Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.
ICYMI: Phoebe and Arnold have finally figured out how she was being tracked, thanks to a rather eccentric lab tech known only by his surname. Santalov becomes more erratic at the effects that one woman has had on his organization, and it seems that Vasquez may be his scapegoat. Arnold and Phoebe come to terms with their respective pasts. Vasquez may have a new employer lined up.
7. Know Thine Enemy.
"Something's off. This doesn't look right."
Late Monday afternoon going on to evening. This was the culmination of Arnold and Phoebe's day. After the trip to the clinic, they were informed that CSU would only be done processing Arnold's home by very late that evening. They'd have to stay in the motel, only it was the middle of hunting season and – "Well, what do you know," quoth the desk clerk – the only available room was a honeymoon suite. Phoebe concluded internally that game hunting and nuptial bliss was a combination that made sense only in a town like this. Perhaps understandably, the room dubbed the honeymoon suite had no study desk, the main focus being the enormous king-size bed that was its centerpiece. Hence Phoebe and Arnold, lying face down on the most spacious bed, finally studying the Santalov flash drive on a laptop that Arnold was able to cadge off Foutley.
"It says here he saw combat in Kosovo and Crimea. No doubt he's committed his share of atrocities. He's quite the formidable leader." That was Arnold's conclusion.
"Not necessarily," Phoebe countered. "Nothing here suggests that he's a big-picture person. His highest rank was Captain, so he could lead a squadron, he had the respect of a few soldiers. But ultimately, he was always following orders from higher up. To the letter at that, meaning he was always willing to appease his superiors. Now, how do these attributes translate to someone supposedly sitting atop a business empire?"
Arnold had to admit she had a point. Being good at following orders, now making multi-million dollar business deals for himself: it didn't compute.
Phoebe continued with her analysis: "Maybe he's a figurehead. Granted, a violent, sociopathic figurehead, but a figurehead nonetheless."
"That doesn't make sense. Why put someone like that in such a position?" Arnold was skeptical.
"Here's another crazy thought. Maybe he didn't found his empire. Maybe he was given it as a reward."
"That's a lot of maybes but keep going."
So she did: "Well consider this. He had this most uncanny ability to acquire properties and sell them to high-end developers, from whom he'd receive a very substantial monthly stipend, a sort of finder's fee. Now consider – just…consider – that what we've been believing is incorrect and that the developers buying the properties from him are actually his bosses and that he is actually doing their bidding."
"So…he's actually obtaining the properties under their orders..?" Arnold was catching up to her reasoning.
"Following orders, just like the good soldier he is…" Phoebe completed his thought. "One way to find out," she declared. "Let me go back to the main menu…there…' Bank Statements'! Let's see if he's receiving periodical benefits from anyone."
Indeed he was. A cursory glance showed regular payments made to some very prolific public figures, as well as monthly high seven-figure payments received, going back at least ten years and all originating from one bank in the British Virgin Islands.
"Oh dammit! An offshore account!" Phoebe was frustrated at her search being suddenly stymied. "It would be difficult enough with a local bank, but asking for records from an offshore one, in a tax haven no less, would be impossible!"
"Not necessarily," rebutted Arnold. "Can I have your phone please?" Phoebe handed him the device and heard his side of the subsequent call.
"Foutley? You alive? I got something for you!... Nope, it's damn near impossible…Yep, it's your ass if you get caught…That's the spirit! You know you can't resist shit like this!"
"Well, I need you to trace the owner of a British Virgin Island bank account…Bank? One moment…Phoebe?" He motioned to her.
Phoebe told him the name of the bank, as well as the account number, which he relayed to Foutley.
"How long before you have an answer? OK, thanks, man." Then, to Phoebe, after he ended the call: "He'll let us know when he has something."
"Are you sure he'll be fine?" Phoebe asked, not wanting to think that Foutley was taking a very dangerous risk. Arnold eased her concerns: "Don't worry! It's not his first time doing something like this. Truth be told, I think he enjoys inconveniencing big corporations."
He continued, looking back at the screen: "Good call on checking the bank records."
"Which also raises a question," Phoebe pondered. "Just why is a Russian kingpin banking in the British Virgin Islands? One would think that he'd want to keep his money in the motherland. Oh well, a mystery for another time."
At that, Arnold turned his head away from the laptop screen to focus on Phoebe in admiration of her powers of abductive reasoning, only to find himself looking her directly in the eye. A prolonged pause, an awkward silence, then: "Arnold, if you're not going to make the first move then allow me!"
