“I’m Dillon J Dudenburg. I’ve directed hardcore porn, I’ve directed softcore porn. I’ve studied under Stephen Sayadian AND Nick Millard. And I’ve also directed episodes of Grace Under Fire,” the famed filmmaker, recently fired from a major motion picture, informed us. He was puffing on his Black & Milds while we interviewed him in a U-Haul storage unit in El Segundo. We were using it as a “casting couch”. The three of us…Peter, Donovan McNabb,and myself…were all donning our fake mustaches while undercover as porn producers.
“That’s very interesting, Dillon,” Peter said. “Jack, do you have anything you’d like to ask?”
“Yeah,” I replied, “what does the ‘J’ stand for?”
Dillon took a drag off his cheap cigar. “Just ‘J’,” he said.
“Did you read the script?”
“Uhh, yeah,” Dillon said as he dabbed his cigar in the ashtray, “and I have a few ideas. First, I’d like to cast as our leading lady an actress I worked with on Pee On Me Vol. 9….Bella Bixby. I think she’s perfect for the role.”
“But part of the agreement was to cast a different actress that you worked with on Info Whores: Layla Huffington,” Donovan interrupted.
“Layla Huffington?! No way man!“
“May I ask why?” Donovan said. He was getting irate.
“She gave the entire cast and crew crabs man! We had to shut down production for an entire month!”
That was enough. Donovan McNabb leapt out of his seat and began to strangle Dillon. “I GAVE HER THOSE CRABS!” he kept shouting.
Peter and I wrangled Donovan while Dillon laid out on the floor trying to catch his breath. “Donovan, chill out,” I said, “that’s my responsibility!” I then kicked Dillon in the side and grabbed him by the lapels. “Where’s Layla?!” I kept asking.
“Last place I saw her was at a strip club in Riverside,” Dillon replied as he coughed up blood.
I stood up straight and ripped off my mustache. “Let’s get going,” I ordered.
“Wait a minute,” Peter said, “we have this place rented out until the 24th. So how are we gonna….”
While we were talking amongst ourselves, Dillon, still on the ground, pulled out a switch blade from his sock. As he charged towards Donovan, I drew the .38 and blasted a hole in the filmmaker’s face. His body fell to the ground as blood gushed out of every orifice.
“My god, Jack, what have you done?” Peter asked as he knelt beside the body. Then he began to weep.
“Peter, you’ve seen me kill hundreds of people,” I said, “why are you crying?”
“Don’t you get it?!” he yelled, “Dillon was the greatest artist of our time!”
“The Bible specifically prohibits the production and viewing of internet pornography,” I replied as I put my gun back in the holster. “I did the world a favor.”
Peter stood up and got in my face. “When you find Layla Huffington,” he said calmly, “you take her and get OUT of the state of California. Or else I will kill you myself.”
I lit up a cigarette and gave him a smirk. “Gladly,” I said.
I threw Donovan McNabb against the wall in our room at the Cecil Hotel. Then I put a knife to his throat. “Did you bring an extra toothbrush?” I asked. “I forgot mine.”
His hand was shaking as I took the toothbrush from it. “Relax,” I told Donovan, “why are you so stressed out?”
Right then, Peter Tucker startled me as he came in through the door carrying a trey of coffees. I drew the .38 and blasted the trey. Piping hot latte got all over him.
“Goddamnit Jack!” Peter yelled. “That’s the fifth time I’ve had to go to Dunkin Donuts! Will you stop blasting every trey I carry in?!!”
“We’ve been in LA for two days!” I said as I put the .38 back into the holster. “We’ve got nothing! NOTHING! We need Layla Huffington before it’s too late!”
“Too late for what?” Donovan asked. “She’s already in the porno business.”
I then backhanded him across the face. “I know that,” I replied. “But maybe it’s not too late to save her.”
“Save her?” Donovan said as he rubbed his cheek. “I don’t think she’s in any danger. I just want to talk to her to get some closure!”
I kneed Donovan in the ballsack then threw his head into the mirror, shattering the glass. “Goddamnit Donovan! Don’t you get it?” I said. “Layla is under the clutches of Satan! The Lord has made it MY quest to rescue her! MY QUEST! And when the Lord speaks, I answer the call! So you best not get in the way, or you will be the NEXT one to swallow a bullet.”
Peter stood back in quiet contemplation as he rubbed his hand across his face. “Donovan, will you step outside the room, please?” he requested.
Donovan granted his request as he wiped blood from his temple. Peter closed the door behind him. “I know what’s going on here, Jack,” he said. “I know you too well. You’ve been watching her videos, looking at her naked pictures constantly. That’s too much for a man that doesn’t masturbate.”
Then a dark revelation came to me. I looked down at the broken shards of mirror at my feet. “And I want her for myself, is that what you say?”
“It’s an obsession,” Peter replied, “an obsession that has gotten ahold of many men in your position. And as a man with 20 years of backed up semen running through him, it’s an obsession that will crush you.”
I nodded in agreement. “So what do you recommend?” I asked.
“Seeing as you are emotionally compromised in this case, I’ve had no choice but to utilize my massive FBI resources to track Layla Huffington down. So I posed as a porno producer and got in contact with a director that has worked with her many times before,” Peter said. “Plus, you should beat off every once in awhile.”
“Who’s your contact?”
“A very well respected man in the business,” Peter replied. “His name is Dillon J Dudenburg.”
I sometimes forget the impact that Dirty Harry had on me as a kid. I was expecting it to be some stupid exploitation flick from the 70s, but it turned out to be much more.
Unlike other gritty crime films from the 70s, like The French Connection or The Taking of Pelham 123, director Don Siegel and DP Bruce Surtees shot the movie like it was a western. Clint Eastwood looms large in mythic form over the screen, but he never completely dominates it. Like how the rough and tumble deserts and mountains are a major character in westerns, the streets of San Francisco play a similar role.
But Dirty Harry was slightly ahead of its time. While westerns were fading away, and with it the gunslingers delivering justice on the prairie, Clint Eastwood was offering the a audience a new hero: the pissed off cop that’s tired of rules and regulations and the constant whining from bureaucrats over the rights of individuals. Dirty Harry fit the mood of white conservatives during the age of Nixon and those that wished to return to a simpler ethos of good guys vs bad guys. In short, Dirty Harry was the predecessor to the Cannon Film craze of the 70s through the 80s.
