Flattened against the brick wall, I felt my heart racing. The gun in my hand felt awkwardly heavy as I stood poised beside the door on my right. I waited for the appropriate moment to start the attack. With my senses tense and astute, I could feel the cold brick of the building against my cheek and its coarse surface on my back. I counted down the seconds in my head, anticipating the next moves I would have to make.

With the police force low in numbers, it was my responsibility to make arrests myself as no backup could be found to help me with this drug bust. I felt for the lucky coin in my pocket. Realizing that I had left it in my other suit, I searched for the luck charm around my neck. Since it was in my locker at police headquarters, I had to make do with rubbing the tusk on the string around my wrist.

I was in an alleyway 2 meters wide and several meters deep. On one end, it opened onto a street, and on the other, it was blocked by a wall adjoining the two buildings which the alleyway separated. The occasional street sounds from cars and conversations escaped from the street and into the seclusion of the alley, however they floated unnoticeably in the background, engulfed by the tension I felt. My attention was focused on the single metal door that broke the monotone of the layers of red brick surrounding me.

My watch began beeping, piercing the calm of the alleyway with its repeating shrill. I hastily silenced it and glanced at the street. No one had noticed the disturbance.

The time had come to commence the mission. I pivoted on my right foot, until I faced the door. I raised my gun, and with a swift swing of my leg, I kicked it open. It easily swung open to reveal a number of undisturbed faces seated around a table, who were all pointing revolvers at me. My momentum threw me into the room, and desperately I waved my gun around, blurting out the Miranda rights.

As I finished a perfect recital of the Miranda section of the police training manual, I realized that the men had not yet fired upon me. I lowered my gun, and inched back into the doorway, hoping that I could walk out of the situation as if nothing had happened. Before I managed to step out of the building, I became petrified with terror. There were seven men in the room, a sparse 10 foot by 10 foot area with a low ceiling, and I could see each individual pull the triggers on his gun.

My eyes darted from person to person pleadingly, but it was too late. I noticed how the wisps of smoke from their guns blurred their faces into obscurity. A screeching sound rang in my ears, echoing over and over as if a thousand bats of Hell desired to deafen me. I resigned myself to closing my eyes, to await imminent death. I felt the shock of pain as something smashed into my nose, and then into my body, the force of its impact so great as to throw me backward into the alley. As I slammed against the building on the other side, a grenade rolled off the belt around my waist.

Peering out from beneath my eyelids, I discovered that the door had swung outwards and hurled me outside, absorbing the many shots that were meant for me. As it swung inwards again, the door nudged the grenade into the room. The sounds of commotion reached my ears before I blacked out.

I regained consciousness in the sterile environment of a hospital. The murmur of rushing attendants came through the double doors across from my bed. A concerned police chief was seated on a faded wooden chair on my side. Consequently, I was able to conclude that there must be a doughnut shop nearby or the chief wouldn't have come to see me.

Like a typical police chief, our's had become detached from the activity of a normal police officer and had gained weight with the increased amount of desk duty. However, following the famous saying, "Once one is a police officer, one is always a police officer," the chief was prone to spending as much time as possible at doughnut shops, like any self-respecting cop.

"Chief!" I exclaimed.

"Don't you go starting that. Do you know what you just did?"

Without waiting for a response, the chief filled me in on what had occurred.

"You know, sometimes I thank God that the government doesn't allow police officers to carry heavy military weapons onto the street. If I were in a shoot-out against people armed with automatic rifles, I'm not sure whether I would feel safer with a single shot revolver, or a more powerful weapon. If I had an automatic rifle, I'm sure you and your trigger happy finger would be using one too. Fortunately, that gas canister was not lethal, and our scientist were able to scrape the drug evidence off the walls with only minor difficulties. I must remind you that grenades are considered to be a last resort weapon and should be used sparingly."

After a short pause, the chief continued the lecture.

"Frankly, Frank. I knew you were going to be trouble when you arrested that kid for pulling 2 bags out of a shopping bag dispenser when he only paid for one," the chief informed me.

