The BiCycle

[Ridder]

The Cycle by MICrophone

Before:

An epic tale.........plenty of action.........quite a bit of humor........receives a 10/10, best story of yours yet, methinks.

After:

The BiCycle by Ridder

An atrocious mockery.........lack of real action.........crude humor........receives a 0/10, this ♥♥♥♥ isn't even worth talking about.

But the rest of yous can enjoy my awesome spoof.

---

OK folks, here is a new punch at your stomach. It is totally unrelated to the forums. It is a thriller. Because....you know....
















































why the drama space?































You'll see.


























Didn't I tell you?



WARNING: This definitely contains violence, blood, sexuality, some language you're probably too stupid to understand.

The BiCycle

To catch a killer…you must become one.......Unless....you know.....you don't want to be caught by the cops.....



Chapter 1

"There. Up ahead."

Three police cars rounded a corner into a narrow alley of New York City, sirens piercing the otherwise silent night. They came to a stop in front of a shadowy mass lying motionless in the road, and several men in blue suits with handguns raised quickly exited their vehicles.

"That's a body right there!" said one of them as they approached. He started to rush forward. But didn't make it far before being tackled by Anthony Hargrove.

"Stop!"

A referee blew his whistle while an officer wearing sunglasses approached. "Let me handle this," he said.

The police officer wrestled with Anthony as the man with the sunglasses knelt beside the body. It was facing away from him. He rolled it over, and as he did so, several of the men gasped. One let his lunch loose on the floor.



"Got 'em right between the eyes," he muttered, A nearby police officer asked "WTF are you talking about? He doesn't have any eyes anymore." , "Shut up and gimme a Tool kit," said the man in the sunglasses, and one of the police officers asked "QT or GWT?" The man quickly swung around and ♥♥♥♥♥ him. Telling the officer "you know which one." The officer, with a red mark across his face, handed him a small box with the name "Wexler" scrawled on it in black marker. He pulled out a pair of thin metal tongs and then beckoned two of the other police officers. "Hold the skin apart while I try to extract the bullet," he said. One of the two police officers questioned, "What are you talking about? There's no skin to hold apart." The man just pulled out his pistol and shot the officer in the head, right between the eyes. The officer that lived just dropped to his knees and pretended to hold some skin apart, looking away from the gore oozing out of the blown cap in disgust. The man with the tongs just poked the ground where the victim's head lay for about a minute, causing a grotesque sound.

"Good God, Sam," said the police officers holding the skin apart. "Make it fast or I'm gonna vomit!"

"Jimmy," said Sam, raising his sunglasses, "I got to take you to a slaughterhouse one day." He then smirked, lowered his glasses, and went back to work. Jimmy muttered "but I don't play Warcraft anymore....."

Jimmy then proceeded to scowl, then made faces at Sam while he wasn't looking. Sam, meanwhile, without looking back at Jimmy, said "Quit it or you're going to end up like Bill." . The other officers winced. Sam held up a burnt piece of rock and then turned it around in the tongs. "Like I thought," he said. "Spartan Laser."

At that moment, something else caught Sam's attention. He leaned over the body and then pointed towards a spot on the pavement.

"Oh my," said a female police officer, drawing her hand towards her mouth. Lying next to the dead man's body was a smiley face roughly five inches in diameter drawn in piss.


Sam stood up slowly, and not taking his eyes off the dead body, said, "It's him."

---

"Morning Dave."

"Morning Dad."

Sam Wexler was sitting at his old wooden kitchen table enjoying an egg and bacon sandwich on an English muffin. "Where you going?" he asked his son, who quickly grabbed a bag off the kitchen counter.

"To school."

"But your first class isn't for another two hours! And did you eat any breakfast?"
Dave grimaced. "No, Dad, but I'm fine."

San whipped out a shotgun "Eat or Die. It's your choice."
Dave sighed "Fine. You douchebag."


Sam smiled, "Here, I'll make you an egg sandwich.…what the heck are you doing anyway, going to make out with your girlfriend or something?" he teased.

