S. K. Hubba Lodbrokson Ragnarsson

Mr. Dark Side, The Trials and Tribulations of a Hollywood Dick. There's two ways of not taking chances in the private investigator slash personal security gig in Hollywood. You either go around without fire sticks in which you're easy to kill but won't run afoul of any California or County or City laws meant to trap practitioners of the Second Amendment, or go armed. Packing a gun in Hollywood is a guarantee you're breaking or about to break bunches of State and local laws. Not packing means you're easily intimated or worse. Granddad started taking me on stakeouts the Summer I turned fifteen. Mom just assumed I was out until dawn partying like most of my friends. Nope, I was riding shotgun with Granddad as he tailed mostly men around southern California. Most times we'd spot them leaving an office someplace in Hollywood and follow them to a secret rendezvous somewhere along the coast. So over the next two Summers I was exposed to a lot of what Hollywood, Beverly Hills, Wilshire and the small beach cities would rather not have the tabloids and similar folks know about. By the time I was finally through high school I knew the faces of most of the Hollywood’s A-list, B-list, the moneyed people and the important studio grunts. Oh, they didn't know me but I knew them. Dad bought me my first handgun that year. It was a different place back then, a different time.