CIVIL UNREST

[MADBULL34]

The summer sun was baking the streets of the 5th Tier barrios. April and May had packed out of town in a hurry like a couple of two-buck broads looking to desert their abusive pimp. The only lay left in town was good ol’ June, and she was as hot as they came.

Corsucant was a city of the future, filled with temperature controlled high rises that cared little for the annual rotation of the planet around it's burning star… as long as you were rich enough to get up and out to the Fourth Tier or beyond. For those sweating in the 34th Precinct of the Fifth Tier, you just had to thank your dear sweet abuelita that you weren't born further below.

The street sages and dumpster poets say the “common man” are innumerable on the Fifth, and who knows, they may even be right. The last census had counted millions upon millions of souls, and that was just the ones willing to write their names on the surveys. Who could really tell how many there were hiding in back alleys or bedded three abreast in the bedrooms of every neighborhood barrio.

Whatever the headcount was, this scorching summer day would have been the perfect one to take a tally on. The power had browned out yet again in the 12th Ward of the 34th Precinct and it seemed like every single citizen had spilled out of their suffocatingly hot apartments for the fresh air of the city streets. Men sat on their stoops, fanning their beer bellies with rolled up newspapers while their wives or side-bitches gossiped and compared manicures. Some kind-hearted fireman had opened a few hydrant valves, spilling the avenues with surging, cool water. The neighborhood children splashed, frolicked and fought like ducks in a pond, their bare chests slowly tanning in the endless sun.

Officer John Estes snored loudly in the passenger side of his police cruiser. His seat was reclined as far back as it would allow and his feet were kicked out and resting through the rolled-down window. His blue cap sat over his face, shielding him from the sun… and his partner’s smouldering glare. Officer Carlos Reyes sat erectly in the driver's seat, glancing intervally  at his sleeping partner and the raucous city streets. The man was thin and dark complected, with a pencil thin mustache drawn along his upper lip. He had the skin of a young man, but his haggard and cruel eyes hinted that he had seen more than his years told. On his left bicep he wore a black armband, a symbolic remembrance for his brother, Officer Diego Reyes, who had recently died in the line of duty. (As seen in Chapter 2 of Mad Bull's first adventure, "Long Arm of the Law!") Carlos had become a loose cannon on the force since his brother's death, blaming Diego's demise on bean-counting suits to cheap to buy the department body armor and a rancid public that enshrined cop-killers. The Chief had realized the mourning cop needed a change of scenery, lest he become to much of a liability. Thinking it would help give Carlos some closure (and a hard-nosed babysitter), the Chief had temporarily reassigned Reyes to MAD BULL 34, the last man to see his brother alive.

From his cruiser parked along the curb, Officer Reyes continued to scan the avenue, watchful for trouble. His eye came to a pair of teenage boys talking angrily and gesticulating at the police vehicle. The boys wore short, breezy shorts and muscle shirts to provide some relief during the hot summer day. One began to light a cigarette while the other continued to rant, a wax paper cup filled with soda in one hand.

“It's these fucking pigs that get me going, you know?”

His friend shrugged, still trying to light an end.

“And this cabron, sitting in his car like he owns the block…” he spat dramatically towards the cruiser for effect.

The other teen finally got the end of his cigarette to show tiny flaking embers. He inhaled deeply and puffed out a dank smelling cloud of smoke, just like he had seen in the movies. Trying to give off an air of relaxed machismo, he placated his friend, “That's Carlos Reyes. He grew up here.”

Officer Reyes overhead bits of the conversation and had heard enough to shoot the boys a stern, disapproving look. The scowl was not lost on the youths.

“Then he's a traitor, Chico!” the boy fumed. His friend nodded a bit, not disagreeing. Growing irate, the boy bowed up and spat again at the police cruiser.

“Que pedo, la hada?” he jeered.

Officer Reyes scoffed at the insulting remark and waved the boy away dismissively.

“Vete a la mierda, cabrona. Hago lo que quiero!” the boy replied derisively before throwing the wax paper cup still half full of soda at the parked cruiser. The cup crashed against the driver's side window with respectable accuracy and showered Officer Reyes with hot, sticky Coke. In a fury, Reyes exited the car and stood two legs akimbo. Soda dripped down his sweaty uniform and stained his black armband. He looked down at his sodden clothes and a snarl cracked across his lips.

Abuelita - Granny
Cabron - Bastard (Masculine)
Que pedo?  - What's up? (impolite)
La Hada - Derogative slang for police (Originates from Puerto Rican gangs in Chicago)
Vete a la mierda - Fuck off
Cabrona - Bitch (feminine)
Yo hago lo que quiero! - I do what I want!

[MADBULL34]

---

Officer Carlos Reyes knew the taste of the sweat and filth that was at the tips of the tongue of every denizen in the 34th Precinct.  Carlos and his younger brother Diego had grown up on a street just like this, and if he let his memory dive deep enough, he could probably recall playing in the spray of an open hydrant himself when he was just a kid.  What he couldn’t understand though was the way that the youth of the block had degraded since he left the streets and entered the police academy.

Rather than stand on a corner peddling whatever drugs managed to leak out the Westside, the Reyes brothers had made something of themselves working the till at their father’s bodega. It was simple work only fit for the most humble, selling heads of old lettuce or fresh ground pork to their neighbors, but it was honest work.  The lean officer could remember a thousand late nights at the register of the little family grocery store, studying from a text book that sat on the counter while resting his palm on the butt of a shotgun hidden under the tabletop for any would-be midnight robberies.

His father had pride in the shop, and even though times were tough some years, he kept the place open with the belief that the community needed the fresh produce he sold, rather than the junk food and snacks that were their only other options at the myriad of gas stations.  He held that pride and a belief that their community could rise up and seize a better life from those in power, and it was an example that rubbed off on the Reyes brothers in their teenage years, at least until the unspeakable happen.

