Prayer of the Rollerboys (novelization of the movie)

by Patrick Colin Jackson

In the late 21st Century, the USA is scarred by economic collapse and ecological disaster. A lost generation is led by ominous neo-fascists, who rule this post-industrial wasteland by selling hope to the masses in the form of designer-drugs and a seductive philosophy. Their reign of terror knows no boundaries...unless an idealistic renegade can beat them at their own game.

Prayer of the Rollerboys

A novel by Khaos Junior

Based on the screenplay by W. Peter Iliff

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For Lala Sloatman, the other Casey

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North America – October 2070

18 years after the Great Crash

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Chapter 1

A tremendous wave crashed against the shoreline. Oily foam rolled up the beach. A snarling dragon on a crucifix was etched in the sand, just beyond the tide's reach.

On the seawall was a demented mural. A lovely blue-eyed blonde angel on rollerblades rose up over thrashing bodies of countless Blacks, Chicanos, Arabs, and Asians.

Beneath the mural were the words THE FUTURE IS OURS.

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A multiracial river of people extended along the oceanfront of a seedy urban dystopia. The carnival walk was a chaotic hybrid of a medieval market, Turkish bazaar, Tijuana, and the America that only the most senior of citizens still remembered.

Vendors sold bulk grains, dazzling video/audio gizmos, alpha wave headsets, Synchro-Energizer goggles, clothing, jewelry, and guns.

A ghetto blaster was broadcasting: "…In World Series news, the Tokyo Yankees clubbed the Munich Dodgers 8-3, tying the fall classic at two games apiece…"

Nearby, a juggler was tossing chainsaws. Musicians played New Metal music. Beggars tapped people's pockets for change. A cyclo-taxi ferried passengers on a bench seat, past wind-skaters with handheld makeshift sails, and past men in suits on push-scooters with handlebars.

}{

At a Polaroid Dream-house stand, a white couple sipped lemonade in deck chairs before a modest suburban house. The house boasted a flower trellis, picket fence, and manicured lawn.

Nearby, a voiceover was heard. It was the voice a young man, sympathetic and promising and trustworthy.

It was the voice of Gary Lee.

"Before many of you were born, our parents caused the Great Crash. They were consumed with greed."

There was a bright flash. The couple stood and crossed the manicured lawn, which was mere Astroturf. They passed by the phony dream-house backing, which was propped against a wire cage where pigs rooted in the mud. They also passed by the Asian photographer who had just taken their picture, and who stood below the sign LIVE AS A BILLIONAIRE.

Gary Lee's voiceover continued. "They ignored repeated warnings, and borrowed more money than they could ever repay. They lost our farms…lost our factories…lost our homes."

At a nearby shanty, an Arab meat merchant haggled price with a Chicano hunter. A hawk was perched on the merchant's shoulder. A fierce slingshot stuck out of the hunter's jean pocket, as he held up a string of dead pigeons.

Well-dressed Japanese tourists shopped nearby, between the shanty and a Rollerboy kiosk.

Gary Lee went on. "Alien races foreclosed on our nation, while we were locked in homeless camps…Now America belongs to the enemy."

At the stand, two young White boys—both of whom sported blonde manes and long white Kevlar coats—were selling Rollerboy t-shirts, video discs, books, pamphlets, and jewelry.

Dominating the kiosk was a 48-inch hi-definition video monitor. It displayed a third White youth, strawberry-blonde, who had been delivering the voiceover.

Gary Lee was 21, with real charisma. His gaunt face suggested a wolf. Everything about him was intense.

He sat on the edge of a desk, leaning confidently into the camera. Behind him was the Rollerboy logo—a fire-breathing dragon on a crucifix—and the American flag.

"Forget your parents. They didn't care about us. We are the new generation…And we are the remedy. You need a new family…A family that cares."

Ten White pre-teenagers, five boys and five girls, watched the monitor intently.

"The Rollerboys care. Join with us. Let us be your strength, your warriors. Help the White Army win back our homeland. The Future Is Ours. The Day of the Rope is coming."

}{

An odd formation of inline roller-skates—heavy plastic boots, each of which featured a single row of wheels that resembled ice-blades—stepped up and over curb after curb, in dead-perfect sync.

}{

Nearby, a 13-year-old boy was held on his belly in mid-air, spinning 360 degrees very fast. His lanky 20-year-old partner was twirling him overhead, performing on rollerblades. Both Griffin and his equally-blonde brother, Miltie, were performing for a small-yet-cheerful audience.

Then Griffin got ready for his biggest stunt, concentrating on a small ramp, while Miltie stood aside. "Here we go, ladies and germs," Miltie barked for the audience. "Nobody else is doing this on the walk." He turned to Griffin. "Hit it, big broski."

Griffin skated like hell toward the ramp. He hit it full speed and soared up, raising his knees and flipping backward. He landed on his feet and screeched to a perfect stop.

}{

The large formation of blade-skates rolled closer. Bizarre hand-painted artwork could be distinguished on the boots.

}{

Griffin and his little brother basked in applause from their audience. Miltie passed an old baseball cap, pushing it into the crowd. People pitched money into the cap.

"Say it with cash…Now we're talking," Miltie said. "Yen, marks…We'll even take dollars."

}{

Suddenly it began. Far up ahead, the river of people split—hurriedly pulling apart like a giant zipper—as something quickly plowed its way between them.

People shouted. "Watch out…Clear the way…They're coming!"

Everybody looked up, as the carnival walk erupted into a wave of bodies—pushing and shoving to clear a path, amid the rumble of countless wheels upon asphalt.

The Rollerboys pierced the wall of people and roared past them. The long pack of blue-eyed blondes skated two-by-two, in perfect formation. All were dressed in long white Kevlar coats—similar to 19th Century cowboy coats—over matching cargo pants with webbed suspenders and collarless black shirts with long sleeves. The coats had the American flag patched onto one shoulder, and a fire-breathing dragon on a crucifix patched onto the other shoulder.

As the Rollerboys soared past like King's Horsemen, a surly Asian drunkenly flipped the bird at them. One of the Dragons threw out a forearm, smashing the obnoxious Gook off his feet and flinging him backward into the crowd.

Miltie hurriedly stood to the side, staring in utter fascination as the Rollerboys flashed in front of him. Members of the crowd saluted the Rollerboys by raising their fists in front of their faces, arms bent at the elbows, as if doing a pull-up. The Rollerboys returned the salute.

As Miltie proceeded to salute, Griffin grabbed his younger brother's wrists and threw them down.

He glared at Miltie, who threw him a disarming smile. "What's the big deal, Griff?"

Griffin did not smile back. "Knock that shit off. You know those guys are bad news."

Chapter 2

A small fix-it shop sat on an avenue leading down to the ocean. Over the main entrance hung a hand-lettered sign; it read, RHYTHM REPAIRS.

Inside could be heard the rhythm of fists upon a speedbag. Home appliances, bicycles, rollerblades, computers, and workout equipment were stacked up on all sides—waiting for repair.

"Rhythm, boy, rhythm. Some say life ain't got any rhythm—what with things busting up, swooping down, twisting us round and round…"

A graying Black man in unlaced boots and combat fatigues worked out on a speed-bag. His gloved hands rolled in a staccato rhythm, powering the bag back and forth, piston-like.

"But it's there," he told Griffin and Miltie, who stood watching. "An old tune, played for dinosaurs and monkeys and kings. The trick is to not wait a whole lifetime before you can hum a few bars."

Miltie stuck his hands into worn, oversized boxing gloves. "Sometimes I just can't figure what you're talking about, Speedbagger," he told the graying Black.

The Speedbagger laughed and backed away. He proceeded to spar with the feisty 13-year-old, who growled like a Terrier.

"Keep them dogs in front of your face," he directed. "That's it, Milt-man. Make them bite."

Nearby, Griffin stepped into the speedbag. He rolled his fists against it, spinning in 360-degree circles, using his elbows to keep the bag moving.

"Watch them bare knuckles, Griff," the Speedbagger said. "C'mon now, put on the gloves."

Griffin shook his head. "I gotta get to work."

Suddenly, a luscious teenaged blonde walked into the shop. She slapped a pair of rollerblades onto the counter. The Speedbagger wrote her a repair ticket.

"They need a lube, wheel alignment, and rotation," the girl said.

Miltie poked Griffin. "Babe alert!" he urged softly. "Do something, Griff. Go for it!"

Griffin gestured for his kid brother to shut up, but in vain.

"Smoke her out, Griff-buddy!" Miltie hissed at him.

The girl looked up at the commotion. Griffin closed his eyes.

Miltie took matters into his own hands. "Yo, honey-pie…? Yeah, you."

"The name's Casey," she said. "You know—short for Cassandra."

"My bro's here's the baddest rollerblader there is. Why don't you rush me them digits, and—if he likes you—he'll give you a dial."

"Excuse me?" Casey asked.

"Your phone number," Miltie explained.

Casey scrunched her eyes in bewilderment. She studied Griffin, and then laughed out of sheer pity. "If he's such a bad-ass blader, how come he's not in Rollerboys? Or is he?" Casey lifted an eyebrow, and then walked out.

Griffin remained deadpan. "Thanks, Milt."

Chapter 3

Red neon light shone over the side-street, on which sat the local pizza joint. Its front entrance was dominated by a hand-lettered sign reading PINKY'S PIZZA. In its main window was a propaganda poster, which depicted a potpourri of citizens pulling a tattered map of the United States out of a quicksand bog. The poster read, PULL TOGETHER TO PAY OFF OUR NATIONAL DEBT.

Griffin was overloaded with steaming pizza cartons, as he swaggered toward an idling van. PINKY'S PIZZAwas painted on either side.

The van's radio could be heard from across the street: "And on the weather front, there's gonna be a stage-three ozone alert for tomorrow; so don't forget your 150 sunblock."

Out of the pizza joint hurried its middle-aged owner/manager, after whom it was named. He was toting an AK-47 assault rifle. Pinky still had a crew cut from his days in the USMC; Semper Fi was tattooed on his arm.

"Do we need to have one of our little chats again?" he asked Griffin. "Not the same pep talk, hopefully, not two days straight."

Griffin and Pinky spoke in unison. "Don't accept any American money. And don't be stopping to smooze with any street-poon."

Pinky angrily buffed the van's paint with his sleeve. "I'm watching the clock, boy. And, if anybody messes with the van…kill them."

He tossed the AK-47 to Griffin, who noticed something behind the seat. It was a lacy red bra.

Griffin flipped the bra to Pinky. "Looks like your daughter's." He offered his boss an antiseptic smile, then stepped on the gas and drove out of sight—leaving Pinky in the dust.

Griffin turned a street corner and then stopped. He stretched across the passenger seat and opened the door.

In hopped Miltie, who grabbed a pizza carton and opened it. "Total Eskimo Pie. Forget her, Griff," he said, helping himself to a slice of pepperoni. "She'd just give you frostbite."

Griffin slapped the carton shut.

Chapter 4

Gun-towers surrounded the Homeless Camp: a city block of laundry lines, soup kitchens, and outdoor showers. Trashcan fires lit up the night, amid ramshackle tents roped together.

Ragged people milled aimlessly behind barbed-wire fences. Some huddled around a hookah, as a young woman dropped a pale blue tablet into the jar. The Heaven Mist fizzed and glowed tangerine-orange, then sent effervescence up the tube and into the clear respirator-mask…which was eagerly passed around.

The people sat back, the Mist having rendered them oblivious to the squalor around them. One man, his lungs full of Mist, reached for a dead cat roasting on a spit. He tore off a strip of meat and ate it, smiling vacantly.

}{

"These camps give me the creeps," Miltie said, riding shotgun as his brother pulled Pinky's pizza van up to the guard booth. A city sign read MUNICIPAL HOMELESS CENTER #87.

Hopping out of the van, Griffin handed a pizza to a couple of armed guards manning the booth. "One Pinky's Pizzazz, hold the kelp?" he said. Both guards nodded in reply.

Miltie noticed a dirty-faced little girl in torn clothes, standing behind the fence and staring at the pizza. He opened a carton of pizza and grabbed a slice, then hopped down from the delivery truck and walked over to the fence. Smiling at the neglected girl, he passed her the pizza through the fence.

The little girl just had time to wolf down her pizza before a grizzled man lunged at the fence and clutched it. As the girl ran off, the man rattled the fence loudly.

"Hey, kid! Come here!" he beckoned Miltie. "Got any Mist?"

Miltie jumped back as a guard stepped up and fired an IMI U-21 sub-machine gun through the fence, killing the grizzled man instantly. "One less mouth to feed," the guard sneered at Miltie, and then re-holstered his still-smoking Uzi.

"It's okay. He's with me," Griffin said, pulling his brother away. "C'mon, Miltie; let's get out of here."

Chapter 5

Most of the houses in this suburban neighborhood had steel bars over the windows. Derelict cars, dating back twenty years or more, were parked on lawns of crabgrass and gravel. Laundry dried from satellite dishes. Street signs were riddled with bullet holes.

"Really good, Griff," Miltie bitched. Now the dash-map is pizza."

Griffin stopped Pinky's van by a curb and fiddled with the dashboard computer map, which was indeed garbled nonsense. "These cheap-as-shit American makes never work anyway," he told his little brother.

"Worked fine before you messed with it. Way to go," Miltie responded. "Now we're lost for sure."

Griffin rifled through the glove compartment and fished out a paper map, which he threw at his brother. "Here," he told Miltie. "Look up the street, will you?"

Miltie unfolded the map, and stared at it with a complete lack of comprehension. "How does this work?" he asked.

"You don't know how a Thomas Guide works? Shit, Miltie; I gotta buy you an education," Griffin said.

"Yeah, right," Miltie scoffed. "You'll have to deliver a million pizzas to afford that."

They heard gunshots from a dumpy house across the street. Black smoke belched out the front door. Bright flames flickered as the house became a cinder-box.

Two men—one Puerto Rican, the other Black, both carrying Ithaca 37 shotguns—scrambled out of the house through its front door. Griffin saw only their brown jackets, embroidered with a B-13 insignia, as they ran around the house toward its rear entrance.

A White youth staggered out of the house. Griffin ran across the street to help him. The other boy collapsed on the lawn and didn't move. Griffin turned him over, and noticed blood spilling from numerous gunshot wounds. Griffin removed his shirt and laid it over the other boy's face.

A voice screamed from inside the inferno. Griffin moved toward the front door, but the flames made entry impossible. The voice cried out in frantic bursts.

Bystanders gathered along the sidewalk, but offered no help. Even Miltie kept his distance.

Griffin circled the house. There was no way inside. All the windows were hidden behind steel bars. The screaming grew louder and uglier. Then he saw a male face behind the bars.

As the screaming face faded in the thickening smoke, Griffin stood back helplessly. Then he pulled out his keys and, without hesitation, dashed across the street. He hopped inside the delivery van, started the engine, and put it into reverse.

The pizza van roared backward across the street, plowing over the curb and lawn, smashing at full throttle into the nearest side of the burning house. Flaming wood flew everywhere.

The trapped White teenager sprang out of the gaping hole and sprawled forward onto the grass. He choked, gasping for breath. Then he sprang to his feet, scrambled around the house, and vanished into an alley.

Griffin climbed out of the delivery van, as flames danced over its metallic roof. He stood back and watched Pinky's pizza van burn.

Police cars arrived. Whirling red and blue lights filled the evening. Each vehicle was a different make; all were battered turbo-thrusters with big tires, reinforced bumpers, and mounted guns.

Officers in makeshift, incomplete uniforms—some just the police hat, some just the shirt, some just the jacket—grabbed Griffin. They pinned him to the ground and slapped handcuffs on him.

"What're you doing? For God's sake, leave me alone!" Griffin protested. "Get your damn hands off me!"

Miltie leaped into the pile, jumping on a gray-clad Officer's back. The gray-shirt brushed him off like a mosquito.

}{

Minutes later, Griffin sat handcuffed in the filthy backseat of a squad car. Another gray-jacketed Officer walked past the house—which was now a burned-out shell—carrying a squealing Miltie underneath one arm.

"Don't worry, Griff," Miltie called out. "These dorks ain't built a cell that can hold us, not yet." Griffin just rolled his eyes.

A wrinkled anorexic, chewing a stick of beef jerky, walked over and pulled Griffin out of the squad car with one hand. "Okay, Ramrod," the frail Detective said. "Your delivery job checks out for now." Then he twisted Griffin face-first against the hood and pinned him there while removing the handcuffs.

"This is the thanks I get for saving some guy's life?" Griffin asked.

"You saved garbage," the Detective answered.

"What kind of cop are you?" Griffin demanded.

The Detective bristled, jabbing a fingertip at Griffin's face. "I'm the kind of cop that's fucking had it up to here with neo-fascist punks dealing Mist in my town."

Griffin stared at him dumbly.

"You drove your van through a Mist-house," the Detective went on. "That was a Rollerboy trapped inside his designer-drug laboratory. And you set his White ass free."

A sedan with a plastic pizza mounted on the roof pulled up. Pinky burst out of the sedan, stormed over to Griffin. "My van—oh, my God! Griffin! You mother-humping, shit-for-brains, limp-dicked…!" He wrapped his hands around Griffin's neck. "I'm gonna murder you for this! I'm gonna murder you right here!"

Suddenly the Detective pressed the muzzle of a Heckler & Koch VP-70 pistol against Pinky's temple, then broke his chokehold on Griffin and motioned to three young gray-shirted Officers…who dragged Pinky off.

"Insurance will never cover this!" Pinky was hysterical. "You owe me! You owe me good…!"

