“How much money did you get?!”
Curleque winced at the sound of Tendy’s shrill voice. While she was certainly easy on the eyes, with dark, glossy hair and a tank top punished for trying to hold in her assets, the idea of listening to her complain about how much or how little money he had stolen from the credit union made him queasy.
“I don’t know!” he shouted, keeping his eyes forward as he flew down the road. “There’s more in Barbie’s bag, too. Keep the bag closed! Idiot! Just watch out for Bronze.”
Frustrated, Tendy zipped the bag shut and threw it down at her feet, then got up and turned around in her seat. Curleque risked a glance down at her jeans, which were stretched to their limit.
“Oi!” said Tendy. “I can’t see around your big head, can I?!”
In the backseat, Grassman leaned toward Curleque. “Will Mister Reese be okay?”
“Who?” said Curleque.
“The security guard you shot.”
Curleque’s lip curled in disbelief and he turned to look at the credit union manager hanging over his shoulder. “He had bits of brain soaking in the wallpaper, didn’t he? What d’you think, he dropped a bowl of spaghetti, or somethin’?”
Mister Grassman’s red face turned a shade of green, and he fell back in his seat.
“Iced somebody, did you, Curly?” said Tendy.
Curleque chuckled. “Ahh… Bronze’ll put a bandaid on ‘im, he’ll be fine!”
Tendy smiled, revealing a gap between her prominent front teeth. Winking at Grassman, she said, “Oi, don’t let it get you down, mate! Even though, uh, this was all kind of your idea, I reckon!”
“Good God, I’m going to be sick,” said Grassman, wiping his brow. “I hope my nephew is alright.”
“Barbie’s gonna be fine!” Curleque snarled. “Little rat’s probably already spent his share of the money… and yours, too!”
Grassman shook his head slowly. “I never wanted this. I just… times are hard, I needed… I just needed to get ahead a little…”
Curleque snorted. “You got no vision, old man. Lion’s share of this money goes to the Nightrider. We get him money, he can get us more guns. With his connections, he could arm every Acolyte on the road! Then we’ll show these Bronze! We’ll-”
“Curl!” Tendy spat.
“What?!”
“That Bronze what hopped in the truck - he’s behind us!”
* * *
The Dark One swerved around a car as he blasted through an intersection, laying on the horn so passersby would scatter. With teeth clenched he kept his eyes fixed on the gleaming brown Holden HQ Statesman as it swung around another intersection and disappeared from view.
“I can barely keep up in this Ute!” he shouted. “Bartholomew, tell Dispatch he’s heading east on Victoria. Tell backup they need to move, before we lose him!”
“Uh, Dark One says this wrecker w-won’t keep up,” Barry stammered into the CB radio. He licked his lips as his mouth went bone dry. “S-says we need backup p-pronto, right? Over!”
“Dark One?” said Dispatch, her confusion coming through in her clipped, nasal voice. “Where is your probationary partner? Where is your vehicle, for that matter?”
The Dark One winced. “I requisitioned a wrecker to chase this perp. Best option I had at the time. I had to leave Maximillian - he’s chasing the other perps by himself!”
* * *
Pinko swerved around a slow-moving van, honking and laughing at pedestrians scurrying out of his way. His pink hair waved in a stiff breeze as he turned down a side street, angling his baby blue Mazda 818 coupe toward the waterfront.
Barbelon glanced out of the back window for the hundredth time. Dark hair plastered to his head with sweat began forming into irregular spikes thanks to the wind. He unbuttoned his collar so he could breathe.
[https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3dpciVo30bo/T_SC4FTeh3I/AAAAAAAAAk4/qk_-Rp6rAlw/s1600/a-clockwork-orange3.jpg]
“Easy there, Barb!” said Pinko, glancing over at him. “You alright, mate?”
Barbelon gave his teammate an annoyed look. “This isn’t a joyride, Pinko. I know that Bronze was behind us.”
“Three Bronze was behind us.”
“What?”
“Makes for a better story, dunnit?” Pinko smiled, then took another sharp turn around a burned-out pharmacy. “Let’s have a look in the bag, then! See what we got!”
Realizing that he was clutching the bag to his chest so tight that his fingers hurt, Barbelon relaxed his grip. He unzipped it and looked inside.
“How is it?” said Pinko.
From the bottom of his soul Barbelon let out a sigh of relief. “It looks… looks good.”
