“A dipper out of juice is like Michael Jordan without his Gatorade” – L. Volker

It was 10:45 and Naomi Goodbarrel was at the corner of Ivar and Sunset. Like much of Hollywood after dark, it was a truly a lifestyle septic tank. Two LAPD cars cruised past the freak show with an air of regal indifference to the whole thing.

Then a white Ford F-150 with a thin lair of dirt on it, pulled up next to her. A man who was probably in his fifties told her “Get in; it’s time to blow out the candles.”

Naomi had eaten a bellyful of this garbage, but it was her purpose in life. She’d arrived in LA to stay cool until needed. The Sleepers had put her on “Silent Mode” for over a year after she’d whacked a rather sorry inhabitant of the Santa Barbara rave scene who called himself “The Skin-Crawler” and who slung magik publicly, while high on cocktails of Red Bull and Stoli.

“She reached in her purse for her .38 and explained. “Either you’re Charlie Richter, or you’re one dead son of a bitch.”

“Haaahhh” He sighed. “If I wanted to, I could drive you to Santa Barbara, draw a warrant out on your ass and plant you on the coke-whore farm for the next thirty. Luckily for you,” Richter Continued. “My name is Charlie Richter and I’m here to do my mission, even if that includes taking bullshit off of you on a lovely East Hollywood evening.”

Naomi glared at Richter. “What’s the plan, Columbo?”

Richter ignored her, in a studied fashion. He turned his radio to an AM Golden Oldies station and tried very hard to imagine a world where The Sleepers, Naomi Goodbarrel and the entire occult fringe was not in existence. It would be a lovely place to retire in and buy a really big fishing boat.

He cruised west, past a few ugly blocks of Sunset Boulevard. This brought him to a shopping mall, across La Brea Avenue from Hollywood High; home of The Mighty Sheiks. “We stop here and wait for the spotter to call.” He told Goodbarrel.

“Who’s the spotter? Easton?” She asked in a peeved voice.

“Why yes,” Richter replied in an acid tone. “If he can pull his head out of sphincter and look.”

Richter parked the car and headed to Yoshinoya Restaurant; home of the Beef Bowl. He walked in without even looking or caring whether Goodbarrel was inclined to join him.

*******************************************************

Rodney Easton had been in a new stake out position since about 8:30. He’d gone back to his hotel room, showered and selected a new entirely black outfit. This one included a really cool retro bowling shirt which he considered too trashy to blow his nose on if it itched. He now sat in his SUV and waited, phone on belt, to take the call when he heard from Doug Rollins.

Easton had a good, clear view of his target’s office, sleeping quarters. Rollins had given the target the sobriquet “Dirtbag” and told Easton he’d better make damn sure “Dirtbag” was home and alone when it came time to drop the hammer. So far, fortune favored Rollins’ plan. The target was at home.

He’d walked to a hole-in-the-wall liquor store and had returned with two goodie bags around 9:15. This would make him sleep nice and snug, Easton hoped. He had no desire to drive around a pissed-off mojo slinger in the back of his new SUV. It tended to void the dealership warranties.

Rollins called at 11:05. “The Eagles are at the nest. Is Dirtbag home and alone?”

“Roger on both.” Easton replied.

“When you see the White Ford pick-up, it’s time to blow out the candles.” Rollins concluded. The phone went dead.

Easton moved a couple of blocks closer to the target on St Andrews. He was now parallel parked on the road, about 30 feet away from a Tranny hooker and across the street from a vile-looking urban strip mall. His heart beat and his palms began to sweat. This would be his first take-down.

**************************************************

It was about 11:15 and Lawrence Volker was packing in a hurry. He felt danger and it made him sweat. He wiped his forehead and noticed his perspiration smelled just a wee bit like the Canadian Mist he was sipping. He felt the mojo flow in his veins.

Volker grabbed a gym bag of his stuff and headed out the door. He made a bee-line for his used and beaten down VW Jetta. “It’s time to Jetta” He punned himself.

**************************************************

Richter’s cell phone went off. Naomi noted it played an old dorky cavalry tune called “The March of Gary Owen.” She wondered why she had to work with The Crown Prince of The Rectal Kingdom.

Meanwhile, Richter got a worried look on his face. He floored his accelerator and cursed “Oh Shit!”
“What happened?” Goodbarrel asked.