"The law's the law, sir."

"It was an accident! The 2 were stuck together and he was even trying to put the extra one back!"

"I wonder why the department store wouldn't charge him?"

"It didn't matter to you. You charged him anyway."

"And he got off on temporary insanity. I wonder if he's still getting therapy?" I asked, pondering.

Meanwhile, the chief removed a folded piece of paper and proceeded to read the message on it.

"Despite the bad implementation of protocol, you have captured the leaders of a major crime ring, and since no permanent damage was incurred, we are not liable for injuries. Therefore, that cursed police computer has assigned you another mission."

"Thanks a lot, chief!"

The chief grumbled.

"Since the Organized Crime Crackdown of 1994, the crime organization of Tyron Incorporated has had little competition and has grown to mammoth proportions. As you know, we've been wanting to get at them for some time."

I remembered the Organized Crime Crackdown. It was a time of turmoil, strife, and justice; ecstatic joy and suffering; and economic prosperity and change. It was decided by the very conservative government of the time to "relax" some of the laws to make it easier for police to capture criminals. Some of my greatest idols were from that time. The flamboyant Richie Mert, the stern detective Casta, Louise the infiltrator, and the joyous Dylan were the heroes of the time, bravely searching for evidence against crime bosses. To the world's detriment, as organized crime faded from North America, so did the great detectives of the time.

"We have a turncoat high up in the organization who is not willing to testify. However, he is willing to recommend somebody to the head of Tyron, to perform illegal services. That person will receive orders from the leaders of the organization and will later be able to testify against them in the courts. This person will be you."

I nodded in acknowledgment.

"This time, try not to get over involved in the case. We are already pushing the limits of the law. If the tabloids catch wind of this, the whole department could be in jeopardy."

"You can count on me, chief!" I enthusiastically proclaimed.

The chief sighed.

"I wish I could. . . If it weren't for the spouse and kids at home, I would take a less demanding job without the long nights."

"You need a doughnut and a coffee, chief," I suggested.

The chief agreed and left the room, yielding to the doughnut shop across the hallway. "Once one is a cop, one is always a cop". I rose out of my bed, and hurried off to the doughnut shop as well.

I slumped on the bench in front of my locker in police headquarters, resting. I had taken on a disguise in preparation for the mission and had a briefcase full of equipment at my side. The mirrors lining the walls of the change room revealed my new look. My hair was now light brown, and my nose was longer, but my distinct glare, slim but muscular body, and smooth, long face were still recognizable. I was polishing my gun, filling the time until the rendez-vous with Tyron Inc. the next day.

I was to be a professional safe cracker, a rarity during the age of computer crime. The meeting with the Tyron hierarchy was in the basement of a research facility in downtown, and I was to be hired to break into a bank's safe to destroy some important documents.

Nonchalantly, I asked of my gun, "So what do you think of the new case, partner?"

"Exciting," it replied.

About 10 years ago, the city had conducted a survey of the police force, and discovered that 43% of officers had talked to their guns at least once during their tour of duty. With the police budget being capped, only a certain number of officers could be maintained, so the mayor decided that intelligent revolvers would solve the problem of a diminishing police force managing a growing city. No more would cops have to patrol the streets in pairs. Their gun would replace this need, acting as radio, note-taker, database searcher, and companion, essentially maximizing police resources to their fullest potential. Besides, 20% of the force had heard their guns talk back to them already, so it wouldn't be a significant difference.

"Do you think you can find some information for me?" I inquired of my gun.

"Give it a shot!"

The survey also discovered that police officers and detectives preferred partners whom they could make jokes with. Unfortunately, as was typical of any transaction involving the city, an error occurred. All the units had a defective sense of humour, and due to budget restraints, the city could not afford to replace them. Thus, we were condemned to endure a career of police work with a talking gun prone to making bad puns.

"I need to know more about Tyron Inc."

The gun considered my request and soon found the relevant information.

"Bullseye!"

"Let's go through the revolver-ing door!" my gun happily exclaimed as we approached the Tyron research building.

