This is a snippet of general silliness in response to a sort of Chinese Menu writing challenge. Each writer had to select one word from each of three columns of nouns and write a story around them. My words were spear gun, volley ball net, and pesticides. I cheated a touch on the pesticides.

Part 1

This was a mistake.

He had known it from the very first second, but all his persuasion, all his arguments, had been in vain. So now here he stood, waiting and forced to watch what was surefire disaster in the making. He listened to a scrap of the conversation taking place a few feet away and sighed mightily. All right - that was enough. Time to make his move. He pushed himself away from the counter at his back and took a step forward.

"Jesse - " he kept his voice low. "You have a one bedroom apartment and no yard. What are you going to do with a volley ball net?"

Jesse looked daunted, then he smiled an irrepressible smile. "I can use it when I visit you! It's a great volley ball net, Steve. Top of the line."

"Jesse, I have a volley ball net. And you're welcome to use it any time."

Jesse hesitated and Steve saw the proprietor shoot him a disgruntled glance. He shot back his best steely cop glare. The proprietor subsided, looking a little shaken.

Jesse rebounded. "But yours is - and I hate to say this, big guy - out of date! This one has the latest technology!"

Steve mentally counted to ten. "It's a net, Jesse. There is no technology. The idea is to get the ball over it. You could make do with a clothesline in a pinch."

For a second Jesse seemed to consider this, then he leaned in to Steve confidingly. "But Steve - " he lowered his voice. "It's blue."

Steve stared, then held up his hands in surrender and returned to his corner.

Blue. God help me.

He saw the proprietor smilingly whip out a pair of brightly colored matching beach shoes and opened his mouth to intervene. Who plays volley ball in shoes…? But with a glance at Jesse's face, he sighed again and averted his gaze instead.

This had been a bad idea. Shopping in Malibu among the moneyed was a sucker's game. They would make out much better in Venice, or even Santa Monica, touristy though it was. But Jesse's eyes had lit like a pair of high beams at the dazzling display of beach sporting goods, and nothing Steve had said had managed to dissuade him from this costly course.

"…and this will block the sun from your eyes and protect your skin…"

It was all Steve could do to suppress a groan. It would probably block the passage of the volley ball from his eyes too - play a hell of a game that way. All for the incredibly reasonable price of $65.95 or something like that, when you could get the exact same hat for about two bucks off one of the tourist racks on the Santa Monica Pier. He opened his mouth again to protest, closed it abruptly.

No. He wouldn't interfere again. But he didn't have to watch this fleecing either.

He let his eyes travel around the shop, drifting from one well-heeled potential sportsman to another. Shoppers were sparse at midday on a weekday. He paused briefly on one lean figure near a wall of deep sea diving gear. His dark tan and long, sun bleached hair pegged him as a surfer, his stubble and unkempt look as a surf bum. Still. Didn't mean anything. People took him for a surfer regularly himself. For all he knew, this guy was a rock star.

He moved his gaze to rest appreciatively on a couple of bikini-clad women by the sun lotion display instead, bending half an ear to Jesse's animated conversation.

"…even have a matching sweat band set!"

Steve rolled his eyes. Oh, swell. His glance returned automatically to the surfer, and the hair prickled at the back of his neck. He shifted uneasily. Come on, Steve - don't be paranoid - you're just bored. Looking for some way to pass the time while Jesse buys every piece of useless sporting equipment in Malibu. There are other ways to pass the time than picturing some poor schmuck as a potential felon.

Still.

He leaned a little away from the counter at his back, his eyes narrowing as he saw the surfer secrete a large knife, the kind used for underwater exploration, casually in the depths of the towel slung around his neck.

He glanced around the interior again. The bikini girls were exiting, leaving him and Jesse and the surfer the only remaining customers. Which would work great for the guy if he was planning something, but it worked great for Steve too.

Trying to look nonchalant, he strolled over to Jesse and unceremoniously interrupted the conversation. In a low, pleasant voice he asked the proprietor, "You got a back way out of here?"

The proprietor started to protest, but Jesse looked hard at Steve.

Without turning around, Steve gestured to the surfer almost imperceptibly with his head. "I want you both out of here. Take Jesse to look at something in the back room. Jess, call 911 - possible robbery in progress at the Malibu Surf 'N Turf. Give my badge number if you remember it. Now, go."

Jesse didn't move. "I can't leave you here all alone."