Chapter 6

Moonlight filtered inside the five-story parking structure. An abstract mural depicted a chain of blonde angels in long white coats, holding hands, soaring up above the clouds. The mural read THE DAY OF THE ROPE IS COMING…

Rollerblading around a corner, Griffin descended at high speed from the abandoned upper levels. Empty car-oil cans were set up in a slalom course. He banked off a corner and spun backward, scissoring his legs side-to-side through the cans, finally breaking to a halt.

The lower levels comprised the local Rent-A-Space Village, where people lived in what were once parking spaces. Houses were made from tents, old cars, mobile homes, and lean-to shanties…with most families renting more than one space. There was a Robinson Crusoe feel to the homes, an attempt to make things nice. House plants grew in paint cans. Vintage grills hung as art.

Miltie sat on his ghetto-blaster, outside a domelike camping tent. A beach chair-dining room faced a sparse kitchen, underneath the tent's overhang. There was a jerry-rigged sink, microwave oven, refrigerator, and utensil-box…all locked down with steel cables.

Their neighbor—a middle-aged woman, wearing a holstered Smith & Wesson 39 pistol and a khaki jumpsuit with a U.S. MAIL patch on the shoulder—watched a huge widescreen television outside her shanty. The screen showed gorgeous nature footage of alpine skiing.

As Griffin reset his oil cans for another blade down the incline, he heard a sudden rumble.

"…So what are we gonna do about Pinky's delivery van?" Miltie asked him. "How are we gonna raise that kind of moola?"

The rumble grew louder and closer, as if in response to Miltie's inquiry. Griffin reached over and turned off his brother's radio.

A dozen Rollerboys glided down from the upper levels. They skated in dead-perfect synchronization, like a wedge of Navy jet-fighters. Then they stopped and, with military precision, fell into rank.

The Dragons—Rollerboy warriors—wore Colt M16-203 assault rifle/grenade launchers, hidden underneath their long white Kevlar coats. Griffin recognized one Dragon as the guy he'd saved from that Mist-house fire.

The neighbors retreated into their homes. The Mailwoman clicked off her television and hurried inside.

Griffin stood frozen in surrender.

Miltie's fear was transcended by his fascination with the Rollerboy Dragons. "…Totally cool…" he said under his breath.

The Dragon ranks parted to reveal the imposing figure of their young founder and overlord. He fixed his hypnotic stare on Griffin, then bladed over and stood face-to-face with him.

"It is you, isn't it?" he asked rhetorically.

"It's been a long time, Gary Lee," Griffin replied.

Gary Lee grinned while calmly circling Griffin, examining him. The Rollerboy director glided back around to a stop.

"I believe Bullwinkle has something he wants to tell you." Gary Lee indicated the Rollerboy whom Griffin had rescued from the burning designer-drug lab.

Bullwinkle skated forward from the pack, gazing sheepishly at his warlord. Finally, he faced Griffin and lowered his head. "Thanks for getting me out."

"Bullwinkle…You could be more grateful. Where are your manners?" Gary Lee admonished him. "Did you know Griffin and I used to be next-door neighbors? We were about eight, right?"

Griffin nodded. "Yeah, I taught him how to skate."

"Too bad you could never keep up." Gary Lee laughed, and then suddenly turned cold. "So what did you tell Jaworski?"

"Who?"

"That jerky-eating Polack detective. What did you say to him?"

"I told him to get his goddamn hands off me," Griffin responded.

Gary Lee considered Griffin's answer, and then nodded approvingly. "These gang rivalries are a waste of time. You'd think those B-13s would know better. This time we'll show them what happens when you mess with the Rollerboys." He warmly squeezed Griffin's shoulder. "I won't forget this. Bullwinkle came up with me through the camps. Anything you need, just ask." Then he looked over at the tent Griffin shared with Miltie. "…Lost your parents too, huh?"

Griffin nodded. "That was about a year ago."

"That's too bad," Gary Lee said. "Your mother was always very nice to me." He took Griffin's forearm and pushed up his sleeve, revealing a winged skull-tattoo on Griffin's wrist. "So you ran with these guys, huh?"

Griffin nodded again. "Back east, for a while."

"Why'd you come back?"

"It's warmer here."

Gary Lee glided backward, stopped before Miltie, and smiled. "You must be Miltie. When I last saw you, there was a pacifier in your mouth." He removed a gold chain from his pocket, and gently placed it around Miltie's neck. "You're under my protection now, little guy."

Gary Lee looked back over his shoulder. "Welcome home, Griffin." With that, he fell back into the Dragon ranks. Then, as swiftly as they had come, the Rollerboys vanished.

Griffin stood in rigid silence. Miltie sat down on his ghetto-blaster, and studied an emblem dangling from one end of the necklace which Gary Lee had given him.

"Well, there's your answer," he told his big brother, who shot him a cock-eyed look.

"The pizza van," Miltie urged. "Why don't you ask them? Bet they'd be happy to pay for it."

Griffin walked up to Miltie and inspected the gold chain. The emblem was a dragon mounted on a crucifix. Griffin tossed away the necklace.

"Don't mess with those guys," he told Miltie, and then walked off.

Miltie grabbed his ghetto-blaster, and picked up the necklace which had landed beside it. He stuffed the gold chain into his jeans, and followed Griffin.

}{

The digital face of the rent meter—an oversized version of old parking meters—behind Griffin and Miltie's tent-house read EVICT.

"…They like you, Griff." Miltie stood beside his elder brother, who was digging into his pockets. After a few seconds, he found what he'd been searching for and fed rent-tokens into the meter…whose readout changed to 1 Day, then to 2 Days, and after that to3 Days.

"Shit," Griffin said. "I thought I had more tokens."

"I didn't know you used to pal around with Gary Lee," Miltie went on. "He was practically begging you to be a Rollerboy. Most kids our age would—!"

"Lay off it, Miltie."

"I can't believe you. Doesn't it beat delivering pizza, especially for Pinky?" Miltie's tone became taunting. "Griffin, the big tough ex-gangbanger, hoisting pepperoni and mushroom and…"

"I warned you." Griffin cracked a malicious smile at his brother, who backpedaled.

"The Tickle Look…No, please…" Miltie begged, as Griffin hoisted him upside down by one ankle. Prying off Miltie's sneaker and sock, he tickled the blade of his younger brother's foot. Miltie squealed like a boar ensnared.

}{

Extension cords snaked into Griffin and Miltie's tent from outside. A phosphorescent lantern glowed above a box of paperback books. Milk crates served as furniture. There was just one mattress, beside which an old photograph showed two young brothers being held by their parents.

Griffin was reading Huckleberry Finn when Miltie held up a quarter.

"Call it," he told his big brother.

Griffin closed the book. "Tails."

Miltie flipped the quarter—and moaned. "Aw, man…I've lost three nights going!" He slipped into a nest of blankets on the tent floor, while Griffin took the mattress. Both lay on their backs.

"You still mad at me?" Miltie asked. Griffin shook his head no. "Everything's gonna work out, right? We're not gonna end up in a camp, are we?"

Griff extended his palm, which Miltie took. "We gotta keep together," he told his little brother, "No matter what." He then turned off the lantern.

"Hey, Griff…? Just tell me the Rollerboys aren'ttotally cool. Then I'll believe you."

Griffin's troubled face stared up at the ceiling.

Chapter 7

Wearing his rollerblades, Griffin loaded pizzas into an old wheelbarrow that had been converted to a rickshaw. On the side of it was hand-painted PINKY'S PIZZA.

Pinky watched sternly. "Get used to it, limp-dick. You owe me five fucking years."

A brand-new Mercedes van roared into the parking lot. Miltie, fizzing with excitement, popped out of the shotgun seat while a Rollerboy stepped out on the driver's side.

"Am I the coolest broski or what?" Miltie asked the dumbfounded Griffin.

"Like ice on the Arctic tundra," the Rollerboy answered for him, while passing the van keys to Pinky. With that, the Dragon blew the scene—pausing only to exchange the Catch you later sign with Miltie.

"We're off the hook, Griff," Miltie said, then turned to Pinky. "How do you like your new delivery truck?"

Pinky was beaming like a game-show winner.

"What did you do, Miltie?" Griffin demanded.

Miltie was basking in his glory. "I ran into Gary Lee, and explained the situation. He gave us this van. What a great guy, huh? He even invited us to his birthday party."

Pinky caressed the van as if it were a beautiful woman.

Griffin stared in horror. "Miltie, I told you—"

Miltie cut him off. "Ice it down. What are you worried about?"

"Take it back," Griffin ordered.

"No fucking way!" Pinky said. "This is my new van!"

Griffin had no more words. He glared at Pinky, then at Miltie. Finally he spun on his blades and skated away.

"Last time I do him any favors," Miltie said.

"What a dweeb," Pinky agreed, tapping fists with Miltie.

Chapter 8

On the ocean pier, a hookah vendor sold odd-looking breathing devices. Each consisted of a clear plastic respirator-mask, the tube of which was connected to a glass jar.

Griffin leaned over the railing to stare at the water. Beside him was a sign, which depicted an old geezer-fisherman reeling in glowing, two-headed mutant sea bass. The sign read: OCEAN IS TOXIC. NO FISHING. NO SWIMMING.

Griffin was tapped on the shoulder. It was Casey, clad in a 1-piece snakeskin bathing suit with long sleeves. She looked mouthwatering.

"Remember me?" she asked.

A smile curled up Griffin's face. "Must've been a small snake," he answered.

The blonde vixen ignored the comment, nervously shifting back and forth. "…I've got money," she said. When Griffin clearly didn't understand, the girl nuzzled close. "I need some, okay?" She pouted her lips. "C'mon…I know you're with them…I've got Euro Marks. Money doesn't get any harder-core than that."

"I don't know what—" Griffin began.

"Please…Look." The girl pulled a wad of currency from a tiny purse dangling off her hip. She stuffed it into Griffin's hand. "Well? Do you have it on you?"

"What are you talking about?" Griffin asked, eyeballing the cash. Each bill read EUROPEAN ECONOMIC COMMUNITY. She was right; money didn't get any harder-core than this.

"Mist…Give me the Heavenly stuff," Casey begged.

Finally understanding, Griffin pushed the cash back into her palm.

"C'mon, man; everybody knows," Casey said.

"Everybody's wrong," Griffin responded.

They exchanged harsh looks. Finally, Casey gave him the Go to hellsign and then hurried off. Turning back toward the ocean, Griffin bounced his fist upon the railing.

Chapter 9

At Rhythm Repairs, a shelf of televisions—all in various states of disrepair—showed the same news broadcast. A Moroccan reporter stood in Harvard Yard, waving a crimson school pennant, while many Japanese pedestrians passed by.

"Cambridge, Massachusetts—right? Wrong. I'm standing in Hiroshima, Japan. Here, just moments ago, the ribbon was cut…completing 430-year-old Harvard University's historic relocation to the Far East. That's it for the Ivy League. Negotiations have begun with the Big Twenty and Pac Twenty schools…"

Griffin shook his head at the news broadcast. "There won't be any colleges left by the time I get the money together." He picked up a soldering iron, glanced at a schematic, and continued working on a gutted computer-disk drive.

The Speedbagger was hunched over a nearby workbench. "Used to be, society gave you a future. They preached it, then they reached it, and after that they breached it." He looked up at Griffin. "But that future is coming anyway, boy. And it's looking for a fight. You gotta keep your guard up, and wait for an opportunity."

"You mean, like with boxing?"

"Yup…Only there ain't a ref, and it doesn't stop after fifteen rounds."

"Hey, Speedbagger." The voice was all too familiar. Both Griffin and the Speedbagger turned around to find Bullwinkle, along with four gigantic Rollerboy henchmen.

"I paid already," the Speedbagger said.

"You forgot delinquency charges," Bullwinkle said. "Outstanding, that is." He watched calmly as the tallest and burliest of his lieutenants picked up a computer, which he passed to a second henchman. "Next time…Pay on time."

The first henchman was helping himself to another computer when Griffin vaulted over the counter and pushed him back.

"Cut it out, goddamnit!" Griffin demanded.

Tension flared. Griffin was overmatched, but didn't back down.

A look of recognition crossed the face of Bullwinkle's lieutenant, who flashed a goofy smile and wiggled his eyebrows. "Hey, Bullwinkle—it's Gary Lee's buddy." He looked to his field commander for a cue.

It came. "…Back off, Bango."

As Bango stood down, Bullwinkle looked directly at Griffin. "Okay, then…But I'm only doing this for you."

There was a beeping from Bullwinkle's coat. He reached inside and produced a flashing cellular phone, monogrammed with a red dragon.

Bullwinkle opened the cell phone. "…Talk to me."

The voice of a young female radio dispatcher answered him. "Bullwinkle, get over to 2807 3rd Street. An evicted tenant is causing problems."

"Okay, we're there." He motioned to Bango and his other two lieutenants. Then all four Rollerboys bladed away in perfect file.

"They friends of yours?" the Speedbagger asked Griffin, who shook his head. "Are you sure?"

"Would I do that to you?"

The Speedbagger stepped up to his punching bag, and rolled his fists against it. "It's all about rhythm, boy. The Rollerboys ain't anything new; just a fresh chorus, playing the same old tune. And I know the next verse by heart. It ain't synthesized, transistorized, or sanctified. But you better say your prayers, boy—because it's coming, and soon."

Chapter 10

The oceanfront skyscrapers were surrounded by pristine landscaped plazas. There was neither trash nor graffiti. There was only a large sign…on which OCEAN CITY was printed in German, English, and Japanese.

Rollerblading past the sign and across the plazas, Griffin approached a lavish complex of steel-and-glass towers. Several Rollerboys stood guard, wearing black combat vests instead of their usual white Kevlar coats, holding back snarling Rottweilers. The Dragons toted glistening Enfield L-85 bullpup assault rifles. They smiled and nodded in welcome, as Griffin stopped and unbuckled his rollerblades.

He walked inside the marble entrance to the skyscraper lobby, carrying his blades, wearing the inner soles as shoes. Griffin placed his outstretched palm over a glass sphere, a transparent globe which was alive with tiny bolts of red lightning. As the sphere glowed green, he checked his blades with more Rollerboy guards. Then Griffin approached the elevator and pushed the PENTHOUSE button.

The ocean-view luxury suite was decorated with priceless antiques…including penny-arcade game machines, mostly pinball and shooting-gallery. Graffiti art hung in ornate frames, opposite a glorious Oriental silkscreen of a dragon.

Walls of video screens flashed: Japanese sci-fi cartoons; stock quotations from exchanges in New York, London, and Tokyo; erotic videos of beautiful young women swimming in cheerleader, majorette, and schoolgirl uniforms.

Rollerboys, both teenagers and 20-somethings, partied it up with gorgeous white girls. Non-alcoholic Dom Perignon was poured into half-empty cartons of Sapporo. Mahogany tables were loaded with lobster, pizza, cake, chocolate, popcorn, and ice cream. A chandelier made of compact discs and Frisbees hung near a mural of the American flag.

Gary Lee sat, surrounded by presents, underneath a HAPPY BIRTHDAY banner. A cute 11-year-old boy, dressed in a well-tailored 3-piece suit, looked on as the young corporate czar tossed gift wrap over his shoulder…and held up a paper certificate.

"A year's worth of miniature golf? That's too cool, Teddy."

Teddy beamed proudly as Gary Lee ruffled his hair.

Wall-sized video monitors showcased beautiful female wrestlers, clad in gymnastic leotards and skate dresses. Two small, knee-deep wading pools sat on either side of a combination hot-tub and shower; one pool was filled with spa-mud, the other with multi-colored translucent gel. Two "skaters" grappled in the gel, while two "gymnasts" squared off in the mud. Six more girls—three gymnasts and three skaters—cleaned up in the shower-tub.

An exultant Miltie sat in a judge's stand, presiding over the gel-wrestlers. He rang a bell to signal the end of a round. Flanking him on both sides were stunning girls in mini-skirted business suits.

"Nice round." Miltie winked at a departing gel-wrestler. "You got a manager?" Then he laughed, as a lovely 10-year-old girl shoved a video-camera into his face. She was wearing a ballet leotard and spike-heeled shoes. Then she herself began laughing, as one of Miltie's business girls picked her up. The preteen sexpot just had time to pass Miltie her camcorder, before her "big sister" leaped into the Jacuzzi while carrying her.

Griffin deftly navigated the crowd, returning several greetings.

Bango stood on his head, doing upside-down push-ups…which one luscious girl counted for him, while another luscious girl held his ankles.

"Hey, Griffster!" He called out in mid-push-up.

"Hey, Bango." Griffin nodded and moved on…passing by a gorgeous blonde whose back was turned.

The blonde was Casey. She had a hot glow in her eyes which made her twice as sultry.

Bullwinkle and two other Rollerboys were pawing over Casey. "C'mon, we won't tell daddy," He poured Dom Perignon into her crystal flute.

Casey playfully poked the glass into Bullwinkle's crotch. "I'm more worried about the Loch Ness Monster."

Then she saw Griffin and stared in hostile surprise. He threw her a classic smirk, and then moved on toward his younger brother…who was still perched above the gel-ring. Miltie stretched out his arms, ready to swan-dive into the ring. Two gel-covered business girls, who had been grappling there, stood ready to catch him.

Miltie was happy to see his elder brother. "…Griff! You came!" He gestured to the party. "Isn't money totally radical?"

"Let's go, Miltie," Griffin said.

"Go where?"

Griffin tugged at him. "It's time to go home."

