It’s a protection spell that was laid down in the forties during construction by a group of mages. Nobody remembers what it’s protection from, though. It sure as hell isn’t earthquakes, violence, and drought. And why doesn’t anyone know what it’s for? Because the mages who designed it all killed each other about a month later. Friendship is magic.

I head down the 110 and get off at 8th. You can watch the money fade away like a disappearing shore the further you get from the high finance of Downtown. Steel and glass towers give way to bricks and bars on windows, strip mall donut shops and signs offering payday loans in English, Spanish, and Korean.

Every street has something like this. Twists and turns of culture if not geography. Walk across the street, turn a corner, you’re in a different L.A. Like how Skid Row is within walking distance of the mayor’s office, or the Police Protective League, the LAPD’s very own union, sits directly across from the ACLU.

In fact, it’s sitting at a stoplight between those two buildings when I get ambushed.

I barely have time to register the spells going off, the same flavor of magic coming from three different directions. I slam on the gas, 280 horses under the hood shoving the car through the intersection. But it’s already too late.

The entire back end of the Cadillac shears off just behind the driver’s seat, and explodes. Metal and glass turn into a fireball of shrapnel behind me. The front of the car drops onto the pavement, throwing up sparks with a noise like God’s own belt sander.

The car’s front wheel drive and I haven’t let up on the gas. It continues down most of the block. Then, like a man realizing his heart has stopped, the engine dies from lack of fuel. Hard to drive a car when the gas tank’s a shower of confetti behind it.

The car spins. There’s no power in the steering and it’s like trying to control a panicked bull. The car plows through a chain-link fence surrounding a basketball court and finally comes to a stop when it hits one of the basket poles.

I feel like I’ve been body slammed by a luchador with anger management issues. The seatbelt won’t unlock, so I pull my straight razor and slice through the strap. I fall through the open doorway out of the car and onto my knees. I’m not sure where the driver’s side door is.

I pull myself up, wipe blood out of my eyes from a cut on my forehead. Everything hurts so much I’m not focusing on my wounded arm and I can’t tell if my hammering heartbeat is the remains of the poison or just adrenaline. So that’s a plus.