But in my view, the unsung genius of the film is Andrew Robinson as the crazed villain. Even now, it’s an unnerving character…one that no one could get away with today. The closest comparison that I can think of is Heath Ledger’s Joker, but no sensible writer would permit Batman’s arch nemesis to kill, rape, and abduct children. THAT would be crossing the line. But Robinson’s Scorpio does it numerous times throughout the film.
Which is why the ending was so effective. Sure, it’s a cliche to hear Eastwood utter “do you feel lucky?” before blasting his last round into the bad guy. But you actually feel his rage as he asks Scorpio “well do ya? PUNK!!”. In my view, that was Eastwood’s finest moment as an actor.
While Dirty Harry might be synonymous with Clint Eastwood, I think it would be interesting to see the character return to the screen given its political undertones. Obviously Clint Eastwood is too old, and casting someone like Karl Urban to replace him would seem like parody. But now that the nature of masculinity on film has come under scrutiny, and the zeitgeist has turned skeptical towards law enforcement, it would be fascinating to see Harry Callahan return…especially to such a divisive city as San Francisco.
Here at The Internet Ruined Everything (TIRE) we are always searching for new and interesting people to profile. While this isn’t the first time we’ve interviewed TIRE’s Founder/President/CEO/Creative Director/Lone Employee Beau Montana, this is the first time we’ve spoken to him since being the inaugural recipient of TIRE’s Big Bad Motherfucker Award for being all around mean son-of-a-bitch.
TIRE: Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to sit down with us, Beau. Congratulations on your award.
Beau: Of course! I was just telling my therapist that it’s about time someone gave me an award for being an asshole at AutoZone. But you gotta put people in their place these days, ya know? I ain’t paying $200 for a catalytic converter when I can just steal one off another vehicle!
TIRE: SO true. Now you’re a big advocate for mental health awareness. Why champion this cause?
Beau: Well, I grew up in a rough household. The only way to survive was to join the roaming street gangs of Manhattan (Kansas). And after performing the ‘Jet Song’ for the 900th time, I finally had enough of that shit. I knew there had to be a better life. So I enrolled in college and took courses in “psychology” where the professor taught some liberal propaganda about “mental disorders”. I told him there ain’t nothing wrong with my brain, then I dropped the textbook on the floor and took a shit on it in front of the entire class. So I’ve been railing against this nonsense ever since.
TIRE: Nevertheless, you’re a big proponent for therapy.
Beau: Correct. But I’m a man. So I don’t “talk” about my feelings. I once had a therapist tell me that I had undiagnosed “PTSD” and tried to prescribe me medication. But I grabbed that prescription pad and told him “this is where you can stick this,” then I dropped my pants and shoved it up my asshole. No man can tell me what I feel. Because I feel nothing; nothing but contempt for the human race. If I wanted to “feel better” about myself, I wouldn’t take pills. If god wanted us to take medication, he wouldn’t have given us Jim Beam. And no, I don’t have a drinking problem.
TIRE: So in lieu of traditional therapy, what do you recommend?
I’m a man of action. The only thing that calms me is taking apart and cleaning my Glock while blindfolded. I also make my own ammunition and scratch of serial numbers for my growing gun collection. “Paranoid Schizophrenia,” is another big word THEY like to throw at me. But God speaks to me daily. He tells me that the world will soon be made whole again and that I must be ready for when He calls my name.
TIRE: Thank you for an enlightening interview.
Beau: Thank you. And remember: God’s watching. And so are THEY.
“Don’t you have a whole FBI field office to run?” I asked Peter Tucker. Donavan McNabb, the guitarist I threatened to shoot on the streets of Oakland and Layla’s ex-boyfriend, was packing his van before the two of us departed for LA.
“You know,” Peter explained, “the funny thing about San Francisco is that absolutely NO crimes are committed there. What are the odds? So I’ve got nothing better to do.”
“Well if you’re tagging along with us, you’re paying for gas,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” Donovan interrupted, “this is a 1994 GMC Vandura. It’s a marvel of modern engineering. So this thing DEFINITELY doesn’t suck up a lot of gas.”
“It’s all good,” Peter replied, “I’ll just use my credit card issued by the federal government to pay for the $15 per gallon gas here in the State of California for an investigation that has absolutely nothing to do with the government.”
“Good thinking,” I said. “Well hop on in! Let’s get this show on the road!”
We all got high driving down the SR 1. It didn’t help much. I couldn’t shake the half naked images of Layla from my mind; something was compelling me towards her. And it wasn’t just my erection either.
“I know I’m a federal agent and all,” Peter said to Donovan, who was driving the van, “but goddamn this is some good weed.”
“For Christ sake,” I said to Peter, “stop using the Lord’s name in vain!”
“Come off your high horse, Jack,” he replied.
“No, he’s right,” Donovan interrupted, “God is all around us. God is love. We should treat him with respect.”
“That’s an interesting perspective,” I replied.
“Shut the fuck up Donovan,” Peter said. “You’re just a dumbass California stoner. I shouldn’t even be letting you drive! It would have been much faster taking the interstate!”
“What’s the rush, man?” Donovan asked.
“A girl’s gone missing,” I said, “and her mother is paying $3500 per day to find her.”
“All Layla did was move to LA for work,” Donovan said as tears began to stream down his face. “I just wish she hadn’t had dumped me.”
“There there,” I said as I patted him on the back, “I completely understand why she left you.”
Donovan pulled off to a lone gas station overlooking the California coast. Peter went inside to ask for directions and take a shit while Donovan stood around with his thumb up his ass. Meanwhile, I continued to study Layla’s dossier.
Then some jackoff in a red Porsche convertible pulled up behind the van. “Hey, are you gonna pump any gas?!” the man yelled. “You’re holding up the line!”
“There are other pumps, sir,” Donovan replied. But the gentleman wasn’t having it.
I grew annoyed as he continued to lay on the horn. Finally, I walked up to the Porsche and pulled out the .38.
“Listen here, shitheel!” I said to the man, “we’re on a mission from God, GODDAMNIT! That means we don’t have to obey the laws of man. So I hope you’re right with the Lord, because if you keep laying on the horn, you might be meeting Him sooner than you think!”
The man began to piss himself as he wept and raised his hands in the air. “I’m so sorry mister,” he cried, “I just need some gas.”
I lifted the .38 and pulled back the hammer. “Have you accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as your Savior?” I asked.