Miltie twisted free. "We just got here! What's the rush?"

Suddenly, Gary Lee pulled Griffin around. "Leaving so soon?" He flashed both brothers a thin smile.

"Gotta get back to work," Griffin mumbled.

"How do you like the new van?"

"Pinky loves it."

"You know, Griffin, you don't have to keep delivering pizzas." Gary Lee gestured to the conspicuous consumption all around. "This is all available. You should consider joining up with us."

"I don't know…" Griffin was noncommittal.

"What's the matter? Don't you like us, Griffin? Go ahead and think it over; I'll wait."

Griffin's face looked white. He couldn't bring himself to say what he felt. As Miltie jumped into the mud-pool, and proceeded to romp with a couple of "ice-skaters" who'd been wrestling therein, Griffin turned and retreated into the crowd. Gary Lee, still smiling thinly, toasted Griffin and then Miltie with his crystal flute.

After exchanging a few brief farewells, Griffin left the party alone. He walked solemnly, down the outside hallway, to the elevator. Studying the down button, he clenched his fists and almost went back inside the party…but then pushed the button instead.

"Everybody's wrong about you, huh?"

Casey was standing behind Griffin. His cold stare traveled across her wet lips, and down the tan muscles along her neck. Her full breasts were outlined in soft blue cotton.

"Nobody's wrong about you," Griffin answered, kissing Casey hard on the mouth. Pushing her against the railing, he pinned his body tight against hers. She tried to push him away, but Griffin was too strong. As the elevator opened, he pulled away and retreated inside.

Casey stared, her anger turning to confusion. As the elevator closed, she stepped forward and blocked the door—flashing a seductive grin.

"Have some…you-know-what?" she asked him.

He studied Casey, then reached out and pulled her inside the elevator.

As the door closed, he kissed Casey again. Resistance yielded to explosive passion. She moaned softly as Griffin pulled her blouse down over a shoulder, exposing black lace.

At the first floor, Griffin punched the stop button. His hand crawled down Casey's back, caressing the seat of her leather minidress. Her breath came in hot bursts. He dragged her short skirt up over one hip, then the other. She was wearing a full-cut black lace body briefer.

Casey stepped out of her high-heeled shoes. Lifting one knee and then the other, she wrapped her amazing legs around Griffin's waist and rubbed his hips with her ankles.

Without warning, Griffin stopped and pushed away. He tapped the stop button again, and the door opened. A dozen people, all bearing gifts, were waiting to ride upstairs.

"You'll do anything for it, won't you?" Griffin asked rhetorically. With that, he exited the elevator and let the others enter. The door closed on Casey's stunned expression.

Chapter 11

The fog was thick on the city streets. A Plymouth police cruiser was parked way down the block. The cab was a cotton ball of cigarette smoke. Two men, one Black and the other Puerto Rican, watched as Griffin rollerbladed along the sidewalk.

Griffin's face was grim as he clicked over seams in the concrete, passing fluorescent graffiti proclaiming THE DAY OF THE ROPE IS COMING…beside the Rollerboy insignia: a dragon on a holy cross.

A fire burned in an alley. Homeless people relaxed around a Hookah. As Griffin passed by, the Misters showed goofy grins and waved lazily.

A battered truck drove past and turned up a steep hill. A tent was strung up over the flatbed. Three dusty workers sat holding shovels.

Griffin caught up and crouched behind the battered truck. He whipped a bungee cord off his belt and hooked it onto the bumper, winking at the workers. Then he let himself be towed up the steep hill.

The Plymouth followed in the distance.

Griffin enjoyed the ride, passing a row of sex-vans parked underneath a string of Christmas lights suspended from palm trees. Prostitutes in sexy lingerie, their bodies and faces painted in bizarre designs, beckoned to Griffin as he was towed past.

The Plymouth accelerated behind Griffin and honked furiously. Both men gestured at the truck to pull over. The truck driver ignored them.

The Black man driving the Plymouth flicked two switches on his dashboard. Police lights and a siren kicked in. The truck driver reached outside and flipped the bird.

The Plymouth pulled up beside the truck. The Black driver waved a SIG-Sauer P-220 pistol. "Pull the fuck over, asshole!"

Griffin wanted no part of this. He released from the truck and turned downhill, descending full-speed past the startled whores.

The Plymouth shifted into reverse and burned rubber, racing backwards down the hill. It spun 180 degrees to face the other direction. Then it continued after Griffin, who raced downhill like a slalom skier. He crouched into a hard right turn, barely staying upright, and rocketed down a side street—only to find a Subaru police cruiser parked directly in front of him.

Jimi Hendrix's All Along the Watchtower blasted from the Subaru's stereo. Calmly leaning against the side was Jaworski. The anorexic detective chewed a stick of beef jerky.

Griffin executed a jarring stop. His heel-brake smoked as he ground hard into asphalt.

The Plymouth skidded around the turn and screeched to a halt just behind Griffin. Both of the tough bastards who'd been chasing him hopped out, aiming their SIG-Sauers dead on the young rollerblader—who, for the first time, could see police badges clipped to their shirt pockets.

"Got a minute, Ramrod?" Jaworski asked rhetorically, opening the back door of the Subaru. He turned to the Black man. "Watt…If he runs for it, you and Tyler blow his head off."

"Gladly," Watt sneered. Tyler, his Spic partner, nodded.

}{

The police station suggested a company going out of business. Furniture was stacked in heaps. Frayed maps were pinned to the walls. Folders spilled out of file cabinets. A FIM-92 "Stinger" shoulder-fired missile launcher, with a white police tag, was propped up against a cabinet.

A raving prisoner, his wrists manacled to the wall, thrashed like a madman. "Mist me down, Goddamnit! Mist me down!" He wildly kicked out at Griffin—who was being hurried along by Jaworski, Tyler, and Watt.

The frosted glass in the door to Jaworski's office was cracked. The walls were covered with surveillance photographs of gangs in the zone. Several of the photos featured the B-13s—a multi-racial gang, always dressed in red, which controlled the city's inner avenues. Yet most of the photos featured Rollerboys, particularly Gary Lee.

Jaworski towered over Griffin, who sat in a plastic chair. Tyler and Watt stood nearby.

"I was unarmed," Griffin said. "They were hauling ass up the avenue; what was I supposed to do, wait for them to sell me religion?"

"You're gonna need religion," Tyler said.

"Last night, your friends got even with the B-13s for that Mist-house fire. Were you there with them?" Jaworski threw down crime-scene photographs of dead B-13 members, men and women alike, all dressed in red B-13 jackets.

"The Rollerboys aren't my friends," Griffin said.

Jaworski leaned into Griffin's face. "I hear you and Gary Lee go way back."

"The guy lived next door to me when I was eight years old, for Christ's sake. Then we moved away, and I never heard from him again. Not until recently."

"Then how'd you pay for that pizza van?"

"I told you, he bought it," Griffin answered. "There's no law against that."

"Has he got you on salary yet?"

"You think we'd be living in a tent if I had any dough? I came out here to get away from all that."

"And your brother; how about him?" Jaworski asked. "They're gonna chew up his baby-white ass. The Rollerboys get hard-ons over their blue-eyed blonde recruits."

"For God's sake, he's 13 years old."

"That's just it. They need minors. A fleet of them runs the Mist anywhere they're sent out. Keeps the big guys clean."

"You're full of shit," Griffin responded.

"And another thing…He'll start blowing Mist. You can bet your manhood on it. Better pray he doesn't develop a habit."

Griffin felt himself heating up. "Even the Rollerboys aren't crazy enough to get high on their own supply."

"Aren't they? We've got body drawers full of them, the ones that couldn't resist."

"Not gonna happen!"

"It's already happened! The wheels are turning. They've got his mind. The question is…What are you gonna do about it?" Jaworski stared hard at Griffin, while popping a fresh stick of beef jerky into his mouth. "Wake up, Ramrod. We're talking about children, the future. That's what they're after."

"C'mon, Jaworski. There are gangs all across the city. Every one of them is after fresh recruits."

"Rollerboys aren't just another gang. They own buildings and factories. They have foreign investments. And they're still only a bunch of goddamn kids. In another few years, God only knows…" Jaworski slapped the wall. "…We have to take back this city. I won't let them win." He leaned seductively close to Griffin. "I need someone on the inside."

"That's a tall order."

"You don't know how simple it is."

Griffin glared at Jaworski. "Then you do it."

"It's you who's on Gary Lee's good side, not me."

}{

The mirror behind Griffin and Jaworski concealed a dark listening room. Two cops, an old man and a young woman with blonde hair, sat watching through the one-way glass.

The blonde girl was Casey. "This guy's a washout," she said sourly, indicating Griffin.

Chapter 12

Griffin sat on a deserted beachfront carnival walk, watching the first purples and blues of dawn stain the horizon. Finally, he stood up and turned around. He stared at the demented mural painted on the seawall. The Rollerboy-angel floated above a sea of faces.

"THE FUTURE IS OURS," the mural screamed.

}{

The city streets were quiet. Power lines hummed and sparked in the damp fog.

Griffin stood in the shadows. He looked off in the distance at a sparkling sign of tiny bulbs that spelled out MERMAID CAFE. It was a greasy spoon which had thrived on Gary Lee's personal endorsement, ever since he'd bought it up and expanded it into an upscale catering chain.

Inside the windows of this cafe sat Bango and two fellow Rollerboys in their long white Kevlar coats. They were enjoying a casserole of melted cheese, filet mignon, sliced tomato, spinach, dill pickles and French fries.

Miltie stood outside, leaning into the open driver's window of an Acura luxury sedan. He handed over some tablets of Heaven Mist. "This is the crème-de-la-crème, the best-in-the-west. It melts in your head, not in your fist. Genuine Rollerboy Mist…endorsed by the Pharaoh of Fizz himself, Gary Lee."

The Acura was a brokerage house on wheels. Two stockbrokers sat inside the Acura. One was Chicano, the other Arab; both were dressed in ties and jeans. Dashboard computer monitors displayed the Tokyo, Munich, and New York exchanges.

"Hmmm…Nice, very nice," the Arab driver said, producing a beautiful high-tech hookah. He dropped a blue tablet into the crystal jar.

"You realize what happened today, Milton?" the Chicano passenger asked. "The Dow Jones broke three hundred."

"There's money to be made," the driver chimed in. "Lots of it." He brought the hookah mask to his face, inhaling the tangerine effervescence deep into his lungs. "Bullish!"

"You must have a lot of cash, Milton," the passenger said. "Ever think about the market?"

Miltie smiled. "I think we take shares in lieu of cash. Let me just check…" He produced a cell phone from his pocket, a cell monogrammed with the Rollerboy dragon-crucifix. Miltie placed a quick call to Gary Lee, then hung up and gave the It's a done deal sign to both stockbrokers.

The Arab writhed in momentary ecstasy, then recovered and turned back to Miltie. "Why don't you celebrate with us, kid?" he invited, while passing the youngster a stack of crisp U.S. Treasury bonds.

"I'd love to shiver and shake," Miltie replied while pocketing the g-bills, "but I gotta jet."

"Don't you like the Mist?" the Chicano asked. "Or haven't you tried it, Milton?"

Miltie was clearly uncomfortable. The driver passed the hookah to his partner, who held it under Miltie's nose.

"C'mon," the Chicano said, "You wouldn't deal something you didn't believe in, would you?" He dropped a fresh tablet into the crystal container, then winked at Miltie and offered the mask.

Griffin yanked his 13-year-old brother away from the Acura sedan, which screeched off.

"Hey, Griff," Miltie said nervously. "How's everything?"

Miltie was wearing the gold chain given to him by Gary Lee. The dragon crucifix shone in the moonlight.

Griffin grabbed the necklace. "I thought I threw this away."

Miltie snatched it back. "Gary Lee gave it to me, not you."

Griffin reached into Miltie's shirt, pulled out a thick wad of money and stock-market share-slips.

"C'mon, Griff," Miltie said. "I earned that money. Give it back."

Griffin tossed the wadded bills into the street. "This isn't the answer at all, Miltie. It's drug money. You're hurting people. Besides, the Rollerboys are racists. You're not like that. What about the Speedbagger?"

"That's different," Miltie said, stooping to gather his money.

"How so, Miltie? What's different about it?"

"Well, it's better than not having enough money." Miltie shrugged. "Anything beats that."

}{

Bango and the two other Rollerboys spotted the trouble. They got up and hurried outside toward the brothers. Suddenly, an air-raid siren screamed from speakers mounted on the Mermaid Cafe sign. The Dragons froze momentarily, and then drew their assault rifles: gleaming Steyr AUG bullpups with laser sighting.

Eight B-13 warriors, each of a different race, swooped over a hilltop in two pickup-trucks. They carried sawed-off Remington 870 shotguns. The pack zoomed in, roaring down the choppy asphalt street.

Fanning out into a wedge, the B-13s intercepted all three Rollerboys. They spun out, stopped, and opened fire.

Three Mermaid Café customers went down in explosions of red pulp, as one of the Rollerboys hit the asphalt…and then picked off three of the B-13 warriors with short bursts from his Steyr. A second Rollerboy was sent airborne, spread-eagled through a glass storefront. His Kevlar coat absorbed the shotgun blast, but the impact knocked his wind out.

Bango cart-wheeled over a car hood and rolled to the ground, then came up shooting. After taking out another trio of B-13s, he escaped down an alley with both of his lieutenants.

Griffin threw himself on top of Miltie. Blasts from a Remington blew the windows out of a Toyota, as the brothers thudded behind it.

Miltie and Griffin bounced to their feet. They jammed down the sidewalk, heads lowered, protected by a row of parked cars. A volley of shotgun fire sent windshield glass showering across their backs.

Both remaining B-13 warriors trotted after the two brothers, stuffing a couple of fresh shells into their sawed-off Remingtons. Once locked and loaded, the B-13s picked up speed.

Griffin and Miltie turned the street corner, stopping alongside a one-story building. Griffin swung Miltie up on his shoulders, grabbed his sneakers, and military-lifted him straight into the air. Miltie grabbed the ledge and pulled himself up, onto the roof, while Griffin ran off. Stashed out of sight, Miltie watched as the B-13 warriors turned the corner and spotted his elder brother.

Griffin ran for all he was worth, down an alley. The evening was pitch-dark, with no lights to guide him. Too late, he saw the DEAD END sign…and came face-to-face with a brick wall. There was nowhere to go; no doors or windows, no fences to climb.

Griffin backed against the wall as footsteps clattered after him, racing nearer. Then both B-13s emerged from the darkness and stopped. There was no hurry now. They smiled and then laughed.

A burst of assault rifle-fire sent the two B-13 warriors twirling to the cement. Their blood glistened in the night. Griffin stood perfectly still.

Bullwinkle walked out of the darkness. He tossed a smoking AUG back and forth in his hand. His lips curled in an odd-looking smile. "Never even knew what hit them," he said proudly. "You hold the shadows, slip in behind them, and—pow."

Griffin limped forward as if waking from the nightmare.

"Guess we're even-steven now, Griffy," Bullwinkle went on.

"Griff!" A terrified Miltie raced down the alley to embrace his brother, who kept staring at the corpses. Then Miltie turned toward Bullwinkle, who slapped him a high-five. "Awesome! You blew those B-13 shitters to Kingdom-fucking-Come!"

Griffin was shaken by his younger brother's morbid excitement. "Miltie."

"They were gonna off you, Griff!" Miltie tapped one of the corpses with his foot. "You'd do the same for me, right?"

Griff hung his head, unable to answer that one.

Bango and his two henchmen emerged from the darkness, clutching their Steyr bullpups. Sirens sounded in the distance.

"Bullwinkle! Gotta jam," Bango called.

Bullwinkle nudged Miltie and steered him away.

"Come on, Griff! Hurry up!" Miltie backpedaled and then bolted after the Rollerboys, as they vanished into the darkness.

"I'll catch up with you," Griffin called after his brother. Then he ran off in the opposite direction, past a freshly-painted Rollerboy mural which dominated another brick wall: THE DAY OF THE ROPE IS COMING…

Chapter 13

Several letters hung crooked from the Police Station sign. A beat-up video camera, mounted on an unmanned Lewis machine gun, sat behind a wall of sandbags.

Griffin hesitated, then slowly crossed the street and walked up the steps. The Lewis panned with him, as he entered the decaying station.

}{

In Jaworski's office, Jimi Hendrix's Hey Joe played from a cassette deck. Sitting at his cluttered desk, Jaworski looked up as Griffin ejected the tape.

"If I go down," Griffin said, "You gotta promise—and that means swear on your badge—that you'll take Miltie out of this lousy excuse for a city, and get him an education…That you'll take him far away from the Rollerboys, whether he's game or not. If you have to arrest him in the process, then so be it."

"Are you nuts?" Jaworski scoffed. "Relocation programs cost an arm and a leg. I can't even afford uniforms for half my officers, let alone—"

"That's my deal." Griffin turned to walk out. "If you really wanted Gary Lee on a silver platter, then you wouldn't—"

Jaworski stood up. "Listen, you washed-up gangbanger…!" he barked after Griffin, who whipped around.

"Bingo. There, right there, is why you need me for this." He pushed face-to-face with the detective, who blew out a breath.

"Alright, Ramrod. The deal's on." He offered a stick of beef jerky to Griffin, who smiled as he took it. "One other thing's bothering me…This Day of the Rope slogan."

"It's the day they'll hang all their enemies."

"…Are you sure there's not more to it than that?"

Griffin shrugged. "What else would it mean…?"

Chapter 14

The lavish penthouse was immaculate. The ocean view from its living room was spectacular.

