Het gang, let's write a story together

[HaraldTheSwede]

Just outside a small cabin they came to a full stop.

It didn't seem like they had noticed me. I was driving so slow I half expected a snail to tell me to get out of the way. But my heart was racing, racing so fast it put the pistons of my engine to shame.

I hid my car behind an appropriately placed hedge-row. It was actually well trimmed, which surprised me. Not like a whole lot of people was going to see it anyway. It's funny how you notice those small irrelevant details when you're focusing really hard on something, or just facing a possibly lethal situation.

Before I got out I double checked my partner in silver. It was locked and loaded, ready for some action. Looking at it I felt a certain calm. The gun was my friend, always there for me, always willing to protect me. I was going to be alright.

Cursing the fact that I didn't have any more smokes I carefully opened the door and stepped out.

 

[Biltmore Bob]

The Captain, was called Tank. This was because of his size and strength. He had been a Boxer in the Marines, his flattened nose and cauliflour ears attested to that fact. He was a hard drinker, the veins on his nose showed the proof of that. He was a likeable enough chum on the outside...until you crossed him. He had been suspended more than once for brutality and twice for suspicion of being on the take. Both charges were dropped when the witnesses did not show up to testify. As a matter of fact those witnesses were never located. He was married and had three girlfriends. His latest fling was a cigarrette girl at the Marathon Club, Ginger. He was thinking of Ginger at this moment.

"When I get that money, they'll never find me, gonna take Ginger with me," he thought. "That damn Deckerd, could'nt mind his own buisness, just this freaking once."

The squad lurched to a stop and woke Tank from his reverie, like a cold low ball tossed in his face by an insulted woman.

"He turned here Cap. want I should follow?" from Powers, who had noticed that Matt had been following someone onto the dirt and gravel road, "Ain't the resivoir down here", mostly to himself this time.

Powers recognized this place, he had been the first on the scene for a couple of suspicious unattended deaths that had occurred in the park in recent history.

"Yeah, Jay, we follow,' Grumbled Tank, now darkening.

 

[The Wolf]

The pounding in my brain slowed from "Sing, Sing, Sing" to "Georgia on My Mind". Flashes of memory were coming to me. My roommate, Henry, said his girlfriend had come back from Maine scared.Why was she in Maine? She was a party girl who didn't take life seriously. What would have her scared? Henry went missing soon after that. I found his wallet somewhere. Where? The guy in the trunk of the car. Henry? No, I still have no idea who the stiff is. I have a lot of questions and not enough answers.
With one eye on the cabin I check my pockets. I have my gun, Henry's wallet, an opened roll of Lifesavers, a key ring with three keys on it and the passport and hotel key I pocketed of the dearly departed skirt. I open Henry's wallet. I find some scraps of paper.
Crack! The loud sound pulled my attention back from in the wallet.

 

[BellyTank]

What the..! It came from the cabin- a shot...
I sidled over to the back of the shack- The Coupe's trunk was open, only one case in there.
I could hear the two Brunos chewing the fat in the shed but couldn't make out the beef.
I edged closer, a window, I could see them now and hear them.
Another fella just caught the big train, slouched over the bench, bleeding, beside the open suitcase-
the .45 still smoking in the Fat guy's hand.
Bad, bad egg.
The case was open, facing them, they were staring into it- hypnotized with greed.
"The Butter and Egg Man's gonna blow his wig when he sees this, then we'll be in the long green and big time too", gurgled the uglier of the two grims.
"Yeah!, now that the frail and this Joe are outta the game the green's all ours, we're home free without that Peeper- Deckard gumming the works" added the fat egg with the Panama; 'Reginald'- a big grin across his sweaty chops.
Who's the fresh stiff? I still don't get the Reginald.... still need a drink...

Another car rolls up out front, not so discrete as me and the Ponti...

 

[Biltmore Bob]

Patrolman Powers had shown up for work an hour and a half early, as was his habit. He liked to read the morning report before the Sergeant. Jay was a by the book Policeman and therefore had few friends on the Department. He had been studing for the Sergeant's exam for two months now, he had recently become eligable to take the test. He knew, however that promotions were pretty much political appointments...but with the Commission to Investigate Police Corruption being formed by the Attorney General's Office, he thought that was all about to change. With his wife, Gina, pregnant with their third, he needed the extra thirty dollars a month the promotion would bring.

Tank had shown up early this morning also, but with a different mission in mind. "Four eyes are better than two, who can I snag?", he mused.

