UCSBdad
01-15-2010, 12:15 AM
The Road Trip
By
Bob Hutchinson
Disclaimer: Fusion belongs to Ricky Manning who is therefore infallible on matters of faith and doctrine. I still make no money from this. I also will not sue if Froon uses this willy nilly in his next mega blockbuster.
Rating: PG 13 (Language.)
Time: Immediately after my last fanfic masterpiece, The Unusual Suspects.
Spoilers: How could I spoil Lord Froon’s work, I ask you?
As we sped away from Jasmine’s apartment, I noticed that Angela’s hand was on my right thigh and moving north. I quietly lifted her hand off and wondered why I had bought an old police car with bench seats rather that something with buckets.
“Where exactly are we going?” Jasmine asked from the other side of Angela.
“I have a cousin in Orange County…” I began.
“Oh, great, Sherlock. They’ll never think to look at your cousin’s.”
I smiled as best I could. “My cousin is a fireman for the Orange County FD. He had to go back East to help out his father-in-law who had a stroke, among other problems. I’ve been looking after his house. Last time I was there, I ran into one of his friends. He’s a fireman, too. He was badly injured and has been medically retired. He was a young, healthy guy. Very athletic. Being disabled took a lot out of him emotionally. One day he just decided to take off for Baja California to think about his life. He had come over to my cousin’s to ask him to look after his place. I told him my cousin wasn’t around and he just handed me his house keys and headed for Mexico. So the only guy who knows about this is lying on a beach on the Sea of Cortez inhaling Tecates.”
Angela’s hand had found its way back to my thigh. “See! Rocco knows what he’s doing.”
Jasmine grumped something as I removed Angela’s hand from my thigh. “First we need some more firepower. We’ll get it at Mexicali Pete’s.”
I turned on KNX to check the news. So far so good. No news bulletins of a murderous cop fleeing with a snarky forensic psychiatrist and a slightly dead hooker. Once again I removed Angela’s hand from my thigh. She began playing with the radio, looking for some music and found Flogging Molly’s The Worst Day Since Yesterday. I knew exactly how they felt.
I drove very carefully, on surface streets, to La Cienega. There ahead of me was Mexicali Pete’s. His real name was Ole Swenson from someplace in Minnesota. As far as anyone knew the closest he’d been to Mexicali was Disneyland. He never did say how he got the name.
Not only did Pete have a huge store, about a city block, but he was a true gun nut. This made him a true friend to cops, who are also gun nuts. If you wanted anything from a two hundred year old Brown Bess musket to a Metal Storm grenade launcher, Pete probably had one in stock, or knew right where to get one. Or a case full.
I parked and the three of us walked into Pete’s. Pete was in the back, manning the cash register. He was fiftyish, balding, but with a little grey pony tail. Somehow he always managed to have a three day growth of grey beard. He wore his usual red and blue aloha shirt, with a big yellow parrot front and back with khaki shorts that were mostly pockets and flip flops. He saw us at once and headed straight for us. “Get out of here.” He barked, while looking all around him.
“Sure, Pete. We’d love to stay and chat a while. But we need some weapons. Heavy duty stuff. Naturally I thought of you.”
Pete dragged me back into an alcove between a crate of flak jackets and a lifetime supply of cosmoline. “Get out of here, Rocco. You’re hot.”
I put an arm around him. “You are too, but you’re not my type. And I’m in a hurry.”
Pete groaned. “Two cops were waiting for me when I opened for business this morning. At least they had badges and guns. But they didn’t act like any cops I ever met. They threatened me. I should call them up and rat you out. They said they’d kill me.”
Pete was starting to lose it. I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’ll be out of here in five minutes. Give us another five minutes and then drop the dime on us.”
“They’ll know!’ Pete whined. “They’ll kill me.”
Angela joined us in the alcove. “Problem, Rocco?”
“Pete doesn’t want to sell us weapons.”
Angela gave Pete a radiant smile. “Well, I know what Pete does want.” She grabbed Pete by the collar and tugged him towards the cash register. “Come here little boy I’m going to make you a man.”
I followed them at a slight distance. Angela pulled Pete behind the counter and then dragged him down out of sight. I leaned over the counter just a little, just enough to see that, as a sworn peace officer, I didn’t want to see any more.
Jasmine leaned over, too. She looked longer than a forensic psychologist had any professional reason to. “Aren’t you going to do anything?” She sounded shocked.