The man bawled as he accepted Jesus into his life. Then I shot him in the kneecap for the inconvenience
Peter ran out of the gas station after he heard the gunshot and patted me on the back. “I’m really proud of you Jack,” he said, “you’ve shown a lot of restraint these last few days.”
I nodded as put the .38 in my holster. “You know, it’s just never occurred to me to NOT kill everyone I come across. I don’t what it is. I guess California has really gotten to me.”
We both laughed then continued on our journey to LA.
“Don’t forget your Winchester ammo, Uncle Jack,”Klyde reminded me before I boarded the Greyhound bus.
I chuckled a bit. “You must mistake me for some stupid moron, Klyde,” I replied, “I never forget that!”
Thankfully he did remind me because I forgot.
“Well Brother Jack,” Pete said as he slapped me on the back, “don’t you be enjoying California too much. If you come back as a Democrat, I’ll strangle you with my bare hands and hang your corpse in the front yard.”
“Heh, good luck getting passed my .38,” I said as I pulled out my gun.
We laughed and exchanged hugs before I took my seat on the bus bound for Oakland, CA. When I arrived 12 days later, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. So I grabbed my bags and checked in at the La Quinta Inn in Alameda.
“Name please?” the clerk asked.
“Hardcock. Jack Hardcock.”
I laid the .38 out on the desk.
“Ah yes, Mr. Hardcock. Welcome to Alameda,” the clerk said. “Room 213 is ready for you.”
I threw my bags on the bed and began checking the room for bugs and wiretaps. Nothing. Then there was a knock on the door.
“Room service,” the voice said.
I drew my weapon and cracked open the door. “What do you want?” I asked.
“I’m here to bring you more toiletries, Mr. Hardcock,” the housekeeper replied.
I opened the door and invited her in. She pushed her cart in front of her and started dispensing soaps and shampoos on the nightstand and skink. When she was finished, she parked her cart in front of me.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked.
“Yes, just one more thing…”
I punched her in the face and wrestled her to the bed. As I had my knee to her back, I ripped off the wig.
“Nice try, Peter Tucker: FBI agent!” I said.
I released my knee and Peter started laughing as he rolled over. “Nothing gets passed you,” he said, “you’re as sharp as a tack!”
“What the fuck do you want? Why are you watching me?”
Peter sat up in bed and began wiping away the makeup. “Now now, settle down Jack,” he explained, “I know you’re after the missing Huffington girl. I promise to not interfere with with your investigation, the only service my office will provide is protection.”
“Protection from what? There’s nothing on the streets that I can’t handle myself. Remember, I spent six months in Cleveland?!”
“I know that! But things operate a little differently here.”
“Well, for one thing, I’m in charge.”
I let out a huge guffaw. “Don’t tell me the FBI put you in charge of the San Francisco field offices!”
“You better believe it, bucko,” Peter replied. “Furthermore, I don’t you running around here with that puny ass peashooter fuckin everything up! So you play by the rules or I’ll have you locked up in San Quentin! Do we have an understanding?”
“Peashooter? You mean this LETHAL weapon?”
I then pulled out the .38 and shot Peter’s makeup sponge right out of his hand.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Jack!”
“Alright Peter,” I said as I placed the .38 back in its holster, “I’ll play it your way. But what’s with the disguise?”
I’m a little late on this Alan Moore thing. But while I can empathize to a degree on Moore’s point here, I recall listening to his interview with Chapo Trap House’s Will Menaker from a few year ago where he stated “everything is politics” and it makes me want to beat my head on the wall.
I’m afraid that we’ve reached a point where audiences aren’t allowed to enjoy anything due to the hyper-politicalization of EVERYTHING. The last few years have been a wet dream for ideologues because finally people are as miserable as they are. And I’ll admit, much to my embarrassment, that I’ve played a hand in this. But people need their distractions from a world that’s seemingly falling apart all around them.
While I’m not a comic book fan, I’d venture to guess that most comic/superhero fans don’t connect this material to any sort of real world scenario. They recognize it for what it is: entertainment.
And that’s okay. Let people be happy.
I think Moore is projecting his “everything is politics” (🤢) worldview here. And that, in my opinion, is far more toxic than what the comic nerds are doing.
“Why did you give me this ‘Jesus Saves’ tract?” the bank robber asked me. I had the .38 pointed directly at his skull.
“Because I’m giving you one last choice,” I said. “And I suggest you accept the Lord Jesus as your personal Savior.”
“And what if I tell you that you can wipe your ass with this?”
I shook my head in disappointment. “Then tell Satan he’s next,” I said. I pulled the trigger and unleashed the full fury of my .38 right there in the bank lobby.
Shouts and screams echoed throughout the halls while the robber’s brains spewed out onto the marble floor below. I raised my hands to calm the crowd. “No need to thank me,” I said, “I’m just a good Christian Samaritan doing his job. Have a blessed day.”
I exited the bank just as the police arrived. The officer in charge started yelling in my face. “Goddamnit Jack Hardcock!” he screamed, “you had the suspect disarmed and apprehended, but you shot him anyway!”
“It’s good to see you too Sarge,” I replied sarcastically. “I figured that I save the taxpayers money by executing the bastard right then and there.”
“That’s not how justice is done!” he exclaimed. “Get out of my city before I throw these cuffs on you!”
“With pleasure,” I said then spat on the ground. But that’s the kind of thanks I get for being an instrument of the Lord’s Wrath.
“It’s time to go to Bible study,” my brother Pete Hardcock said. Him and his wife were kind enough to allow me to sleep in their garage while I got my life together. This was a year after I saved the city of Cleveland and Progressive Field from a renegade FBI agent. To pay the bills, I was now doing private detective work; stalking cheating spouses and such. It was beneath the dignity of a lethal holy weapon such as myself.
“You know I don’t need that shit,” I said to Pete, “I don’t have to read the Bible. I know everything in it is true and divinely inspired. That’s good enough for me.”
Pete’s stay-at-home wife, Jesseka, brought me a plate of green bean casserole. “Where’s the bourbon?” I asked.
“You know we don’t drink in this house,” Jesseka replied.
“If God didn’t want us to drink, He wouldn’t have made Kentucky bourbon,” I explained.
“Say Jack,” Pete said, “why don’t you come to church and meet a nice Christian lady. You’re 21 years old. Don’t you think it’s time to settle down and start a family?”
