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Officer Longshaw isn’t looking forward to Frank’s party, mostly because he knows what those sick bastards that stay in the dark have planned for the guy. It’s a shame because he’s admired Frank for the ten years he’s worn the biggest-balls badge around the county. Longshaw’s upheld the other badge, the one that writes and spells out the exact rules Frank needs to break to be successful. The worst part is that the only thing Frank did wrong was doing something bad to some punk’s face who turned out to be somebody’s son. It could’ve happened to anybody in his, or maybe even Longshaw’s, profession. When it comes to the people up above, you don’t know anything about them, especially who their blood is. Then again, Longshaw has never crammed a baseball in some asshole’s mouth before attempting to hit it with a bat.

He’s not looking forward to the party because it’s going to be a good party, maybe even one of the all-time best, and he’s going to want to reminisce about it for years. It’s also a goddamn shame that some New Englander is soon going to be in charge of everything. Hell, it’s a shame that any of Frank’s crew will be. Longshaw’s known some of them since back when they were all kids, stealing dope crops from farmers and driving their dates along those pretty mountain roads and scenic rest stops every time they wanted to neck. Nearly every one of Frank’s crew, save for a couple guys, are the same punk motherfuckers that have filled every inch of town with their dysfunctional litter; from half abused kids to abandoned pregnant women to literal trash, illiterate graffiti and the embers of stolen cars laid to waste. It’s no wonder Longshaw has to walk his son to the bus stop every morning, if only to keep him from picking up empty needles, leaking condoms and the odd shotgun shell casing (either full or spent) from the side of the road.

Longshaw’s on his way to have a beer, a burger and to maybe slap a bare ass or two when he sees the smoke rising in the air. The explosions drown out the B.B King jamming away on his unit’s speakers.

The cruiser rises over the slope of a hill and up ahead is something from the movies. Longshaw's throat goes drier than the dust twirling along the road and his seatbelts flying one way while his hand swings to the gun on his other side. He flicks the radio off because that does fuck all for his concentration. As he jerks his car sideways and feebly grabs his radio, he hardly has a moment to remember to turn on his siren, but he does.

The man firing round after round into the Camaro while two young shit-heels take cover for dear life on the other side is a perfect balance between what makes Longshaw’s balls shrivel and his belly brim with laughter. Longshaw kicks the Sheriff’s car into park and fingers his trigger as the world jerks short, then to a stop. He's probably going to kill somebody. He might get killed. Dear god he needs backup and they sure as flying fuck won't get here in time and what's he care about those two used tampon sons of bitches hiding on the ground anyhow?

The lunatic stops as soon as he hears the siren. The gun, an AR-15 if Longshaw's damn sure of anything, drops to the ground. One minute the guy's full lead to the wind and no survivors, next he's staring in shock and crying like a baby at the horrible mess he's done to Barry Thompson's daddy's car.

Why, it's Perry fuckin' Scholtz under that silly looking bike helmet with a reflector along the side. The poor son of a bitch is staring at his hands as he raises them. His eyes go wide when Longshaw raises his gun and screams for him to stick those scab-filled arms in the air. When he tells Perry to kick the gun away from him, those oversized, what? boots maybe, kick that thing hard enough that it clatters under the Camaro.

The two shit-heels are peering over the side of the car, crying loud enough to rival the gunshots as Officer Longshaw approaches Perry whose turned his back in the air like he's been told. "What in the hell happened to you bud?" Longshaw asks, as he closes within ten yards. "I was winning..." Perry croaks. A firecracker bursts in the distance, and he twitches as his arms lower.

"Raise your fuckin arms come on bud." Longshaw knows Perry’s sister, Lindsey. She's one hell of a sight, and it’s a shame what happened to her, beating that deadbeat Cranked Up Bill’s daughter and all. Perry was always a quiet boy in high school. He had a single mother, and she seemed to do her best, though she still ended up dead in a ditch with a needle in her arm while Perry was in his second tour overseas. God bless this motherfucker all the same, he's a veteran.