I felt the weight of my briefcase, laden with minitarized recorders and detectors and the equipment needed to break into a vault. I was in a grey tweed suit, with a red tie on a white shirt.

We passed through the revolving doors and had to pass through many corridors that were painted white and lighted with standard office flourescents. After descending a flight of stairs, we proceeded through the basement, a musty area with numerous pipes running the length of the ceiling. As I strided down the extent of one long corridor, I noticed a vague smell. Slowly, it became more pronounced. It was putrid and vile! The implications of something existing that could smell so badly were mind boggling. It seemed impossible to conceptualize the ugliness of the thing that emanated the smell. Whatever created the odour was too obscure for even the most distorted, distracted, and displaced minds to imagine. When I turned the corner, I saw something that strangely fit the description.

It, was indescribable. Words would do no justice to the "uniqueness" of that thing. I will attempt to describe it to you within the best of my abilities. It was large. It was immense. It was huge! It was GIGANTIC! It was a person, yet, it wasn't. It had characteristics of Ogo Pogo, but it resembled a Tellurian wildebeest slightly more. Overall, it was strange.

The thing frisked me, removing my gun from the holster on my chest.

"Don't rifle with me!" my gun screamed.

The thing ignored the shout and led me to the middle of a large, mostly empty room, where there was a round, green table, around which 3 people sat. He placed the gun on the table. A glaring light shone down from overhead, illuminating only the table, leaving the rest of the room dark. There was an empty chair in front of me, which I was signalled to sit in. I did so, finding it difficult to see the faces of the men who surrounded me.

Introductions were made and Boris, the thing I had encountered, was dismissed.

Joe sat on the left, Sarah on the right, and Kronf sat across from me. They immediately began briefing me about my job.

"John has recommended you to us, so we know that you can handle this task. We will break you into the National Bank in downtown. Once you are inside, you are to open the safe. We anticipate that you will need explosives for this operation. Do you have the necessary equipment here?"

"Yes," I replied waveringly, not accustomed to their directness and efficiency.

"Good. We'll pay you tomorrow in cash, here, at 8 P.M. I'm sending Gordon and Horace with you. They'll get you into the bank and will take control of the operation once the safe is open. They'll also deal with any additional problems that may arise. I expect you to leave immediately. This task is of great importance. There are documents in that safe that need to be destroyed," Kronf explained, as two men stepped out of the darkness.

They were of medium height and build, completely unhostile in look yet I was sure that they were probably excellent marksmen. In their neat, identical suits, they seemed almost comical, but I was now certain of the contrary. They were young, without the ravishes of age affecting their appearance, and their deceivingly innocent, simple, round haircuts must have tricked many a victim.

I pushed back my chair, stood up, and had Boris hand me my gun. As I turned to leave, once again the light above us glared into my eyes. "Hey wait! Turn around. Let me see your face!"

I froze in apprehension at the sound of the shout. I was caught. My disguise was simple and effective, but anyone who had seen my face before on TV could recognise me with careful observation. I rotated around, expecting my trap to backfire.

"You've got a bit of chocolate smeared on your cheek," Gordon remarked as he pointed to his own cheek to show me where the stain was.

I felt relieved. I wiped off the chocolate and followed Gordon and Horace to a car at the front of the research building. I soon found myself being driven to the National Bank, unable to radio back to headquarters to arrange a staged break-in. I was going to crack open a safe.

We entered the bank through a side door near the back of the building. The room we passed into was large, much like an auditorium. There was a high vaulted ceiling and the grey stone of the walls permeated an atmosphere of majestic age. Long, wide, stone stairs ran up the whole length of the left wall. A single long, continuous counter ran from one end of the room to the other, facing forward at the tall panes of glass that composed the front of the building. The moon was full and bright, casting its light into the entire room. Behind the counter, there was 8 m of space until the back wall. An imposing round metal vault was framed in the center of this wall.

I started my work.

During my years in the police academy, I was taught about the various methods used by criminals to commit their crimes, so that I could better understand their nature. One of the courses was safe cracking. However, I had difficulty with that course, and I found myself hastily attempting to recall the information.