With that, Phoebe reached for the back of his head and pulled herself towards him, her lips meeting his for a prolonged kiss that became more tender as Arnold became more aware of the situation, which didn't take long at all. It eventually ended, their lips parting with a pronounced smack.
"This another example of your lack of impulsivity control?" Arnold asked while nonetheless sporting a mile-wide grin.
"Well, past events, detailed by none other than you, suggest that you have a knack for attracting the off-their-rocker kind of girls," Phoebe responded with a sexy look of mischief in her eyes accentuated by her glasses. Arnold was not about to argue with such an inviting expression; he was moving in for a kiss of his own. He would have succeeded too if not for the loud pounding at the door.
Cursing and muttering under his breath, Arnold went to open the door which revealed Arnie. "Arnie," he announced in a voice echoing a profound distaste for his cousin's presence.
"Sorry for disturbing your quiet time," said Arnie as he spotted an equally irritated Phoebe now seated on the bed. "Evening, Sheriff," she said, her words covered in frost.
Never renowned for his empathy, Arnie continued: "Listen, the stiffs from this morning? We're still running ID checks on them. Surprise, surprise: so far all the ones we've identified are known associates of Vitaly Santalov. High ranking lieutenants, in fact, with dossiers thicker than your head."
"So you're saying the organization's been set back all the way to Glasnost?" Arnold asked.
"Yeah, something like that. More good news. Hillwood PD arrived to transport your friend Denkova back home. They probably have the interrogation room picked out for him already."
"That's good, right?" Phoebe asked less frostily. "The organization is sure to be in tatters with its top structure weakened."
"I'm not so sure that there's an organization left," Arnie replied. "Vitaly Santalov is dead. Shot in his penthouse apartment in Hillwood."
On hearing this nugget, Arnold and Phoebe were shocked into silence, questions of where, when, how, why and who teetering from their tongues. However, before they could let loose with their questions, Arnie's radio crackled into life: "Sheriff, come in, Sheriff! Hostage situation at the clinic. Deputies and Hillwood PD at the scene. Hostage taker is Yuri Denkova. Hostage confirmed to be Deputy Hilda."
Arnie's expression went blank at that last sentence. Suddenly he had no compunction to explain the Santalov matter. Suddenly he had a much more important matter to address. "I'm on my way," he replied with the best veneer of professionalism he could salvage.
"HQ. 16:30." So read the text.
So began Detective Mark Vasquez's journey into a new unknown. The first one had been easy enough. He was a patrolman fresh out of the academy, with ambition and mounting student loan debt – the latter a consequence of the Psychology degree - in equal magnitude. Nonetheless, he performed his patrol duties with courtesy, professionalism and a very astute sense of dealing with people. Which meant his transfer to the detective squad was approved in a heartbeat. Then came the first phone call: an offer to settle his loan debt, and he wasn't asked for anything big in return. Instead, a series of small favors: elicit a bogus confession here and there; convince the occasional witnesses that what they thought they saw, they did not see. Before long, he was part of Vitaly Santalov's favors network; soon afterward he was a regular consort. The arrangement was mutually beneficial: he'd smooth out some or other aspect of their operations; they would provide intel on their rivals whom he'd bust and thus become the top detective in the Hillwood PD. It was…it was the opposite of a vicious cycle.
And he could feel that it was about to end.
Detective Vasquez reached Santalov's headquarters at the appointed time to find it deserted. Guards that he didn't recognize were guarding the entrance. They were not Santalov's men because they looked more like professional bodyguards, capable of dealing even with targets that shot back.
Despite their intimidating appearance, they waved him in with not a single word spoken. Entrance, foyer, elevator: he was allowed to pass through. On the way up, his phone pinged the arrival of another text: "Protect and serve. Penthouse." He could see where this was going.
He was now at the ajar door of Santalov's penthouse. He could hear the Russian's bellowing coming from well within the abode, in a tone suggesting that someone was not long for this world. Detective Vasquez followed Santalov's thunderous voice to his office, where he stood at the door and quietly observed.
Santalov was seated at an unnecessarily ornate desk, positioned perpendicularly to the doorway. Flanking him were two of his soldiers – possibly his last remaining lieutenants – both of whom had their Uzi submachine guns trained on the standing guest. Vasquez positioned himself at the doorway so as to remain unseen by Santalov and the guards. The guest was an aging man stood opposite Santalov, a briefcase by his side. The old figure was monolithic in appearance, his eyes conveying a ruthlessness that respected no-one's interests but his own. He projected a sense of intimidation that filled the room, hence Santalov's overcompensating bluster.