Years after leaving home for college, Carlos had left his father and younger brother to mind the store while he pursued his studies.  His father, in all that hopeful trust, hadn’t been as ready on the shotgun trigger as the son and fell prey to an armed robbery that left his mother a widow and the Reyes brothers forever changed. Only months after the funeral, the two had sworn to enter the police academy together and clean up the punks and pushers that had polluted and poisoned their community.

Rather than clean up the streets the way they had promised each other, the Reyes brothers instead found themselves with a first-hand view of how far the community had crumbled. Each year, patrolling the block had seemed worse than the one before as the prosperous, hard-working generation of their parents gave way to a youth culture that enshrined cop killers, bling donning gangsters, and the allure of a fast-paced life of crime.  Carlos Reyes’ disgust for the people of the block that he once called family came to its completion when his brother was tragically murdered earlier in the year.  His once hopeful heart was forever stained black when after Diego’s death, it seemed the community mourned the slain murderer, rather than his gunned down brother. For the entire summer, the radios had blared a new hit rap song, its lurid lyrics promising that Diego's funeral would be the first of many more for the despised La Hada.

Tengo mi camisa negra

Mis guantes negros

El pasamontaña puesto

Hace mucho tiempo

El puñal afilado

Las luces apagadas

Tirando muchos tiros

Mato policias!!!

---

In a fury, Reyes exited the car and stood two legs akimbo. Soda dripped down his sweaty uniform and stained his black armband. He looked down at his sodden clothes and a snarl cracked across his lips. With white knuckles clenching the handle, he unsheathed his truncheon.

The boy stuck his nose in the air arrogantly and cajoled the officer from the corner of his mouth, “Te crees muy muy!”

Reyes’ grip tightened around the baton. The weapon was composed of a single 24 inch long piece of varnished oak, flared and flattened at its end like a bat with a grooved rubber handle. Old fashioned cops called it a straight-stick, because a couple raps on the head was guaranteed to straighten out any wannabe crook.

The boy’s friend flicked his dank smelling cigarette to the street and adopted a wide eyed look of excitement. With one hand he reached into the back pocket of his shorts, groping for a hidden switchblade. Careful to keep the blade out of view, he waited with almost a gleefully animal like sense of pleasure.

MAD BULL, roused from his sleep when Reyes left the cruiser, fitted his police cap firmly to his enormous head and began trotting towards his partner as a crowd started to gather. The housewives had put aside their venomous gossip and the children crouched under their father's knees or climbed atop their back to get a view of the drama unfolding. Before long, over two hundred block residents had formed a semicircle to watch what would happen next.

A dozen little guttersnipes had climbed atop the cruiser and sat on the hood and roof of the car. Sergeant Estes hissed a warning to them to get off, but they stayed put and MAD BULL had bigger things to worry about. Reyes and the boy continued to stare each other down however. With so many eyes upon them now, their pride made it impossible for any other outcome but violence.

Bodega - A small store not much larger than a bedroom that sells groceries and other goods, like a corner store. Common in very poor neighborhoods.
La Hada - Disparaging term for police
“Te crees muy muy!” - "You think you're a badass?"

[MADBULL34]

Officer Reyes stood like a statue, his truncheon brandished at his side while the boy approached with bravado.

“Puerco like you shouldn't show your face 'round here anymore, you know?”

Reyes’ eyelid twitched with growing agitation.

“You hear me perro? You take your papi chulo and get lost, eh?” the boy continued, pointing at Mad Bull, as he approached closer.

He drew so near Reyes could smell the Amaranth on his breath as the boy pressed a finger onto the cop’s badge and sneered, “Or maybe you wanna join your maricon brother in Hell?”

Reyes’ arm flashed overhead and struck down with full force, bludgeoning the boy's head with the tip of the baton. A greasy red smear shown through the boy's scalp where he had been struck. A gasp ran through the crowd when the boy's knees went weak and he dropped face first towards the pavement. Just as the boy began to pull himself up with his arms and hands, another blow from the nightstick rained down on the helpless punk. It thudded against his neck and the boy cried out loudly. Soon, Reyes was straddling the boy and had gripped a fistfull of collar, holding the limp boy up as he thrashed him with one clubbing blow after another on the head and shoulders.

“Bastard!” his friend screamed as he rushed Reyes, switchblade in hand.

“Goddamnit, Carlos!” Sleepy muttered, rushing to his partner's side. The gargantuan policeman lunged, but the kid managed to squirm through his grasp and stick Reyes right between the ribs with the switchblade. Reyes winced and dropped his prey to the ground as he retreated back a few steps. He gently put his hand against the wound and looked aghast at the blood on his fingers.

The boy he had been battering lay lifelessly on the asphalt road, his face sizzling on the hot pebbles. His skull was caved in, and it was evident to the assembled crowd he had probably died after only the first three blows… the rest had been savage overkill.

Stunned by his friend's hideous death, Mad Bull was able to grab the other kid, toss him to the ground and quickly handcuffed his wrists behind his back. Lying face first on the ground alongside his friend, the kid could see blood leaking out of the murdered boy's ear. A gurgling rattle could be faintly heard from the boy's throat; it was a sound his friend would never forget. Shock broke through to panic and the kid began to flail and scream for help, but the cuffs kept him immobile on the pavement . The crowd began to murmur, and in seconds, voices protected by the anonymity of their gathered mass began to shout barbed jeers from afar.

“Mató al chico!”

“Asessinos!”

“Matatombos!”

The crowd was growing boisterous and well on their way to escalating into a mob. The gathered semi circle of people was closing in and tightening around Sergeant Estes and Officer Reyes.

“Look what the FUCK you did Carlos!” Mad Bull growled.

“I...I… my brother,” he stammered in reply.