"Yellow to green, the effect is mean. Orange to blue, is what you do," is the poem I recited to myself to jog my memory, as I connected the coloured wires on the bomb.

I placed the bomb on the safe, and started the timer to detonate the bomb in 5 seconds.

5.

Gordon, Horace, and I dashed behind the teller desk, and hid. We crouched on the ground, shielding our heads and ears with our hands.

4.

The side door we had entered burst open. A blond haired police officer stepped into the room with her gun raised. "Freeze," she yelled. Gordon and Horace reflexively sprung up and raised their guns. She dove to the ground and rolled behind a desk.

3.

Shots rang out. I signaled for Horace and Gordon to leave, as the explosive charge would probably destroy all the papers in the safe anyway, which was their goal.

2.

They were quick to oblige. I heard the smashing of windows behind me as they jumped through the windows into the street. The officer stood up from behind the desk, and pursued the escaping suspects.

1.

She passed in front of the safe and slowed down, realizing that she could not catch them. She stopped and requested backup from her gun. I recognized her. She was Karen. I rose, and yelled her name. She began to swing her head around.

0.

The safe exploded, throwing debris everywhere. Karen was not too close to the safe, but I had used an excessively large charge and she was sure to have been injured. I myself was thrown back by the blast. I quickly recuperated and ran forward, scanning the blackened floor for a body.

She was sprawled on the floor, with blood from her wounds being soaked up by her hair. Her mouth was open and her crystal blue eyes stared upward, focused on a point infinitely far away. When I saw her arm rise and hover in the air, wavering, I dashed swiftly to her side. I kneeled in the pool of blood, and clasped her hand with my own.

"Karen, it's me," I whispered.

"Frank? Is that really you, old friend? Whom I have not seen for ages?"

Guilt flooded into me. I was responsible for her condition. I reluctantly resolved to keep these moments pure and not to reveal to her what had really occurred.

"It is."

She coughed, and rising to hack the mucus from her throat, lines of strain and suffering briefly crossed her face. Gently, I lay her back down on the cement of the floor.

In the silence, I, in vain, made a futile effort to cleanse her bloodied hair on the leg of my pants. She smiled and strained to laugh, but it brought on an onslaught of coughing spasms. My eyes felt strangely dry, despite the severity of the moment.

Staring into my eyes, she distracted me from my aimless actions.

"Frank," she whispered hoarsely.

"Yes?"

"When we were, um . . . friends. Did you ever think of me as more than just a good friend?"

The thought had never occurred to me in my life. Memories flooded into me of all the moments we had shared. Detectives tended to be cautious and reclused. The profession demanded it. We tended to have few friends and secrets would be withheld from all but our closest companions. She was always part of my life, but as what? A friend? A colleague? A fond memory?

The sirens of approaching emergency vehicles seemed distant from where we rested. Emergency sprinklers above us let out a hiss, as they threw their spray everywhere to control the fire caused by the explosion. I noticed that the droplets were spattering on her face. Water ran into her nose and mouth, suffocating her. I hastened to shield her face with my own body, ceasing her writhing in convulsions. The water mixed with the puddle of blood and drained into a nearby grate on the floor. Her hair was restored to it rich, golden blond colour as the darkened crimson of her blood was washed out of it.

I lapsed into an inordinate stultiloquy, filled with lies and half truths. I reassured her that she was always the one I dreamed of most often, and whom I envisioned when I was in need of comfort.

She nodded slowly, as understanding came to her. It is amazing how much meaning can be found in incoherent babbling.

An ambulance pulled up beside us. She seemed to want to say something, so I leaned forward, to catch her murmur. In her final breath before the paramedics arrived, she exhaled the words, "I don't believe you," into my ear.

The paramedics quickly surveyed the situation. She was attached to a heart monitor and soon her pulse appeared on the screen accompanied by an audible variation. The periodic beeps from the machine punctuated the atmosphere.

