Hopping out of bed, Rush grabbed his bathrobe and flopped into the

big black leather chair before his computer, fired it up and waited 

for the Google 10 logo to appear. 

​

Before the screen in thought the lit screen casts him in silhouette:

​

“Crimes have gone down since I slept…. I know County Sheriff

Rob Muna's cowboys failed to corral the killer of that young boy!

Perhaps the press should pay more attention to escalating

crime in Metrobia, and less to side-shows like

Ronald Rump's media theatrics!”

​

"The strategy meetings between the political heirarchy

gettin' stale. Mayor Katie Fisch, Congresswoman Roxanne

Rivers, Sup. Janna Hall and Muna may mean well, but I

THINK IT'S TIME FOR THE STRANGER TO HIT THE SCENE!

IN THOUGHT  FACING COMPUTER…

​

“Time to make another round—pay those Yuts, the 

Lime Street gang a night call. They killed that kid

‘cause he wore greenlaces! And they're still

walkin' around free and braggin'!

“I’ll round ‘em up! Congresswoman Rivers is

right—‘someone’s gotta pay for the damage they

did to Metrobia, flooding it with drugs and guns!'”

​

FRONT VIEW OF RUSHIA FACING COMPUTER

Consternation in his expression.

​

“… and gotta plug the cartels too or they’re

gonna reduce America to a stupor ...

if she's not already there!

​

"But, first need to gather some intel on the

 Lime Street gang responsible for the kid's

murder. They hang out daily at The Bistro ... .

I'll pay the joint a visit and deploy MDIO-1 to

 gather some irrefutable intel for indictment 

and conviction... ."

​

LATER THAT AFTERNOON...

​

Rushia Gerard sits at a patio table outside The

Bistro inconspicuously munching on a double

cheeseburger and fries, having already released

MDIO-1 water bug, which scurried to a hidden locale

out of sight inside the guest dining area ahead of any

of the arriving Lime Street gangsters.

​

 "Now, I'll await for the transferral of the intel..."

 Rushia thought to himself, slurping a Pepsi.

​

MEANWHILE...

​

Several hours elapsed since Rushia Gerard planted

the robotic spy at The Bistro, now enveloped in the

darkness of nightfall. The Lime Street gang numbered 

20 strong on this night—several engaged in a game

of bid whist, four more slamming dominoes, and the

rest munching edibles, fixated on the Lakers and

 Nuggets game on a mounted 60-inch big screen.

​

Unbeknownst to them, the robotic spy had been

gathering intel and transmitting undetected to 

Rushia Gerard for hours now in a chandelier 

hanging from the ceiling.

​

The bid whist action dominated the scene,

with the gang set's 30-year-old leader Rayvon

"Gallows" Charles commanding attention with

his raucous outbursts.

 

Slapping a winning card hand on the table...

"That's a plus-seven," he bellowed. "Me and my

pot-ner triumph! Hell, that was easier than

smokin' that lil chump wearin' green shoe

strings in my 'hood! He had to go, and ya'll

gotta pay! That's "Gallows" truth!" 

​

ELSEWHERE...

​

"MDIO-1 aced it!" Rushia Gerard shouted.

"Got a confession and photo ID. I will make

a house call tomorrow at The Bistro to gather

the package for the Metrobia County Sheriff,

 along with digital evidence—and a scoop for 

Metrobia Herald Editor Jerrold Goodfellows...

 

"I will sleep soundly tonight."

​

THE NEXT DAY, MONDAY, RUSHIA GERARD

initiated his action plan before sunrise,

messaging the same intel directly to both

the rookie Sheriff Muna and the Metrobia

Herald's veteran publisher Goodfellows. 

​

Glancing at his watch, several hours expired

since he pushed the "send button" on his PC.

​

"Both men should have the message by now,

aware that an extraordinary event will befall

them soon—that a new breed of crime snuffer

will emerge in Metrobia to make the city a

safer more lawful place.

​

MEANWHILE ... at both Sheriff Muna's office and

the Metrobia Herald, similar energy was churning.

​

Muna read the note with interest, aware from

36 years in law enforcement that vigilantes would

from time-to-time rise with grandiose notions of

single-handedly circumventing crime. Muna was

very careful not to overreach as former Metrobia

Police Chief Renard C.P. Larks had done in the

1990s to Kurt Sliwall and his Guardian Angels,

when they voluntarily instituted patrols of 

Metrobia's worst neighborhoods.

​

Instead, he assigned Undersheriff May Tardee

to follow-up and keep him posted.

​

At the Herald, Jarrold Goodfellows wasn't

about to pass on a potential scoop, unaware

if any other media had been apprised. He

assigned coverage of the story to long-time

reporter Doug Lincoln and the Herald's

star photojournalist Roddie Rashly. Their

task was to quickly get the story posted

online ahead of the competition. 

​

LATER AT 7 P.M. MONDAY EVENING ...