"How the fuck do you think you can march in here and demand that I turn my organization over to you?" Santalov was firing on all cylinders as usual.
"Mister Santalov, I would appreciate it greatly if you toned done your language and your volume," rebutted his guest, not the least bit concerned about the weapons aimed his way. His voice sounded familiar; this was the man who made the irresistible offer over the phone!
"Well fuck you then! Do you know all the rooms in this building are soundproof? My men could unload their guns on you, and no-one else in the building would hear a thing!"
"Mister Santalov, I am fully aware of this building's specifications. After all, I am its owner. As I am the owner of all the properties you acquired on my behalf."
"Yes! Exactly! We've had our arrangement for how long? Just under twenty years! Now you say I'm fired?"
"You misunderstand. This is not a termination, it is more of a dissolution of a partnership. An unbundling of corporate assets, as it were. For which you are to be handsomely compensated." With that last sentence, the old man placed the briefcase on the desk and opened it, still paying no heed to the automatic weapons aimed at him.
"And what the fuck is this supposed to be?" Santalov asked, confused by the contents.
"Twenty million dollars, in negotiable bearer bonds. Untraceable, able to be converted to cash. All yours if you agree to sever all contact with me and my corporation, no hard feelings."
"Damn, it's mine if I don't…" Santalov corrected. Vasquez recalled the second text – "Protect and serve" – as he drew his service pistol, a Glock 22. Then, as he heard Santalov order the old man's execution, announced himself at the doorway: "Police! Drop your weapons!"
Santalov and his gunmen turned in surprise to the detective, who used the moment of their confusion to fire two shots at the closest gunman. Both shots found the man's right shoulder, rendering him incapacitated. Vasquez instantly focussed on the second one – who was now lifting his Uzi at the detective – and squeezed off three more shots his way. Two rounds found his abdomen, the third was a headshot. With no time to waste, Vasquez returned his attention to the still-standing first guard and finished him with a headshot as well, thereafter he trained his weapon at Santalov. The whole sequence of events felt much longer than the second-and-a-bit in which they had actually played out.
"Vasquez, what the fuck is this?" Santalov remained defiant towards the detective and the situation. "I should have had you killed a long time ago, you treacherous piece of shit! You and your wife both! All of this because you fucked that reporter instead of killing her!"
"Sir, drop your weapon!" Vasquez disregarded Santalov's rant.
"What weapon?" asked Santalov before the reality of the detective's intention dawned on him. "No! Wait! Wait, goddammit!" he pleaded as he reached inside his jacket and clumsily drew his sidearm. Too late, as Vasquez fired three rounds into Santalov's chest. His death was instant.
Despite the brief frantic activity, the old man's demeanor remained ice-cold as he approached Vasquez: "Detective, you have my eternal thanks. That man you killed had been extorting me and my corporation for nearly twenty years and today he decided that I'd outlived my usefulness to him. Hence the ransom in bearer bonds and the attempted execution. Luckily for me, you received an anonymous tip regarding this undertaking and acted on it. Be sure to put all of that in your report."
To which Detective Mark Vasquez nodded in agreement as he studied the old man's facial features: "You look familiar. Where have I seen you before?"
The man's reply: "No time for introductions. I suggest you call in this scene and stick to our story. And detective, it pleases me that you are indeed a most talented asset."
They made their way to the clinic in hurried silence. Phoebe's dread was palpable, as was Arnold's. Arnie had remained expressionless since learning of the situation; regardless, he was gunning the cruiser, running stop signs and making the tires squeal as he slid the vehicle around corners, all to get to the scene as quickly as possible.
Information on the preceding events had trickled in through the radio: Somehow Denkova had come into possession of a scalpel, and despite his bad ribs when the Hillwood PD arrived for his extradition and had uncuffed him from his bed, he was able to overpower the contingent on his ward and make a run for freedom. In the process, two of Hillwood's finest received severe lacerations in their arms from his swinging scalpel. His escape was immediately complicated when Hilda happened into the ward with the necessary paperwork. His plan disturbed, Denkova chose to improvise and grabbed the pregnant deputy. With the scalpel held against Hilda's neck, Denkova gradually made their way through the clinic to the parking lot.
