When Gates was six, he went from foster home to foster home. No one ever knew his name, he was just a case number going through the system. He had no connections to his past, to family, all he had was the present. The now. And his now was a constant state of flux and turmoil. No sooner did he get comfortable living in one home, that it was time move on to new one. And only so when comfort and familiarity set in again, the ground could be pulled from under him once more.

Like many children Gates escaped into the world of television. Television was the only constant in his life. It didn't matter which house he was in, the TV shows were always the same. The actors never changed. The people on the shows became his family. He learned from them, admired them, emulated them. Television was his window to the world. It showed him how to be, what to think, what to believe. Television was a dream world where the good guys always won, where good always triumphed evil, where life was always fair.

Gates loved watching cop shows more than anything. Whenever he played cops and robbers, he always wanted to be the cop. Not for power and authority, but because he felt there was nothing more noble than a person risking their life to save another. Its what he'd seen the best cops on television do. They always helped the world, never got hurt, and the world was a better place.

At twenty-two, Gates entered the police academy and by his mid-twenties, Gates was an up-and-coming rookie at the Las Vegas Police Department. The brass said Gates was destined to be one of the greats. Even the FBI wanted him. Gates had a knack for police work, a sixth sense, and his hunches always panned out, magically. Some on the force had even called him, Little Skywalker.

Gates' life was perfect, beyond anything he could have imagined. He was no longer alone. He had friends, community, a wonderful girl who loved him, and best of all, he'd become a police officer like he'd always wanted. Every case he solved, he felt he was saving the world. It was a perfect life like what he'd seen on television, in Technicolor. A beautiful dream...but like all dreams...they are make believe.

A thirty years, like Humpty-Dumpty...Gates had a great fall. The police report said he'd been found forty miles outside of Vegas with a steel-chain around his neck and had been dragged for miles over sand rock and cacti; covered in dirt and blood, bones protruding from torn flesh. Barely alive.

The old cop who found him did a double take, not knowing if was he was seeing was real or mirage. At first, he thought it was road kill, but when he saw young officer Gates, Little Skywalker, he reeled back, fell over the hood of his patrol car, and puked his guts out. Having seen his buddies get mutilated in Vietnam, he decided to put Gates out of his misery. He'd gone as far as putting the gun to his head, but when a screeching golden eagle flew overhead, it spooked dim, and he reconsidered. Ten minutes later, Gates was being air-lifted to the nearest trauma center.

What lead Gates to his fall? Jealousy. Gates and his partner Wesley Badger had been assigned to find the kidnapped daughter of hotel tycoon Simon Leisure. The mayor had specifically asked for Gates and it ruffled Wesley's feathers.

Wesley Badger dreamed of going to the FBI but never got the call. The fact that Gates was on the FBI wish list ate him up. As he saw it, Gates was in his way. "What ever it took" was Wesley's motto, and it earned him the nickname Weasel, which he wore with pride. Wesley figured, if he could close as many cases as Gates then the FBI would want him. Wesley embellished police reports to make himself look good. He twisted arms to force confessions. He planted evidence to make a case. He even used dirty money to run stings. How could the FBI not want him?

Despite their differences, Wesley and Gates actually complimented each other. Gates was idealistic, a hippie with a badge who wanted to save the world. He lived in a bubble of beauty and thought everyone was good. On the other hand, Weasel was paranoid and trusted no one. He only looked out for himself. As he saw it, he was going to do what ever it took to get to the FBI.

Gates' hunches on the whereabouts of the missing girl led him to the dead zone. An area so violent that police were forbidden to enter alone. He made plans with his partner to investigate, but Wesley never showed in true Weasel form. Fearing the worst, Gates went in alone. His hunches paid off. He found the girl tied up in a house run by a gang of street demons.

The street demons were always hungry for blood. Lucky for the girl, Gates had found her. Getting into the house had been easy, getting out was trouble. The street demons were armed to the nines. Gates was out numbered with no back up, though he still had high hopes Weasel would show up like John Wayne, with guns-a-blazing, and save the day; but then again, he was putting his faith in someone called Weasel.

Gates sent the girl running to a nearby liquor store while he covered her escape. Gunfire broke out. The girl got out fine. Gates was over taken. The last thing he remembered was the stock of a shotgun hitting him in the face. Lights out.

***

Even though the kings men couldn't put Humpty-Dumpty back together, Gates was luckier, he had Simon Leisure, who hired the best doctors to put Gates back together, and they did...sort of. Gates was in a coma for seven years. The first year, people came to visit. After that, no one came. Life went on. New presidents were elected. The world changed. Society progressed. Weasel never visited.

When Gates came out of his coma, he was told he would never walk again. He lived with an excruciating pain. They told him this was how the rest of his LIFE was going to be. Insufferable. He begged DEATH to take him, but LIFE wouldn't let it. LIFE had other plans. LIFE, was cruel bastard that made some men kings and destroyed others.

All the beauty and splendor in life were gone. The once beautiful world Gates knew was gone. All he could see was the ugliness. The truth. Gates had woken up to THE REAL. For the first time in his life, he saw the truth. He could not believe he'd been so stupid. So blind. He saw through the Piscean Illusion of deception and lies. It made him sick. It made him rage to learn everything he'd ever known to be true was a lie.

Everything as lie. Lies everywhere. There was no getting away from it. LIE was all around. Lie was on TV, the news. They taught Lies in schools, preached it in churches, even sold it at the local coffee shop for a buck and a quarter. Lie was a hot commodity. Lie controlled the world. It starved people, created wars, and was responsible for disease, crime and all the disasters that affected mankind. Gates realized it wasn't love that made the world go around, it was LIES.