“I don’t think Pete would appreciate it and Angela looks like she knows what she’s doing.”
Jasmine turned around and went and stood in a corner.
“Rocco?’ That was Pete.
“Yeah?”
“.44 Magnum…” Pete stopped and wheezed….”cabinet on the right…” Pete squealed…”keys by the register.” I heard a giggle that sounded like Angela. Maybe it was Pete.
Sure enough, there was a brand new Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum just like Dirty Harry carried. I found an old barracks bag under the counter and tossed the pistol in and followed it with a box of hollow nose slugs and one of ball. Then I thought about it and put all of the .44 ammo in the bag.
I strolled back to the register. “Anything else big and nasty about?”
I heard Angela giggle. “It’s big and nasty all right.”
I could barely hear Pete, his voice was so low. “The rack on the far end. There’s a big rifle.”
I opened the rack and there it was, looking like an M-16 on steroids: A .50 caliber Beowulf rifle. That should be good for knocking Peterbilts on their sides, and probably good for weirded out police captains. I grabbed all of the magazines and ammo Pete had and stuffed them in the barracks bag.
“Any more goodies?”
There was some whimpering from behind the counter. Angela answered me. “There’s something behind the filing cabinet in his office. I’m not sure what it is.”
I pulled the cabinet out and found an M-79 grenade launcher and a bag of rounds. I looked at them. Pete had high explosive, flechettes, buck shot, tear gas and some colored smoke rounds. I took everything.
“That should about do it, Angela. We should be going.”
“NO!” howled Pete. “There’s a guy in Pacoima. He’s got a 57 mm recoilless rifle and a bunch of rounds. I can call him.” Pete staggered up from behind the counter, shirtless, red faced and panting like a marathon runner who’s hit the wall. “Don’t go.” Pete was looking at Angela with a desperate look in his eyes.
Angela didn’t have a hair out of place, her makeup was perfect and her clothes weren’t even mussed. “My .45, sweetie?”
Pete handed her a Colt .45 and some ammo.
“Thanks a bunch, Pete.” Angela stood on her tiptoes and kissed Pete. We walked out with Pete watching us with the old stunned mullet look on his face.
“I’ve changed my mind.” Jasmine said as we got to the car. “I don’t want those clothes back. Ever.”
Next up will be The Stand Off.
By
Bob Hutchinson
Disclaimer: Fusion belongs to Ricky Manning who is therefore infallible on matters of faith and doctrine. I still make no money from this. I also will not sue if Froon uses this willy nilly in his next mega blockbuster.
Rating: PG 13 (Language.)
Time: Immediately after my last fanfic masterpiece, The Unusual Suspects.
Spoilers: How could I spoil Lord Froon’s work, I ask you?
As we sped away from Jasmine’s apartment, I noticed that Angela’s hand was on my right thigh and moving north. I quietly lifted her hand off and wondered why I had bought an old police car with bench seats rather that something with buckets.
“Where exactly are we going?” Jasmine asked from the other side of Angela.
“I have a cousin in Orange County…” I began.
“Oh, great, Sherlock. They’ll never think to look at your cousin’s.”
I smiled as best I could. “My cousin is a fireman for the Orange County FD. He had to go back East to help out his father-in-law who had a stroke, among other problems. I’ve been looking after his house. Last time I was there, I ran into one of his friends. He’s a fireman, too. He was badly injured and has been medically retired. He was a young, healthy guy. Very athletic. Being disabled took a lot out of him emotionally. One day he just decided to take off for Baja California to think about his life. He had come over to my cousin’s to ask him to look after his place. I told him my cousin wasn’t around and he just handed me his house keys and headed for Mexico. So the only guy who knows about this is lying on a beach on the Sea of Cortez inhaling Tecates.”
Angela’s hand had found its way back to my thigh. “See! Rocco knows what he’s doing.”
Jasmine grumped something as I removed Angela’s hand from my thigh. “First we need some more firepower. We’ll get it at Mexicali Pete’s.”
I turned on KNX to check the news. So far so good. No news bulletins of a murderous cop fleeing with a snarky forensic psychiatrist and a slightly dead hooker. Once again I removed Angela’s hand from my thigh. She began playing with the radio, looking for some music and found Flogging Molly’s The Worst Day Since Yesterday. I knew exactly how they felt.
I drove very carefully, on surface streets, to La Cienega. There ahead of me was Mexicali Pete’s. His real name was Ole Swenson from someplace in Minnesota. As far as anyone knew the closest he’d been to Mexicali was Disneyland. He never did say how he got the name.
