4th Street Brawl

A TMNT/Die Hard 4 part - mini crossover

Rated Teen for strong language and violence. Part 1 of 4.

Part I: Line of Least Resistance

Thursday, November 24th, 1988

On one side of the map, the average citizens of New York City enjoyed turkey dressing and pumpkin pies on their autumn-shaded tablecloths with statues of flimsy scare-crows boasting lopsided grins overlooking hot feasts and pompous relatives.

The other side bred citizens like Casey Jones, who only moments before had his uncle call him a good for nothing bastard over the phone and hoped a truck smeared him like giblets down the road. An uncle who only called once a year to remind Casey that roaches were more important to him than his own nephew. Casey grew bored of the insults and hung up midway through the call, dangling the phone on the wall and leaving his dad snoozing away in whiskey dreams on the couch.

His family sucked butt, but Casey needed stress management on this night, and two little teen shit-rags down 4th Street with hairdos that even made the current eighties fashion cry decided to hammer their way through the window of a closed pawn shop.

"Fee fi fo fum, who are you little shits? I don't care. Get down from there!" he sung a few bars but quickly became irritated at his own voice fumbling through his mask.

One of the boys saluted Casey with a middle finger and gnawed through the gum. He shot a glance at his equally unimpressed partner and they rolled their eyes.

"Scram, Jones. Go work at the soup kitchen or whatever you do these days," the partner dismissed Casey like a stray cat.

The November air was chilly, and Casey squeezed his hockey stick from the anger gurgling in his chest. "Can't let you do this, Kevin. Not no more." He twirled a slick new hockey stick in his hand. "You and Swampy touch the glass, I beat your ass."

"I guess you got knocked over the head too many times; it's Torque!" Kevin shouted, his frosty breath obscuring Swampy's irritated face. "My ass is too stone for ya, Jones. Even my old man can't get any blood out of me."

Amused at the comment more than a person should be, Swampy yelled like a chimp into the night,"He don't bleeeeeed! Bleeeeeeeeed!" he chanted over and over until Casey stopped twirling and reared the stick up for a deadly strike. Swampy's chants turned into squeals once he jerked out of harm's way and smacked his face on the wall, dropping into the brumal pavement . While he saw stars and diamonds dancing behind his eyes, Torque and Casey tussled over each other two feet down the alley. Thirty seconds into the fight, Casey remembered Torque was a black belt, but nothing could stop Casey from unleashing everything into a shitty thug.

With his psychedelic brain show over, Swampy sat up and rubbed his head. A quick flash around the corner caught his foggy attention as Torque's face smacked against the wall. "Hey, Torque, just deck him and split. Five-O comin'."

Stuttering through saliva and blood, Torque gained momentum from the wall and forced Casey to avoid tripping on an empty black bottle and, instead, crash into a broken gym set and plastic totes. The noise alerted two curious by-standers, who shuffled around the mouth of the alley then idly scurried away when a black Buick Sedan rolled to the curb. The blue and red lights from the Sedan's dashboard swallowed the pedestrians' fading shadows and the darkness in the alley. The only things Swampy left behind were his cursing and the overloaded smell of liquor and the last bottle of huffed nail polish. His fallen comrade, Torque, scrambled halfway over the fence, hissing, "So not cool, homey," before a pair of hands yanked him off it. He saw more of the night sky at that moment than he had since he was a kid.

"Officer!" Casey swung a struggling Torque like he was mopping the floor with the criminal to the entrance. "Officer! Over here! I got one for ya. Caught him trying to break in over here, messing around where he shouldn't be. There was another fella but he..." As he explained the situation, the Sedan owner, dressed in a rugged leather jacket over a wrinkled business suit and one hand over his hip, scanned over the streets and into the alley. Casey slowed down his story, sensing the guy wasn't paying attention to him. "-and so I grabbed him before he left. Are you a real officer?"

Finally the Sedan owner faced Casey, stuffing back his hands in his pockets. He acted almost too comfortable. "You think that light in there is for show, kid? It hurts my eyes. I wouldn't turn it on unless I had to." He nodded in Casey's direction. "Let the boy go."

Casey didn't know if it was leftover adrenaline or if the mysterious guy's tone was irritating him, but he felt bolder. "Okay, as soon as I see your badge, Officer. Anybody can put a light on their dashboard. No uniform either. Show me the goods."

The officer smirked, nodded in agreement, and slowly pulled out a gold badge, the flashing lights washing over its glint. "Anything else, McFly?"

Torque's head thumped against the pavement, stunning him, but he could still hear the conversation above him. Glee pulsed in his chest as he knew Casey's mouth would get his own self in trouble sooner or later and with a VERY well-known detective on the street. Casey was about to step into major shit with this guy!

"My bad, Detective," Casey held up his gloved hands in defense. "They short handed on the force lately or something? Sending out the desk guys? Things that bad now?" He tried being a little genuine with the last question but it flew out of his mouth on the wave of boldness still reeling in his body.

"Detectives are still officers, doofus. Law Enforcement 101. I see you missed the common sense class, too. Manners. Hygiene." The detective stepped on the curb, sizing up Casey who was shrinking by the moment. "Why aren't you home eating turkey with your folks? Enjoying some pie with, uh, whip cream and chocolate chip thingies."

"Doing what I gotta do," Casey swallowed, feeling a nervous twitch in his throat; the adrenaline was gone now. "Ain't no turkey for me at home, Detective. Lots of turkeys out here though." Torque laughed from the ground, and Casey's foot instinctually kicked him in the shoulder. "Too much gobbling." He hoped a little humor would save his butt.

"Well, Mr. Turkey McFly, you and Giggles can join me in a very warm place. Well the front lobby is warm but the jail cell might be chilly so-"

Casey grunted, "Why am I getting-?!"