Dave turned at the doorway and smiled. "Yeah, you can quit with those jokes dad, You know I'm homosexual." he said, walking back to the kitchen and sitting in an empty wooden chair matching the table. There was a minute of silence as his father cooked. Dave, lacking anything better to do, looked around the room, at the white tile floors, the wooden kitchen counter which was shaped like two balls, the white walls, the fluorescent lights, the windows - it was a sunny day and the neighbors' children were playing TF2 in their yard. Only with real grenades and sandviches. A pleasant sight.

"So how's school been?" asked Sam. "You leave so early and you come home so late and I hardly ever get to talk to you anymore."
"Well, you know, I'm pretty busy--"

"Yeah yeah yeah, and you have a life and you're all grown up and yadda yadda yadda. I get that. But you didn't answer the question." Sam was in a good mood, and was smiling as he put the English muffin in the toaster oven.

Dave thought for a moment. "Well, it's Columbia. What do you expect? The professors are great, the faculty is great, everything's great."

"Well, the coffee and drugs suck, that's for sure."

Dave grinned. "Oh come on, Dad! You know I quit taking heroin....well...."

"Never," offered Sam, and they both laughed. "Ah, well, any classes in particular you like?"

"Yeah…I really like my Forensic Science course. The professor's great…I think he knows you, actually. Chiess Burger ring a bell?"

"Chiess Burge-ow!" Sam rapidly drew his hand away from the pan in which he was making the eggs. "Sunnuva....... Sorry, just burned myself." Sam said as his entire body lit on fire.

"Yeah....... you all right?" asked Dave.

"Yeah, just fine. Why do you ask?"

"Uh.....nothing." said Dave. "nothing."

---

Sam got off the subway at 103rd Street on the west side of Manhattan. He climbed up the staircase to street level, paused, adjusted his trademark sunglasses, and then started to sing a Mike Posner song. He was soon warned of the copyright and a law enforcement official told him "sing that gay song again and you get sued."
Sam then turned and walked down Broadway. Sam was in his late forties but looked significantly younger, and occasionally would joke that when you move to the city, you stop aging. He was a good-humored man outside of work, but when he was working he was as serious as a man could ever be. He was white, about six feet tall, had blue eyes and brown hair, and was at a healthy weight, as of his last visit to his physician. He was also part of a gang that killed black people. Which is why most people in Manhattan avoid him.

He smiled to himself as he rounded the corner of Broadway and 100th, and soon he reached his destination, 151 100th Street, the 24th Precinct of the New York Police Department. Sam was a detective for the NYPD, a detective who had a very interesting case on his hands. Briefcase in hand, he entered the building. He took off his coat and hung it on a hanger in a short corridor between the entrance and the dead body of another man who hung himself. He then pushed on through the second door and was instantly met by the sound of rapid typing and the smell of coffee. "Ah," he said, "coffee that's not from Columbia." He turned right and walked towards a block of cubicles, patting several of his coworkers on the back (a few on the ♥♥♥) as he passed and occasionally exchanging greetings. Finally, he reached his cubicle, equipped with a desk, chair with wheels, pens, pencils, paper, a Macintosh which he had bought himself since the police department would only pay for PCs, a mouse, and a keyboard. He sat down and turned on his computer.

"Morning Sam."

Sam turned to see Jimmy Sanborn daggering a female office worker . Jimmy was another detective in the department and a good friend of Sam's, He was also perverted in the sense that he always assaults a female worker in the office, but no one really cared to stop him. "Morning," the latter replied. "Got any information on the victim from last night?"

"Yeah, name's George W. Patton. A 63-year old man who lived near the scene of the crime. Got banned from Columbia for a classified case. This is his apartment address and I also got you the address of his family's residence." Jimmy gave Sam a sheet of paper.

"Nice work," Sam said. "All right, go tell the boss that I'm heading out to snoop around."

