The Freelance Police triumphed in the case of The Perplexing Peril of the Pilfered Pizza Panda, and returned to their office with a goodie bag twice Max's size. "We hit it big today, little buddy." Sam stuck his hand inside and retrieved a gaudy yellow, red, and orange mug that fastened to his fingers. "Finally, a worthy vessel for all of our wayward pens, pencils, and push knives."
Max groaned. "Enough with the alliteration, already! There was more "P" in this case than a public pool with people pulling their – ACK!"
"Infectious, isn't it?" Sam shook off the mug and dug around for another piece of prize counter bounty. He pulled up an unboxed spring with unusually pointed edges. "At least we were well-compensated."
"I told you to stop accepting repurposed raffle tickets as an alternative payment plan."
"Show a little gratitude, Max. It would've taken us ages and a prohibitively high level of research funding to collect such a treasure trove."
"Or twenty bucks at the bargain bin at Handsy Mart, while blindfolded," Max deadpanned.
"C'mon, where's your sense of fun and adventure in the everyday?" Sam fished out and frowned at a travel-sized bottle of Blisterine lodged between his fingers. "Okay, maybe you have a point." He lobbed the mercifully wrapped mouthwash aside and tried again. His next catch revealed a pair of crimson and sapphire metal mooks poised to punch.
The lagomorph's eyes shot open. "Wreck 'Em, Deck 'Em Droids! Gimme, gimme, gimme!"
Sam hoisted the toy out of his pint-sized partner's pitiful paws' reach. "Now, now. I can't let you have this pugilistic plaything after your reckless disregard for the safety of other motorists, and free food, on the way back to the office."
"Aww, but that sedan full of cranky kids was the perfect opportunity to deploy my General Tso's Pizza Roll cannon!"
The Irish Wolfhound chuckled and shook his head. "I'm sorry, but as your fellow law official, business partner, and involuntary parental figure, it's my duty to discipline you."
"You laughed when I beaned that kid with the beanie cap! Don't lie!"
Sam tutted and opened the closet. "And because of that irresponsible behavior, I will also deny myself the joy of the aforementioned playful pugilism by proxy."
Max pouted and muttered half-empty threats involving a colonoscopy, a bottle of green nail polish, several packets of ranch dressing, and a bucket full of spent shell casings. Sam shrugged off that extensive revenge ploy and set the fighting toy on the highest shelf.
"I've got itchy trigger fingers and a need to pummel pretend people!" Max made a daring leap.
Which Sam intercepted with a stomp to the spinal cord. "Sorry, little buddy, but I really have to put my foot down."
"Don't you dare say this hurts you more than it hurts me," the stomped lagomorph grumbled.
Before Sam could dispense any more pseudo-parental nuggets of wisdom, the old office phone jingled and ringled to life. Amidst a chorus of I've-got-it's, I've-got-it's, Max seized Sam's ankle and tossed the canine off his feet. Unfortunately for the little lagomorph, Sam spun upright, tackled Max, gripped his beady black eyes like the grooves in a bowling ball, and rolled him into a conveniently-stacked heap of takeout boxes and dust-soaked exercise weights. Sam tucked the receiver between his shoulder and ear. "Uh-huh, uh-huh. No, you don't say. I'll break the bad news to Max. Uh-huh, uh-huh. Oooh, best of luck with the surgery." He slammed the phone back into its cradle.
Max sprouted from the mound of dented metal and greasy Styrofoam. "What's the word?"
Sam sighed and folded his hands. "It seems like our perilous pursuit of The Pizza Panda was so peligroso, all of the criminal element's key players have declared a temporary ceasefire."
""Peligroso"? Did you fall asleep with another one of your Spanish tapes?" Max's ears twitched and eyes bugged. "Ceasefire?!" He clung to Sam's left leg. "Please tell me it's just a fiendish plot to get our guard down!"
Sam hung his head. "I'm afraid not." Sensing the distraught Max would take way too long to recover from this bad news, he dislodged the little guy from his leg and plopped down into his chair. "Buck up, old pal. It's temporary. Sooner or later, some puerile punk will puncture this ceasefire with some good ol' fashioned larceny. We're due for another breaking and entering any day now."