Bullwinkle lounged on a sofa, reading the latest issue of Time—which Gary Lee had purchased two years ago. This week's headline read GERMANY BUYS UKRAINE FROM UNITED REPUBLICS. On a nearby coffee table rested a newspaper from last month; its headline barked out ARMED REVOLTS IN LIBYA & ALGERIA / NEO-FASCISTS TOPPLE AFRICAN GOVERNMENT.

He dropped his magazine beside the newspaper and stood up, as Griffin walked in.

"I have an appointment to see Gary Lee."

"So you like us after all, huh?" Bullwinkle forced a smile. "Go ahead, he's expecting you." He indicated the double-doors across the room.

The doors swung open. Gary Lee stepped out of his office with Kageyama Naboru—a distinguished businessman, flanked by two Japanese accountants.

"…You won't reconsider?" Gary Lee asked. "I'd like to buy more."

"We will see how you manage with these first."

"Bullwinkle—Pay Mr. Naboru, would you? Thanks." Bullwinkle nodded, produced a briefcase filled with cash, and passed it to Mr. Naboru…who handed it off to be counted by his assistants.

Mr. Naboru turned back to Gary Lee. "I am told you are substantially increasing your domestic investments."

The Rollerboy czar nodded. "We're buying back America."

"Who'd want it?" Mr. Naboru sneered. "It has natural resources, and cheap labor, but no real industrial potential."

Gary Lee flashed his most charming smile. "Call me sentimental." With that, he turned away to shake Griffin's hand.

Griffin noticed two crates of laser-sighted FN Minimi Suppressive-fire Assault Weapons stacked on the carpet.

Gary Lee picked up one of the SAWs and tore off its plastic wrapping. "This is vintage stuff. How does it look?" He tossed the Minimi to Griffin. "They were used that week the Pope hired the Israelis to mop up in the Irish Unification War."

Griffin checked the action, removed and replaced the ammunition clip. Then he stepped past Gary Lee's outdoor terrace. Beyond swinging glass doors could be seen a hydroponic garden of exotic flowers, overlooking the ocean.

Moving onward, Griffin entered Gary Lee's private shooting gallery. He fired a couple of bursts into numerous targets, shaped like Viet Cong soldiers, as they popped out from cover across a jungle setting.

Bullwinkle moved up behind Griffin, who had racked up an impressive score. "You never answered me. When and why did you change your mind about us?"

Griffin swiveled around and waved the Minimi's smoking muzzle at Bullwinkle. "I never changed my mind about you," he smiled.

Bullwinkle glared back at Griffin, who tossed the SAW back to Gary Lee. "Gun seems okay."

Gary Lee warmly squeezed Griffin's shoulder. "The best things in life never do change," he laughed. "It's good to have you with us, Griffin." He turned to his lieutenant. "Thank you, Bullwinkle; would you excuse us, please?"

"All right; hope it wasn't something I said." Bullwinkle shrugged and then walked out, closing the door behind him.

"Bullwinkle's terribly loyal," Gary Lee explained. "He's just not very sophisticated."

Griffin examined a wall full of framed portraits: George Washington, Charles Manson, Lenin, Hitler, Ho Chi Minh, Robert Shelton in his Ku Klux Klan outfit…

"Now there's a friendly bunch," Griffin commented. Then he indicated a leather-clad slob on a Harley-Davidson. "Who's this one?"

"Ever hear of the Hell's Angels? That's Sonny Barger…a very misunderstood man." Gary Lee walked over to a pitcher of lemon-limeade. "Want some? It's real fruit." He indicated the terrace-garden.

Griffin nodded. "Thank you."

Gary Lee poured two glasses, one of which he handed to Griffin. "I'm sorry about what happened to your parents."

Griffin reflected. "Even if that traffic accident hadn't killed them, my dad's drinking was getting worse all the time. That's what happens when a lawyer's clients go bankrupt, I guess."

"Adversity either makes you stronger, or weeds you out. That's why you can't ever give up…You don't drink much, do you?"

Griffin shook his head.

"I don't mind alcohol so much. But remember, Griffin…Nobody does the Mist. I'm very strict on this. We have to stay pure, and let the others indulge their weaknesses."

"Then why sell it?"

"We have to, for now. It's just a phase…Besides, some people aren't worth saving." Gary Lee put an arm around Griffin. "My folks let me down, too. Dad practically lived at the bank, after the Great Crash…Mom didn't last long, either. I started all this in the homeless camps. We have a family now. And we take care of each other." He looked straight into Griffin's eyes. "Remember when we were kids? A pen knife and a few drops of blood?"

"Yeah, blood brothers," Griffin agreed. "Lucky we didn't get typhoid."

"I'm more serious now. Once in, never out. That's how we live. But you ought to know…I have this thing about betrayers. They tick me off."

"Sounds reasonable…Gotta keep the guys in line, right?" Griffin answered. "Just one thing…What exactly is the Day of the Rope?"

"That's when we get even." Gary Lee smiled. "Well, you passed the interview; congratulations."

Griffin waited for more, but that was all the explanation he got. So he nodded uncomfortably. "...So, am I a Rollerboy now?"

"Not quite." Gary Lee's smile became a grin.

Chapter 15

The night horizon was a bizarre menagerie of blinking lights outlining dockyard cranes, of crisscrossing search lights. Signs in English, Japanese, and German read NABORU SHIPPING.

Transtainer cranes, shaped like giant staples on wheels, shuttled shipping containers to the water's edge. There portainer cranes stood like steel dinosaurs, hovering over a Japanese supertanker, loading it with the yellow cubicles.

Numerous armed guards patrolled the area. Beyond the 20-foot fence topped with razor-wire, a 500-SL van led four Mercedes Benzes around the dockyard perimeter. Rollerboys pumped fists out open windows, honked horns in tribal unison. Their cars sported paint-jobs defaced with dragons, flames, and New Metal bumper stickers. The lead Mercedes hauled a ramp on a trailer hitch.

Bullwinkle was driving the van. Gary Lee rode shotgun, with a wild-eyed Miltie wedged between them.

"I hear this is one whore-tamer of a test," Miltie said over his shoulder. "Okay, big broski. Don't screw up on me. You're gonna make it, gonna be a dragon. Get to wear the coat, go gangbanging and stuff."

Griffin sat in the folded-down backseat, spraying tri-flow into the wheels of his rollerblades.

Two more recruits – Boz and Pike – worked at securing knee pads, wrist guards, gloves, and helmets. "So…What if Naboru's security gets in our way?" Pike asked.

"Then you're on your own." Bullwinkle blew Pike a kiss.

Miltie scowled, as Bullwinkle pulled over along the fence.

Gary Lee turned to face the recruits. "Mr. Naboru says his shipyard has the best security in town. Let's check it out. All you gotta do is skate down into the underground complex, steal me a security badge, and meet us on the other side.

Outside, Rollerboys backed the ramp against the razor-topped fence.

Gary Lee was smiling. "Enjoy yourselves. Be creative. Just remember Rule Number One: Only the first across gets a ride home."

Bullwinkle waved goodbye. "And Rule Number Two: Don't fall!"

With that, Gary Lee pulled a lever under the dashboard. The van's rear hatch swung open.

All three recruits piled out like monkeys from a cage. They bladed in a wide circle, dug for speed, and then aimed back for the ramp.

Griffin hit the ramp first. He launched into space, soared airborne over the razor wire – tripping colorful laser motion detectors – and landed like a ski-jumper on the other side.

Boz and Pike flew over the fence, landing right behind Griffin. Alarms screamed. Powerful spotlights suddenly bathed them in light.

A guard gawked in amazement. Too late, he raised his Daewoo K-3 assault rifle.

The onrushing Griffin slammed into the guard, knocking him backward. Bullets ripped the air. Boz commandeered the stunned guard's Daewoo.

Another guard appeared from behind a parked truck rig, raised his K-3. Boz squeezed off a burst from his own weapon. The guard tumbled against the truck rig, bleeding badly. Boz blew away a third guard and then took off after Pike and Griffin, as a security squad unleashed a hail of lead.

Boz, Griffin, and Pike wildly zigzagged through an obstacle course of parked truck rigs and shipping containers. Bullets impacted all around the rollerbladers, until they penetrated a pack of startled longshoremen. The intruders weaved furiously among the dock workers, two of whom were hit by the guards' stray bursts. Boz returned the fire, leaving two more guards spread-eagled on the asphalt.

Griffin spun and bladed backwards, surveyed the situation behind him. He spun again and followed after Pike and Boz, who veered toward a Plexiglas entrance to the subterranean business complex beneath Naboru's Shipyard. More sirens screamed. The bladers whizzed past a guard, who frantically yelled something into his cell phone…just before Boz took him out with a butt-stroke from his assault rifle.

Pike, Griffin and Boz hit an up escalator which transported employees up from the lower levels. All three bladers pushed wrong-way down the escalator, squeezing past those who were riding up…including a preoccupied Asian businessman, his head down, lost in his thoughts.

A squad of security guards popped in and turned their weapons on the intruders. Boz was cut down, along with two employees who just happened to be in the line of fire.

Griffin crashed into the ascending Asian businessman, while Pike threw himself onto the steel banister and slid down. Griff just had time to untangle himself from the angry Asian, who was then struck by a burst meant for the rollerbladers.

Reaching the bottom, Griffin flew off and landed hard on the slick linoleum. He bounced to his feet and turned one way, while Pike headed off in the other direction.

An All-Terrain Vehicle carrying two guards swerved around a corner and chased after Griffin. The guard who was riding shotgun raised his weapon and opened fire.

Griffin hit top speed over the low-friction surface. The narrow corridor curved, which prevented the guards from sighting on him.

Bullets sprayed into the wall behind Griffin, as the ATV roared in hot pursuit. Griffin bladed full-speed, just ahead of the bullets, rapidly approaching a sign: CAUTION – WET FLOOR. A janitor threw down his mop and dove for cover, leaving his suds-bucket in the middle of the corridor.

Griffin plowed through the caution sign, bladed over the wet tiles. He slipped and tumbled forward, knocking the mop-bucket over and splashing sudsy water everywhere.

The ATV zoomed relentlessly in on Griffin as he slid out the mouth of the narrow corridor, which t-boned into a perpendicular hallway. Griffin maneuvered back up on his blades, banked up and off the dead-end wall, turned the sharp corner.

The guards' ATV hit the wet tiles, swerved sideways out of control, and crashed hard into the wall. Griffin charged down a wide corridor and found six more guards running right at him. He soared straight ahead, slicing brutally between them.

Griffin continued past, weaving through a crowd of lab-coated technicians. He zoomed toward a bank of elevators, where a beautiful Japanese technician stepped into an open lift.

Griffin raced on and zoomed in past the closing doors, directly into the beautiful technician's arms. As the elevator lurched upward, he smiled at her while gently removing the security badge fastened to her coveralls.

"How are you doing? You've got great security here. Thanks very much."

Suddenly, strong arms grabbed him from behind. A guard, previously hidden by the closing doors, stepped forward and pinned Griffin with a crushing bear-hug. The technician screamed.

Griffin was swung around in the cramped space. Leg-thrusting off the door, he slammed the guard backward into the wall. As the guard's grip loosened, Griffin twisted around to wrestle with his attacker…who suddenly pulled a Beretta 93-R machine pistol from a hip-holster.

The elevator rose to the shipyard tarmac. Its doors opened in front of two more guards, who waited with their Daewoo K-3 assault rifles poised.

Griffin swung out the guard he was grappling with, so that the other two guards accidentally shot the first instead. As he reeled and twisted, the dying guard squeezed off a burst from his Beretta which killed a second guard and wounded the third one. Griffin sprinted out of the elevator and clobbered the last guard.

As Griffin bladed alongside a Japanese supertanker docked alongside the birth, two guards on motorcycles suddenly appeared. They opened fire while racing toward him at full throttle.

Griffin soared into a maze of shipping containers the size of trucks, weaving recklessly through them. The motorcycle guards stuck right behind him.

As Griffin burst out of the maze, a rolling transtainer crane lugged a shipping container dangling below its crossbar. Griffin crouched low, bladed underneath the container, and continued onward. The motorcycle guards, unable to clear the moving crane structure, spun out.

Griffin hit the open tarmac, just as Pike bladed past him. Suddenly, it was a race.

Guards pursued the Rollerboy recruits, who poured on the speed while dogging each other's tails and weaving past shipyard obstacles.

}{

The Rollerboys' 500-SL van waited a distance beyond the enormous fence.

"Shake it, Griff!" Miltie shrieked with excitement.

Gary Lee stepped out of the Mercedes van, toting a Hawk MM-1 grenade launcher. He sighted in on the fence, and fired off a 40-mm round.

The fence was blown to hell. Griffin and Pike zeroed in on the raging fireball.

Griffin took the lead. Pike took it back. They boxed each other out, roller-derby style. As Griffin swung right, Pike jammed an elbow into his ribcage. As Griffin swung left, Pike threw a powerful hip-check.

Recovering quickly, Griffin dug for speed. He rolled beside Pike and slammed him sideways. Pike staggered badly. Then he recovered, and brutally sideswiped another motorcycle guard, as Griffin soared past both of them.

Commandeering the fallen guard's 93-R mach pistol, Pike squeezed off two bursts at their pursuers. One guard was thrown sky-high, when a couple of bullets struck his motorcycle's fuel tank. Another guard got catapulted headlong into a shipping container, as his front wheel blew out under fire.

}{

As Gary Lee stepped back into the 500-SL, Bullwinkle slowly drove the Mercedes van away from the shipyard. The pursuing guards angled in on both rollerbladers, as Griffin spotted the van's open hatch.

Jumping the remains of the fence, Griffin skated in the wake of the 500-SL. He lunged forward, caught air, and thudded safely into the back of the Mercedes van.

Pike, who was only seconds behind, got the van's hatch slammed shut in his face. Bullwinkle stepped on the gas, and the 500-SL sped away. Pike waved frantically, quickly fading in the distance, as Naboru security guards cornered him.

The mach pistol was open and empty, so Pike discarded it and put both hands behind his head. Instead of arresting him, however, the guards formed a firing squad and executed Pike on the spot.

Griffin was on his back, knees up, panting like a dog.

"You did it, Griff! You're a Dragon!" Miltie cheered.

For the first time, Griffin noticed that the Mercedes van was full of crates. The snouts of Suppressive-fire Assault Weapons stuck out of open lids.

Griffin held up the security badge he'd stolen. "Where'd all these guns come from?" he asked Gary Lee.

"You three were the perfect diversion," was Gary Lee's response. "I did offer to buy them." Smiling, he tossed the badge out the window. "Congratulations, Griffin. Now you're one of us."

Chapter 16

The once-beautiful, ornate brick building stood among its own rubble like a three-story Stonehenge. A chant seeped from the dark ruins.

"…The future is ours! Rollerboys rule, Rollerboys rule! Day of the Rope, Day of the Rope! The future is ours, the future is ours! Rollerboys rule…!"

A dim red light flickered from within this catacomb of broken walls. The source of the chanting was a gutted auditorium, which lacked a roof or ceiling. Flares sizzled. Flames danced from garbage cans. Smoke filled the air.

Obscured in the haze, rows of youngsters – boys and girls alike, ages 9 to 12 – faced a stage. All were blond and blue-eyed, wearing a lot of white. Miltie was among the children.

Their eyes were focused upon Gary Lee, who stood before his young disciples. Behind him towered a frighteningly-realistic dragon mounted on a crucifix. On each side stood a formation of teenage Dragons – Rollerboy warriors – saluting their leader.

Griffin stood with them, wearing his new white Kevlar coat with the Dragon patch sewn to its shoulder. He saluted with the others, but only mouthed their chants.

Gary Lee raised his arms. The chanting stopped. Smoke rose up around him like a holy shroud.

Then he turned from his audience, looked past the towering dragon-cross. Behind that was an inflatable mattress on which lay a gorgeous blue-eyed blonde, roughly 20 years of age, looking ready to pop. She was breathing deeply and rhythmically, while a couple of paramedics mildly coached and praised her.

The blue-eyed beauty gritted her teeth and threw back a full golden mane, which spilled across the floor behind her. A second later, wails like those of a banshee split the air. The paramedics – one clutching a blanket, the other a straight-razor – reached between the blonde's sculpted legs. One of the paramedics turned to discard a just-severed umbilical cord. The other displayed a mewling baby to its young mother, who beamed tearfully.

Gary Lee motioned to one of his Dragons. The other Rollerboy nodded and fell out of their formation, striding over to kiss his wife. After a brief whispered exchange, the Dragon brought his new daughter over to Gary Lee…who gently held her up before their audience, while the second Rollerboy fell back into formation.

"Hail Petra, our newest sister!"

Gary Lee's audience cheered.

"Petra is now of the Dragon. Her Rage is the Breath of the Dragon. And her Fire shall consume the infestation which has crippled our Anglo-American nation!"

The audience cheered some more.

"If the White Army is to fulfill its divine purpose, we must have a homeland. Those who would deny us, they are the enemy – and they shall perish!"

His teenage disciples loved it. Their shrieks of glory all but drowned out Petra's sobs.

"We shall regain North America! We do this for you…all of you! We are your Strength! We are your Warriors! The future is ours! The Day of the Rope is coming!"

Everybody resumed chanting. Gary Lee tenderly handed Petra back to her father, who followed his wife as the paramedics carried her outside.

"…The future is ours! Rollerboys rule, Rollerboys rule! Day of the Rope, Day of the Rope! The future is ours, the future is ours! Rollerboys rule…!"

