Merkowski leans back in his chair, propping his feet up on a pile of unfiled reports and mugshot binders.
"The Old Man gave up the names of some of his son's associates, we've got Patrol running the names to any plates Cal-Trans has on file, but that could take a while. We also have the local hospitals on the lookout for any Oriental types coming in for trauma and the like..."
(door knock)
"Come in."
"Cap'n. University Medical just called. They've got a Jap in their E.R. who stumbled in with a baseball-sized wound to the forehead." says Murray, the Desk Sergeant.
"So, what of it? People get hit by baseballs all the time. Not our fault he didn't know when to duck." grumbles Abe.
"Nurse says he's got tattoos running from his neck down to his ass-crack. I'm guessing he wasn't playing in a beer league, sir."
Abe leans forward, thanking Murray and looking at Trojan and Hammer.
"Well, looks like some E.R. nurse broke the case for you. Get down there and talk to 'em before someone else does. Be careful and try not to run into the FBI along the way."
"You should drive," Trojan looks at his (empty) coffee cup as they walk through the grimy but busy precinct, the clamor of perps and phones filling in around them like a comfortable blanket. "I've had a lot of coffee already."
The Hammer's van grumbles up and down the mountainous city of streets of San Francisco, the opening riff to Van Halen's "Panama" thumping through his ride's custom sound system.
...Got the feel for the wheel, keep the movin' parts clean.
Everything is going fine until they get on the freeway, when Trojan notices two sedans taking up rolling positions on either side of their van. It still doesn't seem too terribly conspicuous until their skinhead passengers start pointing pistols out the open windows.
"Shit! Get down!" Dick dives to the van's grimy floor, fumbles out his Beretta. The pistol bounces out of his grasp just for a second as the big GMC hits a bump and Trojan has just enough time to think what if it goes off in my face when it hits the floorboards before he catches it out of reflex. He crawls to the back of the van, puts both feet on each door, and gets ready to kick the back open.
The skinheads open fire on The Hammer's sweet ride, their bullets punching holes into the van's side panels and causing Trojan to eat the floor as the searing kiss of hot lead whizzes past him.
Hammer's 2x5 goes next and ruins the Skinheads' 2x4. The Skinheads are out of sets, so Hammer's 2x2 goes next and inflicts a 1st Stage COOL effect "DAZZLED" on them.
Hammer guns the Party Wagon and gets ahead of one of the skinheadmobiles, bumping the other chase vehicle and nearly causing its driver to slam the vehicle into the freeway's retaining wall.
Hammer, now in the lead, slams on the Party Wagon's brakes and brings Trojan's Beretta painfully close to the Skinhead's car.
Trojan's 2x1 goes off and deals "Shot" to them, the first-stage KILL effect.
Trojan smiles, pushing open the Party Wagon's swinging back doors and emptying his Beretta through the muscle car's front end causing the driver to swerve violently; the Dodge's windshield now spiderwebbed and its engine smoking.
Both cars are still in the chase, but for how long...no one is sure.
"I HOPE HE HAS INSURANCE!" Magnuson yells to his partner in the back. Looking ahead, he sees the light at the busy intersection change from yellow to red. Fuck it, he thinks. HOLD ONTO SOMETHING DICK, ITS TIME TO GET HARDCORE!" He grinds the pedal down into the floor and grips the steering wheel. Hammer braces himself for a possible collision, and turns the music up to eleven.
Pistons poppin', ain't no stoppin' nowwwww....
"PANAMA" both men sing as the van roars through the intersection.
Hammer's not about to back down, so he decelerates and steers the Party Wagon right into the pursuing Dodge, trying to shunt the muscle car out of contention. As he gets precariously close to the oncoming Dodge, he recognizes gunman in the front passenger seat. It's Steve Hatcher, late of the SF punk rock scene and bass player of the band Coathanger Abortion. The reunion is short-lived as Steve (heyooo) mag-dumps his .45 into the Party Wagon's tires.
Skinheads' 2x5, and 2x1 get wrecked by Trojan's 2x6 and 2x1
Not realizing the friendly flashback is happening, Dick knows that it's now or never; ripping his shirt to pieces and stuffing the garish, flowery fabric into the top of the bottle he's already filled with the contents of his flask. He waits as the skinheads' rounds punch daylight through the Party Wagon, waiting for his moment, checking the corners around the flapping GMC rear doors. When the car shows itself again, Dick flings the Molotov at the car, the bottle shattering with a satisfying WHUMP!.
The Dodge's hood erupts into flames, causing its driver to skid out of control as the Party Wagon's tires blow, also causing their situation to go sideways. Both vehicles are spin out of control, nearly hitting each other again, before crashing side-by-side into the freeway's center divide.