“Poppycock,” I replied. “How can I settle down when there’s so much evil on the streets? Like I tell everyone, I’m a blunt instrument of the Lord. So I have no thoughts or desires of my own.“
Pete and Jesseka’s son, Klyde, came rushing into the garage. “Uncle Jack,” he said, “someone’s at the door for you.”
“Back to work,” I uttered to myself. So I pulled up my pants, lit up a cigarette, then walked towards the front door. There I found a woman with tears streaming down her face.
“Are you Jack Hardcock?” the woman asked. “My daughter has gone missing. I need your help!”
Jack Hardcock will be returning in November. So here’s an introduction to the man, the legend.
“Cleveland. Shit,” I uttered to myself. “Still only in Cleveland.”
“What’s that, Jack?” the Chief asked.
“Nothing, Chief,” I replied. “It’s just that I’ve been stuck in this godforsaken city for the last two months.”
“Eh,” the Chief shrugged, “at least it ain’t Cincinnati.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I replied as I lit up a cigarette. “What do you got for me?”
“A triple homicide. Two dead hookers and an anonymous John.”
“So the usual, huh?” I said.
“Jesus Christ, Jack! Do you want the case or not?! I’ve got two detectives downstairs itching for a case like this and you’re up here bitching like a little bitch!”
“Don’t use that language around me Chief,” I replied. “I was raised Southern Baptist.”
“My mistake, Jack,” the Chief said, “you know me, I always try to be respectful of other people’s belief’s. Except for Seven Day Adventist.”
“So what’s it gonna be Jack? Do you want the case or not?”
I put out my cigarette and grabbed the file. “I guess so Chief,” I said, “Sometimes I wish the Lord would come back and unleash hell on this town. If it ain’t a serial killer, it’s some goddamn junkie robbing his grandmother for his next fix. I swear, you unbelievers will learn the vengeance of God! May this city be cast into Hell!”
The Chief got on his knees and begged for mercy. “Please Jack! Don’t let me burn in hell for all of eternity!”
“Then accept the Lord Jesus Christ into your heart,” I said, “and pray for the forgiveness of your sins.”
And on February 23rd, 2022, the Chief accepted Salvation through Jesus Christ.
After the Chief’s conversion, I loaded my .38 and asked God to guide my bullets into the bodies of my enemies. “Thank you Lord,” I prayed, “let vengeance be Yours…and mine.”
I kissed the barrel of my gun and entered the mean streets of Cleveland. “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil,” I uttered.
I grabbed the first pedestrian I saw on the streets. “Do you recognize this man?” I asked while holding up a picture of one of the victims.
“No,” they replied.
I slapped them across the face with the butt of my gun. “Liar!” I yelled, “Do you know what the Lord does to liars? He mutilates their genitals and they feast on them in heaven! So don’t let the devil catch your tongue! For it’s not the devil you should worry about if that happens! It’s GOD. And you WILL know God’s wrath AND the wrath of my .38!”
After the pedestrian pissed their pants, they confessed the victim’s name: Art McGarth.
So I let that poor sack of shit go and lit up a cigarette. “Not bad for an honest day’s work,” I thought.
“What can you tell me about Art McGarth?” I asked the cop at precinct 13.
“Fuck you Jack Hardcock!” the cop said. “You don’t run this city! Every time you come around here, a cop ends up dead. You’re a loose canon! I will not be cooperating with you!”
I pulled out my .38 and reached across his desk. “Listen here, HEATHEN,” I said, “I’m doing the Lord’s work by saving this city from the clutches of SATAN! You will cooperate with me or else you will be swallowing one of these bullets!”
The Chief detective of the precinct, Sally Wally, intervened. Her bottom of her skirt went just above her knees. “Jack, put that gun away,” she ordered.
“Sally, you’re dressed immodestly,” I replied. “I can’t do my job with an erection.”
“Step into my office please.”
I went into Sally’s office. I threw my coat and jacket down on the couch and kicked my feet up on her desk. “Did I say you can sit?” she asked.
“Sally, with all due respect,” I replied, “you might be over this precinct, but I’m still a man. And as a man, my authority supersedes yours.”
“What do you want with Art McGarth?” she asked, completely ignoring my comment. “This investigation is under our jurisdiction. We will handle this case.”
“The Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigations has asked me to look into his murder, along with the murder of two prostitutes,” I said. “McGarth was listed as a John Doe with the Bureau before I identified him and his name only appears in your databases. So what can you tell me about him?”
“After you got 14 of my officers killed in your last investigation,” Sally explained, “a federal grand jury decided that my department no longer has to cooperate with yours. If you have a problem with that, take it up with the Supreme Court.”
“You see, that’s the thing,” I replied as I lit up a cigarette and let the ashes fall to the ground, “man has his laws. And God has His. And I don’t answer to the laws of man.”
“That’s why you were kicked out of the FBI,” Sally said.
“Come on Sally! I wasn’t booted from the FBI! I voluntarily left because I couldn’t work for a heathen President like Joe Biden!”
“Tell your department that if they want our cooperation,” Sally said, “they will have to get a federal warrant. Until then, get the fuck out of my office and don’t show up here again.”
I stood up, grabbed my hat and coat, then put my cigarette out on Sally’s desk. “Have a blessed day,” I said.
There was something fishy going here. Whatever Precinct 13 was hiding, with the Lord’s help, I was going to get to the bottom of it.
When I walked outside, I reached into my holster and pulled out the .38. “Don’t worry sweetheart,” I said to the gun, “this city will soon know your wrath.”
I kissed the gun and put it back into the holster.
I unlocked the door to 12th story apartment overlooking downtown Cleveland. I threw down my keys and coat then turned on the light.
The local gangster, Gregg Poppovich, was pointing a gun at me. “What do you want with Art McGarth, Jack?” he asked as he lifted a stogie to his mouth.
“I’m investigating his death, Gregg,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“Of course not,” he replied, “I just didn’t want you pointing the finger at me.”
“Now why would I want to do something like that?” I asked while I studied him over.
Gregg laughed and put the pistol away in his holster. “I didn’t suppose you did,” he said, “you’re too smart for that.”
“But you must know something. Or else you wouldn’t have broken into my apartment.”
He laughed some more. “Of course,” he said, “that’s why I’m paying you a visit. It’s neither organized crime nor police corruption. There’s a madman loose out there, Jack. I don’t know much more than you, but watch your back.”