“Good?”
“Really good!”
Pinko laughed and smacked his steering wheel. “That’s how it’s done, mate! And with your uncle supervising, we don’t have to deal with any of those dye packs they slip in there to ruin things!”
Barbelon nodded, leaning back against the seat with a smile on his face. They came to an old industrial area, with vast concrete shells of factories lying derelict, and rusted cranes hanging over the dreary bay. “Now the Nightrider has to take us serious,” said Barbelon.
Pinko screwed up his face. “Yeah, that’s all well an’ good, but I wanna talk to you. Haven’t had much of a chance with that meathead Curl and his idiot sheila hangin’ around. What say we… you know, put away a little before we divide the spoils with the others? Hide it somewhere, like?”
As if fearing that the Nightrider himself was behind them, listening in, Barbelon looked over his shoulder. What he saw sucked the air from his lungs - a yellow Interceptor eating up the road behind them.
“Pinko! Bronze comin’ up right behind us!”
* * *
“... and that was when I had to beat up the guy at the bread line,” said Roop, examining the sleeve of his black leather MFP jacket. He sat leaning on the bonnet of the March Hare, an Interceptor converted from a 1972 XA Ford Falcon, which was parked inside the Halls of Justice courtyard, an empty lot outside the underground garage where MFP officers often hung out. The March Hare was distinguishable from the Dark One’s Interceptor as it was predominantly yellow and blue, with only a thin strip of red down the sides.
[http://www.imfdb.org/images/thumb/8/81/Madmax_rifle.jpg/600px-Madmax_rifle.jpg][https://neozaz.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/02/mmic1-758x426.jpg]
Roop was tall and dark-haired, and might have been handsome if not for the spare tire pressing against the inside of his blue t-shirt. “Keep in mind, I was already in trouble with the police chief for choking out some perp who was already handcuffed. But what was I supposed to do? Shut my eyes when I see some scag cuttin’ in line, tryin’ ta take someone else’s bread?”
Sarse, his partner, finally got his cigarette lit, then nodded knowingly. “Alright, then,” he said, examining the cheap paper burning unevenly. Sarse was a young MFP officer with reddish-blond hair and a patchy, pale mustache. He was trying to get to know his probie, and hopefully cut through a few of the unsavory rumors he had heard. “So that’s how you got kicked off the police force?”
[https://www.tafce.com/images/b/b3/Sarse_-_Edited.png]
“Oh! No!” Roop laughed. “I forgot, that was the whole point of the story. Nah, mate, what did me in was beating the snot out of a kiddy diddler. Chief had already taken my badge and gun, temporarily, but old lady Grinstead at the pension house told me some things about some nonce hangin’ around a playground, an’ it got steam shootin’ out me ears. I had to arrest him!”
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Sarse furrowed his brow. “You were suspended, but still arresting people?”
“Had to, mate!” said Roop, throwing his arms wide. “What else am I gonna do? Shake his hand, tell him, ‘Carry on, brother!’? Not likely!”
Sarse scoffed. “You’re scarin’ me, Roop. You know Main Force Patrol isn’t a dumping ground for police who raged out and got the boot, right?”
“I know that, Sarse! It’s not like-”
“Not tryin’ to give you a hard time, Roop. But they give us these fancy bronze badges so we can help people!”
“Well… yeah. But truth is, we help good people by hurtin’ bad guys, don’t we? It’s-”
“Dispatch to March Hare!” the radio chimed within their Interceptor, and Betty’s high-pitched, nasal voice rebounded off the brick walls of the Halls of Justice.
Sarse tossed his cigarette, then leaned in the open window and pulled out the radio handset. “March Hare,” he said. “Got somethin’ for us, Dispatch?”
* * *
“What about you, kid? You like hot chips?”
MFP officer Jim Goose leaned against the order window of an aging building converted into a bootleg Macca’s, complete with a “golden arches” hanging over picnic tables that were laid out in rows beneath umbrella shades. The parking lot was full of customers revving the engines of their hot rods, showing off to one another. A boy in a red shirt featuring a cartoon hot rod with flames pouring from its exhaust laughed at Goose, who was flirting with the petite brunette waitress behind the counter window, snapping her gum and rolling her eyes at his advances.
Goose had wild blond hair so pale it was nearly white, and a rough face sticking out of the cut-out neck of his blue t-shirt. Despite his rough appearance, the waitress was not exactly put off by his attention.
