it's dying. The air smells like rust and wet dirt. The security desk sits abandoned, dust-covered and empty, chair overturned behind it. Most of the mailboxes are sealed shut with old tape. Names have been scratched out, replaced, scratched out again. More than half the building's units are probably empty.

"Floor?" he asks, like he doesn't already know. 

"Thirty two, apartment ninety seven." 

He nods and presses the elevator button.

Its doors open with a reluctant screech, and the floor inside is sticky in one corner, littered with torn flyers and something that might have once been food. She doesn't even look– just leans heavier into him as the lift lurches upward. The ride up feels longer than it is.

They step out onto a hallway that smells faintly of mildew and stale heat. A few doors are boarded shut. One is slightly ajar, the sound of static humming from within. 

They reach her door.

She pulls her keys from her pocket with some effort, hand trembling slightly. She jabs them at the lock, misses. Tries again. 

And again. 

K watches her fumble with it for a beat, then gently takes the keys from her hand.

He slides the key in, turns it cleanly, and pushes the door open with a quiet creak.

And the second they step in, before the door even clicks shut–

"No shoes," she mutters. 

K glances down, then at her. She's half conscious, barely standing, and that's what she chooses to be firm about? 

He kneels down and pulls off her boots first, one at a time. Then his own. 

She leans against the wall as he flicks the light switch. 

The apartment comes to life. 

Finally, K gets a look at the place she calls home.

K steps inside with her still leaning against him– and freezes.

The space is small. No bigger than his. But that’s where the similarities end.

Her home is cluttered, mismatched, brimming with life in a way that feels almost foreign. A kitchen sits immediately to the right, barely separated by a low counter. There are dishes in the sink. A kettle on the stove. There's a faint, lingering scent of cinnamon clings to the air– warm and soft and strange. Underneath it, something even harder to name.

It smells like something he doesn't have a word for.

Love, maybe.

Lived in. Used well.

The walls are covered in posters, old and new, curling at the edges. Some framed, most not. Movie stills and art prints sun faded from the window. There's a half broken lamp on one end table, a pile of coats slung over an old armchair.

Books are everywhere. Actual, printed books. Stuffed into shelves, crammed under the coffee table, stacked high along the baseboards like crooked little towers. Some have tipped, spilled onto the floor like they’ve grown roots and decided to stay. K gets the urge to run his fingers along the spines and look at every title.

He hadn’t expected this.

In front of him on the other side of the room, he sees the window. It spans almost the entire wall.

He stops breathing.

An array of plants sit against the glass. Big ones in deep ceramic pots. Smaller ones in mugs and chipped bowls. Some leafy, some flowering. One has tendrils reaching for the glass like it's hungry for the rain outside. Every one of them is green. Alive. Healthy in a way nothing else in the apartment quite is.

All of them real and wonderful.

K is hit with the overwhelming urge to move closer. To reach out. To touch the leaves and feel them beneath his fingers. He’s never seen plants like these up close before.

He takes a step forward–

And his partner nearly collapses beside him.

The impulse dies immediately.

He shifts, catching her just before she slumps to the floor.

“Hey,” he says quietly, adjusting his grip as she sways. “Easy.”

Her head lolls against his shoulder.

“Bed?” he asks.

She nods.

Plants can wait. She needs to lie down, now.

He shrugs the coat off her shoulders, then his own. Both are soaked through with her blood. He hangs them on the nearest hook by the door. She’s shivering, but he doesn’t help her more than that. Doesn’t reach for her shirt, doesn’t try to get her dry.

This already feels too intimate.

He’s peering into a life she didn’t invite him into– walking through the clutter of her living room, seeing the way she lives, breathes, exists. It feels like trespassing. If her blood stains the bed sheets, that’s a sin he can live with.

He helps her down the hallway, past the plants until they reach her bedroom.

It’s... different.

Weirdly empty. Sparse. There's just a bed. No pictures. No books. No personality. Like someone moved in and forgot to finish unpacking.

K says nothing.

He helps her sit, and she all but collapses onto the mattress. A soft groan escapes her lips as she burrows into the pillow, exhausted, dazed. 

He glances around, then steps back into the hall.

He finds the bathroom. In the cabinet, there are painkillers. Cheap ones, almost expired. Good enough. He returns with a glass of water in one hand and the bottle of pills in another. Hands both to her without a word.

She fumbles with the pills, pops two and downs them fast. Then drops back onto the pillow like gravity pulled her soul out through her chest.

He watches her for a bit.

Beaten up, bruised, half conscious, still breathing.