This was where Arnie's party found them, amid a lake of deputies aiming Denkova who was standing firm, scalpel held menacingly to Hilda's neck. All around was a disorientating cacophony as armed deputies shouted their orders over one another to Denkova, who in turn was shouting his own demands back at them. Hilda, for all the commotion, was keeping remarkably calm.
"Stay here," Arnie ordered as he exited his cruiser.
"No, we're coming with you!" Phoebe wasn't sure if it was her journalistic instincts or her nascent fondness for Hilda, but one way or the other she was compelled to see how the event would play out. Before Arnie could protest, she too was out the vehicle with Arnold in tow.
"OK, but stay outside the perimeter!" Arnie conceded as he walked towards the fracas.
"Arnold, what's he going to do?" Phoebe turned to a now composed Arnold, keeping in mind his hitherto look of dread.
Arnold's answer: "What else? He's going to rescue his wife." To hear Arnold's answer, one would think that the situation was all but resolved. "And just how can you be certain?" Phoebe was perplexed by Arnold's sudden lack of concern. His answer: "Simple. He's here and she's still alive."
The sea of bodies parted in Arnie's presence as he made his way to the hostage scene. "OK people! Lower your weapons!" The deputies duly complied while the remaining Hillwood officer looked on in incredulity before he too was motioned to comply.
Arnie kept approaching Denkova, seemingly oblivious to the reality. "Stop! Don't come any further! I'll cut this bitch, I swear!" the hostage-taker ordered.
Arnie stopped about thirty feet from them, then slowly and deliberately drew his service pistol, a SIG-Sauer P228, which he aimed at the pair. Denkova became antsy at the sight: "Sheriff! Put your gun down! I'll cut the bitch up unless I get a deal!"
Arnie held firm: "Honey, are you OK?"
Hilda answered as calmly as she could: "I must admit, I have felt better."
Denkova realized they were speaking over him: "Are you listening to me? If I get back to Hillwood I'm a dead man! I want…"
"Shut up!" snapped Arnie, keeping the duo in his iron sight. "I'm talking to my wife, not you!"
"SO…I'm holding your wife, am I? So now you listen to me, Sheriff! You get me a car and me and your wife, we take a ride. No tails, no choppers, nothing!"
"I got news for you, buddy!" Arnie spoke back to him. "Your boss Santalov? He's dead. Killed about an hour ago. You're wasting your energy here."
"That's bullshit! You're bluffing! I go back and suddenly I accidentally get shivved in jail! I want what I asked for and I want it in thirty seconds!" Denkova screamed as he tightened his grip around Hilda's throat.
Arnie then asked: "Honey, can I trust you?"
To which Hilda replied, still holding on to her calm façade: "With all your heart, Lover. With all your heart."
Phoebe, having inched her way to the perimeter with Arnold, was awestruck at what happened next. Hilda was aware that Denkova was holding the scalpel in his right hand, against the left side of her neck. She was also aware that his left hand was pressing down on her head without grasping her hair. That second detail proved useful in the plan. In a deft move, she brought her right hand against his right elbow then quickly and violently pushed it further to the left. In doing so, she forced the blade away from her neck while creating a gap between his arm and his chest. She then let herself go completely limp which allowed her to drop down through the gap and land at his feet. Denkova was stunned for the briefest of instances at her escape, which was time enough for Arnie to loose a single shot that struck Denkova in his brow, killing him instantly.
It was all too much for Phoebe as she breached the perimeter and dashed past Arnie to the still prone Hilda. "Hilda? Hilda, are you wounded? Are you OK?" she asked with febrile rapidity as she grabbed the pregnant woman's hands.
"Relax, Miss Heyerdahl, I'm fine. A bit shaken maybe, but fine."
"Ah. Ah. Ah," Phoebe mimicked Hilda's instruction from earlier. "It's just plain 'Phoebe'."
"Touché," Hilda replied with a wry smile, followed by a soft chuckle.
Meanwhile, Arnie had advanced on them to assess the scene. "CLEAR!" he shouted while holstering his weapon. Then to Phoebe: "Miss Heyerdahl, please! No civilians allowed. You have to vacate the area." Then to the crowd, he shouted: "Can we get a doctor over here?"
"It's OK. I'm fine, I promise!" Hilda quietly reassured Phoebe, her smile unwavering.
That was good enough for Phoebe. "Vacating!" she chirped as she disappeared from sight.
