Rookie detective Burke Owens and hardcore veteran Peter Panda are two of the city's worst detectives.
After stumbling upon a Scientology plot to control the black market in the human organ trade, Burke and Peter do whatever it takes to infiltrate Scientology and take the organization down.
Fortunately, for Scientology, they have nothing to fear.
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In the back stock room of Chuck E. Cheese, Peter Panda sat on a crate staring at the brick of cocaine in front of him. “You call that a brick,” said Peter, lifting it up and squeezing it in his thick fingers, leaving a fat indentation in the blue plastic film. “It’s loose like your asshole.”
“Hey fuck you,” said a thin long haired Mexican named Lopez. He leaned against the wall dressed in a Chuck E Cheese outfit. He held the large Chuck E. Cheese headpiece beside his hip and a cigarette dangled from his lips and he brushed his sweaty hair away from his face with the furry gray mitts that resembled monstrous mouse paws. Peter looked at the goofy grinning mouse head and thought that only a demented pedophile would choose to wear such a stupid outfit and dance around for little bastard children.
Two other men sat at the table with Peter. They were dressed like managers and had the manager inscribed nametags pinned to their chests to prove it.
“The tape loosened during shipping,” said one manager, “but I can assure not a grain was lost.”
Peter smirked and rubbed his round belly. His white shirt with big American flag imprints and his white jeans were the brightest things in the dismal stock room. Behind the thin wall were the sounds of sniveling brats eating pizza and screaming about stupid shit like skeeball and 3D video games and their newest iPhone. Fucking iPhones.
“I’m sure a grain wasn’t lost because you were probably snorting it up your fucking noses like that commie, President Obama.”
The two managers looked at each other. “Look man,” said the other one with the earring in his eyebrow, “I don’t know what your problem is but we just want to unload this shit. Lopez said you wanted to buy. Now give us the money in your briefcase or you will leave here in a trash bag.
Lopez stomped the cigarette out with his big Chuck E. Cheese foot. “And I will take great pleasure in cutting your arms and ears and legs off.”
“Is that right?”
“Better believe it,” said the manager with the brow ring. He pulled out a .45 that was hidden beneath his manager’s vest. He put it on the table, the muzzle aimed toward Peter.
The other manager pulled out a Glock and aimed it toward Peter. “We ain’t in the business of fucking around.”
Peter held up his hands. “Whoah fellas, don’t shoot,” he said in his most mocking tone like he was talking to thirteen year old punkasses.
“You don’t think we’re serious?”
“He’s wearing a rat costume and the two of you have Chuck E. Cheese nametags. You’re three knuckleheads with cap guns.”
“Did he just call us knuckleheads?”
“I haven’t heard that since third grade.”
“And where’s your gun Chuck E. Cheese?” said Peter.
“I don’t need a gun,” said Lopez, slapping his plastic paws together. “I’ll kick your ass just like this.”
The manager with the brow ring said, “Listen old man, I’ll make this easy. You can open the briefcase and let us keep the money and you walk out of here with your life. Sound good?”
“So you’re going to shoot an old man like me with children next door?”
Peter stared through him with narrowed eyes. He licked his teeth. “This ain’t how things are done in America. Not the America I know.”
“Fuck you, GI Joe. Open the case.”
Peter took a sharp look at the three dealers: a punk with a brow ring holding a .45 sideways like he’s a gangsta rapper; a punk with over gelled hair and a Glock laying on its side; a Mexican dressed like Chuck E. Cheese, putting his mouse headpiece on.
“What are you doing Lopez?” said the manager.
“I’m due out there. The last thing we need is an angry mother searching the storeroom for me.”
“Open the case,” said the manager with the brow ring.
“You got it.” Peter spun the briefcase around so it was facing them. He clicked the tabs and they sprung up, then he slowly opened the briefcase.
“What the fuck?” said the manager.
“There’s nothing in it except a gun,” said the other.
“That’s not any gun,” said Peter. “It’s a .500 Magnum and it is the most powerful handgun in the universe. It has an eight inch barrel. Bullets have a half inch diameter. The recoil can sprain your wrist if you’re not tough enough. In fact, you can kill a Tyrannosaurs Rex with a single bullet. And her name is Lucy.”
“You named your gun Lucy?”
