"Ok, we've got the bomb squad on site as of now, exits are sealed, FBI and CIA operatives both inbound ETA 20. What's our situation, Lieutenant?" said Captain Duke B. Miller of the Los Angeles police department, as he strode up to a temporary ops center. Less than an hour ago, a strike from a rogue militia had been announced against a civilian target, and he would be damned if he was going to see a massacre in his district. If he could help it, at least. The situation as it had been described to him half an hour ago was grim to say the least.

"Um, good, sir? Situation, ah, resolved?" replied Lieutenant Sophie Speckermen, newly promoted officer, and unfortunate person who had drawn the short straw when deciding who would be giving a recap to whatever superior officer asked for one. The look her captain leveled at her showed exactly why her fellows had let discretion prove the better part of valor.

"Are you asking me or telling me? And what in blazes are you telling me? We had nearly 70 pounds of C4 recorded stolen, and one of the targets is a confirmed explosives specialist. There was an armed and ready bomb primed to blow, last I heard," said Captain Miller, eyes narrowed in a glare that had been known to make rookie officers cower from half a precinct away.

"It was sir, and there was sir, but luckily one of the civilians on the scene was a bomb tech in Vietnam, and he was able to…" said Lt. Speckermen.

"Hold on, in 'nam? How old is this guy? Are you talking about one of the residents, Lieutenant?" Duke's incredulity was well justified. Happy Sunsets retirement community was not a place he, or anyone for that matter, would have expected these criminals to run into any kind of resistance. He supposed it was at least possible if it was really a veteran, maybe one who had served young, right at the end of the war.

"Seventy-three, and as I understand it he was touring the place as a prospective resident but he doesn't actually live there," said Lt. Speckermen, referring to her notes.

"Seventy-Th-?! What the heck did he even use to defuse a bomb, anyhow, denture cream? These guys had access to high tech explosive components, no way this guy just happened to be carrying equipment to deal with that," said Captain Miller. Although maybe as a coping mechanism from the war?

"No, sir, no equipment, but he did have a Swiss army knife, and then he used some... other... stuff…" said the lieutenant, trailing off as she wilted under her superior's increasingly irate gaze.

"Other stuff? What other stuff?" The captain questioned, and asked himself what the harm would be in taking a nice, long vacation. Somewhere nice. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere without police operations being derailed by civilians with pocketknives. Minnesota, maybe.

Lt. Speckermen jumped and once more referred to her notes. "Three sticks of chewing gum, a ballpoint pen, and a lot of hairpins from this one lady's up-do, which she is insisting we replace. Sir," she reported.

"I suppose we'll have to take it out of the crisis budget. SWAT will have to make do with discount tanks this year, there's no help for it," said Miller, throwing his hand into the air in a gesture of exasperation that was probably visible from low orbit. "So, where are the targets?" he asked, internally resigning himself to signing off on the most ridiculous report of his career. Even counting the fire hose incident of '07.

"Locked in a broom closet, third door on the left, can't miss it," the lieutenant replied promptly.

"How?" was the reply from the captain, his voice edging further away from enraged to simply tired.

"I'm told it involves a mop," she said, somewhat sheepishly.

"Of course it does. Of course a bunch of experienced, ex-black-ops, bloodthirsty militia members would be defenseless against the power of an old man with a mop," he said.

"Also a bucket, sir," she added.

"Even worse! Clearly they had no chance," he said. "Why wasn't any of this reported over the radios? Are we able to call off the crisis response units?"

"Well it seems that whatever he did to take out the terrorist's transmissions was a little on the strong side, but he apologized for that. We were able to get them back up just a few minutes before you arrived, I think" she looked over to an officer manning a communications station, who gave a thumbs up in her direction. Miller didn't have time to question how an elderly civilian could accidentally black out the LAPD and assorted government agencies before Lieutenant Speckermen continued. "We're calling in updates now, sir. Although when we told Director Carpenter what was going on, she just started laughing. Told us not to ask what his first name was."

"Is it classified?" asked Miller, thinking that that at least might explain some of what went on here, an undercover operative somehow planted. For one day. In a retirement home. That no one could have known was in danger. Who was he kidding?

"No, apparently it's just," Speckermen glanced at her notes so she could read verbatim, "really, really embarrassing and dorky. You don't think that's some kind of code, do you sir? Because when he broke into our radio frequency," she paused as Captain miller shot a baleful glance to the coms officer in response to that last remark, "he mentioned that there was a drug trafficking scheme being run out of the on-site pharmacy that we should check out while we're here, so maybe he was sent to investigate?"

"If he was, it wasn't for any of our people," piped in the officer at the communications station. "We got some chatter from the Phoenix foundation though, they fund the place since it's a charity. Our contact, Willis, swears this dude is on the level, says he 'just does that,' and to believe whatever he tells us."

"Well 'this dude' is a civilian who has interfered with police action and taken the law into his own hands. I mean, how many people have been injured as a result of this foolishness?" asked Captain Miller, as he began to rile himself back up.

"None, sir" replied Lt. Speckermen, which deflated her superior considerably. "No casualties, not even the militia members. Although they're apparently unconscious from some sort of gas." Captain Miller gave her a look that was more resigned than questioning. "Cleaning chemicals, sir. Plus some sauces from the kitchen area."

"You know what, Speckermen? Fine. Good for him. No one died, and we just stood around like idiots to make it happen while some geezer did our work for us. Power to the people, I guess," said Miller. He took a deep breath, trying to enjoy the fact that no one had been hurt today, and get rid of all the adrenaline he had summoned to deal with what he thought was an ongoing crisis.

"Hopefully we can keep this mostly under wraps, God knows what the whole story would make us look like." Miller paused for a moment, catching sight of a dark haired middle aged man wielding a large camera a little ways away. "Wait. Isn't that Sam Malloy? Tweet-happy investigative photographer with no respect for the law? Who the heck authorized media access for him?! The Firebird Independent will have this all over the internet inside an hour!"

"Well, I mean, we couldn't exactly bar him, it was his father in there," said Speckermen.

"His father lives here? Fantastic. I can just see the exposé now. Los Angeles police department sits on thumbs during bomb crisis, with closeups in full color," lamented Miller.

"No, like I said sir, Malloy's father is just touring," she replied.

"That's hardly- no. Oh no. Don't tell me. It's the same goddamn guy, isn't it?" he said, as his palm smacked into his face.

At this desolate plea, a cheerful voice rang out from behind the beleaguered public servant, slightly creaky with age but still bright.

"You betcha!"