She’d run after that shooter like it was nothing. Like she had something to prove, or something to burn. Maybe both. No hesitation. No backup. Just grit and blood and fury.

She could’ve died.

He could’ve let her.

He turns to go, footsteps soft on the old floorboards. He almost makes it out of the room when her voice stops him.

“…K.”

He pauses. Looks back over his shoulder.

She’s barely awake. Curled sideways into the blankets, still clinging to some semblance of consciousness. Her eyes half lidded, voice hoarse.

“Cassette player,” she says, almost too quietly to hear. “It’s in the living room. Somewhere.”

He frowns. “What?”

She waves her hand vaguely. “Please.”

He doesn’t understand, but he nods and turns, moving quietly through the apartment again.

He walks past the plants and the stacked books, scanning until he spots it sitting on a pile of magazines. Old, cracked, beat to hell. It’s a relic from before. It looks like it’s held together with tape and hope.

He brings it back, still unsure.

She reaches out for it without saying anything. Her hands fumble with the buttons, fingers clumsy and stiff, then clicks play.

The machine crackles softly to life.

It takes him a second to register what he’s hearing.

The sound that fills the room is soft, almost too soft to hear at first. Just the slow, steady rhythm of someone breathing. Not hers– it’s someone else’s. Slow and constant. Inhale. Exhale. Over and over, on loop.

She sets the player down on the pillow beside her like she’s done it a hundred times before. Like someone used to sleep on that side, and this is the best she can do to fill the space they left behind.

The realization creeps in slowly, cold and rigid. He knows what this is.

His mind drifts– unwanted –to Joi. Her voice. Her hand on his shoulder, her lips on his. The illusion of being seen. 

He stares at the cassette player, then at her. She’s already out, asleep with her face turned toward the sound. Something deep in his chest folds in on itself.

He swallows hard. Doesn’t say anything. He just turns and walks out, a little too fast. 

When he leaves, he forgets his coat. He doesn’t realize it until he’s already gone.

**********

Previous chapter - Next chapter (in progress)

[mariacallous]

With the Olympic torch extinguished in Paris, all eyes are turning to Los Angeles for the 2028 Olympics.

The host city has promised that the next Summer Games will be “car-free.”

For people who know Los Angeles, this seems overly optimistic. The car remains king in LA, despite growing public transit options.

When LA hosted the Games in 1932, it had an extensive public transportation system, with buses and an extensive network of electric streetcars. Today, the trolleys are long gone; riders say city buses don’t come on schedule, and bus stops are dirty. What happened?

This question fascinates me because I am a business professor who studies why society abandons and then sometimes returns to certain technologies, such as vinyl records, landline phones, and metal coins. The demise of electric streetcars in Los Angeles and attempts to bring them back today vividly demonstrate the costs and challenges of such revivals.

Riding the Red and Yellow Cars

Transportation is a critical priority in any city, but especially so in Los Angeles, which has been a sprawling metropolis from the start.

In the early 1900s, railroad magnate Henry Huntington, who owned vast tracts of land around LA, started subdividing his holdings into small plots and building homes. In order to attract buyers, he also built a trolley system that whisked residents from outlying areas to jobs and shopping downtown.

By the 1930s, Los Angeles had a vibrant public transportation network, with over 1,000 miles of electric streetcar routes, operated by two companies: Pacific Electric Railway, with its “Red Cars,” and Los Angeles Railway, with its “Yellow Cars.”

The system wasn’t perfect by any means. Many people felt that streetcars were inconvenient and also unhealthy when they were jammed with riders. Moreover, streetcars were slow because they had to share the road with automobiles. As auto usage climbed and roads became congested, travel times increased.

Nonetheless, many Angelenos rode the streetcars—especially during World War II, when gasoline was rationed and automobile plants shifted to producing military vehicles.

Demise of Public Transit

The end of the war marked the end of the line for streetcars. The war effort had transformed oil, tire, and car companies into behemoths, and these industries needed new buyers for goods from the massive factories they had built for military production. Civilians and returning soldiers were tired of rationing and war privations, and they wanted to spend money on goods such as cars.

After years of heavy usage during the war, Los Angeles’ streetcar system needed an expensive capital upgrade. But in the mid-1940s, most of the system was sold to a company called National City Lines, which was partly owned by the carmaker General Motors, the oil companies Standard Oil of California and Phillips Petroleum, and the Firestone tire company.

These powerful forces had no incentive to maintain or improve the old electric streetcar system. National City ripped up tracks and replaced the streetcars with buses that were built by General Motors, used Firestone tires, and ran on gasoline.