[https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VukA9xm7pm0/UVw-w9TtfEI/AAAAAAAAZYg/xUJv2r8Fq8s/s1600/jimgoose_mm4.jpg]
“This your little brother?” said Goose, gesturing to the boy.
“Yeah!” said the waitress, popping her chewing gum loudly.
“You let him hang around all these gloryroaders?”
The waitress turned away, hiding her smile as her coworker set a tray of burgers, hot chips, and sodas on the counter.
“Look, mate,” said Goose, leaning into the window as if about to climb inside. “Throw another hot chip in there, alright? For the kid out here putting up with all this noise. And, ah…” Turning to the waitress, he added, “Throw a date into the order, too, right?”
“A wot?!” she said.
“ ‘A wot’? You need a ride home, don’t ya? You get off work, I’ll come over an’ pick you up, make sure you get home safe, an’...”
“Goose! Goose!”
Goose turned at the sound of his probie shrieking. Charlie, an intense young man with close-cropped hair, sat behind the wheel of Big Bopper, their Pursuit model Ford Falcon XB sedan with a V8 engine, an unaltered bonnet without a scoop, and a lean red stripe down the side much like the March Hare. Goose could tell that whatever Dispatch was putting in Charlie’s ear was really getting him worked up.
[https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/roadwarrior/images/d/d0/2012-08-08_190046.png/revision/latest?cb=20120808170117]
“Ah, jeez,” said Goose, suddenly pulling a card out of his jacket pocket while handling his tray with one hand.
“Wot’s that?” said the waitress, feigning disinterest. “Your number?”
Goose smiled. “Nah, it’s a Get Out of Ja-”
“Goose! Goose, we gotta go!”
Suddenly realizing the seriousness of the situation, Goose grabbed his gloves and heavy-laden tray and jogged across the lot.
“What is it, Charlie?” said Goose, throwing his gloves in the window and jerking open the passenger door.
“Got a bank robbery an’ a murder, two gloryroaders goin’ two different ways!”
“Okay, Probie, this is your big test. If you can get us there without spilling a drop of my - aaah!” Goose cried out as he fell into his seat and both drinks slid off the tray and exploded in his lap. Charlie stared, his mouth hanging open, as Goose angrily tossed the chips and burgers onto the dashboard in a heap.
“That doesn’t count, does it?” said Charlie.
* * *
“Dispatch calling Albatross.”
[https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/roadwarrior/images/8/89/Scuttle.png/revision/latest?cb=20150713181241]
“Go on, Dispatch,” said Scuttle, pulling his Pursuit Interceptor onto the road. Scuttle’s small, dark eyes followed the line of traffic as he swung across lanes. Darryl, the young probie sitting beside him, suddenly seemed to wake up, eyes wide as he brushed his mullet back behind his ears. The Albatross was smaller than most Main Force Patrol vehicles; a two-door Chrysler VH Valiant Charger with a V8 engine and more blue in the paint job than Big Bopper and March Hare, the Albatross was built for tailing perps and tracking wherever they went.
“Albatross, we have a Code Three Armed-and-Dangerous fleeing along-”
“Scuttle, the Dark One here!” the Dark One interrupted on the radio. “I’m tailing a killer with a hostage, heading north on Queens Road, but I’m in an old wrecker, I won’t be able to keep up.”
Scuttle frowned, spinning the wheel with one hand as he turned onto the freeway. “Where’s your probie?”
“Maximillian is tailing an accomplice. He’ll be fine, but I’m about to lose this guy. Perp’s in a Statesman, a fast ride. If I lose him, the hostage will-”
“No worries, Dark One. We’re on it!”
Scuttle gunned the engine, throwing Darryl back in his seat. Darryl whooped, then reached overhead and withdrew a long pump-action Winchester Model 1912 shotgun from its hanging scabbard. He set to loading buckshot rounds.
[https://i.pinimg.com/736x/cb/85/b1/cb85b166c2c6bb3994f52bae6547779d--mullet-haircut-haircut-men.jpg]
“You watch where you point that thing, Probie,” said Scuttle.
“Just get me close to that scag,” said Darryl, failing to hide a smile as he leaned toward the window, letting the wind run through his hair. “I’ll shred his tires… see if that puts the fear o’ the law in him!”