Tank had been looking for Deckerd for the better part of a month now, the sneaky ba***rd really knew how to lam it. One last look at his place.

"Hey, Powers! Special detail, come with me!" Tank shouted across the briefing room, where Powers was immersed in the morning report.

"What ' bout my shift Cap." This better be good, thought Powers. He loved his routine, and anything that changed it upset his stomach like a bad Hoagie from the Mexican Roach Coach that showed up outside the station at lunch time.

"I'll take care of that", replied the surly Inspector, "Just c'mon son!"

Powers questioned the questionable Captain about the mission.

"The Chief wants to see Deckard," Was all the surly Inspector could come up with.

 

[scotrace]

Back Up - Set Piece

“Cheese Danish, please.
“Sure thing. Coffee?�
That’d be great. Black. Thanks.�
The sliders of the counter slammed shut and she gave a start. Pulling the compact from her purse, she peered at her lips, picking off the bit of cigarette paper she found. I look terrible. She tucked the compact away, controlling her breathing tightly. Reaching over the glass case, she took her Danish and coffee, paid, smiling, and left the deli.
Out in the searchlight sunshine she clipped nervously over the sidewalk, pausing twice to turn toward a shop window, her eyes casting back over her path, trying to see if anyone was following. At the door to Deckard’s place, she climbed the cement stairs, gave one last look around, and clicked open the door.
Upstairs, she went into the bedroom, taking bites of the roll. She didn’t want food, but felt faint and needed something sweet to carry her. She opened the closet and pulled out a suitcase. Catching sight of a sticker for “Hotel Rialto, Havana� she winced. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she pulled the paper lid off the coffee and sipped before absently leaving it on the nightstand to light a cigarette, her hands shaking so that she had to use both to steady the flame of her lighter.

Making love at the hotel the night before, she had felt safe for the first time in months on the run. They had dared to make some plans – get clearer of the mess, let things settle down, maybe a trip to Havana for awhile. She had given herself to him more completely, almost fallling off the bed to the floor - they had laughed. A free laughter.
In the morning she went down to the desk for toothbrushes, came back and found him, throat slit open in a way that made her cry out now, remembering. She remembered how strange it was - the smell of so much blood, filling the air so quickly. She felt the rise of nausea all over again.
She had followed her gut.
Run.
He had tucked the money under the backseat, hidden in the springs, and they hadn’t found it. Leaving her clothes behind, she grabbed her purse, got into the car and drove until the fuel went almost dry before stopping to compose herself. She found an A&P, bought nylons and a few makeup essentials and kept driving, driving to the only place she could think of.

Stubbing out her smoke, she took another pull of the strong coffee. She noticed a flash of something brassy in her half-open purse, and pulled out the room key. Taking it in her hand, she clutched it to her chest, and began to cry.
Losing herself in her grief, horror and terror, she didn’t hear anyone else come into the house until she heard him speak.
He was a mouse of a man; soft cap, leather jacket. And a pistol.
“What do you want?� The words lunged from somewhere deep in her throat, her terror gripping her, mascara running down her cheeks.
“I’ll get evvyting I need’n a minute, baby.�
The room seemed to explode, she felt a slamming jolt, and everything went black.

 

[Biltmore Bob]

Powers smelled a rat. Tank smelled like beer and cigarettes. Powers wondered if the Chief really wanted to see Deckard. They rolled slowly down the road in the direction of the caretakers cabin.

Tank, was starting to think bringing Powers along was a bad idea. "I really did'nt think I'd run into Deckard today", after all I've been looking for a month", he mused to himself, "Now I gotta take care of him. I hope I can make it look like Deckerd iced him."

A shot, Tank recognized the familiar report of a .45. He heard it enough in the war. He knew Deckard had a .32 and a .357. The later was a relatively new addition to the Smith and Wesson line. Maybe this was the break he needed.

"Stop the car."

"Oh, I'm stopping." Powers was getting annoyed, he didn't sign up for this.

"Stay here, I'll go get Matt," from the Tank. "You got any heavy artillery, shotgun maybe?".

"Yeah, in the trunk, but you heard the shot, you can't go alone, Cap."

Tank was already out of the car and carefully placing his newly aquired Knox on the backseat.

The squad radio came to life at that moment, "Car fifty four, where are you?"

"The reservior, Diablo..." Powers was able to get out before he fell across the wheel, unconscience.

Tank knew how to use a leaded sap. He heard the radio and instantly knew Powers would transmit thier location to HQ. He pulled the sap from his waistband and applied it to the bump behind Powers left ear. He made a mental note to find out what that bump was called.