Puerco - Pork/Pig, insulting slang for police
Perro - Dog, common slur for one you see as less than you
Papi chulo - Pimp Daddy, Puerto Rican slang
Maricon - Faggot. Perhaps the most extreme insult or slur
Mató al chico! - "He killed the boy!"
Asessinos! - "Murderers!"
Matatombos! - Mata: Killer, Tombos: Corrupt cops (slang) = "Killer cops!"

[MADBULL34]

Clink! clink ! clink!

The mob began to throw bottles, cans and chunks of bricks at the two officers. Any debris or garbage that could be found was thrown as their anger boiled. The dozen or so little scamps sitting atop the cruiser began to kick out the glass and jump up and down on the car. A mischievous little 10 year old climbed through the open driver's side window and pulled the keys out of the ignition. The two officers backed up slowly, their backs now all the way against the car as the mob encircled them fully.

Reyes shuddered with fear, both from the bloodthirsty crowd and his own serious injury. “You better get your shit together if you wanna get out of here alive, Carlos,” Mad Bull urged. Another preteen had clamored through the shattered windshield and was pissing on the leather seats; Mad Bull grabbed the kid by the neck and tossed him 14 feet into the hungry mob. The burly sergeant searchingly felt around the center console.

“On his excellency's authority, I demand you disperse!” Reyes attempted to order to crowd.

“Matalo!” an angry voice shouted back.

A bead of sweat ran down Reyes’ brow. Today had gotten very ugly, but it was about to get worse. He slid his baton back into his belt and unsnapped the cover over his leather gun holster. He held one palm outward towards the crowd, adopting a defensive stance.

“Stand back! Disperse!” he once again tried to order before pulling his service pistol from it's holster and pointing the barrel at the sky.

KAPAA!


Reyes fired a warning shot overhead and the mob all winced for a moment, then continued to close in on the two cornered officers.

BRAKAAH!
TING!

A shot answered back from the the crowd and dinged against the side of the cruiser. Reyes’ arms and legs quivered as he pointed his piece straight towards the crowd, who were now only ten feet from falling upon him with the same savagery he had showed the kid he had murdered. The barrel of his weapon shook in-front of countless malevolent faces.

MAD BULL 34 pulled his huge girth out of the squad car and put a hand on Reyes’ shoulder.

“Cover yer ears, dickhead.”

Chuh-chunk!

The sergeant pumped a shell into the Remington 870 police-issue shotgun.  A dark shadow crossed his brow and he grimaced deeply at the surging mob. There was only one way out at this point. Reyes had dug them both into a hole, but he sure-as-shit wasn't about to give up and lay in it. Grimly, he rested the walnut stock against his shoulder and pointed the muzzle flat into the rabble.

WAAKOOM!!

The front-line of the mob melted and those behind tripped over their bodies as they raced forward, fingers and knives poised to kill.

Chuh-chunk!
WAAKOOM!!

The spray from the gun splattered through the mob and screams started to cry through from the back.

Chuh-chunk!

As MAD BULL pumped the third shell into the chamber the crowd began to disperse, spread and race for cover. With the mob in flight, Sergeant Estes pointed the barrel skyward and fired another shot above their heads, feeding the fear and chaos unfolding.

WAAKOOM!!

Officer Reyes stood stunned, his service pistol still shaking in his outstretched hands. Mad Bull grabbed Reyes by the collar and spat into his face, “Listen to me you cowardly piece of shit, they’ll be back and they ain’t gonna stop until you’re dead, ya hear me? DEAD!”

Reyes nodded quickly.

“Good!” Mad Bull’s thick mustache bristled and Reyes could see the ire in his eyes. “You’re a cop, a stupid one, but still a cop... and that means I can’t just leave ya here to get what ya deserve. I don’t get off killin’ civvies, but you better believe if it's me or them, it’ll always be them. You follow me and maybe we’ll both get outta here alive?”

“Matalo!” -  "Kill him!"

[MADBULL34]

The two cops leaned against the brick wall of a shaded alley, huffing for oxygen. Reyes pressed his fingers against the knife puncture and grimaced when he withdrew bloodstained fingers. The side of his blue police uniform was soaked with sweat and blood that was making an increasingly large, blackish stain that covered his left ribs. Fear and panic were barely contained within the deathly pallor of his face. Mad Bull studied the alleyway with the careful eye that came with his many years carrying a badge. The alley was a tiny 8 foot wide canyon between two towering brick building. Commercial dumpsters lined the three walls that made the dead end. The shadow of the buildings kept this alcove perpetually shaded, and almost as dark as night. Gnats buzzed around a white fluorescent light that was hung over a metal door that stood between two dumpsters. Black plastic bags that smelled of food waste were discarded in a clump near the door. Satisfied the coast was clear… for now… Mad Bull crept to the edge of the alleyway wall and looked into the streets from which they came.

After firing into the crowd, Sergeant John Estes had sprinted off with Officer Carlos Reyes in tow. The mob had scattered and during the chaos the two cops had beaten a path through the fleeing citizens of the 12th Ward, eventually finding this hiding spot behind a pair of dumpsters in a forgotten street alley. From his hidden vantage point, Mad Bull could see the crowd reconverging by the abandoned police cruiser. Wounded onlookers were assisted and the dead left for relatives to pick up later. A gang of youth had set the cruiser ablaze with a Molotov cocktail, and men were returning to the scene of violence, but this time armed with guns and knives they had retrieved from their apartments.

Sergeant Estes ducked back into the alley and checked on Reyes. The man was in a sorry state and probably wouldn't last another two hours without some help. “If this lout hasn't got sepsis from that pig-sticking knife, he sure as hell will mucking around in this fucking cesspool,”  Mad Bull thought. He scowled, disgusted by the rancid trash rotting in the dumpster and the coward still clutching at his ribs. He wracked his mind for ideas on how to escape this pisscutter of a situation Reyes had involved him in.