"Got it," Jimmy said, turning away from the cubicle.

Sam looked at the paper for a moment, On which said "Steve Job owns a PC." then kicked his chair back. "Hey Jimmy!" he called.

"Yep?"

"Very funny, I'm going to kill you while you sleep, Okay?"

"Sure thing."

"Right, thanks!" Sam stood up and grabbed his briefcase. Time to try and make sense of everything.

---

CAN'T BEAT MY, CAN'T BEAT MY, NO THEY CAN'T BEAT MY BICYCLE.











Chapter 2


Here were the facts. Seven headshots had been committed by an unidentified sniper who was only linked to all seven murders by his two signatures: his preference for head-exploding bullets and taste for drawing smiley faces next to the dead bodies using his own piss. None of the murders had witnesses, so the law officials were all stumped, even though they were pretty sure it wasn't American. It was just the kind of case Sam got erections from. He had not had a case as interesting as this one since the one that put him on the map several years prior, in which he solved a complex mystery involving one black Scottish cyclops and twelve murdered. But enough of old glory. Sam had a job to do. He picked up his coffee and took a sip. Mmm…nothing like Cuban Coffee.

He parked his clown car on the side of 666th street next to an apartment building about four stories high. He climbed up a staircase to the third floor, then walked down a hallway to a door labeled "3:CB" Sam noted that the building was fairly old and decrepit. He pulled a giant silver key that Jimmy had given him and whacked the door with it. The door immediately disintegrated, and Sam stepped inside. The room was musty and covered in a layer of dust. It was a small apartment, but certainly adequate for one person. Sam was not optimistic about his search; the last six victims turned up nothing. Nevertheless, he did a thorough search of the room, from the kitchen counter to under the burning barrel in the corner. Once again, his search turned up nothing. Disappointed but not surprised, he turned to leave when something caught his eye. The ceiling was made of a soft cowpie-like tile, and one of the tiles was particularly smelly. He took a chair and stood on it, then pulled the tile shoved his hand deep in it. With it came chunks and pieces of things that would never wash out of his clothes. Ah, thought Sam, I guess this is what they call getting your hands dirty (And before I continue, shut up Dennis.), disgusted. Now we're getting somewhere. He immediately left the room and returned to his police car. He picked up a walkie-talkie like device connected to the radio.

"Jimmy," he said. "This is Sam. Do you read me? Over."

A yawn, then, "Yep, Sam, loud and clear."

"All right, classify the case as a conspiracy case. I found a stash of old Godzilla, King Kong, and Titanic movies. This might be some major DVD deal gone bad or something. I'm going to question the family now."

"All right, Sam, I have to confess. I'm out."
"Out what?"
"Well........you know."
".............Never speak of this again. Please."


Thirty minutes later, Sam was in the company of Mrs. Patton. The two were sitting in her first-floor apartment in a living room on two plastic chairs facing each other.

"I understand what you're going through," said Sam, "but I need you to answer a few questions for me so I can understand what's going on. Will you cooperate?"

Mrs. Patton, a woman of perhaps eighty years of age, was senile and was speaking quite uncontrollably, and it was hard to make out the "yes" through the horse neighs.

"Good."

Sam flicks out a lighter, lights it out in front of the senile woman, and repeats-
"What did you see, old mam?"

Mrs. Patton grabbed a pillow and held it close. "...G...Gojira.........Gojira.....................Gojira!"

"Cool.Can you sign the names of the actors in the movie on this notepad" Sam asked politely.

"Yes…of course, officer…."
Mrs. Patton took the notepad and pen that Sam offered her and wrote down five names and then decorated the notes with more chicken spit.

"Mrs. Patton…Luke's father…"

"Died *BAWWWWK* inside the second *BAWWWWKKKSPOILER* Death Star *SPOILERBAWWWWWKK*," replied Mrs. Patton, clucking even more uncontrollably. Sam felt bad for making her answer so many obvious questions, but he had to do what he had to do.