“Thanks for your concern, Gregg. But I have the Lord’s protection. Besides, why kill McGarth? He must have had some connections.”
“Not McGarth,” Gregg said, “but the two prostitutes. They’re disappearing all over the city. I’m telling you, Jack, it’s a Jack the Ripper kind of situation.”
“A serial killer?” I laughed, “in a city like Cleveland? Never heard of such a thing.”
“I’m not crazy, Jack. I don’t believe in that silly God of yours, but I do believe in the Devil. And he’s here in this city. So you better watch yourself.”
“I’ll pray on it,” I said, “and I’ll pray for you and your Salvation. May the Lord guide you towards the Light.”
Gregg left and I took a shit. All that scotch and nicotine was running through me. I absolutely destroyed that toilet.
When I walked out of the bathroom, Sally was lying on the bed. “Jesus Christ, Jack!” she said while puffing on a cigarette, “someone light a match!”
I closed the door and loosened my tie. “You shouldn’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” I said. “What are you doing here? I should really change the locks to this place.”
“Just paying you a visit,” she replied while hiking up her skirt to expose her gorgeous legs. “Have you found out anything about Art McGarth? Seeing as we’re both investigating his death.”
“His murder appears to have been collateral damage,” I said. “Other than that, I know nothing.”
“Are you sure?” Sally asked as she unbuttoned her blouse.
“Sally, I don’t know what you’re expecting to happen here. You know I don’t know what to do with a woman. I’ve never had sex!”
“I could show you,” she said as she lowered her shirt to expose her shoulders.
“No thanks,” I replied, “I don’t believe in sex before marriage. Now please leave.”
After she left, I straightened out the bed, loaded one round into the revolver of my .38, spun it, pointed it at my head, and pulled the trigger.
“Thank you, Lord, for always watching out for me,” I prayed. Then I went to bed.
I always sleep better after a game of Russian Roulette.
I returned to DCI headquarters to check in the Chief. He was shoveling jelly donuts down his face hole and getting shit all over the paperwork.
“Can you believe this shit, Jack?” he said while shards of donut was flying out of his mouth.
“I’m a Christian, Chief,” I replied, “I believe everything that I’m told.”
“Take a look at this.”
Chief handed me a report from the Pittsburgh FBI office regarding a series of murders. I had to swipe away jelly just to read all of the paragraphs.
“So what?” I asked.
“The autopsies came back from the McGarth killings. It can’t be a coincidence Jack. The same guy killing all them hookers in Pittsburgh is the same guy who killed McGarth and our two prostitutes.”
“The FBI are a bunch of jokers, Chief. I wouldn’t trust them to find a missing cat. Especially after what they did to President Donald Trump at Mar-a-Lago!”
“Now cool it, Jack!” Chief said. “I know that you hold a grudge against the Bureau after they shitcanned you and sent you to Ohio BCI, but I expect your full cooperation!”
“Cooperation?” I asked. “The fuck are you talking about, Chief?”
“The Feds are coming to help us with our investigation,” he replied, “and I don’t want ONE word out of you! You hear?! Or you’ll be sent to Toledo so fast that you’ll bust your pants!”
“I already busted in my pants once today, Chief,” I said, “then I prayed for the Lord’s forgiveness. So don’t threaten me with a good time.”
“That’s it!” the Chief yelled, “get out of my office!”
The FBI would not be getting my cooperation. But I couldn’t solve this case on my own. So I went looking for my good friend: local gangster Gregg Poppovich.
I found him enjoying a plate of lasagna at his Italian restaurant that he owned just outside of town. I grabbed his head and shoved it into the plate.
“Jesus, Jack!” he said as he wiped away the tomato sauce from his face, “you could have just said hello!”
I laid the .38 down on the table. “I need some answers,” I said.
“I told you! I know what you know!”
I grabbed the plate and smashed it against his face. “Not good enough!” I yelled.
Gregg grabbed another towel and began wiping the blood from his face. “Is there something wrong, Jack? You seem a bit agitated,” he asked.
I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Thanks for asking Gregg,” I said, “but it seems like the FBI is always up my ass!”
“I know how you feel,” Gregg replied, “it ain’t easy being a local gangster, ya know?”
“Unfortunately, they’re coming down here from Pittsburgh to investigate the McGarth killings,” I said. “I don’t need their help. What good has the Federal government ever done?!”
“Jack, I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye,” Gregg said, “but if you ever needed any assistance, I’m always here to help.”
“Thanks Gregg,”I replied, “you’ve always been a good friend. So since you’re offering, I’m gonna need the entire Cleveland criminal underworld to help me catch a killer.”
I couldn’t sleep that night. I even loaded .38 revolver with two extra bullets.
I prayed to the Lord Jesus Christ Our Savior. I said, “Lord, every time Ohio BCI tries to give me a partner, I tell them I don’t need that shit because Jesus is my partner. Well now I’m calling on that partnership. Please let me find the killer of Art McGarth and the two prostitutes before the FBI does. Amen.”
Immediately, there was a knock on the door. It was Sally.
“Sally,” I said, “for the last time, quit coming around here. I don’t know how to fuck.”
“This isn’t a social visit,” she replied, “you’re wanted at the precinct. There’s been another murder.”
“How long ago did the murder take place?” I asked as we were walking into the coroner’s office.
“Approximately 8 hours ago,” Sally replied.
“Have you identified the body?”
“We were hoping you would help us with that,” she said. Sally then pulled back the sheet covering victim’s body.
I was aghast.
“My god,” I said, “Sally, that’s, that’s…”
“The Chief?” she replied. “Yes, how convenient. You were the last one seen with him.”
“Listen, I had nothing to do with that!”
“Put your hands behind your back,” she ordered.
“You’re making a big mistake!” I yelled.
“Am I? The Chief was killed with a bullet to the brain fired from a .38 special. That’s your modus operandi. You had a means to kill him, now I just need a motive. I hereby place you under arrest, Jack Hardcock!”
Two other officers flanked me on both sides. I roundhouse kicked one and kicked the other one in the gonads so hard that he passed out. I pulled out my .38 and pointed it at Sally. “I demand you tell me what’s going on here!” I ordered.
“You’re a renegade cop, Jack!” she said. “You are the biggest menace to the streets of Cleveland and I’m taking you down.”
