Not a Jap Bike
by Mr. Schprock
His T-shirt said in big letters: "I'D RATHER EAT SHIT THAN RIDE A JAP BIKE." Not too subtle. I thought those undercover guys were supposed to be inconspicuous, blend in, you know? So anyway, he comes into my office with a fucking tire iron, no preliminaries, and nearly caves in my skull, just like that. I'm old, but the reflexes are still good. I dive and then I'm up again. Dope leaves the door to my office open, so out I go, Mister Shit Eater hot on my trail.
"Lester says 'hi,' you spic cocksucker!" he yells, spit flying everywhere.
I don't bother tell him I ain't a spic. I run to my car but see the tires have been slashed. Figures. It's near midnight, no help anywhere. Score one for him.
"You're a cop!" I yell back as I run around the car. "Serve and protect, asshole!"
He doesn't dare use his gun, too traceable. But that slows him down, because he didn't know I knew he was a cop. I watch his dumb face form a big question mark. Just enough time to reach in my glove box.
"Tire iron. Gun. Gun beats tire iron," I shout, and let him have it, four rounds. Moron still has the big question mark on his face. He does a drunken ballet step and hits the pavement. Hard.
Stupid cop. Nice bike. Little sloppy going from second to third though.