"I'm sorry," said Sam sincerely. "Only a few more questions and I'll be out of your way. As far as you're aware, George was not involved in any illegal activities, correct?"

But at that moment, a man jumped out a window of the apartment, and immediately said "Yo, great story and all, and I'ma let you finish, but I'm gonna raep this old beotch, mmkay? "while tryin' to raep Mrs. Patton. Sam jumped out of his seat and ran to the window only to see a vague figure disappear around a corner. He pressed a button on a gadget in his pocket, activating the springs in his heels while forcing him to shout "GO GO GADGET LEGS.", and then jumped through the broken window and started hopping. He went around the corner, but the shooter was nowhere in sight.

"Dangit," Sam said. "Missed him."


"He must have been an idiot and a rapist, I think. That's all I could make out."

Sam was back at the police station explaining what had happened to his boss, Dan Hibiki. Sam was not happy. He had a great opportunity and he blew it. Sigh.

"Well, I still think I would have pwns that Rapist if you had taught me the Saikyō-ryū," said Sam. "It's the awesomest style in the world, which is why you're my favorite Street Fighter character."

"Awesomest in the world?" Dan nearly jumped out of his seat. "So I'm even too awesome for this world, am I? Space! The final frontier!"

"You can't travel to space now, Dan. Considering how big space is? You'd be lucky if your Gadouken could destroy a Covenant Dropship from a long distance away."

Dan sighed. Sam was right and he knew it.

"All right. But I can't stay here. What if an assassin hears word my awesomness and tries to murder me before I can reach space?"

"We expected you'd say that. We don't care, but we did something about that anyways. Johnson's going to be on a 12-hour watch of you, and I'm gonna keep rotating guys into that position whenever I can."

Dan shook his head. He didn't like it. "All right. I'll stay here, but you'd better be sure nothing happens to me. I want to be able to escape to space if I needed to." He waved his hand to signal Sam to leave his office. As Sam walked to his cubicle, Jimmy came up to him.

"Hey Sam!" he said. "What happened man?"

"Our culprit tried to raep the witness while I was questioning her." He took out his notepad and ripped off the front page. "Here. Look up these guys. They're terrible actors. I'm guessing that you'll find at least one of them linked to an illegal conspiracy scheme of some kind. Look into it and get back to me. I'm going home."

"Got it," said Jimmy, taking the paper and running off. Sam then grabbed his briefcase from his cubicle and went home.

[MICrophone]

"What did you see,mam?"

Mrs. patton grabbed a pillow and held it close. "...G...Gojira.........Gojira.....................Gojira!"

I almost died of laughter.

Anyway, good spoof…looking forward to more.

[Ridder]

Mufassasasawassasoma.

I can has independent topic nao?

CHAPTER TREE.


Alarm clock. Hit button. Get up. Fail to brush teeth or shave, Shower. Get dressed. Put on sunglasses. Make idiotic CSI reference, shout YEAAAAAAAAA. Walk to kitchen. Make cup of Folgers and egg and bacon sandwich. Find Prawn magazine on counter. Lock eyes from across the kitchen. Down my drink while the rhythms boom. Take the magazine, skip the names, no need here for the silly games. Sam's morning routine was pretty straightforward. The small kitchen television was on. Cooking Mama's Cooking Show. They were talking about how to cook the next dish. Good, thought Sam. His Giants were not doing too well, and they needed a cup of perfectly cooked instant ramen for the good lucks. He wolfed down his sandwich, turned off the TV, quickly changed his pants, grabbed his briefcase and started walking towards the front door.

"Morning, Dad."

Sam freaked out and ran into the wall, thinking he heard his son's voice come from the front door. He turned around and saw Dave standing in the opening to the kitchen. "Ohhai Dave!" said Sam. "I've got to run…got a lot to do stea------er, do today…"

"Whoa," said Dave. "You don't have to be in till nine. It's only six. So it's all right for you to just rush out and rob shops blind, but I have to sit down and suffer through a conversation with a little simpleton like you?"