He removed the keys from the ignition and opened the trunk of the car. He removed an exposed hammer Winchester 12 guage riot shotgun. From an open box of shells he took a hand full and loaded the gun. He then returned to Powers and took the Patrolman's service revolver from the leather holster and gave it a toss in to the bushes, cataloging the spot, a plan forming in his deviant mind.

 

[Biltmore Bob]

Wrong place, wrong time, I thought. The new vic appeared to be the caretaker, I could tell by his outfit. He looked like the mongrel offspring of two purebred dogs,a Goodwill Shepherd and an Army Navy Spaniel. He must have stumbled upon the two goons. Least they let him sit down before they lightned his load permanently.

 

[Biltmore Bob]

"Ya maybe should'nt have kiled the broad, Lumpy," I heard Fat Reggie say to his sidekick,"We could've had some fum with her before the Boss gets here."

"We still can have some fun, I'll just get the case from the car, and straighten her out...." This from the Humpback. He was even uglier up close, had a face a mother could'nt even love. A face that would make a freight train take a dirt road. He had an accent, I could'nt place it. Or maybe it was his hairlip. He looked like someone had taken an ax to his mouth. This cat had fallen from the top of ugly tree, and hit every limb on the way down.

 

[BellyTank]

I made a move to the side of the cabin and see out front- see who else was arriving at this miscreant country club.
Bad timing- the ugly thug came out the back door at the same time- kissing the butt of my three-fifty-seven... clumsy me...
I made for the cover of the hedgerow and Pontiac as I rounded the side of the shack. It was my Buddies, the SF Flatfoots, the Oakland roadside tyre service, they were the visitors- were they here for the stooges, or were they MY pests ...? Whether it was me or 'them' the Cops were tailing, I'd clearly been too occupied to notice...dammit!

I ducked down like a... like a ... downed duck, they hadn't clocked the Pontiac, just the Coupe. I could see the Captain, but I couldn't make Powers, maybe he was flanking the shack...
"Come on out" yelled the Captain, just as the groggy goon made the corner and pulled his piece- Tank fixed him with a slug from his scatter gun- full in the belly- Tank didn't flinch an inch- the Sucker went down like a French airplane- Tank just pumped the next slug into the chamber... was my name on it?.. well if my name was Winchester it certainly was... and for all I knew it coulda been...
Where was Powers...? Where's my lid... it's too hot... itchy brain.

Then out came Reggie, skipping along like a two-faced, obese schoolgirl- pure as so much soiled snow, hands in the air and tears in his eye.
The bad Cop greeted him like an Aunt at a Stag party.

As I crouched, listening, the connection between the fat pig and the Buzzer began to unfold like a cheap accordion. This muddy picture was getting dirtier by the heartbeat. It had been bugging me- the name, 'Reginald' just didn't fit the mug, it was all coming back in fragments, shards- like a reflection in a broken mirror... 7 years bad luck...
To cut a short story shorter; his real name was Babba Gamusch, a low-life Turk out of Dover, Ohio, with a penchant for bleeding pretty, rich broads for their inheritance and gutting them if they didn't make his dues. He'd almost perfected his jive in the Burgs and Apples of the sunny Left Coast- more recently residing in Marin County and one of California's oldest and well known rooming houses, 6 years to be precise- Quentin- that was all they could hold him for. 'Reginald' was his respectable, rehabilitated alter-ego. Yeh!...like Heck!...
...excuse my French.

I knew I'd been after that greasy, drag-ass Esso-Bee for some time... how long?...dunno... and the reason-why remains clear as crud... something with the Betsy-in-a-basket in back of the Coupe for sure... plus whatever's in the other suitcase...and a Hotel in Maine... maybe my Chumps from the SFPD... maybe they were into this up to their non-existent necks...
Oh- and don't forget the new guy with the big smile and the bee-O camping- out in the caboose of my DeLuxe.
Echoing Mr. Hamlet's sentiments- Something's rotten in the state of CA...
...and it stinks to all getout... maybe Maine too...
At least the Circus freak side-order, with the medium-rare face wasn't confusing the issue anymore...
And by the way, he had a name- Anton Brody, a.k.a Broke-nose Brody, a.k.a Badluck Brody, a nobody-ex-wrestler out of South Philly... lived-up to both nick-names today- shame a guy from back East had to buy the farm so far from home... now he was on the other side- permanent.

I need a drink... even that VAT-69 could do for me...