There is a long-running academic debate over whether self-serving corporate interests purposely killed LA’s streetcar system. Some researchers argue that the system would have died on its own, like many other streetcar networks around the world.

The controversy even spilled over into pop culture in the 1988 movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit, which came down firmly on the conspiracy side.

What’s undisputed is that, starting in the mid-1940s, powerful social forces transformed Los Angeles so that commuters had only two choices: drive or take a public bus. As a result, LA became so choked with traffic that it often took hours to cross the city.

In 1990, the Los Angeles Times reported that people were putting refrigerators, desks, and televisions in their cars to cope with getting stuck in horrendous traffic. A swath of movies, from Falling Down to Clueless to La La Land, have featured the next-level challenge of driving in LA.

Traffic was also a concern when LA hosted the 1984 Summer Games, but the Games went off smoothly. Organizers convinced over 1 million people to ride buses, and they got many trucks to drive during off-peak hours. The 2028 games, however, will have roughly 50 percent more athletes competing, which means thousands more coaches, family, friends, and spectators. So simply dusting off plans from 40 years ago won’t work.

Olympic Transportation Plans

Today, Los Angeles is slowly rebuilding a more robust public transportation system. In addition to buses, it now has four light-rail lines—the new name for electric streetcars—and two subways. Many follow the same routes that electric trolleys once traveled. Rebuilding this network is costing the public billions, since the old system was completely dismantled.

Three key improvements are planned for the Olympics. First, LA’s airport terminals will be connected to the rail system. Second, the Los Angeles organizing committee is planning heavily on using buses to move people. It will do this by reassigning some lanes away from cars and making them available for 3,000 more buses, which will be borrowed from other locales.

Finally, there are plans to permanently increase bicycle lanes around the city. However, one major initiative, a bike path along the Los Angeles River, is still under an environmental review that may not be completed by 2028.

Car-Free for 17 Days

I expect that organizers will pull off a car-free Olympics, simply by making driving and parking conditions so awful during the Games that people are forced to take public transportation to sports venues around the city. After the Games end, however, most of LA is likely to quickly revert to its car-centric ways.

As Casey Wasserman, chair of the LA 2028 organizing committee, recently put it: “The unique thing about Olympic Games is for 17 days you can fix a lot of problems when you can set the rules—for traffic, for fans, for commerce—than you do on a normal day in Los Angeles.”

[justforbooks]

John Ashton

American actor best known for his role as Sergeant John Taggart in the Beverly Hills Cop films

In several action comedies of the 1980s, John Ashton, who has died aged 76 from cancer, played disgruntled, buffoonish or flummoxed figures caught up in chaotic situations not entirely of their own making.

The first, Beverly Hills Cop (1984), was originally intended as a dramatic vehicle for Sylvester Stallone: “Stallone was going to make it ‘Rambo Blows Up Beverly Hills’ or something,” said Ashton, who first auditioned for the film in that form.

When it was subsequently retooled for the overnight sensation Eddie Murphy, it became a comedy in which other cast members were also permitted to be funny. Among them was Ashton, who played the dyspeptic Sergeant John Taggart. With his partner, Detective Billy Rosewood (Judge Reinhold), he is assigned to keep an eye on Murphy’s irreverent Detroit native Axel Foley, who makes waves as he hunts a killer in Beverly Hills.

Foley runs rings around the pair. During a stakeout, he inserts bananas into their car’s exhaust pipe, causing the vehicle to stutter and stall when they try to follow him. Ashton’s irritability was nicely offset by Reinhold’s peppy naivety. One of the pleasures of the film was seeing Taggart gradually come around to Foley. Having begun the movie at loggerheads, they end it as allies.

After witnessing the enthusiastic response to the movie at an industry screening, Ashton and Reinhold stopped by a Los Angeles cinema a few weeks later to see how it was going down with the public. Seated in the balcony, they marvelled at the audience “hooting and hollering and screaming and yelling”.

Directed by Martin Brest and released in the US in December 1984, Beverly Hills Cop took $316m worldwide, and was one of the country’s top 10 highest grossing films in 1984 and 1985.

Ashton and Reinhold returned in Beverly Hills Cop II (1987), as well as the recent fourth instalment, Beverly Hills Cop: Axel F (2024), in which Taggart has now been promoted to police chief. “If we were gonna do [another] Beverly Hills Cop, the only way it could happen was if all of us were in it,” said Murphy earlier this year.