Sam smiled. "Well, at least I know how my genitals function."

Dave chuckled. "Sit down, talk for a bit, make me an sandvich, whatever. You gonna go hold the people at a subway hostage with John Travolta or something?"

Sam burst out laughing manically. If his kid was anything, it was witty. And a good memory. Combine those two and you get your own jokes thrown right back at you. "All right, you win. So what do you want to talk about?" he said as he started making a cheeseburger.

"I don't know. Life. Monopoly. Whatever. Just…we haven't talked much since Mom moved to Mexico with that Asian guy."

Sam sighed. Mom. What a wonderful woman she was. But stubborn. She kept very healthy, exercising a lot and eating her vegetables. But she was arrogant in that she thought that, regardless of her family history, serious harm could never befall her. Despite his pleas, she never did a background check on this Asian guy from Colorado. She didn't become suspicious of him when shad to run away with that Asian drug dealer a month later. It was true, he had kept to himself more since then.

"Well, I'm working on an interesting case. Dominating Sniper who's killed made seven people's heads explode in five weeks. Smart. Covered up his, well, we don't even know the nationality for Christ's sake, his tracks really well. We've got practically no leads. Two tendencies: exploding sniper rounds is his preference and he has a disgusting taste in art. Like's to draw smiley faces out of his own urine next to the victim's body. And his most recent victim was involved in a conspiracy, I think; I found Godzilla, King Kong, Jaws, all those sorts of movies in his apartment. Speaking of which, he went to Columbia…George Patton was his name…you know him?"

Dave paused for a moment. "Patton…Patton…don't think I know him. Is he WWII Veteran or Vietnam Veteran? Cause I don't know too much about my Vietnam history."

"WWII, I think," said Sam, serving Dave his knuckle sandvich.

"Hu-*WHACK*"
He spits out a tooth, and continues.
…don't know him."

"Tsk tsk. How can you be a good detective if you don't know everybody? Can't get your inside information without it."

Dave laughed, nearly choking on his blood in the process. "Stop it Dad! You're making me look like a bloody ghost!"

"Cause who's looking?" said Sam. "Anyway, I really should get going. I'll see you later today maybe. Probably not though."

"Maybe," said Dave. "Probably."

---

"Dan. Johnson's wrapping up, right?"

Dan's neck extended into quite an unusual length.



"Good," said Sam, grabbing a cup of coffee from a machine that sat on a little table along the wall next to Dan Hibiki's office. "I didn't really want the next slot anyhow."

"Sam, This isn't the time to be drinking Folgers, it's 12:01 PM."

"I don't give a damn if this is the time!" said Sam angrily. "Is it worth risking another life because it isn't the time to drink Folgers!? I'm not bringing the apocalypse to mankind or anything."

Dan sighed. "All right, If you want to play that way, you get the next slot."

"Yeah yeah, I got it," Sam said. He practically ran to his cubicle, grabbed a few papers, then hustled over to Jimmy Sanborn's cubicle. "Got any info on Patton's friends?"

"Yep," Jimmy replied. "None of them have records. I could get some warrants."

"Hmm…wait on that for now. I'm gonna go try Mrs. Patton one more time."

"All right. See you later."

Sam quickly walked out the back door of the department and got into his police car. He started driving, and immediately came to a red light. He sat. Ten seconds. Sam was getting a bad feeling about something…twenty seconds. Damn, the lights are slow today! Sam desperately wanted to get moving, and he began to consider turning on his sirens, allowing him to pass through red lights. It's not an emergency though…he didn't want to get in trouble with his boss. Thirty seconds. Damn Dan Briggs. Sam turned on his sirens and plowed through the intersection, nearly sending another driver into the sidewalk. Left, right, red light, merge, accelerate, decelerate, brake. After about five minutes, A song comes on that reminds him of Dave's mom, forcing him to unexpectedly jizz right into his pants. After a quick change and wiping off the sweat from his forehead, he arrived. But something was wrong. Officer Johnson's car was there, but he was nowhere in sight. Sam quickly adjusted his sunglasses, grabbed his gun, and flew out of the car. Oh S***. Johnson was in the driver's seat. Sam dashed to the driver's door, slammed his hands up against the window, and looked in. Lying in the driver's seat, coffee in his hand and a joint in his mouth, was Johnson, and a piss-yellow smiley face was drawn on the center of the steering wheel.