Bullwinkle stared again at Griffin, who joined in the chanting this time. He was one of them now. The smoke thickened, obscuring everything, consuming them.

Chapter 17

Ranks of Rollerboy Dragons skated in dead-perfect two-by-two formation along a beach bike path, which ran between the dunes and the ocean. Griffin paralleled beside Gary Lee, as the formation whipped around tight, looping turns.

Casey sat on a seawall, watching.

}{

A Rollerboy sticker – the Dragon on the Holy Cross – was displayed on the glass storefront of Pinky's Pizza.

Inside, Griffin was glaring at Pinky with a no-nonsense smirk, while Bango looked on.

"You look great. The coat's real sharp. How's your little brother? Seriously, he's a wonderful kid. Say, you hungry? How about a Pinky's Pizzazz, on the house? I'll even throw in a salad…"

"A hundred dollars worth of pizza and beverages, you say? All right, I'll call our crew over here…" He turned to Bango. "…Or does that sound like a deal?"

Bango nodded grimly. "It sounds like the same deal he made us last week – and the week before that."

"I told you. I don't have the money. C'mon, let me slide a few days. You guys are eating me out of business as it is."

"If you haven't got the money, then what's with all this comp chow?" Bango asked suspiciously. "It can't be paying for itself."

Griffin stepped around the counter, opened an innocuous drawer, and grabbed a wad of $100 bills. "You think I didn't know about the stash?" He grinned at Pinky.

"Pinky. Let me explain…" Bango's armored wrist smashed sideways into the pane glass window. Fragments exploded across the room. "…We don't mind you falling three weeks behind, half as much as we mind you lying to us."

"See you next month, Pinky." Griffin handed an extra-large pizza to Bango, who immediately wolfed down the largest slice.

Chapter 18

On the carnival walk, Griffin leaned against a wall. He stood on patrol, his eyes hidden behind reflective black sunglasses.

The Speedbagger rode his motorcycle/sidecar up beside Griffin and stopped. The graying man stared at Griffin, surveying him from head to toe.

Griffin's face held a blank, his lips tight. He pulled off his shades.

"Keep them on, boy," the Speedbagger said. "I know what hate looks like."

As the old man drove away, Griffin took a deep breath and then fitted his sunglasses back on.

Casey, wearing her long-sleeved snakeskin bathing suit, bladed through the crowd. Her well-toned and naturally-tanned body glistened. Casey's hips jutted side-to-side, as she strutted her stuff to music playing on her headset.

}{

Standing on a high-rise balcony nearby were Tyler and Watt. "This is gonna blow that pud's mind."

"Fuck the pud; he's getting rich." Tyler passed a pair of binoculars while munching a slice of pizza with extra kelp. "He'll probably wind up treating himself to a goddamn Benz before we make any busts. Old story: Pud gets the chrome; we get reassigned."

}{

Back on the carnival walk, Casey skated up to Griffin and pirouetted to a stop. Both anger and sexuality burned in her eyes.

"You have a way with reptiles," Griffin said.

Casey ran her palm across his cheek and held it there. Then she slid her fingertip delicately across Griffin's lips.

Griffin stood hypnotized. Then she snatched his sunglasses and skated away. He cursed and rolled after her. Enjoying the chase, Casey paused and dangled the sunglasses like a carrot, then dashed out of reach.

Griffin's annoyance soon turned to pleasure. He slowed and allowed the girl her fun. Then he followed her up a side-street, where she disappeared into an apartment doorway.

Peeling into the doorway, Griffin found a police badge thrust into his face. Casey's face hardened into a scowl.

Griffin was stunned. "Oh, c'mon; this isn't a real one." He reached for the badge.

Casey straight-armed him back against the wall. "It's for real, all right. And so am I."

"Easy, cowgirl," Griffin said, rubbing his shoulder. "How old are you?"

"Older."

As Griffin studied her, a devilish smile crossed his face. "How much older? You don't look—"

"I wasn't thrilled when you signed up to be the big hero, but that's the deal. It's my job to help you. Not to…"

"I feel left out."

They exchanged a harsh stare.

"I still don't know exactly what it is you people want from me," Griffin said.

"Just start working their Mist House," Casey answered. "That's what we want."

"That could take months! These guys are beyond intense. This is fucking religion to them."

A car honked. Griffin turned around.

Gary Lee sat in his Mercedes 450-SL parked just outside the doorway. How long has he been watching? Griffin wondered, swallowing hard.

As Griffin obediently moved toward the Mercedes, Casey stepped up and grabbed him. She spun Griffin around, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

Her hand dropped and circled above Griffin's belt, then plunged down into his pocket—depositing a scrap of paper. "My address," she whispered. "Make him believe you."

Griffin slid his hands around Casey's trim waist, and clasped them over her nicely-sculpted bottom while giving her a big smooch.

"You haven't kissed many girls, have you?" Casey grinned at him.

"You're my first, really. Got a name?" Griffin asked.

"It's written down," Casey indicated his pocket, where she'd dropped her address.

The 450-SL's horn honked again. Snatching back his sunglasses, Griffin rolled out to Gary Lee. The Rollerboy czar stared past him at Casey.

Gary Lee's voice was sharp. "When you're on patrol, you're on patrol…"

Griffin stood humble, as the young designer-drug kingpin kept his eyes on Casey.

"…But I admire your taste. We'll have to make you some real money."

Gary Lee reached over, pulled the handle and swung open the passenger door. Griffin sat down to ride shotgun. As they drove off, three more Rollerboy Mercedes – which had been parked down the street – pulled out and followed in protection.

}{

The afternoon sun was low in the sky. In this residential area on the rundown side of town, Gary Lee's 450-SL drove past an art-deco apartment-tower which was under refurbishment.

"Glad to see they're redoing that tower," Griffin said over the New Metal music playing loudly from Gary Lee's Boze system. "I've always loved that old place."

"I own it," Gary Lee responded.

They drove on past a massive structure which had seemingly-endless chimneys, all spewing out smoke.

"I'm joint-venturing on this power plant," Gary Lee explained. "Everybody needs a dependable source of energy."

His 450-SL bounced over the rutted road through a dying industrial area. All three guarding Mercedes stayed close behind, as they passed decrepit factories belching steam.

Gary Lee adjusted a 20-megahert lever on his Blaupunkt equalizer. The bass guitar deepened.

"I'm also having these roads repaved."

"Yeah, too rough for a nice car like this one," Griffin agreed. "I don't know whether the mayor can't afford to repave, or he's just too cheap."

"I have lots of cars," Gary Lee shrugged. "Lots of real estate, numerous business ventures…portfolios of municipal bonds, utilities…stocks, T-bills. Not all popular investments." He flashed a carnivorous grin. "Still, I believe in the American Way."

}{

They approached an abandoned tire plant, the enormous superstructure of which extended over two city blocks. Junk-scapes of rusted machinery cast long, jagged shadows. As the 450-SL stopped at an unmanned gate, Gary Lee popped open his leather glove-box and produced a cell-phone. He punched in a code-number, and the steel fence slid open.

Griffin watched as Gary Lee tossed his cell back into the glove-box, beside a polished IMI Desert Eagle .357 Magnum and some quick-loader" bullet-packs.

"Where are you taking me?" Griffin asked.

"To Heaven," Gary Lee answered.

High on a rooftop, two Dragons were cradling Ruger Muzzelite MZ-14 bullpup assault rifles. They watched as Gary Lee's cortege entered the plant.

Gary Lee gestured outside his car. "All this around us; it's just the short term. I have plans, Griffin. Tell me, ever thought of attending a University?"

"I'd love to, but who has the yen?"

"A person with the right education can achieve anything they want. With money and guidance, you could become extremely influential—someone I'd be more than proud to have within the Rollerboy ranks."

Griffin was shaken by the offer.

"We go way back, Griffin," Gary Lee went on. "I need smart guys like you; the smarter and more of them, the better."

"Well, you got me," Griffin said. "And I can still blade circles around you, too."

The 450-SL slammed to a halt.

}{

Outside the factory building, Griffin and Gary Lee blazed along a deserted stretch of concrete. Arms pumping, they matched each other step for step, as two Dragon Mercedes followed behind.

Both young men raced for the huge open doors of the Rollerboys' tire-processing facility, past two more Dragons patrolling the shadows. Gary Lee and Griffin bladed neck-and-neck, parkour-style—negotiating conveyor-belts, rubber vats, tire molds, and steel-belt weavers.

They finally dead-ended into a windowless foreman's office. Both drew up, as the two Mercedes pulled in behind them.

"I had you!" Griffin laughed.

"No way!" Gary Lee laughed back.

}{

The Mist-house had been heavily fortified with cross-hatched steel bars. The front door was literally a vault. More Mercedes were parked beside it. Three Dragons, armed with Ruger AZ-14s, patrolled the office roof. Three more Muzzelite-toting Dragons stood outside the vault door.

A line of baby-faced Rollerboy Runners waited outside the vault door; Griffin recognized one of them as that little girl from the homeless camp to whom Miltie had given pizza. Dear God, was he recruiting for the Dragons already?

A video-camera was mounted above a steel drawer. The Runner in front inserted cash. The drawer closed and then opened again. The Runner received fresh rolls of Heaven Mist.

The Dragon who'd been driving Gary Lee's 450-SL stepped out and tossed him the keys. Gary Lee bladed around to the trunk and opened it. Inside was a steel box. Three bags of powder—one red, one yellow, and one blue—were removed from the guarding Mercedes.

The Dragons greeted their czar, as he carried the steel box toward the Misthouse.

Miltie stood in line. Upon seeing his brother with Gary Lee, he threw them both a Rollerboy-salute. Without breaking stride, Griffin and Gary Lee rolled past; in turn, they both tapped Miltie's raised fists.

"Looking good, big broski," Miltie said.

As Gary Lee fit a key into the vault door, Bullwinkle's muffled voice sounded from within. "It's about fucking time; gotta pinch a loaf!"

"One man per shift," Gary Lee explained. "Three shifts a day. Seven days a week. I've got the only key. No other way in. No other way out."

The lock clicked. The vault swung open.

Waiting inside, Bullwinkle leaned against a huge funnel that extended up through the floorboards of "Heaven's Kitchen." Behind him was the Automated Tablet Processor…ATP, for short.

"Not unless somebody drives their pizza van through the wall," Bullwinkle half-joked as he brushed past Griffin, who was being ushered in by Gary Lee.

"Welcome to Heaven's Kitchen…" the Rollerboy warlord began.

Seemingly from out of nowhere, Bango barged inside. The Dragon lieutenant carried a Mermaid Café bag underneath one massive arm.

"…The Chef is here!" He finished for Gary Lee, and tossed him the bag.

Gary Lee helped himself to a hamburger from the bag, and then deposited the bag on a nearby table.

Bango picked up Griffin and threw him up over one shoulder. "Comfy?" he asked rhetorically. "Good. Let me give you the overhead view of our next-generation Mist-house. We did this baby up deluxe, after losing that last one to the B-13s."

Griffin coughed for air as Bango spun around, aiming his captive's head at the machinery. "Right there; see that big vat? It's where this all starts, Griff-ster."

The large steel bowl was filled with green paste. Beside it lay clear plastic bags, each filled with a different color powder.

"The Chinese government first engineered Heaven-Mist to pacify their population," Gary Lee explained. "It cost me a bundle to get the franchise in North America. They supply the ingredients."

Bango demonstrated. "We toss in a little red, a little yellow, a little blue, and we're on our way. Our bakers gotta make it fresh every day." He swung Griffin toward the tablet press. "And over here, this thing with all the pipes and stuff, that's the press. This bad boy spits out tablets like a goddamn Gatling gun." Then he dangled Griffin over a bin, as it spat out fresh tablets wrapped in cellophane. Bango spun Griffin to the funnel and hung him over the spout. Griffin stared down the pipe emptying through the floorboards to the plumbing below.

Gary Lee's head entered Griffin's upside-down field of vision. "Wonder why the Zogs never find anything?" He lifted a steel bucket full of reddish liquid. "Here's why: eighteen-molar hydrochloric acid." Displaying an empty Rising Sun can, he dropped it into the bucket. The can bubbled into oblivion.

Bango wiggled his eyebrows. "Any problems, and it's instant flusharoo with an acid chaser. Even the Zogs' battering rams can't beat the funnel."

"No muss, no fuss, nothing," Gary Lee continued. "It empties straight down into the plumbing. That button over there injects acid into the machinery. Our attorneys can handle anything else."

"Is this tour over yet?" Griffin asked Bango, who good-naturedly dropped Griffin to his feet.

"I want to get you checked out on this ASAP. Someday soon you'll be earning Kitchen duty—fat salary, stock incentives, beefed-up pension, the whole bit." Gary Lee squeezed Griffin's shoulder. "For now I'm gonna move you over here. Patrol the plant, and keep the runners cool. You'll learn the business." He removed a wad of bills from a steel box overflowing with dollars, deutsche marks, and yen. Then he slapped the cash-wad into Griffin's hand. "First week's salary. Take your girlfriend out to dinner and a movie."

Griffin had never seen so much money, let alone held it.

Gary Lee locked the hatch of the money box and replaced it with the empty one. Carrying the money, he ushered Griffin out of the Kitchen. Bango was left on his own, as the vault-door closed.

Chapter 19

Griffin and Miltie's domed tent was gone from the Rent-A-Space Village. A flashy new mobile-home was parked in its place. The Mailwoman next door sat outside in her uniform, watching the news on her wide-screen television.

"…Despite recently selling the States of Alaska and Washington to Canada, the Federal Government was unable to meet its payroll for the second consecutive week. Troops of the Army and Marines remain on strike, camped out on Capitol Lawn…"

Griffin arrived holding some packages and books. He bladed up to his new mobile-home, stared at it with childish excitement. "Not bad, huh? What do you think? Hey, you're welcome to visit anytime you want."

The Mailwoman looked up disapprovingly. "I know where that came from…and how…and from whom."

The mobile-home's interior was as luxurious as its exterior, with every possible accoutrement.

Griffin dumped the books and packages on the couch. "Miltie? I bought some new threads for you. I got you a suit, silk cashmere. You've never had a suit before. I got us some books, too. You need to start reading."

There was no answer. Griffin compulsively tidied up while walking back toward the bedroom.

He found the once-homeless little girl to whom Miltie had introduced him—Xanadu? Yes, that had been her name—curled in a fetal position on Miltie's bed. Some bizarre Rollerboy artwork had been hung on the wall above the bed.

Griffin put a quilt over Xanadu. New Metal music leaked from headphones clamped over her ears. Griffin pulled away the headset. The volume was tremendous. He shut the music off.

Miltie entered, clutching a book in one hand. "Hey, big broski; love the new RV. All that's missing is a gel-wrestler for a maid, right?"

The lethargic Xanadu half-opened her eyes. Her voice was dreamy. "Hey, Griffin…Miltie…Thanks for letting me stop over." Xandy was in La-La Land, totally wasted. She giggled stupidly and then closed her eyes.

Griffin spotted a book in Miltie's hand. On its cover was a mural Griffin recognized from the seawall: THE PRAYER OF THE DRAGON, by Gary Lee.

"What the hell is this?" Griffin asked nobody in particular.

Miltie sat down beside Xanadu on the bed. "Dad and Mom…They didn't really care…Or did they, Griff?"

Griffin sat on his new bed. "Miltie…They did their best." Then he noticed the hookah and Heaven Mist tablets. "What the hell is this?"

"Oh, that…" Xanadu giggled. "…Can't sell something I don't believe in, can I?"

Miltie hid his head. "Oh, man…! Xandy, you didn't—!"

Griffin grabbed the young girl by the shoulders. She slumped like a rag doll, flashing that narcotic grin.

"Goddamnit, Xandy! How long have you been doing this shit!?" He slapped Xanadu, who just giggled some more. Controlling his anger, Griffin let the girl sink back to the mattress. Then he turned to his younger brother. "Miltie, I had to watch our folks fall apart. If I have to watch the same happen with you, or with any of our friends…"

"I'm not like dad and mom," Miltie said. "Dad was a drunk."

Xanadu just smiled lazily.

Chapter 20

The city lights bled, like smudged pastels, through damp fog which clung to the sidewalks. It was very late. A sleek 2064 Cadillac Eldorado passed by, swerving past potholes in the road.

Griffin held a slip of paper as he stood below the outdoor staircase leading up to Casey's front door. He started upstairs, crossed the tiny porch, and pressed the doorbell. He heard grumbling, and pressed the bell again. Lights flashed on, and the door opened.

Casey stood there, wearing a silk bathrobe over a lacy body-briefer. She leaned her head against the door jam. "You okay?" she asked groggily.

Griffin stood motionless. She sighed and then pushed to door wide open, beckoning him inside.

}{

In her living room, Casey sipped a cup of hot tea.

Griffin sat on her couch, staring at the floor. "…I hated my dad because he wouldn't stop drinking. I'd beg him, Just stop. Don't drink any more, and everything will be better. Well, things got worse instead of better. And now it's happening to Miltie…I don't hate my dad so much anymore." He looked up at her. "Listen, it's all there. The new Mist-house…Heaven's Kitchen, they call it. There's more than enough to put them away."

"You gotta work the Kitchen," Casey said.

"What are you talking about?"

"Someone has to keep them from flushing the evidence."

"C'mon, Casey," Griffin said. "The Kitchen's the top slot. That could take months." He stood up. "I've done my part."

"It's not just Miltie," Casey said. "Think of all the those kids who don't have a big brother—at least, not one like you."