The truth will set you free?

The truth made Gates a prisoner in the world of lies. Having seen the truth and the future to be, a madness took him to screaming from his bed. Truth drove him mad. His terrorizing screams echoed through the halls of the asylum. Most saw his warnings as the ravings of a lunatic, but his ravings were merely truths no one could understand. The hospital kept him sedated. When drugs didn't work, there was Elvis. As they saying goes, music soothes the savage beast.

The hospital kept Gates sedated but when the drugs didn't' work, there was Elvis. A few of the older nurses at the hospital had played Elvis' music for themselves, and they had found it had a calming effect on Gates' terror. Music soothes the savage beast.

When his friends from the police force came to visit, Gates lashed out at them. Seeing his friends reminded him that he'd never get to wear the badge again, his childhood dream. He loved being a cop, more than anything. It's what he was meant to be. Now Gates was like a horse whose legs had been sawed off. Alive without usefulness, reason, or purpose. His life was over. The thing he loved was dead. Life goes on.

***

Simon Leisure told Gates of an experimental surgery that could get him to walk, but could kill him. The thought of dying made Gates smile, and he accepted. The surgery was medieval, without anesthesia. Gates died several times during the operation. Each time they brought him back, he'd mumble to let him die next time.

Three years later, after much work, Gates walked out of the hospital on his own two feet. Simon Leisure moved Gates into one of his Vegas Hotels, the Leisure Station.

"You won't have to lift a finger. Anything you want is on the house. A nurse will visit you daily to check on you," said Simon. "You can order room service or go to one of the restaurants downstairs. The Vegas Sushi place is exquisite. I've given the hotel orders to take care of you as if you were me."

"Gee, dad, do I get an allowance?" said Gates.

"A thousand a week. The hotel manager will credit your account weekly. He's a great guy. If there's anything you need, just let Pierre know," said Simon.

"Pierre?"

"He's French."

"Oh, great," said Gates. "A thousand bucks, huh? That's all? You cheap bastard, that's all I get for saving your daughter's life? A thousand lousy bucks. Why not five grand? Why not ten grand? Why not a million?" said Gates.

"Sure, anything you want, Gates," said Simon.

"I don't want your stinking money, Simon. That's your guilt money. You rich bastards think you can buy anyone off. I found out why that gang kidnapped your daughter. Your crooked deals. You're a scumbag, just like everyone else. I can see all the lies clear as day now. Lies everywhere. Everybody lies. They should have just let me die out there. Now I get to suffer. You had to be a hero. Fuck you! I'll stay here till I get back on my feet, then I'm gone," said Gates.

***

Ten years away from society, the world had changed, Gates had changed, and both none for the better. Gates didn't understand the word. He found the world crazy---left had become right, up had become down, everything had become inverted. Everything irritated him. He could not stop seeing. the lies everywhere.

Alone, Gates faced the BIG EMPTY. It was a question. What would he do with the rest of his life? What could he do? What was left for him? He was no longer young. Like Rip Van Winkle, he'd slept through his life. Now he was forty, broken, with no possibilities.

He spent his days in pain watching the world go by. He contemplated jumping off the balcony daily, but couldn't do it after he'd worked so hard to walk again. The hardship had given him, not a desire to live, but an obligation to. Besides, he wasn't going to give LIFE the satisfaction of getting the best of him. No way. LIFE had taken everything away from him and if anything, Gates was going to get his revenge. He'd done his share of giving and now it was his turn to take.

Life was tolerable as long he was high. Getting pills had been easy, but when the doctors cut him off, he took to the streets and the dirty drugs landed him in the hospital. When he came back to the hotel, security escorted him to the parking lot. He was sure Simon had a speech about how he was there for him. LIE!!!

Instead, what Gates found was a monstrosity of metal. A faded pink rust bucket with torn seats, smashed fenders, and broken doors. No windows, no roof, no wheels; but there was an engine and a transmission. The mess of metal was covered in red sand and looked like it had been dug out of a pauper's grave somewhere in Red Rock Canyon. On the hood there was an emblem that said Cadillac. Taped to the scrunched bumper was a note.

"It belonged to Elvis, now it's yours. Happy Birthday, Gates," signed Simon Leisure. Good old Simon. Bastard. Gates crumbled up the paper and threw it.

Gates stared at the Cadillac for a long time. The demolished steel creature reminded him of himself. He imagined he must have looked as bad as the Cadillac when they found him. The Cadillac looked as if it had been smashed by a couple of semi-trucks then finished off by a train. It'd had its day in the sun. Another innocent victim chewed up by LIFE, thought Gates. He tapped the hood and rust flew into the air. He swore he could hear a heartbeat. A faint one, but a heartbeat nonetheless. Left for dead but still alive. A story Gates knew by heart.

Gates threw himself into his work. He worked as obsessively as the doctors had when they had put him back together. From morning till night, he was at it. Putting the Cadillac back together was like putting himself back together. As the Cadillac began to change for the better, so did Gates. He cleaned up and no longer walked around looking like a homeless dude. Piece by piece, both Gates and Cadillac took shape. When the Cadillac was finally restored, Gates took a second to admire it, then he was gone like a fifteen-year-old with his first set of wheels.

He raced through streets like a free bird and went out on the desert highway at a hundred miles an hour; sitting on the headrest with his feet on the steering wheel; with the Elvis on the radio; the wind blowing his hair back; his arms out to his sides. Gates drove into the red setting sun in front of him finally feeling like the Phoenix rising from the ashes, feeling alive.