"Damnit!" cried Sam. No time to linger, though, not even to check to see if Johnson could still count how many fingers he was holding up. The piss looked fresh…the sniper might still be here. And if Mrs. Patton is alive, she'll be in serious danger. Sam ran up the steps to the apartment building, open the door, and charged down the hallway to the door to Mrs. Patton's apartment. He grabbed the handle. Locked. ♥♥♥♥ it all. Sam took a few steps back to the wall opposite the door, then within good range of the door, he shouts

"THIS. IS. MY FOOT!"
He kicked the door down, which fell immediately to the floor, Sam stood still for a moment, thinking, then realized that there was more than one sound. He pulled his gun out of its holster and held it out, then proceeded into the room slowly, looking for the killer. His eyes darted from left to right; if he was not attentive, he could be dead at any moment. He stepped as quietly as he could and rounded a corner, revealing the living room where he had sat with Mrs. Patton on the two plastic chairs, and there, lying on the same chair she had sat on the day previous, was Mrs. Patton, clothes torn and a bloody mess where her head had once been and the piss smiley on the couch fabric. Sam nearly swore, but did not want to alert the sniper to his presence. Not that it likely mattered; a sniper as smart at this would've probably realized somebody came in when he kicked the door down, but nevertheless, he wanted to take all precautions. Suddenly, Sam felt a cool breeze against his face. Breeze. Indoors. Open window. Sam, who's eyes had not focused on one spot for more than a second, immediately started looking at the windows. The one that had been broken the day before was not there. Sam initially concluded that the window was never replaced until he saw shattered glass on the floor. At that moment, Sam heard a car turn on out the window.

"Oh you ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥!" he cried, leaping out the window just in time to see his police car, which could be identified by the Deadhead bumper sticker on the back, be driven away by somebody else. "Hmm…good at hotwiring a car, too…" said Sam, and then immediately took off around the side of the building. He ran back to the front door of Johnson's car tried to open it. Locked too. "Christ!" exclaimed Sam, at which point he elbowed the door window and shattered it. He reached in and unlocked the car, then opened the door, threw Johnson out, took his keys, got in the car, and turned it on. "Sorry, Sean," he said as he slammed the gas pedal. The wheels screeched due to the sudden acceleration and the car took off.

Sam quickly turned on the sirens and picked up the intercom. "This is Sam Wexler. Johnson and Mrs. Patton are dead, Hibiki, by the hand of the killer. He has taken my car and…" Sam looked up and saw the Deadhead sticker, which was colored with a neon red that couldn't be missed, "…and is heading west on 96th Street towards the Ronald Reagan Parkway. I am in pursuit in Johnson's car. I need backup immediately." He clicked off the intercom and accelerated the vehicle in an attempt to catch up to the killer, who was driving faster than the speed of sound, not braking for other vehicles or red lights, which yielded in some very impressive explosions. However, the killer's car received only a few scratches. It shifted lanes. Sam went to follow, but nearly hit a truck passing through the intersection with 10th Avenue. He slammed his hand on the car horn, covering it in nasty urine. Sam briefly looked at his hand in disgust, then quickly returned his focus to his pursuit.