Less commercially successful than Beverly Hills Cop but far superior was the buddy movie Midnight Run (1988), also directed by Brest. It starred Robert De Niro as a dishevelled bounty hunter transporting a turncoat Mob accountant (Charles Grodin) across the US. Ashton was superb as the comically coarse Marvin Dorfler, a rival bounty hunter who tries repeatedly to intercept the duo and claim the money for himself. Dunderheaded the character may have been, but Ashton also showed convincingly that he could be intimidating when the need arose.

The role had been written as a straightforward heavy. “But that’s not how I played him,” said Ashton, who approached Marvin instead as someone who was simply doing his job. It worked: though the character died halfway through George Gallo’s script, Brest ordered a rewrite. “About a month in, Marty said: ‘We can’t kill Dorfler, the audience will hate us!’” Ashton recalled. He was spared and given additional scenes, including a memorable appearance during the tense climax.

Seeing Ashton square off repeatedly against De Niro was among the film’s highlights. It was also vital to him to win the role in the first place. He had arrived at the audition to find “about 30 guys in the hallway going, ‘I can’t believe I gotta read with Bobby De Niro’. Everybody’s freaking out.” Ashton, on the other hand, was champing at the bit. “Nobody’s getting this role but me,” he decided.

During the ensuing improvisation, De Niro was meant to hand him a set of keys. As he went to take them, De Niro tossed them on the floor. “Fuck you!” barked Ashton, sparking an escalating exchange of obscenities. “I know every other actor picked those up,” he reflected. He later discovered that, once he left the room, De Niro had told Brest: ‘I want him.’”

Ashton was born in Springfield, Massachusetts, to Edward and Eva (nee Wells), and raised in Enfield, Connecticut. He was educated at Enfield high school and Defiance College, Ohio, then studied theatre at the University of Southern California. In 1970 he won a scholarship to travel abroad, and appeared in theatre productions across Europe.

He always referred to theatre as his first love, and it was in that medium that he won his only prizes: a Los Angeles Drama Critics Circle award in 1973 for A Flea in Her Ear, and a Drama Logue award in 1982 for a production of Sam Shepard’s True West, in which he starred opposite Ed Harris.

His first film was the slasher thriller An Eye for an Eye (1973). He then became a familiar face with guest spots on TV shows such as Kojak, Columbo and Starsky & Hutch. In 1978 he appeared in six episodes of the soap opera Dallas as a crony called upon to do the dirty work of JR Ewing (Larry Hagman).

Film work included the acclaimed cycling drama Breaking Away (1979), the Charles Bronson thriller Borderline (1980), John Schlesinger’s chaotic comedy Honky Tonk Freeway (1981), the monster movie King Kong Lives (1986) and several John Hughes projects: Some Kind of Wonderful (1987), She’s Having a Baby (1988) and the children’s comedy Curly Sue (1991). In 1989 he played a worried father whose seven-year-old son is kidnapped in the factually based TV drama I Know My First Name is Steven (1989), and at a press conference to promote the film, tearfully recounted his childhood memories of being followed home from school by a stranger.

There was much talk of a follow-up to Midnight Run, and even a script that Ashton read but felt was not up to snuff. A trio of undistinguished sequels were eventually made for TV without the original personnel. In the first two, Another Midnight Run and Midnight Runaround (both 1994), Dorfler was played by Ed O’Ross.

Ashton worked continuously in film and television. Notable parts included a prison guard in Instinct (1999) with Anthony Hopkins and Cuba Gooding Jr, and yet another cop in Ben Affleck’s impressive thriller Gone Baby Gone (2007). Ashton’s final performance was as a judge in two forthcoming westerns: Hot Bath, Stiff Drink an’ a Close Shave and its sequel, Hot Bath an’ a Stiff Drink 2.

He is survived by his third wife, Robin Hoye, and two children, Michelle and Michael, from his previous marriages to Victoria Runn and Bridget Baker, both of which ended in divorce.

🔔 John David Ashton, actor, born 22 February 1948; died 26 September 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1966 Cannara Special Roadster

In the late 1960s and 1970s, the wedge-style of design was popular among automobile designers. Ray Cannara, a native Floridian, won a $4000.00 scholarship in the 1962 Fisher Body Guild contest at age 15. At age 18, he was accepted as a student at the prestigious Art Center for Transportation Design in Los Angeles, California. He later worked as a career designer at Chrysler. Prior to starting school, he designed and built this vehicle which uses a modified 1958 Chevrolet chassis with a 283cid V-8 placed in mid-engine configuration. He drove the car from Florida to California in 1966 during his college years. He kept the car in his possession until the mid-1970 after which it languished in storage prior to its restoration being completed in early 2022.

