Disclaimer: I didn't create most of the characters that will surface throughout this sham of a Stephanie Plum fanifc. Janet Evanovich did, and does better job of it too. All this is really is, is an attempt by me to stretch my writing skills with characters I love. So please don't sue me. Because....C'mon. Suing me would be like suing a cute little puppy. All you'd likely get is a bunch crap. :o)

Chapter 1: When it rains, it pours....

Frankie V. Copozzi was a dead man.

Well...not yet, anyway. Obviously, he's up and—keyword here--running down Hamilton & Main. But, as of 1.5 blocks ago, I made the decisive executive decision that Frankie must die ....horrifically.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not normally this blood thirsty. Growing up in the Burg, what with it's penchant for nurturing oddball 1950's stereotypes and characters straight out of a Francis Ford Coppola movie, a girl can't help but extend some leeway in the sanity department. Especially an unusual girl like myself. Of course, that doesn't mean I haven't got a limit. Somebody has to do something pretty rotten, like say, stalk me, kidnap me, force me to cook/clean, make me run in 60 degree weather, or incite hordes of old people to throw lime green Jell-O at me to push me into the realm of pure utter hatred. Frankie has managed to accomplish the last two in less than fifteen minutes.

I struggled to catch my breath.

"Stop!" I yelled. A giant rubber chicken sailed straight at my head.

Ducking down to avoid the chicken missile, I yelled.

"I said, "Stop Moron," gasping in and out. "Stop running dammit!" by now, in this two block chase, I'd managed to go from wheezing to gasping in less than six minutes. That's a record, for even me.

"Stop," I said, panting my little heart out. My body wasn't made for this. Macy's sales, Plum dinners, the occasional chocolate binge, maybe. But not this. Not chasing down some bald head "It" reject, with black diamond-shaped spikes drawn across his eyelids in the cold, polluted Jersey outdoors. Hell, I wasn't made for running after cute Cuban mercenaries in sunny, clean Jersey indoors either. But I digress.

"You're my car note....(Pant)...stop running!!"

He took a swill out of a bottle of (what I seriously doubted was) seltzer, then tossed it over his shoulder. Slurring over half the words, he said. "Catch me, you out of shape bitch!"

"Grrrr. You are so dead," I grumbled. "DEAD, YOU HEAR ME FRANKIE?...(Pant)...(Gasp)...DEAD,"

"Bite ME!" with that, he took off with another burst of speed and ran around a corner.

"ARGHHHH! STOP!"

Frankie wasn't even attempting to comply. By now, he'd run out of things to toss over his shoulder and concentrated on scaling a six foot metal fence. As I rounded the corner, he had already made it over and was quickly disappearing down the side of a building.

"Noooo!" I puffed in agony. A fence, a freakin' fence! Not only do I have to chase his clown butt halfway around downtown Trenton, but I gotta climb a fence too!?

Life sucks!

I reached the rusted metal fence and fumbled my way across the top. Half of me successfully made it over the fence. Unfortunately, the other half got snagged on fence wire. Losing my balance, I fell forward and hung, precariously, by one pants leg, upside down. My entire body banged repeatedly, face-first against the fence. Then, as I knew would happen, my pants leg ripped completely, sending me crashing-–hard— into the pavement.

Rolling onto my back, I stared up at the cloudy sky and moaned. See Plum, this is what happens when you oversleep ONE Sunday morning mass.

As if to confirm my suspicions, a bolt of lighting flashed across the sky, followed closely by the echo of thunder.

"Cute one, God."

I laid there, wheezing in and out, trying to catch my breath and thought about Frankie,

die you evil drunken bastard clown, die' Copozzi.

One of Vincent Plum's family of repeat drunken offenders. Got charged with one count each of public disorderly conduct, drug possession, car thief and assault of an arresting officer. He wasn't exactly my typical skip. But hey, desperate times call for desperate measures. Since I was both flat out broke and three months behind on my car note, I considered myself as desperate as they come. Besides, contrary to the charges, his arrest wasn't that bad.

About a month ago, while heavily under the influence, Frankie attempted to jack a car. Unfortunately for him, he didn't notice that he was in fact trying to pilfer a cop car. Nor did he bother to notice the two gentlemen, clearly dressed in cop uniforms, leaning right beside it, talking. One thing lead to another and Frankie ended up kneeing one of the arresting officers in the groin while attempting a heroic escape...into the backseat of the patrol car. Of course, after realizing his mistake and that he was effectively cornered by a couple of pissed of cops, Frankie promptly passed out into a drunken stupor. Probably to avoid the likely inevitability of police brutality he'd receive for nailing a cop in the nads. Anyway, as they were searching him they found a little gift bag containing twelve ounces of weed. Very bad for Frankie, but good for Stephanie! This, plus his other charges, resulted in his bail being set at roughly ten grand. That's a cool thou' for little ole me, with the added incentive of him never being known to carry a weapon or be overly violent. I thought, easy capture, right?

Right.

