…Bruce’s Cadillac turned on its high beams and soaked the dark parking lot with blinding light. All counted, there were about thirty semi-loyal cult thugs loitering about. The junkies were wandering aimlessly, the hoodlums trying to look as tough as possible and the actual gangbangers grumbling, presumably about “getting their paper.”
When those high beams flared, all eyes focused on the new arrival. Now the problem with having a mixed group of reinforcements was that it was a mixed group of reinforcements. These poor, drug-enticed idiots had no idea who was who; they were all probably given simple instructions to let no one in the building…if they had been given even that much info.
So instead of opening fire, these rag tag rent-a-thugs all brandished their weapons as they waited for the new arrival to declare themselves. For all they knew this vehicle belonged to the leader of this operation, so they stood their ground, knives, baseball bats, and a few stolen firearms clenched in sweaty palms.
Whistling, Bruce threw open his car door and stepped out. The tune he whistled was barely heard over the purr of his car’s engine. None of the rabble had even a second to react as he pulled out the riot gun and brought it to bear. The whoosh! of expanding gas hissed fiercely, launching the canister containing the nettle agent into the parking lot.
The pawnbroker managed to fire off three canisters before any of the thugs in the parking lot knew what the hell was going on. One actually managed to squeeze off a few rounds, but thanks to the blinding high beams, his already shoddy aim was thrown off even further.
The canisters rolled across the asphalt, spewing out yellowish gas. The entire parking lot was nearly blanketed with these fumes before the screams began.
Phosgene-oxime (the nettle agent) Bruce would later inform me, had many harsh effects when coming in contact with people. When touching the skin, it caused painful blisters in a matter of minutes. When coming in contact with the face it caused eyes to water and swell shut. When inhaled, it would burn the throat and cause the airways to constrict.
The plague-in-a-can was working perfectly as Bruce got back into his car. By the time he fastened his seat belt, the parking lot was nearly deserted, the thugs deciding that the Daughters of All weren’t worth the pain they were being forced to endure. As the pawnbroker drove off, he intentionally swerved and hit the end of a fire hydrant (which he billed me for, the prick), causing a jet of water to wash over the parking lot.
The water soaked the remaining “guards” of the Ocean Grocer, who were too busy vomiting or scratching at their eyes to get Bruce’s license plate number. The spray from the damaged hydrant, combined with the salty winds of the Docks, quickly dispersed the nettle agent which wasn’t a big deal since it had served its purpose.
As Bruce’s taillights rounded the corner a block down, the parking lot was filled with light once more. The furious growl of Kurt’s bike and the deep rumble of West’s truck imitated approaching thunder. The Twins revved their engines ceremoniously three times in unison, their trademark warning that they had arrived for the sole purpose of senseless destruction.
Kurt’s bike screeched as he took off, extending one arm and clothes-lining a recently risen thug at about thirty miles an hour. While Kurt weaved around the parking lot, delivering kicks or sideswipes to the remaining guards, West urged his vehicle into motion.
The Road Killer’s tires left deep, dark scorches on the asphalt as West floored it. The truck barreled forward and like its owner, became nothing but a machine of pure, unbridled, brute force. The re-enforced grill that West had personally welded to the front of his truck met the glass doors of the Ocean Grocer with an impressive impact.
Plexiglas, steel and plaster all collapsed under the power of the Road Killer’s crushing collision.
The double doors to the Ocean Grocer were torn from their hinges and launched into the store. If anyone would have been able to ignore the initial crash! of the collision, their attention would have been captured by the screeching metal door frames as they skipped across the ceramic tiles of the storehouse floor.
With his truck half in, half out of the Ocean Grocer, West threw the Road Killer in reverse and calmly backed up into the nearest parking stall. Hopping out of his vehicle just as Kurt pulled along side him, the Twins armed themselves.
Checking the clips of the twin 9mm automatics that Bruce had given him, Kurt waited for West to fish his favored sawed-off shotgun from underneath the driver’s seat. Armed with both impressive firepower and an equally impressive thirst for violence, the harbingers of havoc advanced towards the gaping hole in the Ocean Grocer.
Though I had wanted to keep bloodshed to a minimum, I knew that once the Twins begun to indulge in their destructive nature, death was sure to follow. One could almost feel sorry for anyone dumb enough not to flee their wrath.