1966 Cannara Special Roadster

1966 Cannara Special Roadster

1966 Cannara Special Roadster

1966 Cannara Special Roadster

1966 Cannara Special Roadster

1966 Cannara Special Roadster

1966 Cannara Special Roadster

1966 Cannara Special Roadster

1966 Cannara Special Roadster

1966 Cannara Special Roadster

1966 Cannara Special Roadster

1966 Cannara Special Roadster

1966 Cannara Special Roadster

[rjzimmerman]

EPA will grant California the right to ban sales of new gas cars by 2035. (Washington Post)

Excerpt from this Washington Post story:

The Environmental Protection Agency plans to grant California permission to set stronger climate rules for cars and SUVs — a move that President-elect Donald Trump could attempt to reverse — according to two people briefed on the matter.

The EPA intends to issue California a waiver as soon as next week to enforce its rule aimed at banning sales of new gasoline-powered cars in the state by 2035, said the two people, who spoke on the condition of anonymity because they were not authorized to comment publicly. The Trump administration will probably try to revoke the waiver, although those efforts could run into legal obstacles.

The EPA plan underscores how President Joe Biden is racing to Trump-proof his climate legacy before leaving office next month. Just this week, his administration moved to block new mining in a sensitive watershed and to ban two cancer-causing chemicals used in a variety of consumer products and industrial settings.

Under the Clean Air Act, California can receive a waiver from the EPA to set tougher vehicle emissions rules than those of the federal government. More than a dozen other states follow California’s stricter rules, collectively accounting for about 40 percent of the U.S. auto market.

The California Air Resources Board, the top air pollution regulator in the state, approved a rule in 2022 that would phase out sales of new gasoline-powered cars and SUVs, culminating in a ban by 2035. The EPA in March finalized its own rule that would require automakers to more gradually ramp up EV sales while slashing emissions from gas-powered models.

California has requested a total of eight waivers to enforce climate regulations — not only for cars but also for heavy-duty trucks, trains and commercial harbor craft. It is unclear whether the EPA plans to issue other waivers in addition to the one for cars, the two people said.

Environmentalists have vowed to challenge the Trump administration’s possible waiver revocation in court, just as they did during Trump’s first term.

“There’s no provision in the Clean Air Act that says you can revoke a waiver. There are lots of provisions that say you may not grant a waiver if you choose not to,” said Dan Becker, director of the Center for Biological Diversity’s Safe Climate Transport Campaign. “So see you in court, Mr. Trump.”

Ann Carlson, who recently served as chief counsel to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, said it would be difficult for the incoming administration to revoke the waiver, because it stands to help California comply with federal air pollution standards.

“Is the EPA going to say you can’t set standards to come into compliance with our own pollution rules? That puts the EPA on shaky legal ground,” said Carlson, a professor of environmental law at the University of California at Los Angeles.

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

CHICAGO, Illinois  — Pro-Palestinian, anti-Israel demonstrators blocked roadways in Illinois, California, New York and the Pacific Northwest on Monday, temporarily shutting down as part of a coordinated day of action against Israel’s war in Gaza.

In Chicago, protesters linked arms and blocked lanes of Interstate 190 leading into O’Hare International Airport around 7 a.m. in a demonstration they said was part of a global “economic blockade to free Palestine,” according to Rifqa Falaneh, one of the organizers.

Traffic in the San Francisco Bay Area was snarled for hours as demonstrators shut down all vehicle, pedestrian and bike traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge and chained themselves to 55-gallon drums filled with cement across Interstate 880 in Oakland.Kibbutz Nir

Similar protests were held across the United States and around the world, after the group A15 Action called for coordinating a “multi-city blockade… in solidarity with Palestine.”

“In each city, we will identify and blockade major choke points in the economy, focusing on points of production and circulation with the aim of causing the most economic impact,” the group said on its website.

Protesters marching into Brooklyn blocked Manhattan-bound traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge. In Eugene, Oregon, protesters blocked Interstate 5, shutting down traffic on the major highway for about 45 minutes. Protesters also blocked roads Monday in Philadelphia, and anti-Israel rallies were held in Los Angeles and other locations.

Demonstrators chant slogans at an outdoor shopping mall in downtown Los Angeles during a “Strike for Gaza” protest calling for the US to stop funding Israel and for a permanent ceasefire in the Israel-Hamas conflict, on April 15, 2024, in Los Angeles, California. (Robyn Beck / AFP)

Near Seattle, the Washington State Department of Transportation said a demonstration closed the main road to Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. Social media posts showed people holding a banner and waving Palestinian flags while standing on the highway, which reopened about three hours later.