“It’s that f—king wet-end Easton. Dirtbag’s getting away. He drives a Red VW Jetta.” Richter replied.

“Can we get there in time to cut him off?” She asked.

“If it’s possible, I’ll be there.” He replied. His car was now doing 85 on a crowded urban street. Scarred drivers swerved right to avoid his charge.

Richter saw a Red VW Jetta join into traffic and begin to accelerate. He jammed down even harder on his gas. “Hang On!” He yelled; as his engine needle pushed the red and his motor made a tortured roar.

The white Ford pick-up just made it through the intersection of Santa Monica and St Andrews about 5 feet ahead of a young man in a black SUV, who slammed his breaks just in time to avoid smashing into the charging pick-up’s side. “What the f—K?!” Easton exclaimed. He smelled the rubber that had burned off his front two tires.

Richter continued to bear down on the Red Jetta. He had advantage because his vehicle had accelerated first. He was now a scant 10 feet from the bumper.

“How well do you shoot?” Richter asked Goodbarrel.

“Like a professional assassin. You want the tires or his head?” She asked.

“Make it tires.” Richter answered. “We need him alive.”

“Tires it is.” She answered calmly, as she leaned far outside a side window and aimed for the tires to Volker’s right rear.

Volker heard a loud, percussive bang behind him and felt the jar jolt as his right, rear tire exploded. He knew that a passenger in the truck behind him was shooting his tires. He looked to his right and saw a thick stone wall.

Volker fought his steering wheel with one had and reached for his glove compartment with the other. He needed a special tonsil polish. He snared his favorite bottle of Ancient, Ancient Age.

“He’s not stopping,” Goodbarrel observed. “You need to persuade him after I take out another tire.”

Richter waited until Goodbarrel leaned out, took aim and deflated Volker’s other rear tire. Richter then lifted his rear out his seat to gain extra oomph as he mashed his accelerator. The truck’s engine struggled at 115 mph to find any more power. Goodbarrel imagined herself as Scotty on a Star Trek episode and muttered under her breath. “She cannough do it, Captain”.

Volker saw the front grill loom behind him and felt both his rear tires being chewed the way a pit bull works a knotted rope. He felt his pursuers slam him from behind, causing him to spill part of a mouthful of very valuable liquor down the front of his shirt. “Now or never, Baby” He said to himself. “This better f—king work!”

**********************************************************

Rodney Easton tried his best to follow the high-speed chase. He wasn’t doing well. He couldn’t even begin to match driving skills with an experienced street cop and he fell furlongs behind in this fatalistic horse race through Los Angeles. He saw people cursing and diving for cover as the cars roared by.

Minor fender-benders began to occur. Too many cars occupied Santa Monica Boulevard to evade the wild career through East Hollywood. A cabby had managed to ramrod a fire hydrant and a plume of water now drenched an angry mob of partiers outside a shabby nightclub.

Easton’s cell phone began to vibrate on his hip. He slowed even more to deal with a phone call and drive at the same time. He felt fear like ice in the back of his throat. This was not what had been planned and he was more scared to fail than to die trying.

“What in the f—king f—k are you doing!!!??” Doug Rollins demanded.

“Sir, ah…ah, he ran and Richter’s chasing him.” Easton replied.

“And he won’t answer the goddam phone!” Rollins roared. “The LAPD scanners are lit up like there’s an air raid happening. Do you realize how bad this is getting?”

“No…No Sir!” Easton stammered. He was seeing his life flash before his eyes. Sleeper training always reminded the initiates. “No one ever knows the names of agents who fail for a reason.”

“Well, Goy Wonder, here’s the f—king box score!” Rollins vehemently swore. “There are five LAPD units setting a road block at Santa Monica and Vermont. That’s right near a gay bar called The Toolbox, in case you needed a landmark YOU would recognize.”

“I….I’ll get ‘em on the horn, Sir” Easton replied. The cell phone mercifully went dead again.

***************************************************

Volker looked to his right desperately. His car now ran on two rims and he could see sparks cascade out of his side mirrors. He saw a nice, solid wall loom ahead and cut the wheel. His front tires struck the curb violently and left terra firma. Volker gulped down liquor and fear then yelled out “ZOT!!” at the top of his lungs as the wall rose before him to obliterate his vehicle and his existence.