* * *
Pinko pushed the coupe beyond the gutted industrial zone, over the bridge, and onto a winding road where fine houses overlooked the bay. Even with Barbelon running his mouth with constant updates, Pinko kept his eye on the rearview, where the yellow Interceptor followed steadily.
“Alright, this guy ain’t given’ up,” Pinko finally said. “We gotta do somethin’ Barb.”
“You can’t outrun him?!” Barbelon cried.
“Once we get outta the city, yeah, I can outrun him. What I’m afraid of is, this guy is on the line with someone, lettin’ ‘em know where we are. Settin’ up a trap, you know? We gotta… Barb, we gotta kill ‘im.”
“What if…” Barbelon’s eyes darted, like a cornered animal. “What if we throw the money out the window? And we note where it fell. Then we just pull over, an’ we-”
“What? Turn ourselves in?!” Pinko laughed, a harsh and grating sound. “Think the Bronze’ll treat us nice and let us walk? Bronze ain’t like the old fashion Coppers, mate. Back in the day, Coppers lay a hand on you, even cough on you, they get buried under a mound of paperwork. Lose their job, won’t they? But these Bronze? Hoooh! Mate! They’ll beat the hell outta ya, chain ya to a desk, leave ya there all day… they really don’t care!”
“Okay. Okay. Right. Right.” Barbelon brushed his hair back and took a deep breath. “I’ll do it.”
Pinko was surprised to see Barbelon reach into his jacket and, with an unexpected show of resolve, draw out a revolver. Pinko eyed the weapon, a heavy .44 Magnum “six shooter” with a curved handle and a long, brightly polished barrel. Pinko’s envy was replaced by amusement as he imagined sweaty Barbelon acting like a cowboy.
“Alright,” said Barbelon, nodding as he came to a decision. “Slow down, and let me waste this Bronze.”
* * *
With his fingers gripping the steering wheel Max hugged the right lane on a winding turn along the beachfront, his gaze fixed on the blue Mazda. While he was glad to be away from the pedestrian traffic in the city, he was having a hard time reading the driver’s intentions. His gaze wandered to one of the two-story homes atop a grassy hill, and he could not help but think of his loan request for a similar home. A few years ago, a cop would not have been able to afford such a home. Now, with the population shrinking and the market in wild fluctuation, he actually had a chance of owning such a home, and living on the beach with his wife. It would be a perfect life.
But the image of the couple run over by this madman was burned into his mind. What if his wife Jesse was out here, right now, enjoying a stroll, and someone like this came along and hurt her? He clenched his jaw unconsciously, forcing his fingers to relax only to tighten them around the wheel once again.
“Maximillian, are you there? Dark One here.”
Max was flooded with relief at hearing the sound of his partner’s voice. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Still tailing these guys. We’re close to city limits. Sir, if I don’t do something…”
“Just follow them,” the Dark One urged his probie. “I taught you everything I know, but your training was for teamwork. You can’t make a move on these criminals without backup, and unfortunately, most of MFP is coming to back me up, since I’m tailing a murderer.”
“We’re going to let these guys get away? With me right behind them?”
The Dark One sighed in frustration. “If you try to take them down yourself, it’s not just your life at risk. MFP might lose an officer. Your wife could lose a husband!”
Max nodded. He hated it, but he knew the Dark One was right. If he tried to tackle these gloryroaders by himself, he would be no better than them… a maniac hungry for violence.
“Macaffee knows the position you’re in,” the Dark One continued, “and he’s got two motorbike officers en route. Just follow. Watch, and see where they go.”
“And if they’re setting me up for a trap?”
“They’re out for money, they’re not trying to kill an MFP officer. If their friends show up, you run. We’ll find them later, and hit ‘em together. Understood?”
“Together,” said Max, nodding. “Understood, sir.”
The radio fell silent, and Max took a deep breath. The air had the salty tang of seawater, and waves crashed gently upon the shore. He could not appreciate it, and instead watched nervously as a gray Volvo drove toward them. The driver must have heard Max’s siren, for he pulled over as the blue coupe swerved around him, taking a turn at dangerous speeds. Max shook his head, fuming at the position he was in.
The coupe suddenly slowed. Though he felt an instinct for danger, he told himself the perps were probably giving up. They were just desperate thieves. They had never expected an MFP officer to follow them. They were surely giving up…
Just as Max drew up behind them, Barbelon leaned out of the window. Max’s heart took off at a dead run when he saw the criminal level a .44 Magnum revolver at his head.