As it had been all day, the power remained out in the 12 Ward. The two cops had originally been sent here to prevent any looting during the outage. The community was poor, but instead of taking advantage of the situation, the locals had celebrated the occasion like a neighborhood block party. Like many poor communities however, there was great frustration between the ruled and ruling classes. Rather than acting as a symbol of law and order, it seemed the two cops had only inflamed the locals who hated an authority that couldn't even keep the power running during the summer heat.

“What a mess,”  Mad Bull complained inwardly. “We got no chance making it to a police station as long as the mob is out there wanting to skin our hides.”

“Carlos!” Mad Bull hissed, “I'm gonna radio the station for some backup.”

Reyes chuckled with the grim humor of a man walking up the gallows’ steps. “Imagine that, the legendary MAD BULL callin’ for backup. We must be really fucked…” The injured cop covered his mouth and coughed quietly. Blood trickled at the corner of his thin, tanned lips. He wheezed, and his voice was barely a whisper. “I think he stuck me in the lung, John…”

The sergeant ruffled the hairs of his thick mustache with one meaty finger. He bent over and leaned the Remington 870 shotgun against the brick wall and groped into his breast pocket. “Three shells,”  he determined after a silent count. “And I got one left in the chamber.”  He unholstered his Smith & Wesson revolver, flicked open the cylinder and checked the rounds. “That's six more shots. Better make 'em count,”  he thought.

As he shoved the heavy sidearm back into it's hip holster, his nightstick faintly clanked in the little ring that kept it tethered to his belt. Unlike Reyes’ straight style truncheon, Estes’ stick was painted black and shaped like a tonfa. The sergeant unclipped his radio from the back of his belt and spoke into the receiver.

[MADBULL34]

“Negative on that request Sergeant Estes, cruisers are unable to be deployed in your vicinity until the mob has dispersed. Over!”

Mad Bull gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to crush the walkie-talkie between his two bear paws. He had spent the past few minutes, precious time as the mob grew and began to fan out in search of the two murderous cops, trying to explain the situation.

“Copy that Dispatch, but I got a man down here, and if y'all don't do something soon, it'll be two. Over.”

“10-4 Sergeant. What is your current position? Over.”

“We're trapped in some scummy alley between 2600 Sendak Ave.”

“Roger on that address Estes. Stand by while I contact our extraction team.”

Officer Carlos Reyes coughed softly. The wounded police man sat on the dark concrete, leaning against one of the secluded alleyway dumpsters for support. He held a palm firmly against the hole in his chest, barely hearing the whispered obscenities that flew out of Mad Bull's mouth as he waited with the radio in hand. Grievous injuries are an interesting thing. For many that are wounded for the first time, they often do not feel the initial blow, stab or shot. Adrenaline takes control, pouring pain killing hormones and boosts of energy for several minutes. When this effect wears off however, the aching, itching agony sets in with exhaustion and you fall from feeling like Superman to obsessing on how you'll survive each minute.

Reyes rested his head against the brick wall; the exhaustion had arrived… along with all those other terrible symptoms of the coming shock. Finally, a static crackle from the radio snapped him from the haze.

“Dispatch to Sergeant Estes! Do you copy?”

“Mad Bull here. What's the word? You got good news for once?”

“Maybe so. The extraction team is willing to land a helicopter on the roof of the building you're outside, but that means you'll need to make your way to the roof. Their ETA is 20 minutes.”

“You mean FIGHT my way to the roof!” Mad Bull corrected.

“The commissioner has approved any and all usage of force…” the normally even and mechanical voice on the other end continued, but now with a soft feminine touch of concern. “You can make it John, I know you can.”

A pregnant pause elapsed between the two on opposite ends of the radio. The burly cop looked at Reyes, then at the several floors of building that loomed over them both. The metallic badge pinned to his chest rested heavy during that moment.

With grim determination, Mad Bull spoke into the receiver, “Copy that Dispatch. Over and out!”

As the sergeant firmly clipped the radio back to his belt the pair looked up startled as the door on the side of the building swung open with a springy creak. An obese man wearing an apron and greasy cook's hairnet carried two garbage bags in each fist. He tossed them both into a pile of other heaped trash alongside the dumpster. As he turned, he saw the two cops under the illumination from the door’s solitary overhanging light bulb.

“Cállate! Ensename las manos!” Reyes rasps at the fat dishwasher. The man complied and looked down at the seated cop. The policeman's pistol was barred and aimed. Reyes twirled the barrel of his gun in a little circle, signaling for the man to turn around.

Laboriously, Reyes rose to his feet. He planted a stout kick to the back of the man's knees, dropping the man with a meaty thud to the ground. The man quivered fearfully on the floor of the alleyway.

“Buenas noches.” Reyes snarled as he whipped the barrel of the Glock across the man's temple.

“You're a real asshole, you know it?” Mad Bull complained.

“We got authorization, Estes, so I'd say you're the one with the problem.”

“Yeah, well I’m the one always stuck picking up your trash.” Mad Bull replied with growing hatred.

The mighty cop hefted the limp dishwasher and shoved him into the dumpster. Just to be safe, he piled the trash bags on top, hiding the body. Sleepy wiped his hands on his pants legs then grasped the handle of the door.

“Let's get on with it then.”

“Cállate!"  - Shut-up!
"Ensename las manos!” - Show me your hands!
“Buenas noches.” - Good night.

[MADBULL34]

The two cops cautiously approached through the alleyway entrance, wary of what may lie within the large building. The pair had been tasked with making their way to the roof for helicopter extraction, but they both knew with the riot in full swing outside and hundreds of local citizens hungry for their blood, they were in for the fight of their lives.

The doorway led into a brightly lit commercial sized kitchen. Gleaming stainless steel counter tops, implements and cooking appliances were scattered throughout. Two empty trash cans sat alongside the door, their plastic bags not yet replenished by the unconscious dishwasher. Spotless plates and utensils were piled onto a steel table right in front of the policemen, obscuring the remainder of the sizeable kitchen.