"...But where's Deckerd!!??" growled Tank at the Turk.

"Deckerd??!!,... Deckerd's here??!!" squealed the Turk like the greased pig that he was, ...wondering what I'd seen.

At this stage of the game, I didn't quite know how to read this 7 years reunion of the Class of '39- who was in bed with whom, so to speak...
but there were definitely some damning associations and it seemed likely someone was gonna get screwed.

"I see you Matt!" the Detective grunted, motioning, levelling the Cyclops-eye of the slug-filled Winchester-pump like an M-4 Sherman in my general direction. Somehow, the scenario being played out seemed uncomfortably familiar- like I'd been on the sharp end of his intentions before...
Looked like maybe this time he was gonna flip me ... flip me for real...

***

 

[The Wolf]

Turk shot twice through the smudged window. Both bullets hit their target and they could hear the body fall like a sack of potatoes hitting a KP floor. Tank's sick laughter spilled from his twisted smile. He stepped outside to look at his trophy. He spit out a crude euphamism for bodily waste as he stared at the corpse.
"It's Jenkins! How many times are you going to be a stand-in for Deckard?"
Chubby came out. "What are you talking about?'
"First time I tried to kill Deckard at his apartment, it turned out to be Jenkins coming around the other way. Deckard wasn't home. I dumped him in Deckard's trunk, figured I could frame him if I needed." was Tank's verbose explanation.
"How'd he get here?" Reggie whined, losing what ever calm he had left.
Tank seemed to be getting angrier by the second. "He certainly didn't walk up here!" he spat.
"I gave him a lift." I said as I put my gun to the base of his skull.
I had dragged Jenkins from the trunk, figuring I might as well put him to work and propped him up by the window as my proxy.

 

[Biltmore Bob]

Powers should have seen it coming. His senses slowly coming back to him. A couple of real loud shotgun blasts nearby helped bring him back to conscienness (sp?). That crooked moose, he thought about the suspicious Captain. Why, he's dirtier than yesterdays laundry. He felt behind his left ear. That little bump, whatever it's called, was not so little anymore. Jay was bleeding from his left ear and the vision in his right eye was blurry. Concussion. He reached for his revolver, a Smith and Wesson Model 10, Military and Police. Gone, Tank must have trown it somewhere. He reached under the drivers seat of the patrol car and quickly located his trusty throw down. The gun he now held in his hand was a real beauty. It had started life as a Smith Victory Model .38, with a five inch barrel. It had been through several custon alterations before Powers had taken it of a drunken Stevedore at the Port. The revolver had a crudely sawn off barrel about an inch in length. The stocks were cracked and repaired with Painters Tape. Powers was by the book, but you never knew when you needed a little insurance these days.

The Patrolman reached for the microphone of the car's police radio. What the? It looks like Tank had done a little work to the radio, the mike had been jerked from the set.

 

[Biltmore Bob]

I spied the patrol car, and easd my way toward it, using the hedges as cover, or was that concealment. Sticks and leaves would provide no protection against double ought buck and 12 guage slugs. I detected movement in the driver's seat, looks like Jay was just waking up from his afternoon siesta. As I eased closer the toe of my right brown wingtip Florshiem bumped something hard. Looking down I discoverd heat. A service revolver. I think I got it figured now, Powers in the car, just waking up, the revolver. Whatever was going on, Powers was just along for the ride like a little kid forced to go to the movies with his big sister and her new boyfriend.

The toe of my right shoe now had a nice long scratch, courtesy of the hammer spur from the revolver. I picked it up and stuck it in my waist band, as I eased over to the squad. Powers was fully awake now, rubbing that little bump behind his left ear, whatever it's called, that was'nt so little no more. Least Tank did'nt kill him.

"Jay", I hissed, "Jay, it's Matt. Stay still."

 

[BellyTank]

"Deeeeck-eeeerd!" he taunted- confidently, the hunter- an over-stuffed bully in a kids' game of hide-and-seek.
He gave the impression of being bold and fearless; a constitution gained from years of being on top- pushing others to the bottom- stepping on the heads of all and sundry who got in his way.
"Oh Deeeeck-eeeerd!"

I couldn't see him at this point but I could hear him loading another five cartridges.
Any second he was gonna make us, over at the black and white.

"OK Jay, get up, get outta the car, Tank's headed this way", I whispered, trying to rouse him and get us both safe.
We surely had Tank at a disadvantage, with cover and numbers but Powers was still a little groggy and Tank was still a wild cannon... literally.