"SO- I was about to say," the detective held up his hand passively, "if you keep your trap shut, I'll let you go with a warning." He looked towards the ground, noticed Torque wasn't lying there, and sighed as part of a dramatic production, "Some crime fighter you are, Turkey. He got away."

"What!" Casey turned to the alley. "That snake! I'll kill him!" He screamed it over and over and the rage left his fists again. He shoved over the scattered totes and threw his entire energy into demolishing the dumpster. The detective stood back, shaking his head, and regretted not grabbing the other kid sooner to keep Casey from disturbing the peace.

"You got a temper problem, kid. Anyone ever told you that?"

A number of wild expletives filled the pungent air of the alley followed by the empty black bottle Casey avoided tripping over earlier whistling through the air, shattering the very window Torque and Swampy had been attempting to force open. The detective pulled out his handcuffs and dangled them in the air. Casey stopped mid-swing against the second window, saw the shadows of the handcuffs against the wall, and his anger melted into fear, then regret, then desperation, and finally, guilt.

What a way to spend a Thanksgiving night...

It felt like hours had passed since the cop stuffed him in the backseat but the full moon hadn't moved an inch in the sky, and the scraps and bumps on his head were stinging. His own fault, Casey moaned, for slamming his noggin against the door in childish, and a little fearful, rage. He calmed down once the cop, the detective, or whatever the guy was, cranked the engine and drove, but once Casey felt a glance burning into his face, his knees twitched again.

The detective's relaxed gaze eased over to Casey's hockey stick in the front seat. His tone seemed cooler. "I'm still pissed about the Swedes winning last year. The Canucks deserved that win even if they were in fourth. Hate the communists. They should be disqualified for being stupid."

Casey's chest was on the verge of a deep chuckle, but the car hit a dip in the road and his chuckle emerged as a burp. "Maybe '88 will be their year. It needs to be somebody's year 'cuz it ain't mine." He forced another chuckle, half expecting the detective to agree and maybe give him a break, and while it didn't come true, Casey saw a small smile hooked in the corner of the detective's polished face. Managed that at least, he thought.

"So much for our taxes paying for these potholes, right?" the detective grumbled and checked for any reaction from the backseat. Casey was deathly afraid of talking about politics or taxes since the time his nasty uncle threw Casey's distant cousin out the window for dissing Reagan. For a fleeting moment, he wondered how angry his uncle was now that they had a new president, some guy with the last name of Bush.

'Okay, Jones,' Casey nodded to the voice in his head, 'changed the subject. Uh, go back to the Commies but don't say something stupid.' He cleared his throat. "The Commies know their shi-" put the brakes on the language, Jones! "-stuff when it comes to the ice. They'll win next year's, I bet."

The detective played along with the friendly rivalry. "If the US don't get their hands out of their butts and stop pumping drugs, they might have a shot. You can't hold a syringe in one hand and a-" he waved his right hand for dramatic flair and pointed at Casey's equipment next to him, "-a twig in the other."

Casey was impressed with the detective's hockey lingo. "Naw, we got a chance too. Nobody's shooting up drugs there. All the addicts live in this dump." He found he was embarrassed by his dirty hair. All hockey players had a great head of lettuce under those helmets!

"You don't have to tell me twice, kid. I hate boom-boxes. I'm gonna blow up every last one!"

Casey chimed in, "Especially the ones blasting that Rico Suave crap."

The atmosphere certainly changed into something more manageable for the young Casey. Whoever this detective guy was, he wasn't too bad. He was the first male authority figure in a while that wasn't berating Casey over the lack of a good future in a miserable, cold city.

Did this car ride need to end..?

After more potholes and Commie talk, the detective almost missed a redlight and stomped on his brakes. Casey's head slung forward and snapped back, reminding him that his head was still tender from the fight, but once he heard the clattering of his weapons of mass street destruction fumble to the floorboard, he ignored his bruises and dared to check on his babies!

The detective groaned as he reached down to pick the weapons up and replaced them back in the seat. He didn't notice Casey's softer look in his direction for doing such a good deed. "Hope your old man gets you some new play toys for Christmas. These seen better days."

Well, the conversation had to eventually circle back to his parents. If only the guy knew Casey's dad was more worried about turkey and football on any given day of the year than his own son, but there wasn't a need to make ANY conversation about that.

" I got my Christmas list all ready for him. He ain't getting no cookies!" He whimpered out a dry chuckle, embarrassed he was letting his emotions creep to the surface.

But the detective didn't play on it. He added, "I'd like to see lists from my kids, but eh... they ain't around right now. All John Jr. wants is Hot wheels and those little... micro machine things. Give him those and he's set for next year."

Is this guy a crappy father, too? Now the uncomfortable level rose in the back seat for Casey. Too many bad memories of broken toys that faded into no toys and nothing else. At least the cop/detective/hockey lover guy was employed, so he was leagues ahead of Casey's old man. Maybe Casey could care about the situation, but this was the same guy who arrested him and shoved him in the back of a police car.

"You hungry, McFly? My treat."

Casey looked at the front seat and saw the detective's eyes staring at him. Kind eyes. Concerned. The car parked in front of a smokey cafe, barely lit on the outside but buzzing inside with warm food. After the engine shut off, Casey heard complaints from his stomach. He wondered how long it had been doing that... "Sure," he said and watched the detective slide out of the car.

"Sit tight." He walked off and shouted back, "The name's John McClane. I prefer you still say Detective McClane to me though." He thought he was a hot shot, Casey's first thought was, but his smile was as genuine as his eyes. He walked to the cafe with the confidence of a man doing the right thing for a kid down on his luck.

Casey said, "Thanks..." but the detective could have taken the handcuffs off, right?