I laughed. “Better luck in the next life, sweetheart,” I said, then pulled the trigger. Sadly, I only had two chambers loaded in the revolver because I was playing Russian Roulette earlier, so nothing fired.
“Sorry,” I said to Sally. Then I pulled the trigger again. Unfortunately the bullet missed her.
Before I could fire off a last shot, the two cops re-emerged from their blackout. So I jumped out a window and fell 20 floors into the dumpster below. I shattered my pelvis, ruptured my spleen, punctured both lungs, broke all of my limbs, and was severely concussed.
I laid in the dumpster where a dump truck scooped me up, poured me into a rubble heap, and carried me off to a landfill. When I awoke the next morning, I crawled out of the trash dump, and all the way to Gregg Poppovich’s restaurant outside of town.
It ain’t easy crawling 8 miles while undergoing organ failure with all your limbs shattered. But that’s just life in Cleveland.
Jack, you magnificent sack of shit,” Gregg said to me after he patched me up, “I don’t know how you do it, but I’ve never seen anyone heal from broken limbs, organ failure, and brain damage as quickly as you have.”
“That’s the power of prayer,” I said in response. “I don’t need any of that medicine bullshit. I have God on my side.”
“You have proven the Power of Christ to me, Jack,” Gregg replied. “Despite growing up in America, getting hounded daily by Jehovah’s Witnesses, raised in the Catholic Church, and the Bible essentially being the cornerstone of Western art and literature, no one has ever told me about Jesus Christ or how to receive His Grace.”
“Bow your head,” I said. And on February 27, 2022, Gregg Poppovich, local Cleveland gangster, accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as his Savior.
I got up from the operating table, buttoned up my shirt, and punched Gregg in the stomach. “I’m gonna need more bullets for my .38,” I said.
Gregg was wheezing on the floor. “You could ask nicely, Jack,” he said.
“I don’t have time,” I responded, “Sally’s behind these murders, I’m sure of it. She’s already framed me, which means the FBI will be looking for me. Have you amassed your army of fellow gangsters? I’m gonna need them.”
Gregg stood up and straightened out his jacket. “They’re ready and waiting on your orders, sir,” he said.
“Good,” I replied, then socked him in the face. “I want a stakeout on Sally and a few of her officers. They are NOT to engage with any of them. Understood? Once when they have them cornered, your men should reach out to me. Okay?”
“Understood, sir,” Gregg said as he wiped blood away from his nose.
“Alright, now where are those bullets?”
I went to the back of Gregg’s Italian restaurant outside of town to do some target practice. I had just recovered from shattering every bone in my wrist after falling 20 stories into a dumpster. Unfortunately I missed every shot.
Gregg stood on the back patio laughing with a stogie hanging out his mouth. “Are you sure you’re ready for all this?” he asked.
I turned swiftly and shot the stogie out of his mouth. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I said. I twirled the gun around my finger and put it back in my holster.
I received a page from my beeper,” Gregg yelled. “They spotted Sally alone off Market Avenue!”
So Gregg and I piled into his 78 Buick Regal and sped off northbound into town. “What are we gonna do when we catch her?” Gregg asked.
“Just gonna ask her a few questions,” I said.
But before we reached Market Square, a black SUV rammed into the side of us. The Buick crashed into the side barrier then went over the edge into the Cuyahoga River.
Thankfully the river wasn’t on fire at that particular moment.
Gregg and I were individually strapped to a chair in an abandoned warehouse. We were revived by a blinding flash of light.
“Well well well,” a voice said from behind the light. “If it isn’t disgruntled Ohio BCI agent Jack Hardcock and local Cleveland gangster Gregg Poppovich. You two make strange bedfellows.”
“By the authority of Jesus Christ, I demand to know what’s going on here!” I exclaimed.
The light shut off and in front of us were three FBI agents. I recognized one of them. “Peter Tucker,” I said.
“Jack, how’ve you been?” Peter replied.
“Pete, untie us now! I don’t know what Sally told you, but I am not the killer!”
“Yes I know,” he said, “I just wanted you to know that I am in charge here.”
“What do you mean?”
Pete lit up a cigarette. “You see,” he stated, “we know that Sally and her minions are the ones that killed Art McGarth and many, MANY others.”
“If you have something to say, Pete,” I said, “spit it out. We don’t have all day.”
Pete took a long exhale as smoke billowed out his mouth. “Sally is a vigilante, Jack,” he continued. “We’ve keeping a watchful eye on her. She’s been executing pimps, prostitutes, drug dealers, stoners, plumbers, hipsters, Hoobastank, and anyone she deems a menace to society. She’s gone renegade, Jack. She thinks she’s above the law.”
“My God!” I said. “That means…”
“Yes,” Pete interrupted, “that means you were next.”
An agent came up and cut Gregg and me loose from our chairs. “Since you’re in charge,” I said to Pete as I massaged my wrist, “what happens now?”
Pete put out his cigarette and stepped out from behind his desk. “Jack, you can fool BCI but you can’t fool me,” he said. “I know you want back into the Federal Bureau. Cleveland’s a toxic wasteland. It’s Ohio’s toilet for fuck’s sake. It’s no mistake that the Browns are perpetually terrible. This city is cursed! I know that you don’t want to spend the rest of your career here.”
He handed me my .38. “All I’m asking,” Pete concluded, “is that you help me catch Sally. If you can do that, we can forget that time you accidentally burned down a retirement home and shot up a Denny’s. You’ll be back in the Bureau. What do you say?”
I looked him square in the eye.
“Pete, if I help you do this and you go back on your word,” I said, “you won’t have to wait on the Second Coming. I’ll send you straight to hell myself.”
Sally’s trail went cold. But somewhere beneath that shit-crusted anus that is the Cleveland underworld, she was waiting on us, plotting her trap.
The FBI was generous enough to fish out Gregg’s Buick from the bottom of the Cuyahoga River. Despite being busted up on the side and immersed in water for hours, it started up like a charm.
“A Buick will never let you down, my daddy always told me,” Gregg said.
“Ain’t that the truth.”
We were passing back and forth a bottle of brandy while on stakeout outside of Progressive Field. Peter Tucker sent us there. He had his suspicions that Sally would strike there next.
“What kind of idiot would send us here?” I asked Gregg. “It’s not even baseball season!”
“That ain’t true boss,” he replied. “There’s a celebrity baseball game here tomorrow.”