I should've known something was off when Andy Zabotsky, the bounty hunter who usually went after him, snickered and said "Good luck" as I picked up the file. It took three whole days, a lot of calls and a ton of dead ends to find out why. Frankie was one of those rare drunks who could both think and run while tanked-up. And I mean run. No sloppy, drunken staggering for this guy. No, of all the semi-normal fat over weight drunks in the Trenton, NJ., Frankie had to be a physically fit sprinter who moonlighted as a professional clown. An evil drunken wino clown. Why anyone would want him to entertain near their kids, let alone entertaining their own birthday party, was beyond me.

But, then again, this is the burg and that's where I've caught up to him, the last two times. Frightening kids and old folk alike at birthday parties for cash. After my last failing attempt to apprehend him, a little under a week ago, he's been steadily on the lamb, vowing never to go back to jail and only showing up sporadically at a clowning gig here and there to earn some extra dough. Wouldn't you know it, booze costs money. And you can't be Boozy the Wino Clown without your daily dose of Dr. Jack Daniels.

This time, he was at some old ladies 80th birthday celebration. I won't go into the exact details, but suffice it to say, until about a block ago, I had a gang of old people chasing me down on their motorized scooters. If I thought I could've actually caught-up to Frankie, I'd have tried even harder to "commandeer" one.

"Owiee" I whined, trying to stand back up, but my legs weren't having it.

Whatever notions I entertained concerning movement, my body obviously was ignoring the memo. Especially any orders that involved trying to re-scale that rusty metal fence and walk two whole blocks back down to the retirement center, while dodging irate old geezers. If it had to move, it wanted motivation. Seriously worthwhile motivation. Looked around, I tried to spot something even remotely motivational in the vacant parking lot. Nope. Not a thing. No ice-cream stands, no Hugh Jackson confessing his undying love for me, and no Frankie Copozzi lying facedown in puddle of his own blood. Nope, nothing.

I covered my eyes and groaned. He got away...again. This was bad. Very bad. How the hell could I keep losing a guy who was drunk out of his mind half the time? It wasn't like he was a master strategist or anything.

Thunder echoed off the walls of a close by building. A light sheen of rain started to fall, wetting my face.

I guess that will have to do for motivation.

After what seemed like a small eternity, I pushed myself off the ground and assessed the damage. No cuts. A couple of bruises on both my legs, right arm and shoulder. For the most part, I was physically okay. But my poor jeans didn't make out so well. On my left leg, from the knee on down, was a large jagged tear. Large spots of motor oil had stained my pants in different spots.

I moaned. I loved these jeans. These were my favorite pair! They made my butt look cute and everything.

"You'll pay for this Frankie!" I yelled into the empty lot. "As God as my witness, you'll--" a loud clap of thunder roared, cutting me off mid-Scarlet O' Hara impression.

Oh, yeah, I'm on the outs with God right now. "Darn Sunday Morning Mass," I mumbled. Easing my way back over the fence--a lot more gracefully this time I might add--I limped back toward my Escape. By the time I reached my car, it was starting to pour a little harder. I was getting soaked and smelled like a mechanic's garage and could have cared less.

Resting against the driver's side door for a moment, I cursed softly my predicament. I was two, going on three, months behind on my car note, after taking a five month vacation from bounty hunting. After that whole Clyde Cone-webmaster-stalker fiasco six months ago, I'd decided to take a little vacation. A vacation that mainly consisted of sleeping, eating, and weekly visits to the shore. Since I was living with Morelli I didn't have to worry so much about making the rent each month. Which was bliss. Right up until I fell behind one car payment. That wouldn't have normally been a problem, except my post-partum depressed sister neglected to mention to me they hadn't been able to pay my rent for the past...oh....three months! In order to keep my apartment, I had to empty out my entire savings account to less than a hundred dollars and forgo a couple of car notes to make my overdue rent. Morelli volunteered to "loan me the money" if I agreed to "working it off". Of course "working it off" wasn't as fun as it sounded. It required cooking, cleaning, and.....other things in French maid uniforms I didn't normally do. Instead, I've been chasing FTA's day and night trying to earn some cash, but my quest has been hampered by a sudden dry spell of FTA's.

I needed Frankie Copozzi's bail money. He was a thousand dollar ticket just waiting to be taken in. But he just kept getting away! I gazed at my sunny yellow Escape. No way was I letting it get repossessed.

Hitting the top, with resounding 'thunk', I looking up at the sky and screamed at the top of lungs. "You hear me God? I am not losing this car!"

In frustration I kicked at my front tire and turned around. Two old people, under an umbrella, stood six feet way from me staring in amazement.

"What!? You never seen a person talk to God before? This is Jersey for crying out loud. So, what if I talk to myself! You got a problem with that? Huh!? Do you!?" I glared at them both, and took a step forward. They scattered back and ran, or more like shuffled, for cover back into the senior center. Probably to alert the scooter brigade.

Yanking the driver's side door open, I sat down in the car. Flipping the heater on full blast, I contemplated my situation. I needed major help. I needed someone capable of running for long stretches of distance, without getting winded. I need someone incredibly strong. I needed someone to hold Frankie Copozzi's ass down while I pummeled the shit out of him.

I needed...Ranger.