The kitchen stank of oily fried tortilla chips, beans and cheap steak. A sizzling grill could be heard further inward and the muffled voices of three men chatting was further overlaid by the faint melodies of a mariachi song played on a tape recorder. John Estes sidled up against the steel table and crouched low, then motioned for Reyes to take position alongside him. The beefy officer glanced around the edge of the table and spied a fat cook turning over flanks of meat with a long pointed fork tine on an open griddle. His long-hair was bound in a hairnet and a cigarette dangled from his lips. Alongside him another man stood next to the vat of oil and dough used to make fresh chips; his face was pock-marked from years of tending to the splattering pot of burning oil, but he leaned idly against the wall, listening to the other two men converse. The third man was young and handsome, like a modern day Lothario, and tossed a head of lettuce from one hand to the next as he remarked to the griller, “¡Escucha güey! If I didn't have to work a shift, you better believe it'd be me choppin’ up those puerco before anyone else!”

The griller stabbed his forked tine into the meat and turned it to sear the other side. The older man gave a stern look to the younger. “Lengua larga! If you know what's good for you, you'd chop that lettuce first! The boss don't pay you to kill cops!”

The pock-marked man scoffed and flicked a booger into the fry oil. It bubbled and consumed the gob in a quick sizzle. “What's it we pay you to do anyways, Carlito?” he asked the young man with a mocking smile.


click!


Officer Reyes stepped out from the hidden spot behind the table, released the safety on his pistol and leveled the gun at the tough talking Carlito.

“Shut up and don't move,” he commanded, his voice slithering out his lips like the hiss of a snake. The heat from the oil and open griddle made the kitchen sweltering hot and beads of sweat were forming above Reyes' pencil-thin mustache on his upper lip.

The young man dropped the head of lettuce fearfully and could only gape in surprise at the gun pointed at his chest. The pock-marked man only stood and stared, while the griller turned his head briefly, still intent on tending to the meat. Mad Bull lumbered up behind Reyes and placed his hand on the other cop's pistol, lowering its path safely to the floor. With shotgun in hand, he calmly addressed everyone, “Look, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

“Whatcho got in mind, policia?” the griller asked, his back still turned as he flipped and turned the steaks.

The Sergeant pointed his gun at a nearby walk-in freezer room, separated from the rest of the kitchen by a huge metal door. A padlock kept the door shut and the cold air locked within.

“You three go take a break and we'll be on our way, deal?”

The pock-marked man shrugged noncommittally, but Carlito was shaking with indignation and fear.

“These...these are those matatombos! The killer cops! We can't just… We can't just…” he stammered.

“Stay cool kid, we don't want no more trouble,” John Estes warned with the palm of one hand raised complacently.

In a sudden display of panic, the young man turned and groped for a cleaver sitting on the nearby cutting board. He heaved it at the two policeman.


KAPAHH!


Reyes’ Glock snapped like a viper and stung Carlito in the right pectoral. The wannabe tough crumbled to the floor, alive but unconscious from the shock


KAPAHH!


Reyes fired another shot, this one aimed at the young man's head as he fell, but the bullet only splattered raw tomatoes and lettuce in a bright green and red spray of vegetable confetti. The cleaver had traveled uselessly past both cops, yet once again the lean officer had taken things too far. Sergeant Estes knew it, the two cooks knew it… and Reyes didn't care. Like the corrupted and broken officer, the people of the 34th Precinct were prideful and couldn't bear insults lightly; for someone, ANYONE to come in the kitchen and hurt, to murder one of their own, well that's the sort of thing that couldn't stand. There was only one recourse.

With a flick of the wrist, the griller flipped a broiling piece of meat at Reyes’ face and the cop screamed amidst the lingering echoes of gunfire as it blistered his head. The sizzling length of flank steak covered his eyes, leaving him easy prey as the griller lunged forward to stab with his forked tine. Mad Bull moved in for the assist, but the sullen, pock-marked man interceded

Thump!
Thump!
Thump!

The oily man threw his fists in a quick combo at Estes’ gut.  The massive cop grunted slightly, unphased by the blows. Taking guard, Mad Bull tossed aside the shotgun and raised his dukes, his gorilla-like paws bobbing just below his chin.

Thump!
Thump!

The man landed two more quick jabs into the cop’s left ribs, then readied a third strike with his other hand.

FWWHACK!

A foot-wide row of knuckles collided straight across the man’s chin and cheek as the sergeant launched a cross-punch. The burly cop had stepped forward, throwing all his weight and ample torso musculature into the blow. The oily man wasn’t short, but the 12 inches difference in height between the two combatants made the shot devastating to the extreme. Sergeant Estes let out a bull-like snort, glowering at the man who now lied on the floor, shakily trying to rise to his feet.  With his two bear paws, the cop grasped the prone man by the neck and the groin, lifted him overhead, and tossed him towards the open griddle.

FSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!

The oily man’s clothes caught fire and sizzled. With yelps of pain and panic, he kicked his feet manically, knocking aside several browned steaks. The exposed skin on the man quickly darkened from his naturally light tan, to pink, to red, then a bubbling orange.

“¡AYUDAAA! AYUDAAA!” the man screamed out.

Meanwhile, the griller and Reyes continued to spar. A trickle of blood dotted the officer’s right arm, presumably from where the cook had stuck him with the tine. The two had rolled onto the greasy tiled floor, the griller sitting atop Reyes, attempting to throttle his neck.

SWAAP!

Mad Bull left a wide handprint across the griller’s face after giving him a meaty backhand slap.  The griller teetered off Reyes’ chest and scrambled to his feet, the forked cooking utensil brandished like a knife.

“Caa-ff-ofufff!” Reyes coughed, trying to catch his breath once again.