"…Since when are they my responsibility? It's crazy. I don't' give a shit about the Rollerboys, Jaworski, or this flat-broke excuse for a country. I just want my brother back."

"Where would you go? If you think this town's the pits…"

Griffin gave her the look of a guy who'd just seen his own death. He sat back down on the couch. Casey got up and sat beside him. She wrapped her arms around him maternally. Griffin closed his eyes.

Their bodies gave comfort as they pressed against each other. Griffin kissed her and they melted together. Falling back on the cushions, he kissed her neck. Their passion kindled, with each prowling the other's body.

Casey sat up and straddled Griffin. She pulled her robe down off her shoulders. He touched the silky seat of her body-briefer.

Griffin rested his head back, closing his eyes in bliss. Then a pair of moth-eaten boxer shorts got tossed in his face. He sat up in horror.

Casey tied her bathrobe shut. "You think you know me? Think I like whoring around with the Rollerboys? Bullshit, Griffin. We're all making sacrifices here. Now get back out there and take care of your little brother—before Gary Lee does."

}{

A MR. DEADROACH pest-control van was parked down the street. Inside, a cockroach crawled over high-tech surveillance equipment. Watt squashed it.

Nearby, Tyler pulled off his headset. "I knew the pud wouldn't score."

Chapter 21

A day later, Griffin was in a hurry. He wore his Rollerboy coat as he stood over a hot stove, cooking dinner. Miltie stood behind his elder brother like a tailor, fastening Dragon combat armor on Griffin's shoulders and sleeves.

"This is a good look for you, Big Broski."

"Just leave it, Miltie. I'll fasten it later. Is the table set?"

"Let me come with you. C'mon, Griff, let me go along. You got pull with Gary Lee."

"Forget about it, Miltie. Have a seat, have some dinner." Griffin served him a casserole of rice, shrimp, steak, and grilled vegetables. Miltie was anything but interested.

"You need someone to cover you, right? Like me."

"First of all, I've got more than enough cover already. And second of all, I'm still ticked off about last night!"

Miltie heated up. "Yeah…about last night. You were out pretty late yourself, Romeo—it was the babe, wasn't it? Casey, right…? Did you score with her?"

Griffin slapped the plate onto the table. "Breakfast of fucking champions," he snapped, pushing his brother into a chair. "Bon appétit, Miltie…But seriously, nothing happened."

Miltie got serious as well. "Suppose it did, though? I mean, what would happen then?" Griffin turned to look at him. "Like, if you get hurt tonight?"

Griffin couldn't bring himself to answer that one. "I gotta go, Miltie." He turned to leave, fastening his combat armor on the way out.

Chapter 22

It was night in the ghetto. The Rollerboys bladed from street to street at full speed, leaning deep into each turn—up over ramps, down concrete stairs. Their speed, agility, and grace verged on sinister as they skated into the inland avenues. They were the picture of beauty in speed and motion.

They approached a shabby barricade marking gang territory. On sawhorses was painted DRAGONETTES.

A duffle-bag was thrown to four female gang members…all wearing ankle-length wetsuits with long sleeves, black tops and white bottoms. The unzipped bag landed at their feet, which were clad in black spike-heeled boots. An assortment of laser-sighted machine-pistols spilled out, along with ammo clips.

The Rollerboys swooped along, crouched in a speed formation. They ramped upward in pairs, soaring over the sawhorse barricade in perfect sync. The Dragonettes stood pat, respectfully allowing the Rollerboys to pass through their territory.

The Rollerboys bladed past, without stopping, but giving their "pull-up" salute as their female counterparts threw them a duffle-bag stuffed with cash. Equipped with infrared night goggles, heavy combat armor, and laser-sighted FN Minimi SAWs, they glided like a white wedge through the shadows…swooshing through the neon-colored fog like a giant bullwhip.

Gary Lee bladed like an SOB, like a barb tipping this human whip cracking through the streets. Griffin, paired beside Bullwinkle, brought up the rear of the pack.

The Rollerboys were on a mission, rolling with military precision up to another gang barricade. Dead B-13 warriors hung over brown sawhorses, on which was painted B-13 RULES!

Two Dragons rolled out of the shadows. Both advance-scouts joined the Rollerboy formation…sailing past graffiti reading B-13 MEANS B-AD LUCK!, DEATH TO THE WHITE ARMY!, and the like.

The Rollerboys skated relentlessly toward a derelict apartment building. Brown flags hung above B-13s relaxing outside. Some members playfully performed tricks on their BMX bikes.

Gary Lee and his fellow Rollerboys leaned into their stride. Like missiles, they zoomed in at full throttle. Their FN Minimis tilted upward, and the killing began.

A B-13 member jumped a burning garbage can, and was blasted in mid-air. Machine-gunfire filled the night, as did the Rollerboys' howling. The B-13s fled into the catacombs of their derelict complex.

But the Rollerboys were too fast. They overtook their victims like Cossacks upon peasants.

Griffin fought in a non-lethal manner, smashing B-13 members with his steel wrist-guards, using a variety of martial arts moves.

But the B-13s were not without defense. They appeared with shotguns, crossbows, and spear-guns. There was a hailstorm of projectiles.

The Rollerboys did cartwheels to avoid the counterattack. They bladed past the B-13 warriors, then spun around and fired while blading backward.

As Gary Lee's SAW opened for a fresh clip, one of the B-13s raised her Mossberg shotgun at him. Gary Lee crouched and produced a ninja throwing-star from his skating boot. He threw the shuriken at the enemy warrior, catching her squarely between the eyes. She fell dead.

Griffin fired his Minimi to knock assorted weapons out of the B-13 warriors' hands. He kept breaking from the group to haul wounded Rollerboys back from the war zone. Then he and several other Dragons bladed down a corridor. Griffin burst inside the first door, while his fellow Rollerboys moved on.

The dark room had no furniture, just loose boards and dust. As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, Griffin heard something. He raised his SAW.

Two kids huddled in a corner—an Oriental boy and a Chicano girl, both Miltie's age. They had been kissing. They pleaded with their eyes. Griffin motioned toward a window, which both runts scrambled for.

As the runts hurled themselves outside, Griffin heard his fellow Dragons rushing back up the corridor.

"Clear!"

"Clear…All clear!"

Bullwinkle pounced inside behind Griffin, who turned to face him. "Clear," he said.

"What happened?" Bullwinkle demanded, indicating the open window.

Griffin's eyes sizzled like fuses. "If anybody was in here, they chickened out."

Bullwinkle beamed viciously. "Yeah…Chicken's the right word."

Outside, the battle raged on. Screams and gunfire filled the night.

Bango charged into the room. "All clear," he said. "We've gotta jet."

All three bladed through the carnage, and away into the darkness, along with Gary Lee and the other Rollerboys…whose injured were dropped off with the staff and students at a local med college—of which the Dragons happened to be very generous financial backers.

Chapter 23

The towers, warehouses, and junk-scapes cast long shadows at the seemingly-abandoned tire plant.

At the factory building, it was business as usual. Rollerboy Runners, including Miltie, lined up outside Heaven's Kitchen. Griffin stood up on the roof, patrolling with a Calico M-900 assault rifle. He looked down as the vault-door swung open. Out stepped Gary Lee, who carried that steel box from the Kitchen to his Mercedes.

From across the expanse of factory machinery came Xanadu's hysterical voice. Griffin saw the girl being carried in by two teenage Dragons.

"I demand a retest! No way is that thing 100% accurate! Someone must have spiked my urine! Or else it was that anti-histamine I took! Are you sure that test-tube wasn't filthy already?"

Griffin jumped off the roof, as Xanadu was delivered. He hurried to the girl, and glared at the Dragons.

"What are you doing with her!?"

One of the Dragons pushed Griffin aside. "She flunked the drug test."

Xanadu was shaking and disoriented. Her pupils were dilated. "Miltie…Griff—say something, anything!"

"Let her go," Griffin said. "I'll take care of this."

"No. I'll take care of it." Gary Lee pulled Griffin away.

Xandy stiffened upon seeing Gary Lee. She ignored Griffin and Miltie, holding her eyes upon the Rollerboy warlord.

"I didn't do anything—!" Xanadu insisted.

Gary Lee shushed the girl with a single gesture. As Xandy stared up in fear, the Dragon overlord lashed out with two hard slaps.

"You broke The Rule. And you lied about it, too."

Griffin and Miltie started forward, an emotional reflex. Gary Lee spun and halted them both with a glare.

Xanadu was crying, as Gary Lee turned back to her. The Mist kingpin's voice softened.

"Don't. Hold it back. Be strong."

Xandy breathed deeply, pulling back the tears. Gary Lee put his arms around the girl.

Griffin's hands tightened into fists, as he watched Xanadu snuggle up to the Rollerboys' leader.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I really am."

"I know it. It's okay." Gary Lee steered the girl toward his Mercedes. "C'mon, let's get you into Rehab."

One of the Dragons shook his head. "That Misted-out kamikaze ain't gonna last," he mumbled to his buddy.

Griffin watched as Xanadu was taken away.

Chapter 24

At RHYTHM REPAIRS, the Speedbagger sat at his workbench, double-checking the spokes of a chrome BMX wheel.

Griffin walked slowly inside. "Don't hate me, Speedbagger. There's stuff I couldn't tell you."

The Speedbagger stood up, but didn't turn around. "I don't hate nobody, son. It does more harm than good. It's the root of all evil. That, along with poverty…And wolves make great pets, don't they?" He turned to Griffin. "So long as that ain't your sheep they're eating."

"I can't get through to Miltie anymore."

"The Mist ain't the worst of it. The power is. Power's the solar eclipse of temptation, fixation, and intoxication." The Speedbagger shook his head. "I just hope, somewhere down inside you two boys, there's still the same old Miltie and Griffin."

Griffin nodded. "We both love you very much, Speedbagger. That hasn't changed."

"I don't want your love," Speedbagger sounded as if he might cry. "I just want you to think about what you're doing. Please, that's all that matters. And do it for yourselves, and for each other. Not for me."

Griffin gave him a thumbs-up, then turned and walked out.

Chapter 25

A dull glow seeped from the gutted brick Stonehenge.

As New Metal music seeped from the abandoned auditorium, a flare was ignited. The explosion of light was blinding. Gasoline was poured into a garbage can. As a match was lit, multicolored flames leaped high.

The Dragons stood in a circle, holding up captured red B-13 jackets. Around them crowded younger Rollerboys. Lasers fired from the ruby eyes of the Dragon Crucifix. They chanted demonically, like killer-cultists.

"…Day of the Rope. The Future is ours. The Future is ours. Rollerboys rule. Rollerboys rule. Day of the Rope…"

Flares sparkled. Devilish shadows flickered. Smoke drifted through them like anger, filling their lungs. The chant grew louder.

"…Day of the Rope. The Future is ours. The Future is ours. Rollerboys rule. Rollerboys rule. Day of the Rope…"

Griffin was overwhelmed by the moment, the energy, and the emotion. He screamed the chant, lost in his undercover role.

As Gary Lee signaled offstage, Bullwinkle rolled out of nowhere. He was pushing a hooded man with both hands tied behind his back.

The muscled prisoner wore combat fatigues and a sweatshirt. As he stumbled to his knees, Bullwinkle kicked him hard. The prisoner crawled forward, into the circle—and into the frenzy.

Bango brutally kicked the hooded prisoner. The others followed suit, descending upon the prisoner…tearing and gouging with fists, knees and elbows. Even Griffin joined in. Flares sparkled. Shadows danced. Smoke obscured everything.

The muscled prisoner crawled forward, blood staining his clothes. He did not get far before collapsing like a stuck bull.

The Rollerboys hovered around their victim. Bullwinkle reached down and pulled off the prisoner's hood.

It was the Speedbagger, who lay unconscious with blood dripping from his ears.

Griffin stood in shock, his body tight and rigid with realization. "Back off! No more! Stop this!"

There was sudden silence as Griffin hurried over to the Speedbagger. He dropped to his knees and checked for the old man's pulse.

"No more waiting at the old speedbag, right Griffin?"

"Stay away from him." Spinning around, Griffin glared at Bullwinkle. "I oughta do this to you."

Bullwinkle just grinned at Gary Lee, who motioned for the Dragons to stand down.

The designer-drug lord turned to smile at Griffin. "I like a man who sticks by his friends…"

"So why him?" Griffin indicated the Speedbagger.

"…You just can't have friends like that." Gary Lee answered.

As Griffin stood silent, Gary Lee indicated the auditorium's main entrance. Inline skates echoed, as the Dragons rollerbladed past Griffin on their way outside.

And then there was silence. The Dragon stared confidently from its Holy Crucifix. As the flares burned out, the fires dimmed, leaving a dull glow rising from the trash cans.

Griffin kneeled over his bleeding friend, placing an ear upon the Speedbagger's chest and peeling back the old man's eyelid. The pupil was dilated.

"…Is he dead?"

Miltie sat hidden in the shadows, with both arms wrapped around his knees. He was in shock. "Gary Lee and Bullwinkle told me to bring him here. They wouldn't tell me why. I figured he was delinquent on his protection payments again, so…I had no idea they were gonna—"

Horrified, Griffin stepped toward his brother and shook him hard. "Then you and I killed him! He was our friend, Milton! He loved us! We're in this because of you! If you hadn't gotten in with these…This would never have happened if you…"

Griffin trailed off, as he noticed that Miltie wasn't resisting. He stopped shaking his younger brother and calmed down.

Chapter 26

That night in the IC ward, the green dot on the cardiac monitor drew a weak – yet steady – pulse.

Griffin stood in the darkness, silently studying the spider-web of tubes and wires connected to the Speedbagger, who slept on the hospital bed. An oxygen mask had been fitted over the bandages wrapped around his face.

Looking on with damp eyes, Griffin clasped his fingers around the Speedbagger's hand. The old man opened his eyes and stared back at Griffin, whose hand he weakly squeezed in forgiveness.

Miltie stood at a distance, trembling with panic. "I'm sorry, Griff…really…"

Griffin hugged his brother, but it didn't help much.

"We're totally—They're gonna—What was it they said? Once in, never out. What'll we do, Griff?"

"Take it easy, Miltie. We just gotta get outta this town, the sooner the better."

"And go where? Where can we go without them finding us?"

"Miltie…Just take it easy. There are plenty of places to go."

"Like the Outer-lands?" Miltie's voice was a sarcastic staccato, with a sadness the likes of which Griffin had never heard. "All that work meltdown clean-up? Yeah, those Bubble Towns are really great places to live. Speedbagger grew up in one himself. Or don't you remember his horror stories about it?"

Griffin met Miltie's glare. "Yes, Milton…Like it was yesterday."

Both brothers looked from each other to the Speedbagger and back.

Breathing deeply, Griffin turned away and showed himself out. "I'll see you at home, Miltie."

Chapter 27

Later, in Casey's apartment, she sat with Griffin on her living-room couch. "…They'd just get forty or fifty guys to deny it ever happened, that's according to Jaworski."

Griffin looked at her. "Miltie and I are blowing town."

"What the hell did you expect? You gotta finish this; then everything will be different."

Griffin shook his head. "Nothing can change what happened tonight. I almost killed Speedbagger before I even knew it was him. Miltie and I have gotten way over our heads in this."

"I know where you're coming from…" Casey answered sadly, while reaching into her purse. She pulled out a brass police badge and stared at it. "The police are the nearest thing to a family I've ever known—not close, just near. My mom was a cop, an only child, and a single parent…all at the same time. She never talked about my dad. When she died in the line of duty, Jaworski took me in. He and Mom were partners. Jaworski grew up without a family, either. He got busted at 20, for mugging a nun and resisting arrest, joined the force as an alternative to doing prison time. So did Watt and Tyler; they were in for arson and embezzlement, respectively. This city needed all the cops it could get, no matter where it got them or how.

"Ever since I graduated from the Academy six months ago, I've done mostly undercover work—because everybody said I looked 16. I kept telling myself this was the right thing, but now…With all the stuff I've had to go through, I'm not so sure anymore." She tossed her badge on the table.

"Why don't you come with us?" Griffin offered.

Casey slowly shook her head. "Not until I finish this. I just don't work that way."

Griffin stared at her as she looked away. Finally, he stood up and Casey turned back to him. They looked into each other's eyes for a long minute, and then he walked toward the door.

She followed him over. "Before you go…" She gently kissed Griffin's cheek, then his ear and neck, and finally his mouth. His arms curled around her torso, which she pushed against his. He backed Casey against the wall, and both gave into their passion.

}{

As the first hues of dawn filled Casey's bedroom window, wax bled from a nearly-burned-out candle. She was in bed with Griffin, sweating and holding each other tight. Both rocked slowly, looking deep into each other's eyes. They had been making love for more hours then they'd bothered to keep track of.

Before Griffin knew it, the curtains had been drawn. He heard somebody knocking on Casey's front door. Griffin rolled over in bed, and opened his eyes to find himself alone.

Then, hearing Casey's shower running, he moaned and buried his head underneath the pillow.

The knocking became a pounding, and then a booming. Griffin pulled on his jeans and looked at his high-tech wristwatch. It read 7:30. He'd overslept.

He staggered from the bedroom into the living room. As he approached the front door, the booming knock stopped. Looking out the peephole and seeing nobody there, Griffin opened the door.

Smiling viciously, Bullwinkle showed himself inside the apartment. "Good morning. Did I wake you?" He laughed. "You looked pathetic when I pulled off the Speedbagger's hood. There's nothing like kicking the teeth outta your old father figure, before he kicks yours out. Right, Griff?"