I broke into a babble, defending my earlier statements, but she merely smiled smugly as a fresh supply of blood was connected to her arm. While the paramedics were preparing the ambulance for the patient, a doctor stayed by me, monitoring Karen's condition. Karen shuddered as she drew on her reserves of strength to survive the next few moments.

"Frank, if I survive, will you marry me?" she whispered weakly.

Holding a clump of her hair, I felt that it was the least I could do, since I was responsible for her wounds.

"Yes," I said as tears finally came to my eyes.

The beeps of the heart rate monitor were replaced by a single sustained note. She lay cold and unmoving on the ground. The saltiness of my tears stung my tongue. Cradling her in my arms, I let loose a stream of emotions I had hidden away for so long. The world seemed to blacken into a void leaving only her and I, alone. Blood was smeared on my shirt and streaks of the crimson liquid blotted my face. I rocked back and forth, hoping that time would end so that both of us could die together.

"Damn army surplus equipment!" grumbled the doctor. "The stuff never works! Always breaking down!" With a swift kick, a heart rate once again registered on the heart monitor. Karen was hoisted into the ambulance. Concerned, I inquired about her condition.

"Oh she's fine. We should be able to fix her up in no time. Let me be frank. Her wounds are minimal. They're standard textbook burns with the only complication being the shrapnel imbedded in her body. It's nothing, really," the doctor explained to me.

The ambulance doors were shut in front of me, and the ambulance raced off, leaving me alone to wallow in the despair of my minor predicament involving a marriage.

At 8 P.M. the next day, I was seated once more at the table in the basement of the research building. I had talked to the chief earlier in the day, and he had been very angry at my conduct, yet oddly pleased about my future marriage to Karen.

During the night, I had discovered that the people sitting at the table were the true leaders of Tyron and we had sufficient evidence against them to go to court, but of course more evidence would be preferable.

"Are you sure that the blast killed the police officer?" the woman on my right inquired.

"Yes, and all the documents were lost when the fire burned down much of the building," I answered knowing otherwise. The fire was small, and we were able to salvage the papers they wanted destroyed, and found them very useful as evidence.

"Congratulations. John often exaggerates the abilities of the people he recommends, but obviously you weren't one of them. Here's the money." Joe said as he handed me a wad of bills.

I accepted the money, but hesitated for a few moments. They were waiting for me to depart. I stood up and grabbed my briefcase. The handle was vibrating, as it was supposed to, if my gun sensed that I was in the room alone with the 4 crime bosses: Boris, Kronf, Sarah, and Joe. My gun was on the table as before. I stared at it, weighing my options. I glanced upward to see 4 pairs of eyes looking inquisitively at me. The poor fools were off guard. They had become cocky with their power. I had seen the result of their power. It had to be stopped. This seemed to be an opportune moment to spring the trap of the police department.

I reached out for my gun. The others noticed that I was moving somewhat quickly and pushed back their chairs, straining to get up. I grasped my gun and pointed it at all those present. They too had their hands on their guns, bringing them up.

"Freeze, you're all under arrest," we shouted practically in unison.

I realized that I was looking into the faces of all my favourite heroes.

Richie Mert of the FBI stood in front of me, Louise the litigious lawyer of Scotland Yard was on my right as Sarah, Detective Casta of the CIA was posing as Joe, and Dylan of INTERPOL was removing his disguise of Boris.

The rain was pouring down hard on my overcoat and hat as I stood on the hill overlooking the bright lights of the city. Apparently, the government had unknowingly sustained the largest organized crime agency in North America for over 10 years. After the Organized Crime Crackdown of 1994, the 4 detectives, Richie, Louise, Casta, and Dylan, in their 4 independent government departments had decided to go undercover into the last major organized crime syndicate, where they could work their way up to the top from which they could crush any budding new crime organizations and eventually dismantle that organization.

To think I had almost shot Richie Mert.

I returned to my car, contemplating leaving the country before the wedding tomorrow. After all, I was due for a vacation soon. I sighed. "Once one is a cop, one is always a cop". I drove to the nearest doughnut shop instead.