[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/odNGXKX.png?1[/img][/center] [b]Unincorporated Gotham 2004[/b] They called it Billyland. Rednecks and peckerwoods from all over Appalachia flocked to the city during and after World War II to work the industry jobs all the upstanding crackers left behind when they went off to war. The Hillbillies, Billies to those in the know, made unincorporated Gotham a hicktown haven and had been there ever since. Billyland was a running joke through the city. You going through Billyland and hear banjo music? Roll up those windows and drive faster, boy. How do you castrate a Billy? Kick his sister in the mouth. What do you call a Billy girl who can run faster than her brothers? A virgin. Billyland: 10,000 people and only six teeth. Slam drove the unmarked car, Two-Gun Jack Grogan rode shotgun. They cruised through Billyland and took in the sights. Dig those trucks and big ass tires. Dig that Billy music blasting out the trucks. Fat girls in tight jean shorts and tighter tops. Muffin tops abound. Tweaker sores abound. Teenage mothers pushing babies, rebel yells, motorcycles, more jacked up trucks. Bush '04 stickers, Confederate Flags and "Heritage, Not Hate" signs as far as the eye can see. Slam was on a work high. He and Grogan worked over an informant about a diamond heist. Feature:: Two days earlier, an armored car headed for Zinkman & Sons had been robbed by four masked men with assault rifles. Said heisters made off with a half a mil in hot rocks. Grogan's informant, a safe cracker with a dope addiction, spat teeth and spat out a name finally. A guy named Clay from Billyland had been asking around about muscle for a job. The snitch had wanted in, but they turned him down the racist crackers. Never mind anybody with half a brain could tell the informant was a full-blown needle fiend, the last thing you need on a job like that. The informant gave them a basic description and a bar he met the man at. Grogan made a call and a few hours later, here they were. Two-Gun Jack spit tobacco in a paper cup and said, “Pull over right here.” Slam parked on the side of the road by another unmarked. Two men got out. A dark haired man with a ‘stache and a red haired man with cruel green eyes. Grogan made introductions. "Slam, this is Sergeant Tommy Burke and Detective Mal Harris. Guys, this is Detective Slam Bradley, the boxer. He is the latest member of our happy little band." Harris with a nasally Boston accent, "Is he up to this, skip?" Two-Gun Jack spat tobacco and chuckled. "I think you’ll be surprised by what Slam is capable of." Burke’s voice rumbled deep. “He looks the part anyway.” Grogan said, “Yep. What did your tail job muster?” Burke lit up a cigarette. “We found that bar you told us about. We sat on it and saw a man matching that description. From there we tailed him to a trailer park. It’s a mile away from here.” Slam spoke up. “Out here is sheriff’s territory. Do we call them before we move in?” The three men laughed. Harris held his ribs. Grogan slapped a knee. Burke wiped his eyes. “Holy shit, you really are virgin.” Grogan held his hand out. “Now, now. You'll find that Slam is gonna be a quick study. Did you bring the other supplies, boys?” Harris winked, “It wouldn’t be a party without them, skip.” Burke popped the trunk. Slam looked in. Four pump-action shotguns, four pairs of leather gloves, and four ski-masks. Slam felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He looked up. Grogan smiled. Harris smiled. Burke fucking grinned. Grogan said, "Welcome to the Surveillance Unit, son." Burke slipped on a pair of gloves and racked a shell into a shotgun. "Heart breakers and life takers." Slam heard his pulse in his ears. Burke drove the car, Harris in the passenger seat. Slam and Grogan sat in the backseat, shotguns on their laps and ski masks rolled up on their heads. Kevlar vests tight on their chests. Grogan checked his shotgun and quarterbacked the raid. "Slam, Mal, and I go in through the front. Tommy watches the back door. These men are highly armed and dangerous, so be vigilant. I want to take them all alive if possible. If we succeed then we black bag them and take them across the city line into Gotham City." Harris chain-smoked from the front seat. "What about the diamonds?" Slam asked. Grogan winked. "What diamonds?" Slam mounted a flashlight on his shotgun, racked a round into the chamber. Burke pulled into the Jefferson Oaks Trailer Park. He killed the lights and engine and coasted down gravel roads. Grogan rolled his mask on. Slam followed his lead. They jumped out and ran across gravel. A double-wide with peeling green