Max's relieved laughter bordered on the psychotic. "You're right. The seedy underbelly of our fair city can't resist the temptation of reckless driving, wanton gunplay, and excessive property damage! I can hardly wait!" Max's right fist flew into his chin.
Sam chuckled. "Glad you snapped out of it."
"That wasn't –" Max's right fist took another shot at his chin. Then booped him in the nose with his knuckles.
The Wolfhound frowned. "Now, Max, I know you're eager, but you promised to keep your vulgar displays of self-abuse behind closed doors."
"One, I am behind a closed door. Two, I'm not –" Max's left hand clapped the side of his skull.
Sam stared suspiciously. "If you think beating yourself up is gonna get you that toy, you're wasting precious oxygen and muscle power."
"It's not me, Sam!" Max's left hand clasped one of his ears and gave it a sharp tug.
"Ooooookay." Sam carefully stood up and approached. He didn't get far before Max's right hand sized one of the wayward push knives and hucked it at his head. His hat landed without a scratch on the desk. "All right, Max. This has gone on long enough."
Max's hands dragged him into an unwilling handstand and ran him straight into the wall with the bulletin board clustered with dangling thumbtacks. They spun him around, presenting a stomach dotted with colorful plastic-tipped metal trailing like a subway map. They charged towards the other wall, with its dartboard and decisively unregulated "darts." It was a miracle only the blunted butter knives and worn ice picks fell upon him.
The last cog finally clicked within Sam's cranium. "Holy Clive Barker proclaiming the eerie emancipation of the human hands! Your anatomy is rebelling against you!"
Max managed an icy glare between his felonious finger's newfound joy of jabbing his eyeballs.
Sam swept the sharp objects aside, pried the malfunctioning hands from Max's face, and held them up by the wrists. They curled their fingers into plushy jaws and nipped at his face. "Either this is an unwilling manifestation of your deferred dream to fight crime again, or a somewhat worrying and tried-and-true case of demonic possession." He yelped when the left hand's turtle snapping finally latched onto his ear.
"Whatever it is, call an exorcist or a psychoanalyst or whoever can end this game of Stop Hitting Yourself! It's getting old!"
Sam pulled his ear free. Unfortunately, the slack was just enough for Max's mischievous-turned-malicious mitts to squeeze Sam's lower jaw and fling him over the desk. Innocent funtime emporium ornaments and Dr. Dills cans toppled to the floor.
"Littering, vandalism, breaking and entering, unlawful possession of one's physical body, and assaulting a police officer! That's enough to keep you bloodied and bruised behind bars!" Naturally, the hands offered their rebuttal in the form of chin punches, ear tugs, and attempted strangulation foiled only by the folds in Sam's neck. They grew tired of their failed efforts and tossed him into the wall.
Sam stood up, dusted himself off, and observed the sight of Max rolling on the floor with a mix of worry and annoyance. "All right, enough with the hilarious antics. As a member of The Freelance Police, I have no choice but to place you under arrest." He lunged with a pair of handcuffs swiped from the open air.
Whatever malevolent forces saw fit to possess Max's hands caught one of the cuffs mid-swing and hooked it onto Sam's wrist. The tall canine dropped to the floor, providing the perfect opportunity to snatch the other cuff and send Sam's fist right into his face again and again. And again.
"Stop hitting yourself! Stop hitting yourself!" Max chortled. "Wait."
Sam's free hand grasped Max's fuzzy little scalp and hurled the hapless lagomorph into the dartboard with enough force to send them all clattering. "Sorry, little buddy. My steel-trap reflexes kicked in."
Poised in another handstand, Max unwillingly scurried towards the office door. Thinking fast, Sam tossed pens, pencils, fossilized candies, and other pointy objects into their path. Unable to resist, they flipped Max and landed his fuzzy little feet onto a spread of busted ballpoints and razor-edged corn chips. "If I die here, I'm gonna haunt the hell out of you."
"You know damn well it'll take more than old office supplies and petrified snacks to kill you." Sam ducked under the compass, protractor, and hardened packets of crushed chili peppers flying for his head.