​

The Bistro was teeming with activity, with the 

entire Lime Street Gang present—as was the case

most nights during the week—engaged in table-top

gambling, billiards, attuned to sports on the big

screen or chowing down.

​

They hadn't noticed the sudden appearance of the

guest adorned in all black at the entrance to the

cafe—until he caught Gallows' eye.

​

"This ain't open to the public from 7 to 10 p.m.

—it's a private party," Gallows lied, something

he and his cohorts had been doing for a year to

maintain their exclusivity. The owner dare not

object and the gang kindly obliged him with $10k

per month to serve them food, and to use the

cafe as their private gang set for three hours on

weekdays and two additional hours to midnight

on the weekends and holidays.

 

The stranger held a red cube in his right clench,

trench coat collar turned up, and brim hat tilted

low over his brow so that his face was hardly

discernable. He also wore a black mask over his

mouth and nose, and didn't flinch.

​

"I said this is a private set, maan—why you still

standing there?" Gallows barked. That's when all

eyes turned on the stranger, who subsequently

tossed the red cube several feet above the gang,

hitting the ceiling and bursting profusely into a

red mist, quickly enveloping the entire cafe in

a rouge mist, rendering everyone instantly

unconscious, collapsing to the floor and

slumping where they sat. 

​

Unfortunately, the cafe owner suffered the same

fate. But the stranger took special precaution to

turn off stove-top burners and ovens to prevent

a fire in the cafe.

​

"Never planned to remain here, Gallows," the stranger

said, after which he shackled the gang leader's hands

together with two indestructible plastic ties around a

circular steel pole in the center of The Bistro dining

area extending from the floor to the ceiling. 

​

The stranger emerged from the cafe activating a device

within his trench coat that renders him hard to detect

during nightfall. He blended into the darkness not a

moment too soon.

​

Just then, four Metrobia Sheriff units pull up and one other

vehicle bearing a reporter and photographer from the Herald.

 

The time was 8 o'clock p.m.

 

 

 

 

EPISODE 2  

By the Light of the Moon:

Justice in the 'Green Shoelaces' murder

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

WHAT KIND OF MUCK? ...

​

Sheriff Rob Muna didn't take part in interrogating

suspects or attending interrogations. But this one was

special involving the slaughter of a kid scarcely

past the growth spurts of puberty.

​

The indicted but yet unconvicted Rayvon Charles, aka "Gallows,"

was seated on a stool with hands bound behind his back.

​

"I just had to see for myself what kind of muck puts a .38

caliber slug into an unarmed kid over some damn green

shoestrings?" Muna said.

​

"I'm innocent. I AIN'T DONE WHAT I'M ACCUSED OF ...

THIS IS A RACIST SET-UP!" Charles snapped.

​

"Oh, we got our man! We have your confession on tape, 

and a video of you mouthing the confession bragging

about your deed, Rayvon Charles, alias GALLOWS!"

​

Charles turned to Sheriff Muna in the low-light room.

​

 "The Sheriff Department ain't piss—ya'll deputies ain't dog

piss! Some spook in all black crashed our party and somehow

drugged us," Charles complained. "Next thing I know, um in

the back of a police car! My homies laid it out for me!

That's got to be illegal!

​

"The evidence will stand up in court this week, where I'm

confident you will be found guilty and hopefully put away

for life in a Federal or State penitentiary!" Muna scowled.

​

"You won't be a guest here at Metrobia Central, long.

We're shipping you out, Charles!"

​

"W-h-a-t-e-v-e-r ... just another Black political

prisoner," Charles bemoaned.

​

MUNA GLARED AT CHARLES FOR AN EXTENDED MOMENT.

​

"Send this misfit back to his cell!" 

​

LATER THAT WEEK AT A THURSDAY NEWS CONFERENCE

IN FRONT OF THE METROBIA COUNTY JAIL ...

​

Sheriff Muna stood at a podium joined by Undersheriff

May Tardee and other members of his brass. He revealed

a disconcerting expression to a bevy of reporters and

photojournalists assembled before him.

​

"I don't know how a newspaper managed to upstage me,"

Muna said, "but they did. Anyway ...

​

"I'M HERE TO ANNOUNCE THE SUSPECT THE SHERIFF

DEPARTMENT APPREHENDED AND BROUGHT TO JUSTICE,

WAS SENT TO STATE PRISON WEDNESDAY, CONVICTED

BY A JURY OF HIS PEERS ON 4 CRIMINAL COUNTS,

INCLUDING FIRST DEGREE MURDER IN THE

KILLING OF 12 YEAR-OLD ANDRAE TAY!"

​

A local activist interrupted the sheriff, holding a

newspaper above his head bearing the a banner—

​

"JONES STRANGER NABS 'GREEN SHOESTRINGS KILLER!'"

​

"Looks like there's a new sheriff in town," joked Ali Najae,

prompting members of the press to turn to him.

​

"Where did you get that?" a young White female journalist

from the mainstream Metrobia Examiner asked.