paint, a USMC flag mounted on the porch. No lights on. Burke sprinted around the back. Slam took the stairs. He stopped by the front door, flicked the flashlight on. A party two trailers over. Skynyrd playing loud. "Saturday Night Special" blasting through the trailer park. Grogan said go. Slam kicked the cheap door. It bucked. It groaned. It crashed open. He went in fast, Grogan and Harris right behind him. --- [b]Dutch Hill 9:09 AM[/b] Slam made three passes before he parked his heap. Jim's house sat on a quiet block filled with working stiffs. Nobody around to see him come and go. He sipped Starbucks coffee laced with booze. Dutch Hill was très stylish now thanks to gentrification. Thirty years ago it was Crack City, drug wars dropped at least two bodies a day. Today it was hipsters and artisan cheeses. Slam sipped coffee and wondered if artisan crack was a thing. He killed his coffee and headed towards the front door. He wore latex gloves. He carried lockpicks, a penknife, a digital camera, and a flashlight in his coat. He picked the lock in thirty seconds and went through the door. Jim's house reeked of cigarettes and TV dinners. The house was straight bachelor decor: panel wood and flannels. Slam clicked his flashlight on and knew right away the place had been tossed. It was neat, too neat for Jim. Jim was a Felix compared to sloppy Slam, but Slam had been to the house enough times to know Jim wouldn't have left it this pristine. He stepped through the house, caught a trace of a scent underneath the cigarette smoke. Slam pegged it as Clorox. Jim's den was neat and pristine. On the bookshelf: History books, law tomes, criminology books. Books on the desk, books about science, robotics, and philosophy. Odd. A map on the desk beside the books. The Gotham subway and sewage system laid out in grids. Check marks on grids. Slam studied it with his flashlight. It read Greek to him. Slam snapped pix of the maps with his camera. Pix of the books on the shelf and books for future reference. He went through the house for ten minutes. Wipe marks on surfaces, more cleaning stuff on the floor. Conclusion: Jim's pad was searched by a pro. Said pro went behind the tossing with a Mr. Clean routine. Said pro wiped away any prints or clues with their cleaning. Whatever they were looking for, the maps and books were not it. Slam clicked off his flashlight and headed for the door. --- [b]The Rose Hill Motel 4:45 PM[/b] Slam sat in his car and eyeballed the dump. The Rose Hill Motel. Twenty years since the city condemned it. A no-tell motel dump before then. Now it was rotting slowly on its foundation. It straddled the line between city and county. Rooms 1-6 were inside Gotham proper, 7-12 in unincorporated county turf. Far away from prying eyes, the place was perfect for the needs of the Surveillance Unit. Slam's "office" had been Room 5 when he was part of the detail. He'd went back to his flop after tossing Gordon's place. He passed out the bed without bothering to take off his jacket. He'd been running twenty-fours straight on nothing but booze and coffee. No dreams in his sleep, no nightmares. Four unmarked cop cars were parked outside the motel. Two big sons of bitches came out. Shaved heads and tight black t-shirts let Slam know they were cops. He sighed. Young cops all dressed like skinheads. Feature on the man between them: bloodied and bruised with a limp. The Surveillance Unit's mandate: discourage further mob encroachment into the city. "Discouragement" was brass approval to kidnap, beat, and send packing any out of town mobsters who had disillusions of grandeur. The cops took the money the would-be crime lords had on them and donated it to the GCPD widow & orphan fun. After they got their cut, of course. The two meatheads shoved the beaten man into the backseat of a car and pulled out. They U-turned and headed towards Slam's car. He scrunched down in the seat as they passed. Slam popped back up after they were gone. Feature on a grey-haired man in a plaid short sleeve button-up and jeans with work boots. Slam made out tats on his forearms and a Glock on his left hip. He wore glasses with bulky black frames. To Slam he looked like an aging hipster. Word on the street was that he was a stone killer. Captain Marcus Wise, head of the Surveillance Unit, lit up a cigarette and walked to his car. Wise drove off away from the Rose Hill, going in the opposite direction of the two meatheads. Slam waited and counted off seconds. At seventy, he started his car and gunned it. He caught up with Wise just as his car got on the highway. Slam hung three cars back and followed the man as he entered the city.