"Well, Sheriff!" the remaining undamaged Hillwood officer approached. "Looks like you saved us the cost of trying this cop killing asshole. Still, he could have turned evidence on the other crime syndicates…"
"Officer, the moment anyone threatens the woman I love, they might as well get the toe tags ready."
Away from the sheriff, out of earshot, the older, wiser deputy who had been guarding Denkova's room earlier that day, proclaimed to her younger partner: "See, Rookie? that's why we love our sheriff. He takes shit from no-one."
It wasn't unreasonable: Arnie had to stay at the clinic to give his statement, as did all the deputies involved, as did the Hillwood officers who'd be leaving emptyhanded. The cut-up duo was being stitched up, just enough to see them make it back to Hillwood where they'd have to receive more intensive treatment. With the show over, the two civilians opted to walk the mile or so back to the motel. Which they were doing side by side.
"Just how did Arnie become such a good marksman?" Phoebe was still in awe of what she had witnessed.
"He grew up on a farm. He's been shooting since he was eight."
"Ah! So he's better than you, hmm?"
"No need to rub it in!"
"Still, it's incredible, isn't it?" Phoebe changed the subject. "That bond that Arnie and Hilda share. That absolute trust in each other."
"Well, they have been married for five years," Arnold responded almost churlishly. "And they were together since sixth grade before that. They made it work somehow."
"Aw!" Phoebe teased. "You sound a little bit jealous, don't you?"
"No, I'm not!" Arnold snapped, sounding insulted that she had even asked that question.
"Arnold, I didn't mean for it to sound that way!" Phoebe expressed contritely.
Nevertheless, Arnold continued: "I didn't move here because of Hilda. I came here to reconnect with Arnie. He's all family I have left. My last blood relation."
"I'm so sorry about that, Arnold. I just didn't consider your situation from that viewpoint."
"Well yeah, there's a whole lot that you didn't read in Brainy's report."
"And Arnold," Phoebe's tone changed from contrite to sober, "I'm interested in getting to know you beyond just a selection of data points and bullet points and transcripts. Truly."
"Beyond my usefulness as a bodyguard?"
"Listen, Arnold!" Phoebe's voice took on a sterner edge. "You might have forgotten this from last night, but I was just as much a pariah from PS118 as you were. My family and I all stood up for you then eventually practically got run out of town and had to move to Seattle."
"You didn't have to, you know?" Arnold was sticking to his sullen façade. "It's not like I was there to thank you for it. I was in another country, remember?"
"Then consider this," Phoebe was not giving up easily. "This is difficult to recount, but…when they got me to the ER all those years back…the doctors…well, they said I died on the table. Flatlined, in fact, went into fibrillation. That's what the surgeons said after the fact. For all intents and purposes, I was dead. They were about to declare me dead. Do you know what brought me back?"
She was going to tell him anyway, not that he wasn't fully engrossed by her story.
"I'll tell you what!" His silence was – correctly – construed as permission to continue. "You, Arnold, you! I kept hearing your voice. 'Phoebe, don't die.' 'Phoebe, you're gonna make it.' I kept hearing it over and over and…"
Arnold interrupted: "You got tired of my nagging and decided to stay, right?"
Phoebe made visible her disapproval at Arnold's attempt at humor: "Yes, laugh it off if you want! The fact remains: You gave me back my will to live. How could I not stand up for you? Whether or not you were present is irrelevant!"
Arnold was now intrigued: "Are you suggesting that you're glad that Brainy sent you to meet me? That you're glad to have met me? Me?"
Phoebe's response was to look directly into his eyes and proclaim: "You said Arnie is your last remaining family, right? Similarly, you're an important piece of my past, the only PS118 colleague that I have left, the only person, in fact, with whom I can still relate other than my parents. Forget Brainy, I didn't know him nearly as well as I did you. And after we're done sorting this Sunset Arms matter…" suddenly her voice faltered, "I'd…very much like to continue…getting to know you better…and…"
"And…?" Arnold pressed.
Instead of finishing her statement, she looked to the ground as if she had spoken most inappropriately. Meanwhile, Arnold was stopped cold by the unfinished remark. Phoebe continued walking ahead in sudden reticence.
"Phoebe?" Arnold called to her, reaching for her, his right hand finding her left and pulling her back towards him. To his surprise, she spun towards him, swung her right arm around his shoulder and practically crashed her lips into his for a passionate kiss. Arnold could claim to have been taken unawares, only that would have made him a liar. He released her arm and clasped his arms around her shoulders with one hand cupping the back of her head, the better to return her kiss with one of equal ardor. He found Phoebe's soft moans heady, sexy, thrilling, compelling him not to stop.
