From the desk of Raoul Duke:
Made my way towards Parc Guell on foot. Accosted by Scientologists halfway through the journey, when the fatigue had just started to hit. We each had made a mistake. Mine was not looking away fast enough to avoid the deadlock glare of those steely bastard eyes. His was letting me grab him by the windpipe while he was catching me with his eyes. The Scientologist's greatest weakness is his continued reliance on air.
Got as far as the Turkish embassy before the plan hit a snag. The freeway was under construction, sidewalks all torn up to allow the twisted European cousin of a backhoe dig through the water main. There was no way to cross without going up another six kilometers.
Shit. SHIT! And I couldn't stop here, not with those scaly reptilian sons of Hubbard hot on my trail with their 70s science fiction in one hand and their slime-covered subpoenas in the other.
I have no choice now but to follow the cats. They leave me a trail of dead pigeons and feces, knowing that my advanced human nose will make these signs clear and easy to follow. They're leading me Parc de las Algues. At least I think that's where they're taking me. The bastards won't open their mouths no matter what language I insult their parentage in.
I'll try Swahili next.
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