Protests were also planned in Canada, Italy, South Korea, Colombia and Belgium, while the X account for A15 posted photos of demonstrations in Greece, Spain and Australia.

[kittn-paws]

MH-60M under the 160th SOAR¹ "Night Stalkers" dismounts infantry during urban combat training exercise inside of downtown Los Angeles.

Unfortunately, no further information of the units on the ground are available however they could be a number of different forces, from the FBI's HRT² to MARSOC³, Navy Seals, Delta Force & US Army Rangers.

(2019, ABC NEWS)

1 - SOAR

Acronym for Special Operations Air Regiment, this unit is a highly capable in various forms of specialized warefare. Equipped with drones & highly modified helicopters, this unit assists special operations units by providing fire support, resupply and transport.

2 - FBI's HRT

An acronym standing for Hostage Rescue Team, they are a highly specalized group of operators under the jurisdiction of the FBI in handling hostage rescue, air assault, counterterrorism & bomb defusal and is without investigative duties. Considered a Tier 1 equivalant in it's capabilities its operations include both domestic and foreign combat missions.

3 - MARSOC

An acronym for Marine Special Operations Command, or more well known for Marine Raiders. Marine Raiders have eight main missions, direct action, special reconnaissance, counterterroism, foreign internal defense, security force assistance, counterinsurgency, support to combating weapons of mass destruction & unconvential warefare. Usually, engaging in direct action.

Please consider helping the American Military History Museum preserve military history!

[rockbottomhq]

𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰, 𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔱𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔥𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔫 . . .

spooky season is right around the corner and rock bottom headquarters are happy to announce that they'll be treating everyone signed to the agency to a trip to california to partake in a week of theme parks and haunted houses to celebrate properly—all expenses paid. friends and family are more than welcome to tag along as well.

the trip will span between october 8th and october 15th. accommodations have been booked at disney's grand californian hotel and spa and hotel amarano. you have your choice of where you want to stay and you're more than welcome to pick roommates of your choice. luxury company vehicles will act as shuttles and will be available at each hotel to transport you to and from each event throughout the week.

leading up to the trip, select musical acts will be chosen to play gigs at some of our favorite venues across los angeles—you didn't expect this to be all play and no work, did you? the show schedule will be released shortly, but in the meantime, here's a breakdown of what the week will look like.

oct 8: arrive in los angeles oct 9: free day oct 10: oogie boogie bash at disney california adventure oct 11: haunted horror nights at universal studios hollywood oct 12: haunted hayride at griffith park oct 13 free day until 9pm, then halloween party oct 14: free day oct 15: check out, head home

for each free day on the itinerary, the agency has booked several different things to participate in. tickets to various guided haunted ghost and paranormal tours, several haunted houses, and pumpkin patches will be available each free day. we'll also have passes available to disneyland, disney california adventure, and universal studios available for those who would like to attend the parks on their free days, as well as the days rock bottom has set aside for everyone to attend at the same time. for those who might want a more relaxed free day, premium spa services will be available at disney's grand californian hotel and both hotels will have unlimited access to various pools, hot tubs, and on location dining experiences.

a separate post will be made with all of the details for the halloween party at the end of the week, but trust us: you don't want to miss that.

this is an optional event, but we'd love as many of you to participate as possible. if you have any questions regarding the trip, please feel free to reach out on the main or in our discord server ( we're launching that so soon ). happy halloween!

[marveldcnerdys]

Robbie Reyes: The Modern Ghost Rider

The mantle of Ghost Rider, a supernatural anti-hero empowered by the Spirit of Vengeance, has been passed down through several individuals since its inception in Marvel Comics. Among these, Robbie Reyes stands out as a unique and modern iteration of the Ghost Rider. Introduced in 2014, Robbie brought a fresh perspective to the character while maintaining the fiery legacy of his predecessors. This article explores the origins, powers, character development, and cultural impact of Robbie Reyes as Ghost Rider.

Origins and Introduction

Robbie Reyes first appeared in "All-New Ghost Rider" #1, written by Felipe Smith and illustrated by Tradd Moore. Unlike the previous Ghost Riders, Johnny Blaze and Danny Ketch, who rode motorcycles, Robbie’s mode of transportation is a black muscle car, specifically a 1969 Dodge Charger. This significant departure from tradition highlights Robbie’s modernity and urban roots.