The Hammer wakes up a brief moment later to the sounds of tires screeching and motorist honking, his head ringing with the sudden impact to the van's dashboard. Trojan's no better, having been caught up in the various bits of gig gear and empty Heineken bottles that littered the back of the Party Wagon. All they know is that they are stopped and still alive.
"PaaAAAannaAmaaaaa...." Dick slurs, groggily getting to his feet and stumbling out of the Party Wagon. "I'm gonna get us some more wheels, you make sure those neo-nazi fuckers are dealt with. We need to get to that hospital before the feds do." With that, he looks around at the sudden traffic jam their indiscretions caused, picks a fast-looking car, and holds up his badge and gun.
The big detective stumbles out of the van; he's having some trouble making sense of the scene in front of him, as every object seems to have several identical duplicates moving in several directions. "Why are you always such an asshole Steve?" he mumbles, fumbling for his sidearm. Wincing in pain, he limps through the pileup towards the mangled sedan to make sure the shitty bassist never plays another note.
Trojan draws down on a Corvette, its driver standing on his brakes as he skids to a stop with a couple feet to spare between himself and the (now) wife-beater-wearing detective. No one not a cop would try and pull that kind of stunt, so the driver sighs with reluctance as he throws Dick the keys.
Meanwhile...
The Party Wagon's door being pinned between itself and the wrecked Dodge, Hammer has to clamber through the driver's window, the Viking's boots crumpling what's left of the muscle car's burnt hood as he gets over to the driver's side.
Steve's a mess, although Hammer has actually seen him worse. That club in Oakland, a few years back after he tried to get gig money from the owner. Three bouncers beat a raincheck into him so badly, the poor bastard was in traction for a month.
(coughing up blood)
"Ha....Hammer, is that you?" asks the dazed and bloodied bass player.
"You're lucky its me, as usual." Steve places a bloodied hand on the windowless door, looking to gain leverage to pry himself from the wreckage. Hammer has other ideas, and presses the hand to the door with his boot, generating a satisfactory crunch. "Want to tell me what's going on here, old friend?" He grins at the pinned would-be-assassin, and applies just a bit more pressure.
"Gahrrrgh. Shit man, you don't need to do that!" winces Steve, pain shooting through his fingers.
"Man, I thought that was your van, but Tommy said to just go...and so I did and..." slurs the battered bass player, clearly under the influence of not just the power of suggestion.
"Look, man...Me and the Brotherhood, I ain't this way. I'm way deep into owing them money...six G's. They said if I helped them with this, we'd be square."
Steve's story may just be truthful.
Hammer's about to let his foot off the man's hand, when the passenger sitting next to Steve suddenly starts to move! His head jerks toward Hammer's way, beginning to bring up his gun when the other half of the assassin's face is revealed. It's a bloody, blistered mess. The skinhead gets as far as that before succumbing to massive shock.
"SHIT. FUCK. AWGODDAMMIT!" screams Steve, itching his way toward the door jam in horror as the gristled gunman collapses and faceplants into his shoulder.
"Serves you right for all the asshole shit you've pulled Steve. Doug can't talk to me now without launching into a tirade about that time you sold his sister's dog to Bahama Mike." With Steve safely pinned into the car, Magnuson stumbles back to his van to call in to HQ.
"Someone will be here to pick you up soon, and we'll talk later. Then you can get square with ME" he yells back to Steve, as he pulls the portable siren from the Party Wagon.
Trojan pulls up just as the wub-wub-wub of a local news helicopter can be heard. Dick pushes the door open, and Hammer half-trips on the way in. "Goddamnit, this is going to hurt for a week" he grumbles, as he drags his bruised leg in and closes the door. "Lets get to that hospital."
Trojan and Hammer arrive in their commandeered Corvette, finding the suspected Yakuza heavy was moved to a room. Fortunately, the Captain had the sense to put a Uniform outside his door.
The patrol cop looks up from his newspaper, getting the detectives' attention as they walk toward the open room door.
"Perp's been giving the staff a hard time. Won't speak English to anyone and we still haven't gotten a name."
"That's why we're here," Dick says confidently. "I speak Japanese."
Well, about 7 words of it, and none of them applicable to dudes. But the perp in there speaks English, so...
Dick gives the uniform his best grin, even if it's a little pink around the teeth from the busted lip he caught in the van crash. "Go get yourself some coffee. There's a new place down the street, Roebucks? Nah... Starbucks! Yeah, go try them out. Take your time."
"My ass you speak Japanese" Hammer says, rolling his eyes as he pushes open the door. "Unless its right there baby, or I promise I won't do that again."
Dieter
