“You have the right to remain silent.”
Harry was reading Vic his Miranda Rights, which have to be read to every criminal when they’re arrested. It guarantees them certain rights. As if criminals HAVE rights.
“You have the right to an attorney present during questioning.”
Vic had never read a criminal his rights, even though he’d arrested thousands of them. Perhaps millions. And now he himself was being arrested. The difference? Vic was innocent.
“You have the right to one phone call, so long as you don’t use that phone call to do further crime.”
Sure, how many times had Vic heard some scum ball protesting his innocence? But Vic didn’t get to be the best cop in New York by falling for that lame line. Everyone Vic had ever arrested had been guilty of something, even if it wasn’t the crime he’d charged them with.
“You have the right to a cup of coffee when you ask for one.”
If it was up to Vic, he’d be the judge, jury and executioner; and most of the time, he was.
“You have the right to oral sex in your cell with a licensed hooker.”
Fuck this City had gone soft of on the underbelly. No wonder Vic was chasing down more shit pricks than ever before. Next they’d be giving these bastards their own cars as the left the station with a pat on the back.
“You have the right to a comforting hug from a lady cop.”
Vic had stopped listening. He didn’t have time to be arrested and piped through the system. This was wasting valuable hunting time, and all the while a shit killing prick licker was roaming the streets of Harlem looking for his next victim. He began gauging his surroundings, his Marine training instincts kicking in to gear.
Fifteen of them, one of him. No contest.
“You have the right …”
Vic never heard what he had the right to do, because he cracked his mammoth fist into Harry’s glass jaw, feeling the satisfying crunch as it shattered on impact.
All at once, fourteen trained men descended on Vic, but it really was no match. When Vic was holed up in a hole in Vietnam he had developed his own martial art. It was a slick combination of Kung Fu, Karate and Street Fighting. It was called Vic Fu, and kids in Asia were learning it everyday in an attempt to emulate their hero. And their hero was Vic Malone.
Vic swung a round house punch to some cops ear, then backflipped a kick into another’s crotch. Sorry pal, but your jewels will have to throb for a few days.
Beside the melee Harry was clutching his broken jaw, barking instructions at the brawling cops, but already eight of them were down. Three more advanced on Vic, who used a rapid series of one inch punches to break their faces. That just left ten more to fend off, but Vic couldn’t be bothered wasting his time.
Screaming with maniacal mania, he lifted one of the fallen cops clean off the floor and hurled him through the window. As the glass shattered in a deafening crash, Vic propelled himself across the studio apartment, and sprang out into the open air.
Harry watched aghast at this spectacle of manliness, then turned to the lady CSI and said, “Vic Malone has gone rogue,” adding, “So we’re in a whole heap of shit.”
Outside, Vic was falling through the air. He hadn’t planned this far ahead. Act now; think never, that was his motto. The wind was howling in his ears as he plummeted from the 72nd floor apartment window towards Hollywood Boulevard below. Looked like New York would have one more star embedded in its sidewalk tonight.
A whole heap of option began rushing through Vic’s brain. Could he fashion a parachute out of his pants? Did he have enough Camels on him to cushion the impact? Shit, if only he’d taken a moment to unpack his hand glider before hurling that cop through the window.
He turned in the air to look back up at his apartment. He saw Harry’s broken jaw flapping in admiration, and the lady CSI, eyes gaping and blowing him a kiss. That broad wanted him so bad, she’d date his soupified remains.
No time to flirt now, Vic was plummeting to his death unless he did something quickly. And there it was – the cop’s flailing body, descending on him from above, falling faster than he was. As it rushed by, Vic grabbed it, and wrestled himself onto his chest, riding the unconscious body like a surf board.
Vic gripped the cop’s collar and relaxed his knees, bracing for the impact. It came with a rib crunching thump, and Vic rolled onto the sidewalk to stop from breaking his ankles, the way he was trained to do in the Rangers.
Brushing himself off, he tossed a Camel into his open mouth.
The cop was writhing on the floor in agony, but those bruises would heel. The love of his life, that woman from last night, was dead in the apartment upstairs, and Vic had to avenge her death.
Vic coldly flicked another cigarette onto the cop’s chest. He smiled his thanks, weakly, then spluttered, “Catch the bastard Vic,” before falling into unconsciousness.
A small crowd had gathered to watch the excitement, and Vic expertly blended in with them as sirens descended into the area. He watched, like a chameleon on its web, as hundreds of cops scoured the area looking for a man who would never let them find him.
Vic finished off another five Camels, then decided it was time to get to work. He needed a gun, and when Vic Malone needed a weapon, there was only one place to go.
Shugg was black, but he wasn’t a criminal. He was a pimp, but a good one who kept his girls right. If Vic ever needed to pay for sex, which he didn’t, he’d use Shugg’s whores. In fact, most of them offered him freebies whenever he came by, and Vic didn’t turn them down.
Shugg hung out at the Smithsonian Museum Art Gallery on Fifth Avenue, and Vic crashed through the giant doors, snarling at what passed for so-called art in this city. He strutted through gallery after gallery of nonsensical crap, before finding Shugg with a bevy of his honeys hanging out by the Mona Lisa.
Vic winked at the women, and they left with a giggle, then gestured with his head to Shugg.
“Sure homey,” rapped Shugg, “What say I and I take a lickle walk back side.”
Luckily Vic spoke jive and understood what Shugg was saying, so they stepped out of a fire exit into a dark back alley.
“A’right Vic me man,” Shugg preened his brightly coloured patchwork overcoat and adjusted his wide brimmed red satin hat, “I gone hear up side you went rogue.”
“News travels fast in this city,” Vic bristled, “I need a piece, and I need it fast”
“Sure, some sucka ain’t gonna like me Vic up his rectum side. I’s got just da ting for ya.”
“I need more than a pop gun Shugg, this sicko is sick.”
“Right ya are Vic. Den how’s ‘bout dis?” Shugg reached into his coat and pulled out a Tec 10 Uzi 23mm AK Pistol and handed it to Vic. He weighed it in his hands, then expertly dismantled it and reassembled it in less than ten seconds, before tossing it dismissively back at Shugg.
“That’s what you give the tourists,” Vic smirked, “What else have you got?”
Shugg sucked air through his teeth and nodded, impressed. “So Vic, he waan a real strap do ee?” And with that, Shugg lifted his hat up and removed a gun bigger than his own head.
Vic gripped the grip of the Dessert Eagle 54mm Hand Canon tightly, impressed with the hard weapon he had in his manly fist. These things were military issue, and the military only issued them to really tough soldiers. It could blow a perp’s head clean off from eighty metres, and the recoil would snap a woman in half.
“For you Vic man, on da house.”
Vic nearly smiled, but he didn’t smile. Vic never smiled. Instead he slipped the beast of a weapon into his pants. It was a tight fit, but it would hold.
“You want I should give you a box a bullets too?”
“I only need one,” Vic snarled.
Shugg nodded knowingly, knowing Vic only need half a chance with half a bullet to take the shot. He flicked a single shell in a graceful arc, and Vic snapped it from the air, before turning and heading away into the shadows of the alley.
“You want me girls to suck you off ‘fore you go on a killin’ spree?”
“Haven’t got time,” Vic growled, “I’m headed down town.”
“To break in to Police Headquarters.”