Not only did Pete have a huge store, about a city block, but he was a true gun nut. This made him a true friend to cops, who are also gun nuts. If you wanted anything from a two hundred year old Brown Bess musket to a Metal Storm grenade launcher, Pete probably had one in stock, or knew right where to get one. Or a case full.
I parked and the three of us walked into Pete’s. Pete was in the back, manning the cash register. He was fiftyish, balding, but with a little grey pony tail. Somehow he always managed to have a three day growth of grey beard. He wore his usual red and blue aloha shirt, with a big yellow parrot front and back with khaki shorts that were mostly pockets and flip flops. He saw us at once and headed straight for us. “Get out of here.” He barked, while looking all around him.
“Sure, Pete. We’d love to stay and chat a while. But we need some weapons. Heavy duty stuff. Naturally I thought of you.”
Pete dragged me back into an alcove between a crate of flak jackets and a lifetime supply of cosmoline. “Get out of here, Rocco. You’re hot.”
I put an arm around him. “You are too, but you’re not my type. And I’m in a hurry.”
Pete groaned. “Two cops were waiting for me when I opened for business this morning. At least they had badges and guns. But they didn’t act like any cops I ever met. They threatened me. I should call them up and rat you out. They said they’d kill me.”
Pete was starting to lose it. I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’ll be out of here in five minutes. Give us another five minutes and then drop the dime on us.”
“They’ll know!’ Pete whined. “They’ll kill me.”
Angela joined us in the alcove. “Problem, Rocco?”
“Pete doesn’t want to sell us weapons.”
Angela gave Pete a radiant smile. “Well, I know what Pete does want.” She grabbed Pete by the collar and tugged him towards the cash register. “Come here little boy I’m going to make you a man.”
I followed them at a slight distance. Angela pulled Pete behind the counter and then dragged him down out of sight. I leaned over the counter just a little, just enough to see that, as a sworn peace officer, I didn’t want to see any more.
Jasmine leaned over, too. She looked longer than a forensic psychologist had any professional reason to. “Aren’t you going to do anything?” She sounded shocked.
“I don’t think Pete would appreciate it and Angela looks like she knows what she’s doing.”
Jasmine turned around and went and stood in a corner.
“Rocco?’ That was Pete.
“Yeah?”
“.44 Magnum…” Pete stopped and wheezed….”cabinet on the right…” Pete squealed…”keys by the register.” I heard a giggle that sounded like Angela. Maybe it was Pete.
Sure enough, there was a brand new Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum just like Dirty Harry carried. I found an old barracks bag under the counter and tossed the pistol in and followed it with a box of hollow nose slugs and one of ball. Then I thought about it and put all of the .44 ammo in the bag.
I strolled back to the register. “Anything else big and nasty about?”
I heard Angela giggle. “It’s big and nasty all right.”
I could barely hear Pete, his voice was so low. “The rack on the far end. There’s a big rifle.”
I opened the rack and there it was, looking like an M-16 on steroids: A .50 caliber Beowulf rifle. That should be good for knocking Peterbilts on their sides, and probably good for weirded out police captains. I grabbed all of the magazines and ammo Pete had and stuffed them in the barracks bag.
“Any more goodies?”
There was some whimpering from behind the counter. Angela answered me. “There’s something behind the filing cabinet in his office. I’m not sure what it is.”
I pulled the cabinet out and found an M-79 grenade launcher and a bag of rounds. I looked at them. Pete had high explosive, flechettes, buck shot, tear gas and some colored smoke rounds. I took everything.
“That should about do it, Angela. We should be going.”
“NO!” howled Pete. “There’s a guy in Pacoima. He’s got a 57 mm recoilless rifle and a bunch of rounds. I can call him.” Pete staggered up from behind the counter, shirtless, red faced and panting like a marathon runner who’s hit the wall. “Don’t go.” Pete was looking at Angela with a desperate look in his eyes.
Angela didn’t have a hair out of place, her makeup was perfect and her clothes weren’t even mussed. “My .45, sweetie?”
Pete handed her a Colt .45 and some ammo.
“Thanks a bunch, Pete.” Angela stood on her tiptoes and kissed Pete. We walked out with Pete watching us with the old stunned mullet look on his face.
“I’ve changed my mind.” Jasmine said as we got to the car. “I don’t want those clothes back. Ever.”
Next up will be The Stand Off.