Robbie is a young Latino man living in East Los Angeles, a community grappling with crime, poverty, and gang violence. As a mechanic, he works hard to support his younger brother, Gabe, who is physically disabled and relies on Robbie’s care. Robbie’s life takes a dramatic turn when he enters a street race to win money for his brother. During the race, Robbie is ambushed and killed by gang members seeking drugs hidden in the car. However, Robbie is resurrected by the spirit of Eli Morrow, a former serial killer and Satanic worshipper. Together, they form a tenuous alliance as the new Ghost Rider.

Powers and Abilities

Robbie Reyes’ Ghost Rider retains many of the signature abilities associated with the character, such as:

Hellfire Manipulation: Robbie can summon and manipulate hellfire, which he uses as a weapon or to empower his car.

Enhanced Strength and Durability: In his Ghost Rider form, Robbie’s physical abilities are significantly heightened, allowing him to overpower opponents easily.

The Hell Charger: Robbie’s Dodge Charger becomes a supernatural vehicle capable of immense speed, durability, and even vertical movement on walls.

Spirit Possession: Unlike previous Ghost Riders who were bonded with the Spirit of Vengeance, Robbie is linked to Eli Morrow. This unique dynamic adds an element of internal conflict, as Eli’s malevolent nature clashes with Robbie’s morality.

Character Development

Robbie Reyes’ journey as Ghost Rider is marked by personal growth, familial bonds, and moral dilemmas. Initially, Robbie is reluctant to embrace his new identity, fearing the influence of Eli’s dark tendencies. However, his love for Gabe and desire to protect his community drive him to harness his powers for good.

Throughout his comic run, Robbie’s relationships play a pivotal role in his development. His bond with Gabe is heartwarming and serves as a grounding force amid the chaos of his double life. Additionally, Robbie’s interactions with other Marvel heroes, such as the Avengers and the Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., further expand his character’s depth and integration into the Marvel Universe.

Key Storylines

"All-New Ghost Rider" Series: Robbie’s debut series lays the foundation for his character, exploring his origins, struggles with Eli’s influence, and his efforts to protect East Los Angeles. The series is celebrated for its dynamic artwork and fresh narrative approach.

"Secret Wars" (2015): During the multiverse-shattering events of Secret Wars, Robbie plays a minor but memorable role, showcasing his resilience and determination in the face of cosmic threats.

"Avengers" (2018-2021): As a member of the Avengers, Robbie steps into the spotlight, fighting alongside iconic heroes like Captain America, Thor, and Iron Man. His tenure on the team solidifies his status as a prominent figure in the Marvel Universe. Key arcs include battles against the Celestials and the demon Mephisto.

"King in Black" (2020-2021): Robbie’s Hell Charger proves instrumental during the war against Knull, the God of Symbiotes. This storyline highlights his resourcefulness and the unique capabilities of his supernatural vehicle.

Cultural Impact and Representation

Robbie Reyes’ introduction marked a significant step toward greater diversity in comics. As a young Latino hero, Robbie resonates with readers from underrepresented communities, providing representation in a medium that has historically lacked inclusivity. His struggles with societal issues like gang violence and economic hardship reflect real-world challenges, making his story relatable and impactful.

Moreover, Robbie’s portrayal on the small screen in "Marvel’s Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D." (portrayed by Gabriel Luna) brought the character to a broader audience. The adaptation stayed true to his comic origins while expanding his narrative, earning praise for its authenticity and depth.

Comparisons with Other Ghost Riders

While Robbie Reyes shares the mantle of Ghost Rider with Johnny Blaze, Danny Ketch, and others, his character stands apart due to:

Urban Setting: Robbie’s story is deeply rooted in modern urban life, contrasting with the more mythological and supernatural backgrounds of Blaze and Ketch.

Unique Bond with Eli Morrow: Unlike the Spirit of Vengeance, Eli’s presence introduces a psychological aspect, as Robbie must constantly battle his influence.

Focus on Family: Robbie’s relationship with Gabe adds a heartfelt layer to his character, emphasizing the importance of family and sacrifice.

The Hell Charger: The car’s inclusion modernizes the Ghost Rider aesthetic and provides a fresh visual and narrative element.

The Future of Robbie Reyes

As the Marvel Universe continues to evolve, Robbie Reyes’ Ghost Rider has immense potential for growth. His inclusion in major storylines and crossover events signals Marvel’s commitment to developing his character. Speculation about future adaptations, including a potential standalone film or series, keeps fans excited about what’s next for the fiery anti-hero.