Griffin steamed.

"I hear he was doing Gerber's through a straw at County last night," Bullwinkle went on.

Griffin's fury turned to fear as he noticed Casey's police badge on the table. He spoke up to get Bullwinkle's attention. "I saved your ass. Isn't that enough?"

Bullwinkle sat on top of the table—on top of the badge. "I saved yours too, remember?" Then he realized he'd just sat on something. Without looking, Bullwinkle reached underneath himself and brushed the badge aside.

Griffin forced himself not to stare at the badge, as Bullwinkle hopped off the table. Then Casey walked in wearing a bathrobe. She bristled in surprise, holding Griffin's elbow while the two of them exchanged a look.

"What the f…" Bullwinkle drew his Goncz GA pistol, having found the badge. His face was a mask of insane anger. "…You are Zogs! Goddamn traitors!" He fidgeted wildly, dropping the badge. Then, clutching his Goncz, he drove it point-blank into Casey and Griffin's faces.

Bullwinkle's smile was terrifying. "I'm gonna love this! Oh, yeah! You're so gone! Down on your knees, Zoggies!"

Griffin and Casey trembled.

"Get down on your knees!" Bullwinkle screamed.

Both hostages weakly sank to the floor.

"Let her go," Griffin said. "Casey doesn't—"

"Shut up, Zog!" Bullwinkle scoffed. "And to think you were Gary Lee's favorite…!" Panting like a dog, he flashed a wide loony smile which was all teeth. "Time to say our prayers…"

Tyler crashed through the front door, his M-1911 pistol drawn. Bullwinkle immediately grabbed Casey, dragging her up and pushing the Goncz GA's barrel against her temple.

Their Mexican standoff was punctuated by quick gasps of breath, wide eyes, and the ticking of a nearby clock—which suggested a pin dropping in the otherwise dead silence. Tyler stood rigid, both hands gripping his M-1911.

Griffin watched helplessly as Bullwinkle used Casey as a human shield, his Goncz jammed against her neck. "I'll do it! I swear I will!" the Rollerboy-lieutenant growled.

"Go ahead," Tyler replied. "I never liked that bitch anyhow. But you're not walking outta here."

Behind Bullwinkle, Watt emerged—stealing in from Casey's bedroom. Almost casually, he raised his Heckler & Koch P9S pistol.

The back of Bullwinkle's head exploded into pulp. He dropped his Goncz GA and it went off, just missing Griffin.

Casey was splattered in gore. She screamed, staggering back against the wall.

Griffin grabbed her, ignoring the hysteria. He quickly pulled her away from the living room, down the hallway and into the bathroom. Then he pushed her inside the shower stall and spun the knob. They huddled together as cold water poured down all over them.

Casey's hysteria softened to tears. She and Griffin collapsed upon the tiles, holding each other close as now-tepid water cleansed the horror away.

}{

PC—Plain Clothed—police officers washed blood off the walls, while laying new carpet and plastering over the bullet holes. A photographer broke down his flash unit.

Jaworski rifled the pockets of his coat, looking for something which didn't seem to be there. Two PC cops walked past him, carrying a rolled-up carpet toward the door. Griffin noticed that a body-bag was stuffed inside the carpet.

"Dump him somewhere on the B-13s' turf," Jaworski ordered. The PCs carried it out the door, past Casey, who sat quietly on her sofa.

"This goes on the books," Jaworski went on, "as an unsolved homicide—at least, until we finish this."

"You can't do this," Griffin objected, indicating the carpet which contained Bullwinkle. "What about his family?"

"First of all, Ramrod, only the mayor tells us cops what we can or can't do." The frail cop pulled out an empty beef jerky-wrapper. "Second of all, as far as we're concerned, he didn't have a family."

Tyler and Watt walked into the room. Jaworski spun toward them. "I'm not through with you two," he said. "What was that kid talking about before you turned his face into soup?"

"You tell me, Lieutenant," Tyler said as he exchanged harsh stares with Jaworski.

"Well?" Watt cut in.

Jaworski nodded. "You can go." As Tyler & Watt stepped out the front door, Griffin and Jaworski looked at each other.

"Unsolved homicide, my ass; I don't have a family, either. I'm out of this."

"The hell you are. No way are you screwing this for us, Ramrod. Not when we're almost home. You know how long we've been working to bring down the Rollerboys, how many damn good officers we've buried in the process? Besides, you know their oath: Once in, never out. Bail on us now, and you'd better pray Gary Lee sniffs you out before I do."

"We'll take our chances." Griffin turned to Casey, who looked away without saying anything.

As Griffin walked out the door, Jaworski called after him. "That's just it, Ramrod—you've got no chance to take."

Griffin turned back.

"We can plant that dead-ass Dragon wherever we please…and on whomever. Then whose word do you think the media is gonna take? Lawyers are strictly for the rich, after all, to say nothing of medical insurance."

Griffin's blood was running cold. "You'd—!?"

Jaworski nodded. "Fucking A, we would. Yeah, I know all about that geezer-ass Coon you're so close with. Need I mention what hospitals do these days to patrons who go delinquent on their bills?"

He had Griffin by the family jewels, and they both knew it.

Finally, Griffin found his voice. "You win. I'll finish it."

Jaworski flashed an acid grin. "See you bright and early, Ramrod."

"Have a stroke, you queer-ass Zog." With that, Griffin spun on his heel and slammed out of Casey's apartment.

Chapter 28

"Miltie?"

Griffin entered their mobile-home and looked around for his brother. The bathroom door was closed. Griffin hesitated, listening, and then slowly pushed the door open.

Miltie sat on the bathroom floor, leaning back against the toilet, staring up at the ceiling. The 13-year-old was totally whacked out, with no perception of the world around him.

"Oh, God…Please, Miltie…" Griffin found the hookah and a Heaven-Mist tablet-roll. Only a few tablets were left. He settled in and cradled his zonked-out little brother back and forth, never letting go, as if Miltie were a big dog.

That was when Griffin saw the newspaper beside the sink. Its headline read HOSPITALS TO BE FORECLOSED OVER INSUFFICIENT FUNDS / HUNDREDS OF DOCTORS, NURSES, AND ORDERLIES NOW ON STRIKE.

Then Miltie said a single word—"Speedbagger,"—and the horrible truth dawned: this overdose had been a suicide attempt.

}{

Hours passed. Miltie was now sleeping, his head nuzzled against Griffin, who sat on the bed. Staring down at his younger brother, Griffin stroked Miltie's forehead.

"You're very good to him." Gary Lee walked softly into the mobile-home. Griffin gasped, his face turning white.

Gary Lee studied him. "So…What did you and Bullwinkle have to talk about this morning?"

Griffin acted his bluff. "He said I owed him one."

"Bullwinkle was shot to death in the avenues."

"I'm crushed…Wait, isn't that B-13 territory?"

Gary Lee mused aloud. "You know it…Any idea why he'd go up there alone?"

"He never was much on common sense, was he?"

Bango and three other Dragons entered the mobile-home. They silently lined up against the wall. Griffin looked on, his heart ready to explode.

"You'd do anything for your brother," Gary Lee asked rhetorically, "wouldn't you?" He ran one hand over Miltie's forehead. "So would I. He's a very sick little boy. It's gonna cost a shitload of money to make him well. But we'll help him. That's what families do for each other." Then he turned back to Griffin. "I want you to take Bullwinkle's Kitchen shift tomorrow morning."

Chapter 29

The colors of sunrise poured into the ocean. The surf crashed in white explosions, rolling along the shore, stretching further—until finally licking the edge of a dragon etched in the sand.

Huddled under a blanket was Griffin, who had spent the night along the seawall. He crawled out of his sleeping bag and stood glaring at a familiar mural: the Rollerboy Angel, rising into the Heavens, amid the inscribed prophecy THE FUTURE IS OURS…THE DAY OF THE ROPE IS COMING!

Griffin swung over the seawall and walked to a payphone. He dropped in a few coins and dialed a number.

"Is Casey there?" he asked.

Watt and Tyler were nearby, inside their MR. DEADROACH surveillance van.

Watt answered over the headset-phone. "She ain't here, kid; just us. What do you got?"

"Well, I got Heaven's Kitchen," Griffin said. "Tell Jaworski to be there at noon."

"Good work, kid," Watt said.

Chapter 30

Griffin walked up to the line of Runners outside the Kitchen's vault-like door. He knocked.

Bango, wearing a chef's apron, stood there with a second Rollerboy. They were playing poker, with tarot cards, for a small pile of crisp hundred-EuroMark bills. Both were enjoying a box of doughnuts.

Gary Lee drove up. Two Rollerboy Mercedes pulled in behind him, as he parked and stepped out. "Good morning, boys." He approached Griffin. "I've assigned Bango to coach you through the shift."

"I can handle it," Griffin said. "Really, you don't need—"

Gary Lee regarded him with calm hostility. "So can Bango. Do the words Standard Procedure mean anything to you?"

"Yeah…Sure, I just—"

"Well, the shift is like all good things in life," Gary Lee went on. "You gotta take whatever comes with it, good and otherwise. So, you still want the shift or what?"

Griffin resignedly nodded.

"Glazed jelly," Bango said, passing Griffin a donut. "You're gonna need your strength!"

As Gary Lee unlocked Heaven's Kitchen, Bango playfully hoisted Griffin overhead and carried him inside. He pranced around, displaying Griffin like a flag.

"Welcome to Chez Bango!" The hulking Rollerboy-lieutenant put Griffin down, laughing like a madman. His laughter was snuffed out by the slamming vault-door, by the key turning in the lock, and by the bolt clicking into place.

"Didn't you already check me out on this thing?" Griffin asked. "I thought you and Gary Lee trusted—"

"I don't make the rules, Griff. So we're trapped in here for the next eight hours." Bango picked up an old wind-up clock, twisted the key tight, and set it down on the counter. It counted down from 8:00…7:59…7:58…

Helping himself to the nearest seat, Bango grinned and wolfed down a doughnut with a single bite. Then he got up, dug into an ice chest, and pulled out a carton of sodas. He passed one to Griffin, popped a tab, and chugged the entire soda in one gulp.

"Breakfast of champions," he said, beaming at Griffin.

Griffin leaned against the funnel, surveying the Kitchen. In the corner rested the plastic bags of Mist ingredients: red, yellow, blue…and a fourth plastic bag. This one held green powder.

"What's this?" he asked Bango.

"That's the Rope. It's Gary Lee's top-secret high-performance additive."

"…The Day of the Rope…"

"Fucking A. That's why Gary Lee never lets us get high off our own supply."

Griffin shrugged. "Who, in their right mind, does that anyway?"

"Yeah, only that's not even half the story. You want to have little Rollerboys and Rollergirls someday, don't you?"

Griffin looked shocked.

Bango took the green bag. "This is Gary Lee's gene-pool experiment, his Final Solution. Eliminate the weak." He tossed his empty soda into the bucket of acid. As the bottle sizzled into oblivion, Bango emitted a crazy, howling laugh. "Are we having fun yet?"

"What about Miltie…and Xanadu?"

"Xandy's only done it a few times. I detoxed her and Miltie myself. They should still be okay." Bango looked at Griffin with genuine concern. "You just better keep that kid brother of yours under control. Gary Lee put him in our own private rehab program with Xanadu, just to be on the safe side."

Bango flipped on the stereo. New Metal music kicked in.

}{

Outside, a procession of Mercedes left the tire plant. The steel gate slid shut, as a couple of Dragons patrolled the shadows.

}{

Inside, Bango poured the various ingredients into the vat. "…A touch of this…A touch of that…" The paste swirled in gooey waves.

Griffin stared at the vault-door video monitor, watching the fisheye-view of an 11-year-old Runner cleaning his ear. The Heaven Mist-processor churned out tablets, dropping plastic-wrapped rolls into a receptacle.

As the drawer slid open, Griffin replaced wads of cash with rolls of Mist. Closing the drawer, he tossed the cash into the steel box, which was still relatively empty.

Bango stood on his head beside the clock, which read 9:23. Resting his feet against the door, he did sets of upside-down pushups.

The tablet-processor churned on. Rolls were ejected and tumbled into the receptacle. Griffin scooped them up, staring uneasily at the little green bag. Bango pulled another soda from the ice chest, used it to chase a donut.

Griffin nervously dropped more cash into the steel box, which was now full of money. The clock read 11:05.

}{

Outside, a patrolling Dragon walked along a tower catwalk—until he was grabbed in a headlock without warning. There was a sharp crack as his neck was wrenched.

}{

Inside, Bango tossed an empty soda can into the acid. It dissolved with a flurry of bubbles.

As Bango drew another soda from the ice chest, Griffin picked up a scrap of pine 2x4. He tested its weight and then discarded it.

Bango performed a set of decline pushups, with his feet propped up on a folding steel chair. His chiseled arms gleamed with sweat.

}{

Outside, another patrolling Dragon unknowingly entered the crosshairs of an infrared sighting-computer. A second later, a dart hit the Rollerboy-sentry…who quietly collapsed.

A young Runner at Heaven's Kitchen turned around and stared off across the factory, as if he'd heard something.

}{

Inside, Griffin dropped more money into the steel drawer, which was all but overflowing. The clock read 11:59.

Bango worked his triceps by doing reverse pushups, his palms stretched behind him. There was a loud snap.

Griffin whipped around. A mouse lay crushed and bleeding under the bar of a mousetrap.

Bango got up and turned off the radio. "Oh, baby; hammered that sucker." He picked up the trap, as the mouse quivered in death. Holding it over the acid, he smilingly hummed a funeral march and then dropped the furry corpse into the acid. "Burial at sea…"

"Bango," Griffin spoke up, "How do you really feel about Gary Lee?"

Bango became uncharacteristically serious. "You've seen me kill for him, right? I'd die for him twice."

As they looked at each other, gunshots sounded from outside—followed by a yelp, and then two bursts of full-auto gunfire. A body thudded against a wall. There were a couple of short screams.

"Zogs!" Bango snapped to it and lunged for the Mist.

"Griffin!" It was Watt, from outside. "Stand back, we're blowing the door!"

Bango did a double-take from Griffin to the door and back. Then, as the truth dawned, he slammed Griffin across the head. Griffin staggered backward, but didn't fall.

"I never liked traitors…" Bango glared demonically, energizing himself. "…Especially undercover-ass Zogs; they're the worst." He struck Griffin, who toppled over the funnel and crashed to the floor.

Bango ran to the tablet processor and pulled a red emergency lever marked "DANGER/DESTRUCT". Red smoke began rising, as acid was injected into the machinery.

"Hold on a sec," Tyler called from outside. "The fuse is out."

Grabbing the large receptacle of rolled Mist tablets, Bango hurried toward the funnel—but Griffin slid forward and tripped him. Bango left his feet and flew forward. Tablets rolled everywhere.

Griffin scrambled to his feet, grabbed the steel box and slammed Bango with it. Bango whipped around and caught Griffin under the chin.

Staggering backward, Griffin spun and threw the ice chest. Water and ice flew everywhere. The chest bounced off Bango, as he scrambled for the plastic-bagged Mist ingredients.

Griffin threw himself headfirst at Bango, who grabbed and lifted him overhead. Griffin was thrown against a wall and slid to the floor, dazed.

Bango picked up the plastic Mist-ingredient bags and was about to deposit them in the vat of acid when the vault door blew open. Smoke and dust filled the air.

The force of the explosion slammed Bango headfirst against a wall. Bleeding from the ears and nose, he slumped to the floor and didn't move.

Tyler and Watt stood in the blown-out doorway. Both narcs stepped forward into Heaven's Kitchen, smiling at the stupefied Griffin.

Tyler raised his Heckler & Koch MP-5 assault rifle. "You're not gonna make it."

"But you're cops," Griffin said.

Watt had found the toppled money-box. "Rich cops."

Griffin was flabbergasted. "Where's Jaworski…? That other Misthouse…That was you, wasn't it?"

Tyler aimed his MP-5 point-blank. "Lights out, pud." Then he himself was blown away from behind.

Casey stood in the blown-out vault-door. She held a smoking Armsel Striker battle-shotgun.

A Police Assault Team stepped forward and opened fire, blasting Watt to shreds. The PAT officers wore chipped gray poly-glass armor.

"We're clear," Casey said at last. She hurried to Griffin. "Thank God you're okay."

"What's going on?" Griffin demanded.

Jaworski emerged from the smoke, calmly pushing past the Assault Team—who promptly started bagging the Mist ingredients, packing them into gray duffel bags. Chewing jerky and cradling a still-smoking SWD-Cobray "Street Sweeper", the frail cop stoically acknowledged the wide-eyed Griffin.

"I knew those two were up to something," Jaworski said. "Hope you don't mind me finishing it here. I hate court."

"Thanks for telling me," was Griffin's exasperated reply.

"I didn't know, Griffin," Casey said. "Believe me."

"Is that why you sent them to hit the other Misthouse?" Griffin put the pieces together. "You couldn't get a warrant, so you wasted some B-13s for their jackets and then—"

Jaworski suddenly grabbed Casey and dragged her over to the vat of acid, then prepared to shove her face into it. As Griffin pulled himself to his feet, the PAT officers trained their Armsel Protectas on him.

"I didn't see any cops knock off the Misthouse," Jaworski growled. "Say it, Ramrod." He pushed Casey's head within inches of the acid. "Say it now!"

Griffin saw that he had no options. "I didn't see any cops knock off the Misthouse," he echoed.

But Jaworski wasn't finished. "I didn't see any cops try to loot the Kitchen," he hissed. Then the acid hissed too, as one end of Casey's hair touched it and got singed.