"C'mon Jay, c'mon Buddy", I said- "it's time to choose sides"

We made for safety behind an outcropping of rocks, using the car as cover between us and the mentally-defective Detective.
If he was gonna goose-step toward us in the open, he surely didn't have a snowball's chance in Heck and his goose was about to be Bar-B-Q. He was bearing down on us like a 1000lb bomb but I leaned-in to the threat, with a good bead on him- Powers had his back against a tree-stump, both hands steadying the pug-nosed .38- Maybe Tank had nothing to lose, or maybe he knew I wanted to take him alive- I had to if I wanted to make any sense of this mess... there were already too many martyrs- too few witnesses.
But whatever the case, whatever was IN the case, he stood between me and it... and the truth.

"Wait a minute!, ...where...?"
And then no sooner than I could make sense of the situation,
Heck freezed over... excuse the French.

The dirty-bird Turk was flanking us, a Thompson with a 50 round drum stuffed under his buffalo wing- somehow it suited him- I hadn't seen him coming- last I knew he was on the ground- panting and drooling like a too-hot dog, then I lost him behind the cruiser. Looked like he'd just gotten his second wind- he moved like the Michelin Man with all his demons two steps behind him- barrelling down the grade with too much momentum, his compadre chattering like an angry wife, a hail of hot metal death raining on us.

Jay was in prime position to deal with him and took him out in style- painted the town red with his head.
It was like a dream- he stood, swivelled and squeezed-off a round like he was at the range- cool as so many zuccinis.
Splashed the Turk in the middle of his big ugly mug- I would have said the nose but there wasn't one left to mention.The Turk would have been stopped in his tracks if he was on level going but he just kept on coming- a monster headless chicken, sliding toward us- a runaway Bulldozer- quite dead- delivering the weapon with unrealized flair- "Nice performance Fattie Arbuckle" I muttered out load, under my breath- "Here's a tip Lard-ass- two cents...one for each eye"

Tank was marching toward us, a legion of ghosts behind him- the Trench-broom fixed to his hip like an evil Siamese twin-

BOOM!-chick-chak-BOOM!-chick-chack-BOOM!...

 

[Biltmore Bob]

Tank was never happier than when he was in combat. He just plain loved killing. His mind went blank to anything but the mission. All thought to personal safety was ignored. He had earned his nickname at Guadalcanal...Tank. Marine First Sergeant William E. Taenk, was as all American as Cheese Whiz but was of Dutch ancestory and was totaly removed from his puritan roots. His troops first called him Tank at The Canal. He was a mean sumbeech back then too. You wanted to be on the same team he was playing for...and far behind him. But it was'nt Japs he was after right now, but it could have been. He just kept pumping and squeezing. Not even feeling the kick of the scattergun, which was substantial. The hammer dropped on an empty chamber. Tank didn't skip a beat, reloading from his left front pocket, spare rounds that he had taken from the trunk of the patrol car.

 

[Biltmore Bob]

I now had a Tommy gun, a gift courtesy of Babba, AKA Fat Reggie, AKA Turk. Delivered right into my lap, along with a pound or two of head cheese. The muddy water that was this bad dime novel was becoming just a little clearer. The Boss that Fat Reggie was refering to was Tank, I think...I could be wrong though. I still haven't connected the stiffs, but it'll come to me. Either soon or at my trial...or possibly in eternity, which ever came first. But right now I had the pressing matter of a criminally insane police inspector to worry about.

I leveled Mister Thompson's little friend at the hulk and jerked the trigger, he was about 20 yards away and closing fast. I truly expected to cut him in half, two rounds leaked fron the muzzel toward Tank then the chamber locked open on an empty drum.

 

[Matt Deckard]

Tank hit the ground ducking behind a couple substantial rocks avoiding being hit. Jammed and dismayed I dropped behind the car waiting for a shot from his boom stick.

"DIE DECKARD!" shouted tank...

"YOU CROOKED ba***rd" I yelled back.

"You know how long I've been trying to find you? The Root has a bounty of $50,000 on your head, and I intend to be the one to collect it along with his goodies in the box!"

... The wild root ... I remember now. Criminal mastermind who poisons his victims with Root Beer. Sarah brought me the antidote, it worked... hell of a headache and a hell of a memory wipe though it worked. Too bad she had to lose her life; pretty thing.

"You and The Root are going down Tank... Too many have taken the fall for the virus you brought to the force."