The blood drained from my face. “Oh fuck!” I said. “Gregg, get to the nearest pay phone and page Pete’s beeper. We’re gonna need backup.”
I knew what Sally was thinking. Celebrities would be there. That means pedos, druggies, rapists, all-around scum of the earth. She would have all of her eggs in one basket.
So I readied my .38 and scaled the fence into the stadium. It was night. The security guards were sleeping.
Sally was there. I knew it with all my instinct. I kicked open doors and trashed the stadium but found no one.
Then I entered the equipment room.
Inside were countless bald eagles locked up in cages. Strapped to them were contraptions that, when activated, would release live hand grenades onto unsuspecting people below.
“What are you doing in here?!” a man shouted. It was the bird keeper.
I lifted the .38. “Where’s Sally?” I said.
The man raised his hands in the air. “Hey man! I know nothing about that. I was just paid to do a job!”
I clicked the gun. “I’ll give you three seconds to answer before I blow your brains out,” I replied.
The man pissed his pants and continued to cry that he knew nothin. I pulled the trigger and his brains splattered all over the wall. In hindsight, that was a bad decision because I should have took him in for questioning.
C’est la vie.
I walked back out to the Buick and looked for Gregg. Off in the distance, underneath a pay phone, I saw Gregg laying on the ground holding his guts in.
I ran up and tried to stop the bleeding.
“She got me good, Jack,” Gregg said.
“Shut the fuck up you stupid bastard,” I replied. “You’re not gonna die.”
With his last bit of strength, Gregg grabbed me by the back of the neck. “Jack, I want you to know,” he uttered, “I regret every moment.”
There I held Gregg Poppovich, local Cleveland gangster, dead in my arms.
Then the pay phone rang. “Jack! This is Pete Tucker,” the voice said, “I received an urgent page from Gregg!”
“Gregg’s dead,” I said to Pete. “Sally killed my boss and now she’s killed my best friend. But I have her right where I want her. She’s here, Pete. Vengeance is mine.”
“What are you gonna do Jack?” Peter Tucker asked me at the FBI flophouse. I was washing local Cleveland gangster Gregg Poppovich’s blood off my hands.
“I’m gonna do what the Lord should have done a long time ago,” I said, “I’m gonna send her back to hell. Right where she belongs.”
“Say it ain’t so, Jack,” Pete replied, “are you actually losing your faith?”
I grabbed a cheap towel and began drying my hands. “I never question the ways of God,” I said, “but I sometimes wonder if He really has forsaken us. He’s certainly done so to Cleveland.”
Pete poured two glasses of whiskey and handed one to me. “We’ve always hated each other, Jack,” he said, “in fact I despise the ground you walk on. Someday I hope you die a slow agonizing death, preferably by fire or some means of disembowelment. You’re a piece of shit and I would love to grab this bottle of whiskey, shove it up your ass, and throw you out the window. However, unlike you, I have restraint. But goddamnit Jack, I’ve always respected your faith. And I’ll drink to that.”
“Thanks Pete,” I replied, “I needed that pep talk. It’s tough out here on the streets. It’s tough to make friends when they always end up dead. At least the Chief and Gregg found Salvation before their deaths. I do find consolation in that. I hope that someday you’ll find Peace through our Lord Jesus Christ.”
“Fuck that shit,” Pete said, “a lot of good that did to your friends. They found a guarantee into Heaven and next thing you know, they’re dead. That’s not for me Jack. I need the constant threat of Hell to keep me alive. That’s how you survive these streets.”
I shook my head. “You’re too short sided Pete.”
“No, dipshit. I just ain’t stupid.”
“Well, whatever,” I said as I downed the whiskey, “we’ve got a demon on the loose. And if there’s one thing that I’ve learned about the Lord is that He always vanquishes His enemies. Specifically through MY .38.”
“What a pussy ass weapon,” Pete replied.
As he raised the whiskey glass to his mouth, I fired a round right through the glass. Shards and liquid went everywhere.
“Alright, now I see what you mean,” Pete said as he wiped away whiskey that splashed on his face. “So what’s the plan? How are you gonna get to Sally?”
“Thankfully we cleaned up the blood and brains from that guy I shot at Progressive Field,” I replied. “Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have killed him, but what’s done is done. Hopefully she won’t notice he’s missing and she’ll move forward with her plan.”
“And then?” I thought, “God will provide a way.”
“That sounds like a stupid plan.”
“Stop calling them the Cleveland ‘Indians’ Jack,” Pete said while we were prepping to enter Progressive Field.
“I will never give into the woke agenda,” I replied. “This is a Christian Nation and I will never let a Catholic like Joe Biden tell me who to respect! Build the wall!!!”
“You’re a moron,” Pete uttered.
Security let us through the gate and we were handed a program. It stated that at the conclusion of the National Anthem, hundreds of bald eagles would be released over the stadium.
“We gotta stop those eagles,” I said, “thousands of people are at this celebrity baseball game. If Sally armed those birds with live grenades, there’s no telling what kind of damage that will do.”
“We should split up,” Pete ordered, “we’ve only got 10 minutes!”
Security was tight. There was no way we could search the entire stadium. I had to act fast.
The Village People were prepping to sing the National Anthem. One of them stepped into the bathroom and I followed him inside. While he was taking a shit, I kicked open the stall door and knocked him out.
With him unconscious, I took his costume, added a lot of makeup, and flushed the toilet. As I exited the bathroom to search for Sally, one of the Village People, the construction worker, shouted at me.
“Hey buddy,” he yelled, “it’s time to go on!”
“Fuck,” I said, then followed them out onto the field.
I had the .38 hidden under my smock.
As we danced to an upbeat rendition of the National Anthem, I kept a lookout for Sally. When the song concluded, Deshaun Watson was coming out onto the field to throw the first pitch.
Then the bald eagles came flying.
“Everyone hit the ground!” I yelled as I drew the .38.
I ripped one bullet into the air after another. Each one made it into a bald eagle and they came plummeting towards the ground. The stadium erupted into a panic and security rushed the field.
“I’m a cop!” I yelled after they tackled me. I pulled out my badge.
Pete came running out behind them with his weapon drawn. “Jesus Christ, Jack!” he said, “What the hell’s the matter with you? Out of all the Village People, you came out dressed as the Native American?!”
“Never mind me!” I said, “What about the bald eagles?! Did anybody get killed?!”