"Let me fucking hear it!" Jaworski shouted.

To save Casey, Griffin recited Jaworski's words.

Jaworski drew Casey's face back from the acid, but didn't release her. "Now you say it," he ordered her. Then, without waiting for a reply, Jaworski addressed his Assault Team. "Shoot him on three," he commanded. The police troopers prepared to pump Griffin with lead. "One…Two…"

"I didn't see any cops try to loot the Kitchen," Casey blurted, without time to spare.

Smiling, Jaworski let her go. "Good girl," he said, and then turned to Griffin. "Lighten up, Ramrod. You're still here to bitch about it, aren't you?"

Looking over at Casey, Griffin shook his head. "Fucking Zogs…"

Casey glared at Jaworski. "…You got that right."

The Assault Team finished collecting their evidence. They kneeled into a safety crouch, waiting for further orders.

"Let's move out," Jaworski said.

The police troopers exited first, carrying the gray duffels. Jaworski, Casey, and Griffin followed.

The assault officers moved in two parallel lines of eight, on each side of an Armored Personnel Carrier equipped with artillery pieces. Both squads double-timed past conveyer belts, rubber vats, tire molds, and steel-belt weavers.

They quickly exited into the tire factory-lot, and continued out the huge tire plant. They traveled over dirt and pitted asphalt, past the junk-scapes and factory buildings, past the towers and overhead walkways.

Suddenly, the assault squads stopped. Everybody stared ahead, then nervously surveyed all around them.

The Rollerboys were everywhere. They had the police surrounded.

Gary Lee stood in silhouette blocking their path. He exuded an ominous calm.

Griffin froze up. Casey rolled tight beside him. Jaworski removed his stick of jerky. The PATs squeezed their Armsels, and stood ready for combat.

Gary Lee held out Miltie, dangling the 13-year-old by the scruff of his neck. The boy hung helpless.

"Come here, Griffin. It's okay, come on over here." Gary Lee smiled.

As Griffin sized up the request, Casey and Jaworski pushed close beside and—respectively—in front of him. Jaworski shook his head no.

"There must be something you want to talk about," Gary Lee went on.

"No deals," Jaworski replied.

Glaring, Griffin buckled both feet into his rollerblade-boots. "No deals, my ass." He pushed past Jaworski and skated out into the open.

The Rollerboys raised their weapons as Griffin bladed toward Gary Lee. They stood face-to-face.

Gary Lee's tone was droll. "I've always prided myself on giving everybody the benefit of the doubt, Griffin. But, I must say, you've really ticked me off." He bobbed Miltie's head up and down like a marionette. "Now, Miltie, I'm sure you didn't know your big brother was a Zog. Or did you, now?" He looked back at Griffin again. "I figured that we understood each other, that you shared my vision."

"You didn't tell me the Day of the Rope meant sterilizing everybody," Griffin answered. "That's beyond crazy…So what do you want?"

"What do you think? Give us the Mist," Gary Lee demanded.

Griffin turned back. "You heard him," he called, staring hard at Jaworski. "Give him what he wants."

"Not a chance," Jaworski sneered.

"Griffin! Get me outta here!" Miltie yelled. "Do what he says! Hurry it up!"

Gary Lee lifted Miltie up to face level. "Chill. Out," he said.

Miltie pounced like a wolverine directly into Gary Lee's face, head-butting him squarely on the nose. Gary Lee recoiled, dropping Miltie and stumbling backward. The 13-year-old scurried off toward the junk-scapes.

Griffin threw himself at Gary Lee. They landed in the asphalt, rolling and thrashing at each other.

All hell broke loose as the Rollerboys attacked. Everybody started shooting. The Dragons charged the police, criss-crossing back and forth, their M16-203s blazing.

Casey and Jaworski took cover. The anorexic cop screamed into his radio. The armored personnel carrier opened up with mortar-fire, and five Rollerboys were felled. Then the APC itself was taken out by a Dragon's Barrett M-82 anti-tank rifle. The Assault Team held their ground, even as a police trooper got a bullet between the eyes, while three more were brought down by a Rollerboy's grenade.

}{

Griffin and Gary Lee rolled over a ledge, falling three feet down into a cement corridor which ran alongside the building. As he thudded to the ground, Gary Lee pushed Griffin away and drew his laser-sighted Desert Eagle .357 Magnum.

As the unarmed Griffin scrambled away, a bullet slammed over his head into the wall. Then Griffin tumbled behind a pillar, and another bullet impacted just behind him. Suddenly, two PAT officers rounded the building. Gary Lee whirled and picked them both off, then saw Griffin blading away and chased after him.

Looking on, Miltie saw his brother's plight and scurried through the junk-scape after him.

}{

Casey was knocked to the ground by a burst from a Dragon's Enfield L-85. While she lay there catching her breath, attacking Rollerboys came in from all directions. They soared past and spun around, then fired while skating backward. Casey pumped her battle-shotgun, took out a soaring Dragon, and then was downed again by another's Ruger MZ-14 burst. She didn't know how many hits the poly-glass body armor was designed to absorb, but it was best not to push one's luck. Nearby, Jaworski got slammed off his feet by fire from a Rollerboy's Calico M-900.

}{

Two armed Rollerboys followed their czar, as Gary Lee pursued Griffin at flank speed through the abandoned tire plant. Griffin soared into a maze of tire containers, zigzagging through the passageways like a human Pac-Man.

Gary Lee entered the maze just in time to see Griffin turn the corner up ahead. The other two Dragons bolted around to cut Griffin off when he emerged. Suddenly, another Police armored personnel carrier crashed through the steel fence surrounding the tire factory. Recognizing the greater danger, one of the Rollerboys whipped out a shoulder-fired missile launcher. The APC was hit, but picked off both Dragons with a burst from its 20-mm assault cannon before exploding.

}{

Miltie scurried like a possum through the cover of the junk-scape.

}{

Griffin soared out of the container-maze. Digging for speed, he jetted across the asphalt and darted inside the factory where Heaven's Kitchen had been located. He quickly disappeared into the vast interior of the tire-processing machinery.

Gary Lee stopped at the factory's entrance. He looked back at two more PAT troopers following in pursuit, and fired his Desert Eagle. Both PATs fell dead.

Then Gary Lee pushed a button on the wall. A steel panel descended like the door of a garage, cutting off any escape or support. Trapped with his quarry inside the cavernous factory, Gary Lee smiled sardonically and ripped out the entire wall-panel.

"Just you and me, Griffin," he called out.

Griffin watched from deep within the machinery. He clutched a steel pipe he'd found.

Gary Lee emptied the spent shell-casings from his magnum. "I really wanted this to be like old times," he said. "First my parents, then you—there must be something horribly wrong with me…" He slapped a quick-loader into the .357's chambers, reloading all six rounds at once. "…Or maybe I'm just too sentimental." Then Gary Lee saw a sheet of scrap metal propped against a workstation. Digging hard, he took this impromptu ramp at flank speed, soaring high above the bizarre machinery.

Griffin was taken off-guard as Gary Lee landed a few feet away, spun around and raised his gun. Griffin threw the pipe at him, knocking the Magnum out of his hand. As Gary Lee recovered the Desert Eagle, Griffin dove for cover. A bullet ripped over his head as he scrambled into the machinery.

}{

Miltie heard the muffled gunshot as he circled the perimeter. He slapped his hands against the wall, desperately looking for a way inside.

}{

As Gary Lee stalked Griffin through the machinery, a 4x4x4 tire suddenly rolled out of nowhere. It just missed the young narcotics-kingpin.

Without warning, Griffin leaped out from the opposite direction and grabbed a vertical support. Swinging around, he clobbered Gary Lee with a double-kick. Both tumbled to the ground, as the .357 slid across the concrete. Then the factory's steel door was forced open by two PAT officers. Gary Lee dove for his Magnum, rolled and came up firing. Both PATs went down hard and stayed there.

}{

As Griffin scrambled back into the machinery, Miltie climbed inside the factory through a broken window and dropped to the floor.

}{

Crouching low, Griffin rolled down one corridor and then another…until he spotted Gary Lee through the jungle of machinery. Griffin stalked in a parallel line, keeping an eye on the Mist czar who passed in and out of sight.

Gary Lee rolled past a huge machine—but did not reappear on the other side. Griffin stopped and looked around. There was nothing.

Just as Griffin bladed into the machinery, Gary Lee barged out from an unexpected direction and fired…just missing him.

}{

Miltie scurried along on his hands and knees, while Griffin hustled around some equipment—doubling back around his pursuer.

As Gary Lee bladed around a corner, Griffin soared directly at him. Colliding head-on, the two young men bounced hard off each other and tumbled in opposite directions…landing about ten yards apart.

Gary Lee hurried for his dropped Magnum. He was just about to reach it when Miltie flew out of nowhere, landed and slapped the .357 over to Griffin—who caught the Desert Eagle as it slid across the concrete. Then Griffin jumped up, locking Gary Lee in his sights.

"Blast him, big broski!" Miltie urged.

Gary Lee stared back with an eerie calm.

Griffin squeezed the gun tight with both hands. "Down on your knees!" he ordered.

With a half-grin, Gary Lee obliged. His eyes were deadlocked with Griffin's.

As the wide-eyed Miltie looked on, Griffin stepped forward and ground the muzzle into Gary Lee's temple. The designer-drug czar stared mockingly.

"Better kill me, Griffin," Gary Lee said, as his hand snaked discretely toward the shuriken hidden inside his cargo-pants. "You'd be a fool not to."

Griffin's hands quivered. Gary Lee smiled, as his hand gripped the throwing-star.

Unable to squeeze the trigger, Griffin pulled the gun away. "I'm not like you…" he told Gary Lee, who then drew the shuriken. Griffin smashed the gun across Gary Lee's temple, knocking him unconscious. "But I'm not stupid, ether." He winked at Miltie.

}{

Back in the tire factory, captured Rollerboys stood with their arms and legs spread against a wall. Bloody corpses of Dragons and assault troopers lay in a neat row. Two moaning cops were lifted into an ambulance.

Casey and Jaworski were still on their feet, although their poly-glass body armor had been chipped into near-uselessness by repeated hits from Rollerboy small-arms.

Griffin had his arm around Miltie, with Casey close beside them. All three watched Jaworski load Gary Lee into a police car.

His head bandaged, Gary Lee turned back to Griffin. Their eyes locked.

Gary Lee smiled. "You had your chance, Griffin."

Jaworski pushed Gary Lee into the backseat and slammed the door shut. All Griffin could do was watch the captured Mist czar, who never took his eyes off Griffin as the car pulled away.

Jaworski's voice snapped him back to it. "…At least 51 fucking percent of the country's Mist market, in a single raid. Who'd have thought it could be done?" The detective grinned. "This'll rebuild our national economy overnight, if not quicker." Jaworski then held up the bag of Rope. "Shit, looks like we got two designer-narcotics for the price of one."

Griffin turned pale. "Rebuild the economy? What the fuck are you talking about?" he demanded.

"Don't you follow the media?" Jaworski asked rhetorically. "The president's gonna open season on this stuff, the day after tomorrow. In a couple of months, he can pay off half our nation's trading deficit. By the end of next year, it'll be as if the Great Crash happened somewhere else."

Casey's mouth fell wide open. "Legalize Heaven-Mist!?"

"Goddamned right," Jaworski chuckled. "Mist brings in 2.5 million Euros a week, on average. We'd be jackasses to let that kind of dough slip through our fingers, especially in times like these. And once we figure out how this other stuff works—the Rope, or whatever Gary Lee calls it—"

"For the love of Christ," Griffin protested, "The Rope is a sterility-yielder. Anybody who takes it becomes impotent. If you make that stuff legit, you'll—!"

"Look, Ramrod," Jaworski cut in sharply, "In some countries, that'd be a selling point. Hell, did you hear that China just made non-sanctioned pregnancy a capital offense? That's how overcrowded the Far East is."

Casey looked sick. "You're not actually going to push the Mist abroad…!"

Jaworski sneered. "Have you read about how many prisons and homeless camps they're shutting down to conserve money? We need more addicts, wherever they've been deported to. Oh, we weren't born yesterday; you still need a license to peddle the stuff, and registration will cost like anything—just not so much as if you're caught dealing without a permit. Naturally, since you two are heroes, Uncle Sam can make you a very good deal: just 25% off the top. Normally, he'd take 33%."

"Jaworski," Casey said, "What's the difference between a cop and a Zog?"

Jaworski shrugged but said nothing.

Casey ripped off her badge, threw it to the ground, and spat on it. "The Zog's the one who'd even consider such a deal, much less cut it. And you can quote me." Then she spun on her heel and stormed out of the factory.

Griffin rushed after her, with Miltie in tow. "Well, Gary Lee was right about one thing," he told his little brother.

"These people really are consumed with greed," Miltie finished for him.

"Yeah, and some things just aren't worth saving," Griffin went on. "Like America."

Epilogue

Bands of sunlight poured through a barred window overlooking the prison courtyard, which was dominated by a skate-park. Dozens of purple-clad teenagers—boys and girls alike—exhibited rollerblading and skateboarding prowess far beyond their years…while green-clad armed guards looked on.

The cement walls of the large private cell were a collage of murals, demented Rollerboy-art. Dabbing his paintbrush, Gary Lee applied delicate strokes to the faces of several blonde figures—who stood unaware of a snarling dragon as it swooped down from the clouds above.

The purple-shirted Dragon czar stood back to admire his work. He turned and glared out the window, beyond the tower, at the horizon beyond. Then he looked down and smiled at the mostly-Anglo-Saxon youngsters who performed skating stunts in the courtyard. They were somewhere between damn good and legendary, which didn't surprise him because he'd trained them himself…when he hadn't been producing that home-video seminar about relations between economic theory and practical money management. Colleges throughout North and South America couldn't get enough of the video.

Suddenly, a green-shirted guard tapped on the bars. "Gary Lee. You got another visitor."

A gorgeous young blonde strode up to the cell. She was wearing a dressy white miniskirt and matching blazer, over a long-sleeved black leotard with matching knee-boots.

It was Xanadu. She'd graduated from Gary Lee's rehab program with flying colors, and now nobody would've thought she was the same little girl to whom Miltie had sneaked that pizza at Homeless Camp #87.

She handed Gary Lee a large brown envelope through the bars. "Compliments of Capitol Hill," Xandy said. "Vice-President says thanks a lot, on everybody's behalf." Smiling as the Rollerboy czar passed her a small white envelope, she turned and was escorted out by two more green-shirts.

Said kudos had been due to Gary Lee's managing the money for half the Senate, and for the entire Supreme Court…as well as for the warden. The Rollerboy kingpin's reason for doing so was simple: he was too good at this not to.

Gary Lee opened the envelope, which was stuffed with crisp Euro bills. Yes, it was all there: 10% percent off the top, exactly what he'd bargained for. Pocketing the cash, he glanced at the newspaper on his bed. Things were going better than the Dragons themselves could've hoped for; this genetic revolution they'd initiated was taking on a life of its own. Now all the Rollerboys—and Rollergirls—had to do, like any good parent, was to observe closely…and to keep as far out of the way as possible, until the fire had extinguished itself. That last part would be easy, thanks to Xanadu, and to the rest of these beautiful Dragonette-pages he was using; they kept him connected with those running his chain of Rollerboy nightclubs and hotel-casinos. Good thing the U.S. government had legalized gambling throughout the country; already Gary Lee's Dragon conglomerate owned half of Nevada and most of Atlantic City.

He turned back around to face his accountant, who was working a financial spread-sheet at Gary Lee's desk inside the cell.

"I'd like to increase our Pacific-Northwestern investments," Gary Lee said.

The accountant looked at him quizzically.

"Because that's where they're heading," the Rollerboy kingpin explained. "It's where they would head."

"You're the boss, Gary Lee," the accountant shrugged.

}{

Griffin's mobile-home cruised along the rugged wilderness-coast highway. Snow-patched Douglas Fir trees met the churning Pacific. Luggage was tied on everywhere.

Casey rode shotgun, with Griffin driving and Miltie wedged between them.

"Are you sure this was a good idea?" Miltie asked. "Survival retreats, eating bushes, sleeping in thermo-hammocks, working pipeline mop-up? I won't mention Bigfoot."

That's just a legend, Miltie," Griffin answered out the side of his mouth.

"Which part?" Miltie half-joked.

Outside, on the mobile-home's rear platform, the Speedbagger rolled his fists against a speedbag mounted on the overhang. He glanced at the roadside sign which read, WELCOME TO CANADA / PLEASE HAVE I.D. READY FOR VERIFICATION BY ROYAL ENFORCEMENT PATROL; NON-AUTHORIZED BORDER-CROSSING PUNISHABLE BY DEATH / ENJOY YOUR STAY.The Speedbagger sighed heavily and shook his head. It was like America's changing of its tune from Just Say Noto Please Say Yeswasn't scary enough.

"Doesn't it get cold up there?" Miltie went on. "Sure, you two get to snuggle with each other; while I get a blanket and a prayer. Did someone say tail-end of the deal?"

"I'll introduce you to my cousin," Casey offered. "Would that help?"

"Is she as hot as you?" Miltie asked.

"Hotter."

"…Yeah, that's more like it," Miltie beamed for a few seconds. "Now about this school stuff…I mean, banishing me to some Moose-town, and then making me study salmon-sex with a bunch of fur-heads? I wonder if they have gel-wrestling up there…"

"Sounds like they're about to," Griffin smirked as the mobile-home cruised on into the sunset.

The End