The Fourth Man: Nobody gets what they want, and everybody gets what they got comin!

The Fourth Man is a noir tale incorporating the timeless myth of the American dream into the narrative's marrow, creating a contemporary parable about three 1930's non-WASP minorities—Juan “Juanito” Tïega del Sol, Dudel “Dude” Sheinberg, and Akiko “Ben” Yokoshiro—who buy into the American dream whole cloth and cornerstone, despite any and all evidence to the contrary.

Theme: Crime is not the random conflicts of the wretched, abject, and unwanted rungs of our society left to their immoral natural tendencies, but rather the planned, deliberate deeds of corrupt leaders with the power to organize for profit the worst (inclinations) amongst us.

Snippet 1: L.A. ain’t a town for settling, house and home. It ain’t familiar. El pueblo don’t nudge ya in the belly with love and loyalty, a whining retriever à la maudlin. There’s no gin and tonic olive smoocher at the ready. It’s a pile of sand, paved over but palmed. It’s a one-night stand; and its morning after fragrance clings to your sweaty, grimy body that shameful next sun up when you still sport the same reddish Harris tweed trousers, itchy, mothed sweater, and blue flannel jacket in the Pullman, on the sidewalk, and in public transit, making your way home to the Mrs. This hub is a sneer, while some joker knuckles ya last uncle sam; the public toilets, a filling station. Folks wearily clock on in to get the hell out on the asap line. It’s the La Brea petrol pits!

Until ya catch a sunset near Solromar. Or Malibu.

Oh, là là, she’s sixteen, all rose and clear skies. A stretch of pristine, pure joy untouched by the grimy, civilizing hands of Protestant spiritual corruption—an invasive devil grass that knows no rank nor order, yet common crown to every man’s lawn.

The why, when, and how the entire U.S. of L.A system went so off kilter means very little to the likes of non-WASPs such as Juan “Juanito” Tïega del Sol, Dudel “Dude” Sheinberg, and Akito “Ben” Yokoshiro at present. They are in the proverbial stink weeds up the well-known wazoo. Even a pair of blaring Smith & Wessons won’t help three crooks obtain ‘get outta jail free cards’ any more than the theoretical discourses of disparate musketeers such as a Jesus Christ (religious warning for said kiltering) a Max Weber (the philosophical underpinnings of said kiltering), or an Ozzie Spengler (the consequences of said kiltering).

Perhaps, Will Rogers, Henry Ford, or Edward Bernays would be better suited to advise. To wit:

To outfox a crooked system, ya gotta employ common sense. You gotta think like a crook. Which means you gotta act crooked first. That’s the U.S! Stick em up! I’m in my (defensive) rights!

It’s that simple to a North American rat in search of life, liberty, and (his own personal) happiness.

Snippet 2: "Was feelin wholly hopeless, from my bean down to my toes / The fellas hiring thunk me useless; even flirty okie patooties twirl’d up a cinder nose / No degree for teachin letters, no morals for preachin in no church / No constitution as no red hot lover, the Almighty’s spittin’ image a’gon wayward, in a self-made modern lurch / If I done die a hobo on them crisscross’d choo choo tracks, if I’d achieve a home in a potter’s field / Made no difference to me fellow citizen ... cause the municipality can’t tax no hard-earned fiscal yields / But the clover beamed upon me and the black cat spooked the other way / Cause I got me-self a post sans Dupont relations, sweet J’sus or them bur’cratic NRA's / Yessir, Imma sittin pretty in a slick old truckin’ diesel / Jammin gears and burnin tires / I’m no pie stealin, triflin weasel / I’mma busy civilian, g’fully ‘ployed, ‘ever churnin, earnin, whizzin’ by / Yessir, I'mma sittin stretched out in a slick old truckin’ diesel / Sittin' up on her saddle, no orch'rd pumpkins raggin me down / I'mma beaned-up Jimmy, a gypsy desert weevil / Haulin U.S.-made bitum from good ole Main Street to downtown."