Copyright: The following is a non-profit fan-based story. The Boondocks and all featured characters from The Boondocks are owned by Sony Entertainment and Aaron McGruder. This story is made for the intent purpose of fun and exercise in story-writing and character study/development/etc.

Clear? Then read and enjoy the story.

Woodcrest, Illinois

"A Friendly gathering..." The detective said while the smoke of his cigar rose into the air. The living room table had it's legs knocked out, creating some sort of makeshift operating station complete with knives, pryers and other tools not normally associated with surgery. Also, there was blood.

But there was blood everywhere, so that wasn't a unique feature.

"Got a body up here!"

Finally! The detective ran up the stairs, carefully noting the trail of dry blood that stained the wooden steps as he climbed. At the top, he came to a hallway and each room had it's own story. One room had a giant hole in the ceiling as if God himself had kicked in that part of the roof. Another room had beds and mattresses arranged together into some sort of makeshift hospital recovery room complete with scarlet bandages and ripped clothing.

The room where one of his partners was working, had a heavily burnt corpse that had been tied to an improvised bomb.

"What do you think boss?" Dafoe Heckler ignored his partner, looking upon the remains of a planned bombing and putting every other piece that he had seen today into perspective, "Boss?"

"This fucker was the first to go." Heckler pointed his smoking cigarette at the corpse and put it out on a nearby door post, "He was strapped to an improvised explosive set to go off when the door opened. He was here for up to an hour before the victims came home."

"The other victims?"

"I'M THINKING!" Heckler roared, already picturing the at least six individuals who had opened the door, spotting a wire that was connected to a scorched pen, "Poor bastards! They killed this fucked fucker when they opened the door and then slammed it shut mere seconds before the room was lit up! They were shocked...confused...they knew the victim...it stunned one of them to tears."

"Hey boss-" The two partners exchanged looks as the lead investigator walked past them as if on a mission, "Strawman mode?"

"Strawman mode."

"The doorbell rang...so someone came down the stairs followed by the others." At the bottom of the stairs, Heckler's gaze focused on the heavy and still damp spot where someone had fallen and bled out before shifting to the front door, "He opened the front door...he had no idea what he was in for."

"How is this anything that we don't know-"

"You know how he is! Just let him have fun."

"He was suspectful...but how was he supposed know...How would he know that when he opened this door." The detective closed and then opened the door and stood perfectly still as if trying to capture whatever emotion that his "victim" had, "He would be staring down six heavily armored men with guns drawn...it was a fucking ambush."

"We know...that's where we started the investigation-"

"This was a napalm bomb dropping on fucking Dresden." Dafoe crazily grinned as he stepped out onto the defaced front porch, looking out through the neighborhood section where other police officials were carrying out differing parts of the investigation, "For several moments, this whole block was a warzone straight out of hell."

"Isn't that most serial killings-"

"IT WAS A FIRE FIGHT!"

"Here he goes." Robert Duffy palmed his face while his boss started to wildly conduct some sort of silent orchestra. The man walked out into the street and continued his mad swaying of arms like he was a puppet. In the neighborhood, law enforcement and civilian individuals watched in utter confusion as Dafoe Heckler seemed to sway and gesture as if in a strange drunken dance. Duffy sometimes wondered if his boss was trying to relive whatever moment had occurred here.

Even if he could, it was very weird to watch.

"I think he's on to something." The younger partner stated, watching their mad boss as though he really were psychic. But even Sean Pat's confidence was challenged when their head investigator brandished a tommy gun and started firing wildly in the air.

Causing a whole flock of geese to fall from the sky right onto their crime scene.

"Least we know what we're frying later." Duffy quipped, "This better get something, cause we've got nothing right now..."

"The geese-"

"For the case!"

"What about all of the blood? Or the semen on one of the beds?"

"Whoever got shot up was professional enough to cover their tracks." Duffy explained while their boss threw down his tommy gun and now started shooting a pistol into the air, "If anyone died in this "fire fight"...they didn't leave a body."

"Who was this fight between?" Dafoe was apparently out of his "mode" because it seemed like he heard Pat, "Six people against six shooters or six unlucky people against one guy with six guns?"

"Let me do the thinking."

"Doing a great job so far."

"We've all the pieces that we need!" Dafoe told the two partners while maniacally laughing like he'd found a piece of candy, "Now we can put together this puzzle, connect the dots on these murders and find a common link!"

"Except all of the blood was sprayed with ammonia which means we have no blood sample, we haven't found finger prints, or any other form of DNA to identify a suspect."