​

"I don't know—you'll have to ask them ... the story reads the 

Stranger said his name was 'Jones'. I don't know. Interview

the editor—Jarrold Goodfellows," Najae chuckled.

​

​

​

​

​

EPISODE 3  

MDIO-1 Keeps on Transmitting:

Slippin' Into Darkness

​

Early Friday morning, Rushia was on the computer checking

with MDIO-1 to listen in on the chatter at The Bistro. Gallows,

their leader was tucked away in the California Correctional

Institute at Carlsbad, but it was business as usual with the

gang set busy as normal in the proliferation, movement

and sale of illicit drugs in Southern California with the

Colombia-based Zorra Colombiano Cartel .

​

A red light flashed intermittently on the computer

screen. Rushia was eager to learn what intel the

robotic operative had gathered for him this time.

​

"MDIO-1 has attained the following intel for

Agent Rushia Gerard by text messaging and audio:

First, the test message: 'Representatives of the

Lime Street Gang will meet with representatives

of Zorra Colombiano Cartel @ 1 a.m. Sunday next,

at the remote rear of the South Bay Airport for

the transfer of 1000 multi-colored plastic 

vials, each containing 1,000 tablets of the

opioid fentanyl for a combined total

of 1 million tablets.'"

​

"Now the audio intel."

​

Rushia zeroed in on one of the Lime Street gang—

Caspar Robinson, aka "Boo," who assumed "No. 1 G" 

in place of the deposed Gallows who was sentenced

to 90 years+ 10 years for each of the Andrae Tay's

12 years of life, without the possibility of parole.

 

Rushia Gerard turned up the volume on the PC.

​

"The meet and exchange of the package is set for

Sunday at 1 a.m.," Caspar confirmed aloud

to no one in particular.

 

"This one is extra SWEEET! Gonna make

bank on this one. Gotta do our due diligence.

Who said the American Dream ain't for us?

Believe that if you want sucka. Not me!

Turn up the jams—let's party!"

​

The Lime Street gangsters were completely 

oblivious to MDIO-1 and its meticulous spy work.

It hadn't occurred to them the place might be

bugged. Rudy Smith, The Bistro's owner, had

his suspicions that the gang was being watched.

​

Rushia Gerard pushed back from the computer

screen, rubbed his eyes and sighed.

​

"There's a helleva haul coming in," he mused. "This may

 be one of the biggest illicit movements of fentanyl in the

drug's history. Well, I'm gonna upset the apple cart.
 

"Uncle Sam is a chronic addict, and his lust for

mind-altering drugs is being fed at every turn. He's

desperate to escape the realities of life."

​

SUNDAY AT 9 P.M., SOUTH BAY AIRPORT

​

"All quiet at ground zero—a mite too quiet," the

stranger thought, sitting in his Black Cloud Koenigsegg

Jesko Absolut cloaked in near invisibility at the end of

the back street bordering the airport. "I'm indebted to 

Army engineering for creating this cloaking mechanism

that enables me and the car to blend in the darkness ... 

 

"Engenders the 70's soul classic, 'Slippin' Into Darkness,'"

by War," the stranger chuckles. "I inherited my dad's gold

LP collection. That jam soothed me a many days. But,

here I am now, slippin' in the darkness..."

​

Movement at the other end of the block snapped the

stranger out of his trance. He'd done his part. In position

and ready to close in once the cartel contacts appeared

with members of the Lime Street gang, were the sheriff

department, Drug Enforcement Agency, ATF, agents of

the FBI, and South Bay Police. They had positioned

themselves out of sight since the afternoon.

 

The stranger was only there to observe and mop up

any stray bad guys attempting to slip the trap. The

coalition had no inkling of his presence.

​

THE RENDEZVOUS

​

At 10 p.m. four vehicles—all dark-colored SUV's

turned onto the street and parked spaced apart

at the other end of the block. The stranger spied

them through night-vision goggles. Several men

occupied each vehicle. They did not exit the

vehicles immediately. 

 

The stranger knew they were scanning the area

for anything appearing conspicuously out of place.

Unbeknownst to them, they had already given the

coalition justifiable cause to search them.

​

Four SUVs appearing roughly at the same time late

at night on a sparsely driven street was suspicion. The

stranger wondered what was holding the coalition back.

 

"I gather the drug dealers are content to wait as close

to the switching hour or until 1 a.m. to execute the

transfer, making sure of no encroachment," the

stranger surmised.

 

TWO HOURS ELAPSE ...

 

The stranger flashed the time on the dashboard.

The time was 12:30 a.m. There had not been any 

movement from the occupants in the SUVs for

more than two hours since their arrival.

 

Then the stranger discovered why. Abruptly

appearing in the sky was a single helicopter

that didn't betray it presence. The stranger

spliced it all together.

 

"Obviously the other half of the party—

most likely the Zorra Colombiano Cartel

arriving in a stealth chopper."