Steve leaned forward onto the counter, laughing lightly as though Jesse had made a joke, trying to keep the conversation natural looking. "I won't be alone as soon as you call that back up for me. C'mon, he's armed - go." Jesse hesitated a moment longer and Steve pressed, "Let's keep this safe and easy." He jerked his head in the direction of the proprietor. "Don't risk his life."

Jesse reluctantly moved to follow the proprietor. "I'll be within earshot," he muttered, barely audibly.

"Just get me that backup!" Steve hissed back. He watched them leave, then casually turned the other way, so that his back was braced against the counter and he could sweep the interior for his potential perp. The surfer-dude was still in front of the deep sea diving equipment, but Steve saw him shoot him a sideways glance. Steve waited, assessing his position. He didn't have a weapon with him - hard to carry one in shorts and a tank top and besides, he was off duty. The surfer guy, on the other hand, had a whopping big knife. Probably the best thing to do was maintain surveillance until back up could get here, unless the perp made a move.

He saw the surfer glance his way again and take note of the missing proprietor, but also of Steve standing right in front of the cash register that sat on the other side of the counter. He seemed to size Steve up, then duck his head in the other direction. This time he ambled slowly toward the exit.

Steve paused. Well, of course, a crime stopped was better, but if this guy was looking for cash and carrying a knife, it probably just meant that the next shop, the one without a bored off-duty cop inside, would be the new target. Lots of potential for people to get hurt. He moved away from the counter, taking his time, keeping his eyes on the surfer. The surfer must have noticed, because he picked up pace, but by the time he got to the exit, Steve was standing in front of it, smiling coolly.

"You know," he said genially, "I think you forgot to pay for that knife."

The surfer lunged for him, pulling the knife from its hidden place in the folds of his towel. Steve efficiently blocked the blow with one arm, grabbing the wrist of the knife-wielding hand with the other and twisting. The knife clattered to the floor and he kicked it out of reach with one foot, briskly continuing to twist until his assailant was forced to turn, his arm twisted up behind his back.

Would be nice to have a set of handcuffs, Steve reflected absently, nudging him face-first against a display counter. Maybe there's some friendly bicycle cop nearby with a pair who will hear Jesse's 911 call.

"Just take it easy. You're under arrest. You have the right - "

He was reaching for the surfer's other arm and didn't even see what happened next. All he heard was a hissing sound and felt a wet and icy cold chill hit his face, followed by a savage burning. He cried out, reaching for his suddenly blinded eyes.

Don't rub! Don't rub! He could almost hear his father's stern advice in his ear as he staggered forward, cupping his hands over them, but trying not to claw at them as he longed to. Blindly, he groped for a stack of beach towels that he had seen earlier, just felt the nubbly fabric under his hand as something slammed into his jaw and he went down. The back of his head ricocheted off of the counter edge with a ringing crack as he fell, billowing a blue-white burst of flame behind his lids; then a cool, solid surface rattled the length of his frame. He wanted desperately to lie still and collect himself, but the whisper of beach shoes by his face told him that there wasn't time and he rolled over, groaning, and made a mindless grab. He hooked something - not in a sure grip, but enough to throw his attacker's balance. He registered the yelp, followed by the resounding thud, with grim satisfaction, blotting hastily at his burning eyes and trying to squint them open. He saw a blurry confusion of shadowy images, tried to concentrate on the one that seemed to be moving and threw himself on top.

It wasn't a perfect landing, but it wasn't completely off, either. A wiry body bucked and twisted underneath him and he held onto a handful of cloth, trying to subdue the flailing collection of limbs. He grunted as one of the limbs found his back and hammered relentlessly, strained to shift his grip to include more skin and less material. He'd seen a nature show once where a man had wrestled an alligator - he suspected that that must have felt a whole lot like this. He managed to corral what he was sure was an arm, hissing in frustration.

He'd never take his vision for granted again. Or his handcuffs either, for that matter.

Something entangled him suddenly - something stringy and unyielding - and he tried to squint his eyes open and see. A blurry yellow motif swam before him and he pushed at it, but it only twisted more tightly around him. Against his bare arms it dug a pattern, the thin, tensile mesh trapping his movements.

Like being caught in a web, he thought, then promptly lost that thought as the body struggling under his took advantage of the distraction to roll suddenly, reversing their positions.