"What about the irons?

"Ammonia."

"The bathtub filled with blood, alcohol and water?"

"Ammonia."

"Semen samples on one of the beds?"

"Ammonia."

"The toilet?"

"Ammonia." Duffy answered while Dafoe sarcastically laughed, "Whoever got lit up, they didn't wanna be followed."

"Wow...NO SHIT!"

"Calm down new blood."

"Don't tell me to calm the fuck down!" Pat roared, his Irish blood boiled by the stress he'd felt for the past few months, "We've been chasing ghosts ever since this case started! Three months on the same case and we haven't found anything! Nothing but dead foreigners and unidentifiable corpses! EVEN AFTER THIS FUCKING HELLSTORM OF A FIREFIGHT, WE STILL HAVE NOTHING!"

"We do have one thing. A central location." Finally! Duffy never said that his boss didn't occasionally have a good idea, but it was rare, "Who owns this house?"

"African American Senior Citizen named Robert Jebediah Freeman." Duffy answered, "Moved here in 2005 alongside two grandchidren from Chicago. Reportedly licked Wuncler's boots to get a yacht."

"And the boys?"

"The older one is described as an independent leftest radical revolutionary with a large afro." Pat added in, "The younger boy has cornrows and was rumored to be involved in multiple gang related incidents including a shootout involving fundraiser chocolate."

"That's dumbest thing that I've ever heard about in my life."

"I'm just telling you what I've heard-"

"I like it." Dafoe smiled again, snatching the folders from the hands of his prodigees and laying out their contents on the floor and lying on his front like he was a little boy, "Now this whole FIREFIGHT can be placed into some context..."

"Why not call Mr. Freeman and ask him?"

"Word on the street is that Freemans and crew haven't been seen for a few days." Duffy answered Pat, "The last person to see Mr. Freeman was some fatass named Ruckus. But he didn't know shit about what had happened except something about a samurai with a baseball cap."

"That just sounds stupid..."

"Just telling you what I've got-"

"Thank you." Dafoe hugged his associates and reorganized the contents of the folders before giving them back to his charges, "Find out who these Freemans hang out with. Who are their homies and hoes? Who do they lean on when in trouble? Whose houses were they sneaking into? Who have they adopted? How many people have a grudge against them? Who would die for them? Gang connections? Government connections? Anything! Check for any hospital admissions, Calls to the Morgue, visits to any local churches, and Security footage to Kernel's Fried Chicken."

"Is it because the Freeman's are black?"

"They got into a FIREFIGHT!" Dafoe roared at Pat and quickly loosened his tie, "After cleaning and sowing up their wounds, they'd be hungry. I would be too."

"In the meantime, how about this context that we've got?"

"Oh child of summer..." Dafoe rubbed Pat's hair and lightly smacked his cheek, "Context is everything...take anything out of it's context and it makes no sense or worst, you can get all kinds of wrong ideas from it. Put the piece into the puzzle where it belongs...and fit other pieces around it and you get the whole picture."

"Yeah I know. That's the point of a puzzle."

"SMART ASS AREN'T YA!"

"Anyone need a hand?" Duffy inquired while holding up a detached hand, "Don't think anyone's gonna use this one."

"How the fuck are we gonna use that?"

Three Months Earlier...

"Motte Takeshi." The light bulb on the ceiling turned on. Illuminating the room and revealing a large elder Chinese man who sat across from a drowsy and somewhat bored Japanese man in his mid-twenties, "You know how long I have been looking for you?"

"It was fun to watch you chase me..." Motte taunted Chairman Long-dou and finished off the remainder of his ramen, "What do you want china-man?"

"I've heard stories about you."

"And?"

"You possess the talents which I need."

"I care because?"

"Just listen to my proposition." Dou asked while Motte shrugged his shoulders, "I don't care much for the japanese and your stupid fetishes with pokemon-"

"If you wish through this meeting, you will not mock Pokemon." Dou immediately froze when he felt something flow out from the air around Motte, "I have fond memories...I have been a fan of Pokemon since I was a boy."

"I just don't see the appeal."

"You are old, I am certain that your granddaughter would understand better." Dou gulped, realizing that this man already knew why he was there, "Tell me about little Ming."

"My daughter was the national champion of Kickball in my nation." Dou began to explain as Motte leaned back in his chair, "Many tried and none had ever beaten her. She was trained from the time she could crawl into becoming the best at this trade. Studied under the Masters of the White Lotus to harness her chi. I had even hired assassins to keep her on her feet, they would attack her every birthday and she would have nothing but her feet to defend her."