The griller twirled the long, thin fork with practiced dexterity, facing off one-on-one versus the gargantuan cop.  The two paced around each other within the cramped kitchen. Sergeant Estes’ blue police slacks and the chef’s aproned butt jutted against the cramped aisles of tables that formed a maze through the kitchen.  Plates and dinnerware clattered as the two danced in circles, each vying for the right spot.

“¡Morir perro!” the long-haired cook suddenly cried, shoving the fork into the thick muscle of Mad Bull’s arm. The metal bladed tine sunk an inch into the cop’s meat.

“RAAAARGH!!” the burly office roared. With the utensil still stuck into his forearm, Mad Bull planted the palm of his other hand against the griller’s cheeks, gripped his skull and slammed his face into the stainless steel countertop with a resounding clang.  The stunned and dazed cook teetered on his feet, but the massive cop’s grip remained tight on the man’s skull.  

CLANGGG!

In a fury, Mad Bull slammed the man’s head against the table again, but this time held his skull firmly against the countertop.  The man’s legs kicked out futilely as the raging cop grabbed at whatever he could.  

“PFfffftttttmpt!” the griller spluttered and splattered as tomatoes, raw meat and a shower of raw onions were ground into his ears and nose. The fork fluttered, still stuck in the officer’s arm, as he thundered blow after blow into the kidneys of the griller. Mad Bull let go of the man’s skull and flipped him over, gripped his shoulders with his two massive hands and looked the cook directly in the face.

“WHAT KINDA JAG-OFF STICKS ANOTHER MAN WITH A GODDAMN FORK!?” he bellowed, shaking the poor cook by his shoulders, thumping his hair-netted head against the table with each syllable.

“¡Por favor!” the man meekly pleaded.

“TOO LATE FOR THAT!” the incensed Sergeant spat. Mad Bull continued to rummage around the chef’s table and snagged a bowl full of hot cayenne pepper. He dumped the red powder on top of the cook’s head.

“¡No, no!”  the man coughed through the cloud of irritating spice.

Mad Bull grabbed another plastic bowl, this one full of the batter the chefs used for the fried fish.  With a wet plop, the furious cop slopped the concoction on the griller’s head. The beleaguered man attempted to open his eyes through the gummy yellow mess, but soon found himself thrown back on his feet and marching through the kitchen, Mad Bull’s angry fist tugging him along by the collar the whole way.

Though he could see nothing, the man could smell, could hear the oil vat as they approached.

“¡Te lo ruego, no!” the man beseeched.

The griller could feel the heat of the oil inches from his face and the blistering sizzle as gobs of batter fell from his hair into the vat. He tried, desperately, to fight from Mad Bull’s inescapable grip, but he was to beaten, to dazed.

The sound of the sizzle filled the kitchen as the maniac cop dipped the cantaloupe sized head into the hot oil. The victim’s legs kicked for seconds then turned limp and still as the cauldron swiftly cooked whatever lay within the battered shell.  After thirty seconds, the ogrish sergeant lifted the corpse out of the vat, and plopped the golden-fried head on the greasy tile floor. Reyes panted, finally at his feet and the two cops gazed out at the incredible damage they had wrought in the kitchen. Shouts and footsteps could be heard coming from the other direction in what looked like a restaurant. No doubt many had heard Reyes’ gunfire and sought for help from the rioting mob outside.  With the quivering strength of a dying man, Carlos pointed towards a service elevator wedged alongside the freezer door.

“Let's get the fuck outta here John,” the lean officer panted.

“Yeah…” Estes muttered.

¡Escucha güey! - Listen dude!
Puerco - Pork/Pigs, slang for cops
Lengua larga - Big mouth
Policia - Police, relatively polite
¡AYUDAAA! AYUDAAA! - Help me! Help me!
¡Morir perro! - Die bitch!
¡Por favor! - Please!!
¡Te lo ruego, no! - I beg you, no!

[MADBULL34]

Reyes closed the metal accordion-like door of the service elevator while Mad Bull wedged himself in the tiny space not meant for men as tall as he. As the door audibly latched shut, the two cops could hear a cacophony of footsteps racing to the kitchen where they had laid waste three men. Carlos’ two gunshots had drawn in members of the angry riot to their position, and the only way out seemed to be up. The 34th Precinct had acknowledged the deadly situation surrounding the two cops and offered to evacuate the two via the building's roof. If the other floors were anything like the first, they'd have their work cut out for them in reaching the top.

“Which floor do we go to John?” Reyes asked while staring at the buttons on the elevator console.

Mad Bull pressed a meaty finger on the button marked "Ten." It glowed faintly and the gears began to groan and pull. “As high as it'll go.”

“Gah!” Reyes exclaimed.

“What?” Mad Bull asked.

The slim, sallow officer pointed a long finger at Estes’ forearm. A two foot long grilling fork was stuck into his musculature, it's tine a good inch deep.

“Yaagrhh!” Mad Bull bellowed. “Take it out, will ya!”

The fork handle fluttered and waved as the bulging policeman threw his arms around in panic within the phone booth-sized compartment. The rickety service elevator clanked laboriously, unhappy it's heavy load was rocking it's ancient servos.

“Stop! STOP! You're gonna kill us both with that shit,” Reyes snapped as he swam around the thickly piled flesh of the massive officer.

Ploop!

With a wet sound, Reyes plucked the fork out and dropped it to the platform’s floor with a clatter. The two men laughed at the gruesome weapon with relief, sharing the exhilaration of surviving a deadly encounter together.  The two gradually settled and began to catch their breath, the rolling whirl of the elevator's cable pregnating the silence that formed like a cloud between them.

Reyes panted like a dying dog, “Hey John, look, back there …”

“Can it Reyes!” Mad Bull muttered with authority. “Now's not the time to get into it.”

The emotions of this terrible day had long since boiled over, leaving Reyes with the raw, open blisters of defeat, derision and depression. “You don't know what it's like John, to lose your hermano, your blood. You have no family, just yourself. How could you understand?”