The location couldn't have been worse. No streetlight to illuminate them and single them out (late afternoon). No rainfall to highlight the purity and sincerity of their desires (summer). No quiet, intimate setting (sidewalk on the main street). None of these factors mattered as the two kissed hungrily, each desperate for the other's sensual response.
Eventually, they forced themselves to stop, and a brief period of silence interspersed with some heavy breathing followed before Phoebe commented simply: "Wow."
"Yes…wow," Arnold concurred.
"I…I suppose," the normally erudite Phoebe was struggling to find words, "I suppose we should get some dinner. Don't you think?"
Arnold, equally in a blissful haze replied: "Yeah, dinner sounds good."
Just then, Phoebe's phone rang. She answered, letting Arnold hear her half of the dialogue.
"Hello?...Oh hello, Foutley!...Already? That was quick!... Are you sure you weren't detected?... Thank goodness!...Yes?...Corporate account, you say?... Only one authorized signer?... Are you sure?... Are you positive?... Oh my god!...No, thanks for the information. Bye."
She turned back to Arnold and relayed Foutley's information to him: the corporation name and the authorized signer. She then watched Arnold as the color drained from his face and he became engulfed in a vortex of fear, sorrow, and rage. She had to admit to herself: she was feeling the same emotions.
They were waiting for the first responders.
Minutes ago, Vasquez had called in an officer-involved shooting at their location then placed his weapon on the desk before waiting with the old man. Accompanying them was Santalov's seated corpse, the battle-hardened captain's granite features making him look intimidating even in death. His eyes were still wide open, still in their final act of realizing Vasquez's betrayal and viewing his own impending death.
"Detective," the old man eventually spoke, "the late Mister Santalov implied that his demise could be traced to you having sex with someone you really should have dealt with more appropriately. As your new employer, I require full disclosure of the events."
Vasquez acceded to the request and detailed all events leading up to and including the present. He mentioned the primary roles of Phoebe Heyerdahl, the heretofore unidentified person designated "Brainy" and the bounty hunter Arnold Shortman.
The old man's demeanor did a sudden about-turn upon the mention of Arnold's name. Cold indifference gave way to searing rage. "Arnold Shortman? Are you certain?" he asked, in a measured tone that he was now struggling to maintain.
To which Vasquez gave a very brief summary of whatever history he could obtain on Arnold Shortman.
"Damn!" The old man grumbled, any notion of even-headedness seemingly forgotten. "The boy just doesn't know how to stay down! He should have died years ago! Remember what I told you about loose ends in my organization, Detective? Well, he's the biggest fucking loose end I've ever had!"
"Excuse me, Sir," the detective ventured, "but do you have a history with this man, this…Arnold Shortman?"
"Yes I do, Detective. But this matter is best discussed at a later time. Listen." Through the open door, they heard the approaching voices of the first responders. The old man continued, having reclaimed his vocal poise: "Your friends are here. Time to put on our show. Oh, and Detective, my name. It's Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck."
Of course! Vasquez remembered the name of the property developer tried and convicted after the FTi scandal that…wait, didn't that happen shortly before the Sunset Arms incident? But before he could give the matter further thought, he heard the calls from outside in the passage: "Vasquez! You alright?"
"Dutifully he replied: "Over here. Suspects are down! Repeat, suspects are down!"
The policemen arrive and were witness to Scheck's most convincing acting skills as he clung to Detective Mark Vasquez while blubbering: "Oh thank you, Officer, thank you! That animal was about to have me killed…"
The first responders surveyed the scene with smiles all around: It looked clear-cut enough so at least they'd get to go home early.
Author's Note: Hopefully Santlov's early demise caught you off-guard. I fully wanted him to be the main villain until I realized that Scheck would make a more compelling villain. Plus, I now have a chance to offer my take on what happened to him after the first Hey Arnold movie.
Author's Note #2: I'm not going for a totally realistic setting; rather, I'm adding elements of realism to the Hey Arnold universe. One such element I believe can be seen in the fast development of Arnold and Phoebe's relationship, in that I've implied that both of them are adults who have embraced a world where YOLO, FOMO and Swiping Right are things.
Author's Note #3: Spotify Playlist that inspired me this chapter:
Why - Annie Lennox
'Two Hearts Collide - Level 42
Silence - Level 42
The Edge - Nigel Stanford.
That's it for now. See you next chapter!