After only a minute, the killer merged onto the Ronald Reagan Parkway. Northbound. Sam followed. He was now breaking 100 mph himself, and nearly hit several other cars as they quickly tried to maneuver out of the way. "Come on, faster!" cried Sam, as he at last began to gain on the killer. 125th Street exit. 141th Street exit. 110 miles per hour. Constant lane shifting. The killer continued to smash cars out of his way, having the advantage of Sam's police car being an SUV. Sam was constantly swearing and throwing in remarks including, "I'm not gonna let you get away this time, you son of a B****!" Zach Galifianakis Bridge exit. The killer moved into the exit lane. Crap, this has got a major curve, thought Sam. I've gotta slow down. He followed the killer onto the exit for the bridge, then onto a second exit for the bridge's upper level. Please, let there be standstill traffic, thought Sam. But alas, his pleas were to no avail, for traffic was moving smoothly. He accelerated again, pushing the limits of the vehicle. Now he was definitely closing in. "I've got you now, B****!" cried Sam as he shifted into the lane to the right of that of the killer and began to pull along side him. He looked through the killer's driver door mirror and tried to make out the face of the person inside. He squinted. Wait a second, thought Sam. That looks like -

But before he could complete his thought, the killer abruptly and rapidly turned to the right, skidding to a complete stop directly in front of Sam. "Oh S***!" cried Sam as he desperately turned the wheel as far to the right as he could in an attempt to avoid colliding with the car. He successfully got out of the lane in the nick of time, but suddenly realized he was in the path of a freight train…......wait, where the hell did that come from?

An incredible force hit the back right side of Sam's car and it was flung into the air, spinning, directly into the suspension wires on the side of the bridge…

---

Chapter 4

Sam slowly opened his eyes. Well, the one that was still in his eye socket. Everything was white. After a few seconds, his one eye focused, and he realized that he was staring at a white ceiling. He slowly tried to turn his head, but then saw a jar filled with a nasty green fluid, containing a floating eyeball. What happened? he thought as he stared at his eye. Floating in the jar like that. He would be ♥♥♥♥ his pants, and several other extreme things of expressing his disgust, but he could hardly feel 2/3's of his body right now.

Suddenly, he heard a door open, then footsteps rushing towards him. "Oh, thank goodness, he's come out of it!" Sam tried to turn his head, only this time he was able to do so to some extent before having to stop. "Where am I?" he asked the person who was presumably just outside his range of vision.

"Mount Sinai," said a man.

"Oh," said Sam detachedly. "So I guess I'm dead?"

"Yeah, pursuing a guy on a bridge that was scheduled to be demolished by a random freight train was not a good idea."

Suddenly, Sam remembered everything. "Oh, right," he said. "Can visitors see me?"

"Well," said the man, who Sam concluded must be a doctor. "I could make you hallucenate people visiting you, since, you know, you're dead, at the top of a mountain."

"Great," said Sam. "So how long am I in this joint?"

"The hell? There is no leaving the afterlife. You're dead bub, your mortal coil snapped. Your body is being rushed to a hospital right now, but since you're here, you can't be saved."

Sam sighed. "Thanks. Can you send my son in?"

"You want me to create an illusion of your son visiting you?" said the doctor. "Bah, mortals, you and your family bonds."

LEAVING EDITING HERE, CONTINUE TOMORROW.



"All right," said Sam as he heard the doctor exiting the room. He went back to staring at the ceiling. Great. This definitely was how I wanted to spend the week.

At that moment, another person hurried in. "Dad?" the person said.

"Hey Dave!" replied Sam, smiling for the first time since he came out of the coma. "What's up?"

"Oh, besides keeping me worried sick since the accident, nothing much," responded Dave, pulling a chair up to the bedside. "How are you feeling?"

"Weak. I can't move very well without pain, but I'm sure I'll be feeling better in a little while," Sam smiled. "Don't worry about me, kid. I'll be fine. What time is it anyway?"

Dave looked around the room and found the clock. "10:30," he said.

"Goodness…shouldn't you be at school?"

"Well, you were in a coma, Dad," Dave replied dryly.

"Well, I'm not now. Go on and get yourself to school, I'll be all right. You can come by after classes."

Dave grabbed Sam's hand and squeezed it. "All right, Dad."

