Roger was a good man. Which meant when he joined the force he was a good cop. This meant when he trained with his weapon he was a good shot.

This meant when he shot Violent Clay in the head it was a dead-bang.

The clown’s body stiffened and fell off his partner Gerry. The grotesque face with the jaw hanging loose turned to face Roger. The eyes were empty and dead. Gerry was burning from the mid-chest up. The smell of burning hair and flesh and uniform blew into Roger’s face.

“Omigod… oh my… Oh my God.” Roger was doing his best not to vomit.

The burning face sizzled as it tried to smile. Gerry, (or what was once Gerry,) reached out to Roger with his hand.

Roger was struck with an overwhelming urge. Training. He was still locked in his training. Training said; an officer being attacked must be assisted immediately. So he shot the clown (wasn’t I specifically not supposed to do that?) in the head before he killed a fellow officer. Now that officer was burning and extending his hand for help.

Roger was about to approach and help his fellow officer when Gerry was chopped at the knees by a tiny muscle builder in a Coors Light T-shirt.

**********************************************************************

Celestine was doing an inventory.

Jacket. Hat. Gloves. Vest. Cane. Girl still sleeping? Yes. Good.

He was gently shutting the door of his trailer when a shingle fell and hit him on the back of his hand.

This may not seem like a big deal to most.

Doctor Celestine is a collector of scars. This is a metaphor often used to describe the emotionally, mentally and socially injured people he collects about him. But his body is its own collection. Beneath his black gloves is one of his worst.

Many have often caught a peek of the bandages he hides beneath his puffy sleeves and gloves. Few have seen why. Due to an unfortunate idiom design, Doc carries with him the wounds that made him what and who he is. One of those wounds is a permanent set of blistered, broken and bleeding hands. These wounds are halfway up his forearms. Daily use is not too painful for him, but intense and sudden impacts are.

Very small is the list of performers who have received applause from Celestine. And when it is given, it is appreciated.

So when Celestine says he’s going to give you a slap on the wrist, well…

“Ow.” Doc looked up at the roof. It was solid. No disrepair. Which meant-

“She is annoyed, Boss.”

Doc looked over at the voice. To say the man facing him was round would be being unfair to the planet Jupiter. He was a collection of mass shaped like a spherical human. Massive and bubbling with a child-like joy, wearing an incredibly well-fitting lab coat, tattered at the edges. Clipped to the left collar was a Hello Kitty key chain and clipped to the right collar was a pin of the sign Aries.

It was Dav. The TicketMastyr.

“Extremely annoyed.”

“I… heard you.” Hissed Celestine, holding his wrist. “Harsh mistress.”

“I’m closing the walls.

The parking lot has

become a playground

for kids who don’t play

well with others, Doc.”

“Fine, then-“ Celestine winced and doubled over. “Go. Kill. Return.” He said in Dana’s voice, and dropped to one knee.

This will not do.

**********************************************************************