Conclusion

Robbie Reyes’ Ghost Rider embodies the perfect blend of tradition and innovation, honoring the legacy of the character while carving out a distinct identity. His compelling origin story, unique abilities, and cultural significance have cemented him as a vital part of the Marvel Universe. As comics and media continue to embrace diversity, Robbie Reyes stands as a symbol of representation, resilience, and redemption—a modern Ghost Rider for a new generation.

[dailyanarchistposts]

Motorisation – The American Way

In 1925, the General Motors Corporation set about systematically destroying non-motor transport systems in America. They bought up the largest manufacturer of urban and interurban buses in the US. In 1926 they set up the Motor Transit Corporation (which became Greyhound), which agreed to purchase all its equipment from GM. General Motors then bought up all possible competitors, destroying the commuter services of Pennsylvania, New York and Connecticut. In cities, the only way that a new market for the buses could be created was for GM to finance the conversion of electrical tramway systems to motorbuses. Tramways were bought, converted to buses, then sold to local companies that were compelled to buy General Motors equipment. This continued until 1935, when the American Transit Association exposed GMs chicanery. Company executives and employees then “independently” set up another holding company with other car and oil companies, National City Lines, in 1936. Once more local companies were forced to agree to buy only new vehicles that used GM/Standard Oil products and Firestone tyres. In 1936 GM also set up a company with Standard Oil and Firestone Tyres that bought up US train companies and closed them down. By 1956 over 100 electric surface rail systems in 45 cities had been acquired and closed down. Before the motorisation of California by GM, Los Angeles was a beautiful city of lush palm trees, fragrant orange groves and ocean air.

Now it is a wasteland. Trees are dying in a petro-chemical smog. Orange groves, polluted by lead from petrol fumes, were paved over for 300 miles of freeways. The air is a cesspit into which four million cars daily pump 13,000 tons of pollutants. Fifty years after the American road lobby started work, the US transport system is a nightmare. Pedestrians and cyclists have been bullied off the streets, railways have almost vanished, and half the area of most cities consists of roads and parking lots. The road lobby bankrolls many politicians to vote against clean air and fuel efficiency, making American cars the most wasteful in the western world.

[beardedmrbean]

A Los Angeles social justice advocate was killed on Monday when a homeless woman, who lived out of her car, broke into his home and shot him.

Michael Latt, 33, the founder of the social justice group Lead With Love, was the victim of a “tragic act of violence” after he was found suffering from a gunshot wound before being transported to a local hospital, where he was pronounced dead.

The suspect, identified as Jameelah Elena Michl, broke into the Mid-Wilshire neighborhood home around 6 p.m., the LAPD announced in a statement.

Michl, 36, remained on the scene and was taken into LAPD custody while she was standing outside the home.

A motive behind the shooting — as well as whether Latt and Michl knew each other — remain unknown, but the incident is being treated as a random act of violence, according to the LA Times, citing police sources.

Michl was arrested and booked on a murder charge and is being held on $3 million bail, as her vehicle was booked as evidence.

Latt’s family paid tribute on his Instagram page, saying he spent his career helping others, especially from minority groups.

“Our beloved son, brother, grandson, fiancé Michael Latt, fell victim to a tragic act of violence Monday night,” the post read alongside a photo of Latt, his brother and his parents. “Our family, Michael’s extraordinary friends and colleagues are shattered by the profound grief of losing our Michael.”

“He devoted his career to supporting others, championing organizations that raised up women and artists of color, along with leveraging storytelling, art and various mediums to create enduring change and instill communities with hope, love and inspiration. Michael will never be forgotten and we can all carry on his legacy of love, compassion and fierce dedication to positive and lasting change.”

Latt’s neighbors didn’t hear the gunshots but remembered the activist as a sweet guy who lived with his partner.

“I’m heartbroken, I’m shocked,” Avarie Shevin, Latt’s next-door neighbor, told to KTLA. “I was looking out my window and saw a female standing in the walkway with her hands up and they took her into custody.”

“He is a super-sweet guy,” Shevin said. “He and his girlfriend lived there with a dog and a cat. He’s just very mellow. I can’t wrap my brain around what could’ve happened that caused him to be shot and killed. I keep picturing his face and I cannot believe he has passed.”

Latt founded Lead With Love, a marketing consulting firm focused on elevating black and other underrepresented entertainers in Hollywood.

He was photographed with rapper Common in 2020 at a rally in Kentucky for Breonna Taylor, the black EMT killed by police inside her own residence during a raid.