---

Dan Briggs was getting ripped by Sam Wexler. Truth was, he deserved it. What had happened was due to his unwillingness to take extra precautions, and he knew it. That didn't make it any more pleasant.

"From now on, Dan, I'm running things my way. You don't like it, find something to complain about to your superiors to get me fired. I don't care. This damn business is gonna kill me one day."

"Yeah, yeah, I get your point, Sam," said Dan, sighing heavily. "So, anything nice to say?"

Sam calmed down. "The killer got away, I presume."

"Naturally," said Dan.

"That figures. And I totaled the car, I presume?"

"Yep. What happened?"

"He skidded to a stop right in front of me. I was going quite fast…so was he…and I swerved out of way but got slammed by a truck…that's the last thing I remember."

"You didn't see who it was, did you?"

Sam paused, thinking. He had seen the killer's face…and he remembered he thought it looked like somebody he knew…but he just couldn't remember. "I think I caught a glimpse of the killer before it happened…but…I can't remember what he looked like at all…"

Dan smiled slightly. "Well, I guess I can't really expect you to, can I?"

"No, I don't suppose so," said Sam, also giving a small smile.

Dan stood up and reached out to Sam, who weakly grabbed his hand and shook it. "Well," said Dan, "I'd better be heading back to the station. See you later, all right, Sam?"

"Don't worry…this is gonna be a short vacation," said Sam, now grinning.

---

Three days later, Sam was making his usual egg sandwich for breakfast. He was still feeling a little weak; he wasn't about to go leaping across the tops of skyscrapers, but he was feeling much better and was ready to go back to work. He flipped the egg in the pan while watching the television. Dave was sleeping in that morning since he had school off. Twenty minutes later, Sam was on the subway train going to the police station. He had picked up a copy of the New York Times at the subway station and was reading it, sunglasses darkening the already black print. There was an article on his killer and a picture of Johnson's police car, totally demolished. Man, I really did a good job on that, he thought sarcastically. How did the media get these photos anyway?

He continued reading the paper for about another five minutes when it suddenly dawned on him that he couldn't remember what station to get off at. Crap, he thought. He tried to remember the address of the police station, but for the life of him couldn't think of it. How could I forget that? he thought. I suppose just an effect of the crash. It will wear off. But meanwhile, he had a bigger problem. He looked nervously around the train car. Nobody seemed to notice him. Quickly, he quickly unpinned his badge from his search and pocketed it. Nobody was looking at him. He sat for two more minutes, planning out what he was going to do in his head, before turning to a middle-aged woman sitting next to him.

"Excuse me," he said, as the woman looked up from her knitting. "I'm sorry to bother you, but do you know where the police station is?"

"The 24th Precinct?" she replied.

"Yes."

"It was at the last stop. On 100th street."

"Oh," he said. Great. He squirmed a bit uncomfortably as the subway approached the next station. "Um…thank you," he said as he quickly got out of his seat.

"Hey!" she said just as he was about to walk away. "You look familiar. Aren't you a police officer?"

Sam's face turned red. "No…for some reason I get that a lot though…I must look like one." And with that, he quickly turned and walked out of the subway car.

[MICrophone]

Stretching neck, foot = Sparta, and random freight train (Inception anyone?) had epic lolage. Looking forward to more (and you can haz own topic now).

[TheMMMification]

That was completely funny. Ridder, you have an awesome sense of humor. Best joke is the pee smiley.

[Killswitch]

"What did you see,mam?"

Mrs. patton grabbed a pillow and held it close. "...G...Gojira.........Gojira.....................Gojira!"

I almost died of laughter.

Anyway, good spoof…looking forward to more.

Seriously, what does Gojira mean?

[Blablob]

Gojira means Godzilla. It was a reference to a Godzilla movie. (Unless the reference was made multiple times...I saw it in This Movie)

[MICrophone]

Yeah, I saw it in the same movie, but I suspect that it probably has been used in countless Godzilla movies. It's Japanese (I think) for Godzilla.