Steve fought to pry his eyes open, to see. It was a little better this time, bright, dizzying light stabbing through the darkness, and he groaned as he finally understood what he was tangled in. A volley ball net. Just great. Well, live by the sword…at least it wasn't very wide - if he could just…

He couldn't feel his assailant nearby, but he could hear him. He didn't seem to be making a break for the door, so maybe he was incapacitated too. He tried to pick himself up, toppled in the other direction as his head swooned giddily, just as he heard a peculiar thwip - like the sound of someone blowing a spitball through a straw magnified a thousand times. Before he could puzzle out the noise he felt a rush of air, followed by the hollow thunk of metal on wood. One second later, his arm exploded in a white-hot ball of flame.

All the strength seemed to pour from his body in a rush, coldness seeping in to take its place. He tried to push himself up, but his hand slipped in a slick puddle of warm wetness and he went down again, landing hard on his side. There were noises - familiar-yet-unfamiliar metallic sounds, like some kind of trigger being readied - sounds that he knew meant danger, but hard as he tried, he couldn't seem to force his rebellious body to move. Instead, the room moved around him, twisting in an acrobatic series of loop-de-loops.

"Hi-YA!"

Now he knew he was out of it, because that had sounded just like a karate yell.

Something metal clattered on the linoleum near him, followed by more yells, and an uneven scrabble of feet. He pried one set of aching lids apart, and in a halo of florescent light, thought he caught a vision of Jesse playing ride 'em cowboy on the surfer's back while the surfer danced in circles, a blue volley ball net swinging around him like a makeshift shawl. Somewhere under it all, he could make out the welcome wail of a siren coming closer. Despite the leeching cold that was clinging to him, trying to pull him under, he smiled a little at the sound. The cavalry. And just in the nick. He let himself relax.

There were lots of feet on the linoleum then - he couldn't be sure exactly how many or how much later. The official tones were unmistakable, as was Jesse's energetic, "You're under arrest!"

There was a pause. "Ah - sir? I'm supposed to say that."

Steve smiled inwardly. Aw, go ahead - let him say it, he urged - or meant to - he couldn't tell if the words actually made their way to his vocal chords or not.

"Well, then, say it!" Jesse sounded in high form.

Steve heard the rote recitation of the Miranda rights start in a different voice. He should probably get up and give a report on the situation…

"And get us an ambulance, will you?" Someone was pulling on the mesh wrapped around him and he let them, suddenly too tired to resist or help. "Steve? Buddy, you still with me?"

Yeah. Kinda.

"C'mon, talk to me - "

Something pushed down hard on his arm, sending a shock like an electrical current through him, and he jerked, half opening his eyes.

"That's better. What's with your eyes?" Steve took a mindless swipe at them and Jesse pushed his hand away. "Don't rub. Oh, this what he used?"

Steve squinted as hard as he could and saw Jesse's wavering hand presenting what looked like a spray can of insect repellent. "Think so." His voice sounded…funny.

"Okay. We're going to wash those out in a minute - I just want to get some of this bleeding under control, all right?"

"Mm." Steve closed his eyes again, a dull realization slowly dawning. "Jess?"

"Yeah?" Jesse sounded brisk and busy.

"I think I hurt my arm."

"Ya think? Take a look to your right."

Steve battled his eyes for cooperation again, barely brought some kind of red-splotched, long metal shaft, quivering in the counter wall next to him, into focus. He frowned, trying to make sense of it, put it together with the sound he'd heard, his stomach doing an unexpected flip flop. "He…harpooned me?"

"Looks like." Jesse pulled tightly on the something around his arm and black spots swam across Steve's vision. He let Jesse help him settle in a half-sitting position against the counter, all the fight sucked out of him. "It's a messy wound and a whole lot of blood, but I don't think it hit anything vital. You'll just be a little less muscle bound for a while."

Steve shifted away from the pain, clenching his teeth against it. "Did I - hallucinate - or did I really see you - on his back…?"

"He was completely surprised. I dropped the volley ball net over him to make him let go of the harpoon gun and then subdued him. Sort of. It was a master plan."

"Not half bad," Steve admitted. He remembered something else and half-lifted his lids. "But - Hi-yah? Did you actually say that?"

"Hey, it always worked in those Bruce Lee movies!"

Steve chuckled, winced at the resulting pain. "I'll bet. Was probably - laughing too hard - to fight back. Or thought he'd flashed back to the eighties…"

"Yuck it up all you want - it worked. Or you'd be doing a Moby Dick imitation right now."

Steve smiled faintly, letting the world drift gently away from him. "Yeah. Good work, Bruce."

He heard Jesse's answering snort of laughter. "Say, Steve?"

Everything was swimming in a pleasant greyness now. "Mm?"

Jesse's voice was unmistakably smug. "I told you that was a really great net."

TBC