“You think I don't get it?” Estes growled with teeth clenched.

“No! No. You can't feel it like I feel it. You think these people care 'bout you just ‘cause we all the same color? You are wrong my friend. So very wrong!”

The burly Sergeant shifted uncomfortably in the tiny elevator. “We know these folks, we live on these blocks. I ate at that restaurant last month for crying out loud! You're right, I got no family, but these civvies you're so quick to pull the trigger on are as close as I'll get to one.”

“Wrong again,” Reyes sneered. “You drew a line between us and them when you put on that badge. The only family you'll ever have now are your brothers in blue. I thought you of all men knew this? There are wolf and there are sheep John. Which are you?”

“I hear that old chestnut of a phrase thrown around every cop bar filled with stinkin’ drunk patrolmen. What about the shepherd, huh? You ever think about that?”

Reyes wheezed, the pain of his knife wound slowly enveloping him. He spat out a mouthful of crimson blood, “Shepherd, wolf… what's the difference? Both have the same purpose - at the end of the day, they both slaughter sheep.”

---

Caahclunk!


The steel platform came to a halt on the tenth floor, it's locking mechanism clacking noisily in place. After pushing aside the metal accordion door, the two cops stepped into a tenement hallway. The carpeting was soiled and tattered. The peeling green plaster of the hallway walls bulged along the ceiling where mold had crept beneath and above like a black squid spreading its tendrils towards hazy light fixtures.

With a knowing glance, the two cops looked at each other and withdrew their firearms, then began to creep along the hallway. Blank wooden doors faced the corridor, all of them shut tightly. The apartment numbers above each threshold were largely intact and numbered from 1031 to 1045, then ended as the hallway terminated in a T intersection.  Faintly, around a turn of the path, the light sounds of music could be heard.  The two officers laid their backs across the wall near the intersection, listening for voices or other potential dangers.  Sergeant Estes felt a tap on his elbow; he turned and looked silently at Reyes who was pointing towards a sign hanging on the wall.

10 FLOOR

→ EAST 1001 - 1015 & Lavatory

← WEST 1016 - 1030 & Stairwell

The two officers split apart, Mad Bull leaning against the east wall, Reyes resting against the west. Without a sound, the sergeant held up three fingers and silently counted down.  On the signal, they both simultaneously peeked their eyes around the bends then resumed their position.

“Clear.” Reyes mouthed wordlessly.

“Two.”  Estes motioned.

"Armed?" Reyes whispered.

Mad Bull nodded firmly.

Carlos lifted his service pistol. “¿Estar listo?”

The Mad Bull of the 34th considered the simple question. Was he? Could he truly be ready? In months past, he would have been the first to hoist his weapon and crack off a few shots, but something had changed in his mind. The blood-lust, that thirst for violence still remained, but it had become more tempered. The line between guilty and innocent was becoming thicker and bolder. He cracked open the cylinder of his Smith & Wesson revolver for a quick reminder - six shots. It gave him courage to see the slugs still sleeping in their chambers. He holstered his sidearm and instead unslung the shotgun strapped to his back. With one last shell still ready in the barrel he didn’t need the other three sitting uselessly in his pocket.

“Lure ‘em over here,” Mad Bull whispered.  Reyes nodded.

The lean officer stuck two thin fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle then wheezed, “Los mijos! Venga, venga!”

A youthful male voice called back, “¿Que cuentas?”

“Necesito ayuda…” Reyes panted convincingly.

Sergeant Estes could hear the two men approaching. The AK-47 assault rifles tethered to their shoulders rattled faintly with the approach.  The mammoth cop took to a knee, released the safety on the trigger of the shotgun and aimed the barrel in ambush.

“Espera un segundo!” one voice called out helpfully as the two trotted ahead towards the T intersection.

“Que es….” one of the men began as the reached the two cops waiting around the corner. Surprise cut his words mid sentence, and within half a second, they knew they had been caught dead-to-rights by the very same policeman they had been tasked with hunting down. Both men wore the green fatigues of wanna-be revolutionaries and sweat beaded along the hairline of their black berets.  The two pairs of armed men stared each other down, the long barrel of the shotgun promising death, and Reyes’ murderous pistol ready to put the icing on the cake.

The revolutionaries held their hands up, trying to hold in their fear as Reyes snidely asked, “Well, what now Sergeant?”

“Get those rifles off them,” Mad Bull replied, holding the stock of his shotgun snugly against his arm, his eyes locked on the fatigue clad men.  Carlos limped forward and took the AK-47 from the first man and slid the weapon back along the carpet towards the service elevator. As if on queue, the unarmed man thumped an elbow into Reyes chest, collapsing the injured officer to the ground, leaving him to howl in miserable pain. The second man reached for his rifle and turned to spray the hulking sergeant.


WAAKOOM!!


A red, pink and green splash of gore painted the wall of the T-intersection as the hundreds of tiny pellets within the shotgun shell collided with fatal fury into the guts of the armed man. The hunks of meat that had once floated between the ribs and hips had been transformed, as if by magic, into the streaming liquid flowing down the green plaster hallway. The man’s torso teetered before it folded like a tree half-hacked by a lumberjack. Except from some burnt powder marks on his exposed skin, the unarmed man remained intact, but had fallen to the floor, sitting aghast with his back to the wall.

WHAAP!

Mad Bull’s black heeled boot thudded against the man’s jaw. The blow knocked the man unconscious to the ground, but he landed strangely, with his head propping him up haphazardly.

“Tú que eres ¿Oveja o lobo?” Reyes rasped miserably.

FUKKK.

The black heeled boot stomped across the bridging bones of the man’s neck and it was done.

As the smoke of the shotgun blast and the ringing in their ears slowly dissipated, Mad Bull could hear the door of an apartment open down the West Hallway and a male voice cry out 30 yards distant.