Richter and Goodbarrel stared in amazement as Volker’s car swerved hard right. He skipped the curb and went a cropper a solid brick wall. Then both of them felt the brunt of a horrible, unseen force collide with them.

It was the last thing Richter ever felt, as the truck’s steering column impaled him like the lance of a jousting opponent. The impact of the crash snapped his upper spine at five different vertebrae as his head was thrown back, then fro then back again. The rescue squad worker who later removed parts of his corpse vomited for the better part of five minutes afterward.

Goodbarrel took the windshield full aface. She felt the hot agony of glass shards digging through her cheeks and nose. Then she was whipped back and slammed against the seat; as the truck careered towards opposing traffic.

An unfortunate mother of six had three of her young children in the back of an old, decrepit station wagon. She tried self-sacrifice by turning her children away from the impact and facing death head-on. Everyone in either vehicle died from the impact of a pick-up wildly flying at over 100 miles per hour. The last three people Sleepers Richter and Goodbarrel put to bed were all under five years old.

************************************************

Easton desperately mashed his breaks. He saw the wreckage ahead and knew what he was trained to do. He ate a piece of his soul, but Sleeper training was magically engrained. You did it on auto-pilot and if it sucked your soul, Lucifuge wasn’t going to issue you a band aid and a lollipop.

Easton drew close to the wreck, saw the corpses of Goodbarrel and Richter, then made absolutely sure by pumping a three round shot group into each. Then he sped off as sirens approached menacingly from the East.

Easton drove around the block and ditched the SUV. His training had overridden his panic again and he knew his duties were not complete. He lit several pieces of trash in the back on fire and then tossed his propane cigarette lighter on the refuse blaze for good measure.

Then he got out of the vicinity and ran hard back around the block. He had one more man to ice. And he wasn’t sure how he’d get the job done with an Armageddon of LAPD units descending on the scene of two horrible wrecks. Four black and whites had reached the shattered station wagon. The officers were preoccupied and horrified by what they had found.

************************************************

Rollins heaved a heavy sigh of relief. He heard the magic phrase “gang-related shootings” go over the police band he was monitoring. He had seemingly dodged another bullet, but he still had an agent in the field and a Dipper who’d probably just whacked two of his professionals on the loose.

Rollins now regretted having ripped Easton a new one during the chase. He needed this kid now. Easton had delivered once, but that had been hard-wired in by Sleeper HQ. Easton now had to act covertly and independently against a dangerous opponent.

Easton put his hands on his knees and sucked wind. He needed to gather himself back up. He needed to see what the police were doing. He needed to find Dirtbag. It all had to happen subtly and fast.

The police were mostly ignoring the other wreck. They seemed intent on putting flares around a perimeter, redirecting a steady flood of snarled traffic, and desperately trying to free the six victims in the two ruined cars that now plugged Santa Monica Boulevard with carnage and ruined auto parts.

This good fortune wouldn’t last, so Easton had to ID Dirtbag in a hurry. Easton really felt the fear of the unnatural when he noticed that one of the doors of the badly ruined Jetta was open and no one was still inside. It was the passenger side door.

That meant the Dipper hadn’t jumped prior to an impact that had compacted the already compact import like the machinery at an auto junkyard. However, he’d somehow gotten free and left the wreckage. Easton scanned the crowd for a horribly wounded man. He had to whack this man before he got evacuated in an ambulance, but didn’t see how to do it by the book.

Three more police cars moved in. The traffic tried its best to part and let them in. First one, then another ambulance made the scene. Easton tried to keep his demeanor calm. He tried to look like just another gawker at the scene of vehicular tragedy, but he was not finding Dirtbag and his time to do so was running short.

***************************************************

Volker felt absolutely horrified by what he saw. He observed the police and rescue workers desperately going at the station wagon with crowbars to try and get a door open and free the mangled, young bodies from the destroyed back seat. One policeman openly wept as he tried to free the jammed door.

Then he realized that this was another part of the game, another part of going for the power. The Sleepers wanted him to take a long, dirty nap. If he wasn’t sleepy he had to do what ever it took. He’d intended to save one beautiful little girl. He’d succeeded in killing three other children. Like any good Dipper, the whole thing made him really need a drink, as a slipped away into the night.