Without a second to spare, just as the manager finished the word Lucy, Peter grabbed the .500 Magnum, had it pointed at the manager with the Glock, and he turned off the safety with a flick of the thumb.
“Nice moves,” said the manager with a smirk. “But I’m holding a Glock semi-automatic with a fifteen round clip—“
Peter fired his Magnum blowing the manager’s brains against the back wall like wet globs of hamburger. The firepower sounded like a truck exploding in an enclosed room. The Glock fell to the floor along with the brainless manager.
Peter turned and just as the other manager was about to pull the trigger on the .45, he fired a second round, and the bullet hurled the manager into the grimy wall behind him. His lungs decorated the wall like an impasto painting.
Chuck E. Cheese looked at his brainless manager dead on the floor and then he looked at the lungless manager that had been thrown like a ragdoll and then he looked back at Peter.
Peter Panda pulled out his badge from his back pocket and held it up. “You are under arrest for distributing—”
The mouse didn’t wait for Peter to finish. He charged the door shoulder first and broke it off its hinges sending it clattering into the hall. The mouse stumbled for several steps and then regained his balance.
Peter cursed. The last thing he needed was a hostage situation.
Peter jumped over the chair and nearly blew his knee out when he landed. “Christ, I’m getting too fat and old for this,” he said, stumbling into the hall. He saw the giant mouse charge past the bathroom and then turn the corner and the kids screamed in unison, “Chuckie!”
Peter turned the corner with his Magnum held high. A fat woman screamed at the sight of Peter’s gun. Chuckie E. Cheese grabbed a pepperoni pizza from one of the kids’ tables and hurled it at Peter, hitting him in the chest.
“You son of a bitch,” yelled Peter. “This was a new shirt.”
Chuckie E. Cheese grabbed another pie along with its metal serving tray and threw it like a Frisbee. Peter ducked and the tray dinged off the wall and slices of cheese pizza splattered on the floor. Children screamed and some hid under the table. One of the fat mothers leapt like a crazed monkey from her chair and slammed herself into Peter Panda. To Peter, it felt as if a large North Atlantic walrus, engorged with fish and seawater and the breath to match, threw itself onto him. He hit the floor chest first and his gun slid from his grasp. He felt his lungs compress from the woman’s weight. Her mammoth breasts smothering his head. “Get off me, you lunatic,” he yelled.
“Call the cops,” he heard her yell.
“I am the cops.”
Then he saw Chuckie’s fat gray feet scurry over and bend down and try to pick up the gun. His paw was too big, so he lifted the gun up with both paws clasped together.
Adrenaline shooting through him, Peter slid his left shoulder under himself, lifted his other shoulder from beneath the woman’s floppy breast, and free, he was able to throw a flurry of elbows into the woman’s face. She groaned and rolled off him. Peter grabbed Chuck E. Cheese’s foot and pulled, sending Chuck tumbling to the floor.
A young girl with her mouth wide open let out the highest shrilly scream that Peter had ever heard. He closed his eyes in pain and yelled that he would punch her lights out if she didn’t shut-up. Quickly, he threw himself on top of Chuck E. Cheese. Chuck spun around on the floor and threw a right hook square into Peter’s jaw.
Peter hit him with a solid knee in the stomach. Chuck smashed his large furry paw into Peter’s face, nearly obscuring it.
A kid yelled, “Leave Chuckie alone you bad man.”
Using his left arm, Peter deflected Chuckie’s hand and seeing an opening, he punched him in the neck. Chuck E.Cheese gagged and Peter seeing his gun an arm’s length in front of him, reached to grab it and at that moment he felt the large truck driver arms of the fat mother, then he felt her breasts compress against his head as she pulled back. Peter gagged and tried working his fingers under her arms. Chuck E. Cheese got up on his knees, removed his paws, and picked up Peter’s .500 Magnum. Seeing Chuck stand up, Peter, gasping for air, saw that evil, grinning mouse raise his gun, his Lucy, point the muzzle at him and then he heard an explosion of glass as the rest of the narcotics squad broke through the doors.
“Put the gun down,” yelled an officer.
Chuck E. Cheese turned and with the gun still in his hand, the officers shot him in a barrage of bullets and he fell on the kids’ table, slamming down on Timmy’s chocolate cake, the kids staring at the still mouse, the smell of gun powder wafting through the party room, and little Timmy removed his paper birthday crown and said, “This is the coolest birthday ever.”