“There were no grenades,” Pete replied, “you just senselessly shot six bald eagles out of the sky in front of everyone!”
“Damn it Pete!” I yelled, “Sally is here! We’ve got to stop her!”
There was a quiet roar overtaking the stadium. It continued to grow louder and louder. “The fuck is that sound?” Pete asked.
A large, smooth object the loomed large over the stands and was slowly moving over the field. It was the Goodyear Blimp. I squinted to see who was piloting it.
It was Sally.
“My god, Pete,” I said, “it’s a trap…”
“Shit!” I yelled. “After killing those bald eagles, I’m all outta bullets!”
“Jack,” Pete replied, “if you can get us out of this, you might make me a believer after all.”
That was all the motivation I needed. So I said a prayer: “Lord, everything that’s happened so far has led me to this point. Give me the strength to kill Sally and lead Peter Tucker to Salvation in Jesus Christ. Amen.”
Right then, as the Goodyear Blimp hovered above, Sally, who was piloting the aircraft, released dozens of live hand grenades down onto Progressive Field. Pete and I weaved and bobbed our way through one explosion after the next but when the last grenade landed, it didn’t explode.
That’s when the Lord gave me a sign.
I saw Deshaun Watson, who was supposed to the throw the first pitch in the celebrity baseball game, cowering in the corner and pissing himself in the dugout. “Deshaun!” I yelled, “we need your arm strength! If you pick up this live hand grenade and hurl it back at the blimp before it detonates, you might be redeemed in the eyes of the public for all those disgusting sexual acts you did to those masseuses. Maybe not though. But what other choice you got?! Hurry before it explodes!”
Watson gathered up the courage, climbed out of the dugout, picked up the grenade, and with all of his strength he launched it towards the blimp.
He was right on the money. The grenade exploded, and the blimp came tumbling down onto the field.
Sally was in a daze when she climbed out of the wreckage. “Holt!” Pete ordered as he lifted his 9mm towards her. But Sally was too quick. She drew her weapon and shot Pete in the abdomen.
Then she turned her gun towards me and laughed maniacally. “I finally have you where I want you, Jack Hardcock!” Sally said, “Prepare to meet your maker, Cleveland scum!”
Sally then ripped an entire clip into my direction, but to her surprise, every bullet missed. I dodged my way over to Pete’s position. With one hand over the bullet wound, he tossed me his 9mm with the other. “Pete,” I said, “without my .38, I’m useless!”
“I believe in you, Jack,” he replied, “have faith!”
I lifted the 9mm and emptied five bullets into Sally. As she dropped to her knees, I walked towards her, still aiming the weapon. “But why, Jack?” she asked, “I was only trying to clean up the streets. Wouldn’t your God approve?”
“No Sally,” I said, “Vengeance is the Lord’s. And I am His instrument.”
I fired one more round into Sally’s skull and her body fell to the ground.
“I hate the everlasting shit out of you, Jack,” Pete told me on the hospital bed. “But goddamn it, you saved my life. I’ll never forget that.”
“Good. So you’ll accept Jesus into your life?” I asked.
“Fuck no! We got lucky that Deshaun Watson was there. It happens. No need to thank god for that bullshit. Deshaun might be a sex pervert but he’s got a rocket arm!”
“Yeah? Well that’s, like, your opinion, man. Next time your life’s in danger, you might not be so lucky. But someday, Pete, I’m gonna prove to you that God’s real. You watch!”
“Fuck off, Jack.”
The mayor of Cleveland stormed into the hospital room with all smiles. “Jack Hardcock, with Lebron James gone, you’re the biggest hero to this town,” he said, “I would like to present to you the keys to the city.”
“Thank you, Mayor,” I responded, “but you can kindly stick those keys up your ass. I’m resigning from the Ohio BCI and moving on with my life. My only hope is that the next time the Cuyahoga River catches on fire, it will burn this entire city down.”
“But Jack, where will you go?” Pete asked.
“God made me a rolling stone,” I replied, “I will go wherever the Lord tells me. With the help of my .38, I will perform God’s wrath on any son of a bitch that asks for it. And I’ll spread the Word of Jesus and whatever.”
“I wish you the best of luck,” Pete said.
“Thanks Pete, but I don’t need that shit either. I have the Lord’s protection.”
We shook hands and I departed the hospital room. Where I was going, I didn’t know. My only guide was the Word of God and my .38.
“Settle down, Eric,” Don Lemon kept telling his friend. Eric kept pacing back and forth, still shirtless, and wielding a knife. “I’m gonna kill him. I’M GONNA KILL HIM!” he kept saying.
“It’s just a goddamn Xbox!” Don replied. “It can be replaced!”
“You don’t get it! People have been fucking with me my whole life! I’m setting my foot down this time! I’m the alpha male. I’M THE ALPHA MALE!”
“You might have a point,” Don said. “You are fucking his mom. But Kenny might have done you a favor. I hate to be the one to tell you Eric, but it’s time to grow up.”
“I didn’t invite you to my home only to lecture me!”
“This isn’t your home! This is your sugar momma’s home!”
“How fucking dare you!” an irate Eric replied. “I thought you were gonna help me plot my revenge. But between “having a full time job” and a “family”, I guess you’re too good for that. What a shitty friend you are!”
“I won’t be spoken to in this way,” Don said as he stood up. “I’m done helping you. You’ve been nothing but a drag.”
Eric went into a blind rage and chased Don out of the house, threatening to slit his friend’s throat. While the two rushed out to the driveway, Kenny was burning down the road blasting Smash Mouth’s Wanna Be Like You on repeat. When Don reached the street, the crack pipe fell out of Kenny’s mouth as he tried to slam on the breaks. The Honda Del Sol crashed into Don, but instead of flying into the air, the tires went over and crushed every bone in his body…including his skull.
Eric screamed in horror as he watched his former friend’s violent death. “You killed him!” he yelled to Kenny through the window. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
Kenny got out of the car in a daze. “That guy came out of nowhere,” he kept repeating. “Wh-wh-what’s with the knife?”
“You killed my friend,” Eric replied, “now I’m gonna kill you!”
But once again, Kenny easily overpowered Eric and wrestled the knife out of his hands. “Look!” Kenny said while he held a belligerent Eric on the ground, “I don’t know who this guy is, but it appears as though you were trying to kill him! Now we can continue to roll around on the road waiting for the cops to arrive, OR we can hide this body. So what’s it gonna be?!”