I didn't know tank and Root were on the same side, I just thought Tank was a thief and a murderer in his own right. Shooting and henchmen had never been The Roots style when it came to putting the "X"s over peoples eyes.

"Deckard, You're name is mud in the force and your name will remain mud long after you're dead. Crooked cop they'll say... little nuts too! Hahahaha!"

I was on Roots trail the whole time, though I had no idea his tentacles reached into the force like I'm seing today... My whole carrear loss was a set up.

 

[BellyTank]

“I know where you a-a-a-r-e..! Bwa-ha-haaa..!�,
teased Tank, the crooked, dirty, bruiser, as crazed as a Skid Row toilet pan- pushing another five slugs in the big, pump gun- how many more of Winchester's rifled slugs did he have..? I'd noticed the big bulge under his coat and he did seem glad to see me in a disturbing way... I had no real idea but at the time, it seemed like he was a major invester in the company.
Me and Powers had three pistols to our names, a half brick of Peters' HV.357 Magnum and a dog-leg billy club in the shape of dead Thompson- dead out of hunger for .45ACP...
My mind was beginning to wander... the irony, the misfortune too- both revolvers were the same caliber despite their monikers but JP's .38 couldn't chamber the longer magnum rounds- details I know but no less pertinent given the deadly context- a real dirty shame- that'll teach me for being such a flash-Harry.
But anyhoo, Jay still had two shots left and we still had the little .32 Colt auto with a full clip to keep the mosquitos off our noggins...
It was high in the innings- high noon- high time... the Texas Garrison and the Mexicans- we all had good cover and so much ammo- this could get real boring, real fast... The big slugs shattered rock all around us- Powers caught a chunk in the left shoulder, putting a new crease in his service blues and barely missing Muggins' pretty mug, your's truly.
We kept our heads down- bided our time- bit our collective lip- waiting for a break, an empty choke, or the barrel of that damned shotgun to melt-down. We needed him alive- but alive and in a good amount of pain would be good, maybe even helpful...
I topped up my Smith and Wesson's cylinder- mentally kissing each bullet that I slid home and I took a moment... I was trying to pray... with the Devil's hot halitosis on my neck...
I was getting mixed-up flashes in my broiled brain... long-distance numbers made out of ammo...
...357-32-38-45..., that, the strong desire for a drink and The Alamo...
...not in any particular order...

Maybe shoot now, pray later...

 

[Biltmore Bob]

Patrolman James Powers really hadn't signed on for this...no really. He had been semi concience when Deckard had gotten him out of the car. He instinctively used the beatup and cruedly repaired and customized revolver in his hands to launch a 158 grain semi wadcutter at 950 feet per second into the imaginary three inch round black circle of the ten ring that was Fat Reggie's nose. Whew! Good shooting, he thought, I don't even shoot that good on qualification day. But he was fading out again. His mind raced to Gina, eights months along with their third child, a girl this time they hoped. They had two boys together, James Jr. was twelve, and Danny was eight. Gina had made him breakfast this morning, hard fried eggs and burnt toast. She insisted on seeing him off to work every morning, even when she should be resting. The boys were at the school bus stop when he stopped on the way to the station. It was a big deal for them. It made them look good when their dad stopped to say bye to them in his uniform, in front of their friends.

Jerked back to reality by the report of the 12 gauge, Powers looked over at Matt Deckard. It was a well known fact around the Department that Matt had taken the fall for a questionable shooting at a stake out about a year ago. His partner at the stake out had been, Guess Who? Yeah that's right, of all people, San Francisco Police Inspector Captain William Edward Taenk. To make matters worse 50 G's wound up missing from the police evidence room at about the same time. Matt's name was the last entry in the evidence log book, so that made him suspect.

"Hey Jay, we better do something fast, or the Chief will be giving your pretty widow one of those triangle folded flags," it was classic Matt, he always knew the right thing to say.

Another round from the shotgun screamed toward them striking a rearby rock. A peice of the rock hit Power's left shoulder, bringing him fully awake this time.

"Got a plan, Davy Crockett?," Powers Hissed throught the pain.

 

[BellyTank]

I peered down into the blue business coupe and made her face on the second take- what a face.
Nice upholstery too...

I scooped my eyes up to read her license-
-it read; "G.Collins"- to me she was more Gee-Whizz- a Peach, a real Bombshell-
-make that an Atomic Bombshell-
more curves than eighty-eight and a Plutonium Blonde to boot.

Three months later, she made me the second luckiest Joe in the World-
-her and LittleBoy got hitched- Jay that is.
That was that...