"All of this over Kickball?"

"But she failed me...four years ago, she was beaten...BY A NEGRO! AN AMERICAN NEGRO..."

"A negro...bad...but an American Negro? The Great Wall's gonna crack!" Motte sarcastically joined in, frustrating Dou more and making the old man more willing to have his guards kill the hitman now. Motte chuckled and fixed his pokemon league hat, "I thought we were bonding."

"Anyway...her defeat left her right leg shattered and my honor was disgraced by her failure." Dou continued, "To correct this, I had her sent to a place she would be cleansed of her failure...remember who she was-"

"She ran away from home, I can clearly connect the dots." Dou blinked as Motte picked out his teeth and found a piece of elusive ramen which he ate, "But don't let me distract you...please continue.

"She ran away from home and threw herself into the Yangtze River."

"But did you find a body?"

"We searched the entire river for months and found only her shoes."

"So you didn't find a body?"

"Officially, she is acknowledged as dead in China." Dou explained while Motte waited to be impressed, "But I have kept an eye on her trail. She fled from Asia and somehow emerged in the last place that I would ever expect to find her."

"That's what you get for not looking for a body."

"Woodcrest...in a nation that was no international extradition agreement. She had planned this..."

"You give a caged bird a taste of freedom and they'll gnaw at their cage for more of it."

"That is where she has been since 2008...and I've only now found her." Dou motioned a secretary over and had her bring out a single folder labeled "Freemans", "She has taken shelter with a family of negro americans-"

"I know these little niggas!" The man cheered while holding up the pictures with a laugh, "They don't like a day older than the last time I saw them."

"When was this?"

"I don't remember...but I've seen this afro somewhere before and those cornrows..."

"What about that scar?" Dou inquired, referring to the curve that ran from under Motte's left eye down across his mouth and ended at his chin, "From what I hear, you never had any scar until after you returned from your last trip to America 8 years ago."

"One of the kids give it to you?" Motte looked to the guard in question and back at Mr. Dou. Motte stood up as the guard raised up his arms to pacify the man, "I was just asking, just curious-"

"You know what they say about curiosity and cats." Motte grabbed the guard's head and snapped the man's skull out of place before his victim even realized what had happened. Motte dropped the dead guard and sniffed the air, "May wanna get a clean-up crew in here."

"I need no further proof of your skill."

"Proof? This little roach annoyed me...so I squashed him." Motte stomped his foot into the guard's skull and made a greater mess than before. One of the other remaining guards held a hand to his mouth and ran outside to likely vomit and/or pray, "So you want me to kill the boys-"

"Only if necessary, what I want above all else is my granddaughter." Dou stated to Motte, who sat back into his seat and kicked up his feet onto the table causing fresh blood to spill over the photos of his targets, "All I require is that she be alive and malleable. Use whatever force that you need and kill whoever stands in your way."

"My reward?"

"Half now and half later."

"Half of what?"

"Whatever you desire, I am very wealthy."

"I thought K Man took a bite out of your profits-"

"A temporary setback."

"You sure you want me to ask for whatever I want?"

"Within reason, please."

"Now you're using your noggin." Motte complemented and looked over the now stained freeman brother's photos along several others that they have known to frequently associate with, "If they're really as much trouble as you say they are...I'm going to need some help. Maybe one or two of your guys?"

"I am not-"

"Never mind, they're kind of squishy." Motte laughed while Mr. Dou began to sweat, "I want the axes. 500 axes. An Entire Hotel for myself and my crew. And every weapon on the list."

"What list?"

"The one I'm going to write right now." Motte answered and looked over at the nervous secretary, "She's coming with me too."

"Done." The secretary was visibly shocked, not that Dou or Motte really cared, "Though I was led to believe that you preferred your own kind."

"There's beauty in all forms and sizes...I take it where I can find it."

"Do what you want with her...anything else?"

"Any Foe Hustlers around? Tell em that they're working for me."

"You'll have to be a little more persuasive than that..."

"If I have to..." Motte wiped some blood from the table and licked the scarlet finger, "I might as well have an appetizer before the main feast..."

Author's Notes:

That takes care of the prologue.

What events led up to the Firefight at the Freeman Home? Who was involved? Who shot who? Who lived and who died? Is Detective Dafoe insane? Is Motte somehow behind the firefight and the events surrounding it?

All of these questions and more will be answered...eventually.

Since this story will acknowledge the passage and flow of time, Huey and the other kids featured will be 15 to 17 years old with other adults being aged up accordingly.

Later.