“LOS TOMBOS!”

Hermano - Brother, literal or figurative
¿Estar listo? - You ready?
Los mijos! Venga, venga! - Hey boys, come here, come here!
¿Que cuentas? - Whats up? What's wrong?
Necesito ayuda… - I need help..."
Espera un segundo!  - Just a second!
¿Que es…?  - What the...?
Tú que eres ¿Oveja o lobo? - Well what are you - a wolf or a lamb?
LOS TOMBOS! - The cops!

[MADBULL34]

The sea of people covering the streets rolled like a human wave and the sounds of their chants were deafening. Torches burned in the night sky, scattered amongst the thousands and thousands of denizens that continued to protest and riot. Violence had shook the 34th Precinct to it's core that morning. After yet another power brownout during a hot summer afternoon, Officer Reyes had slain a tough talking kid during broad daylight. In the days to come, the police and Imperial controlled media would paint the youth as a punk criminal unworthy of the Emperor's Mercy, but the hordes of poverty stricken public that had long known the lick of the lash felt differently. The last straw had broken the camel's back with the boy's murder. 

Though Reyes and his partner Mad Bull had evaded the lynch mobs… for now… that hadn't stopped the crowds from growing as the sun setted; they remained illuminated by the burning shops and cars, lit by the surging riot. The situation had become volatile, and rather than risk the lives of cops or troopers, the Authority had decided that if the local rabble wished to destroy their own city blocks in impotent rage, let them. Transport by train and bus had been suspended, the bridges across the East River raised, and the remaining roads out barricaded by uncaring auto-sentry turrets set to kill.

The teeming throng raged across the ward, egged on by scores of would-be revolutionary leaders pandering to the disenfranchised with promises of a new anarco-communist utopia. All the while, buildings, businesses and homes were consumed, the coils of smoke rising like the dark columns of demon souls flipping off the high heavens. Change would never come from this horde, but the agitators knew that the worse it became, the more the people would turn to their heretic sermons. Left with only smoldering tenements and looted grocery stores,  the common man in the days to come would learn to hate the capitalist-fascists sleeping comfortably on the highest tiers, while they themselves were left to crunch through the rubble they had wrought by their own hands.

The roar of the crowd could easily be heard by the two embattled officers, but only through brief lulls in machine gun fire. Mad Bull had dispatched two revolutionaries standing between he and the stairwell leading up. The blast of his shotgun, however, had alerted every bloodthirsty revolutionary on the floor, and now they had gathered in the hallway, cutting Reyes and Estes off from the sweet escape promised to them on the roof.


BRAKABRAKABRAKA!


The two cops hunkered behind the safety of the wall, shielding their eyes from the chunks of plaster and wood peltered off by the constant stream of bullets. The shelter offered by the T-intersection was a lifesaver, but who could say how much longer it would take for militants to rally their nerves and storm Mad Bull's position.

“Fuck John!” Reyes bellowed through the ear splitting noise. “Let's just turn around the way we came!”

The burly Sergeant's mustache bristled. “That's the first good idea you had all day you rat-faced sonofabitch!”

Estes lumbered back towards the service elevator and looked through the metal accordion door and into the ancient dusty workings of the shaft. The elevator car had been called to another floor and the little light indicating the car's floor shown on number “5,” then it quickly dinged to “6.”

“SHIT!” Mad Bull exclaimed as he watched the mechanism coil upwards. 


BRAKABRAKABRAKA!


KAPAH!       
KAPAH!


Reyes sat against the intersection's wall, returning fire with his own meager service pistol. His face had sunken in further from his sickly yellow skin tone; his thin lips seemed to be turning blue and the badly injured officer could not even stay on his feet. Hopeless exhaustion shown through his eyes and his hands rattled the Glock limply gripped in his fingers. Mad Bull looked to his partner and felt a complicated mix of pity and revulsion, then back to the elevator dial that now listed the car as having reached the eighth floor.

The fearsome cop rummaged into his breast pocket and withdrew his last three shotgun shells. He inserted them one by one, his ears listening for the audible click of each shell slotting into the pump-handle’s magazine, even as the firefight continued and the ancient service elevator clanked upwards.

cha-CHUNK!

With a meaty fist, Mad Bull pumped the barrel and loaded the cannon. He stuck the long barrel of the Remington 870 through the metal mesh of the accordion door, pointing into the center of the shaft and into the complicated cogs of the machine. He turned away, shielding his eyes from the blast as he squeezed the trigger.


WAKOOOM!
cha-CHUNK!


Metal against metal clanged as the pellets exploded and ricocheted in the shaft.


WAKOOOM!
cha-CHUNK!


Violent screeching noises clamored from the blown gears.

WAKOOOM!
SNAP!

A horrible popping noise echoed in the shaft as the elevator cable split from the repeated onslaught of the high-powered shotgun. Gears whined along greased pulleys as the counter-weight whirled to the roof so fast it could have killed a man. Now untethered, the closet-sized elevator car was falling, dropping at a deadly descent speed that would leave all within a mangled mass of broken limbs the coroner would never be able to piece together. The impact was Earth shattering and sent a rumble through the entire building. In response, the machine gun fire down the hall suddenly stopped.

A massive plume of dust exhaled through the shaft and billowed into the hallway. The ancient elevator had given out it's dying breath and spewed a century of grimy soot-filled air. The cloud soon filled the floor of the tenement and both cops began to cough. Down the hall, the sounds of choking revolutionaries could be heard as well.

Between breathes, Mad Bull gagged, “Reyes! This is our chance! Reyes!?”

The beleaguered officer had finally slumped over and laid on the filthy carpet. Estes bent low and graspt the man by the collar with one hand, while wielding his Smith & Wesson NY-1 revolver in the other. With big, lengthy strides, Mad Bull raced down the hallway past the intersection, dragging Reyes in tow.