Max's hands clicked in mock laughter and dragged the helpless lagomorph towards the nearest blunt object. Much to Sam's abject terror, they clutched the gaudy Pizza Panda mug and smashed it over the tip-top of Max's skull. Their unfortunate victim wasn't quite sure how to feel about the destruction of such a hideously-oversized cup. Perhaps he'd be more favorable if teeny-tiny shards of ceramic weren't digging into his eyes. "Make it stop, Sam! It's like a sunset's mauling my corneas!"
"Hang on, Max! I'm coming!" Sam ran at the little guy with a scuffed Louisville Slugger half his height. "Ready for some knuckleball, you grabby demons from the depths?!"
If you expected Sam to land the blow, you'd be sorely mistaken. If you expected Max's hands to catch it and drive the Slugger's butt hard into Sam's throat, you truly are Freelance Police material. Or a damned, dirty sadist. Or both.
"For the love of Steve, don't telegraph your every move!"
"This, coming from Mr. "Death From Above!"?"
"Not the time, Sam! Not the time!" And entirely under their thrall, Max cartwheeled away.
"How the fresh hell are you doing that with those big, honking ears?"
"Worry about that later! I got too much blood rushing to my head!"
"I'm sorry, but I'm at a loss. There are at least seventeen known demonic entities with a proclivity for pummeling their pitiful hosts with their own hands. It'd take days to peruse all the arcane literature, forbidden tomes, and DIY Demonology pamphlets we've got stashed under the parking tickets and AOL demo discs."
Max's hands paused halfway through another handstand. "You don't mean…?"
"That's right. We're gonna have to amputate and hope the possession doesn't spread to your arms and legs."
"But I like my hands when they're not trying to murder me without my consent! And how can I administer five-fingered, six-chambered justice with stumps?!"
"I think Flint still teaches that class about loading and firing handguns with your teeth."
Max's right hand dropped him to the floor. "Okay, I'm in! Just make it stop before we have to consult a new dentist and a new prosthetics dealer!" Something cracked. "And a new chiropractor…"
Sam dug his fingertips into one of Max's wrists and drew a possibly sterilized bonesaw. "I'll try to make this as painless as possible. I don't have any anesthetic, but I'm sure a swift blow to the head'll accomplish the same thing."
With little regard for the remaining toys, supplies, or Max's spine, Sam slammed his little buddy onto the desk and prepared to deliver the "anesthetic." Max's free hand grabbed the handcuffs still dangling from the dog's wrist and yanked. Sam reached for the bonesaw. Those felonious fingers dragged the saw from his grasp and pushed the serrated blade towards his flabby throat.
"No! I swore I'd never use a surgical blade on Sam until I performed his autopsy!" Max bit his right wrist, muffling the inevitable scream in the process. The bonesaw fell. Max broke free and tumbled to the floor.
"You saved my neck, little buddy. And my trachea."
Any warm and fuzzy feelings were short-lived. Max froze in place. "Oh, no! They've found my physics-defying arsenal!"
Sam stared for a moment, and then grimaced. "So that's where your gun comes from. Is it painful?"
"Does it look painless?!" Max's left hand drew his signature Luger and fired a shot into the ceiling. The next shot pelted the drywall over Sam's shoulders.
"Try aiming! I'm sure that'll throw 'em off!" called an unhelpful voice from the wall. Which then belted a very ratlike shriek when the next shot soared through the mouse hole.
"Wasting top-shelf ammunition on lowly vermin?! Have you no standards?!"
His hands retaliated with several more shots directed at the ceiling. Splintered fan blades bounced off the floor around him. Sam glanced up. Curiously, the shots carved out the crude outlines of one hand flashing an ironic peace sign and another brandishing its middle finger. The Wolfhound gasped. "I should've guessed! These aren't your garden variety demons wasting your precious ammunition!"
Max's eyes locked on the barrel swaying menacingly a few inches from his forehead. "No fair! You know I can't fight my best friend!"
Sam refrained from asking and narrowed his eyes. "It's Los Her-Manos! That fiendish pair of brothers who take control of random objects to wreak havoc among the general population!"
"So, they are demons?"
"Actually, there's more evidence pointing in the direction of rogue alien consciousnesses." Sam growled. "Unhand my pal's...appendages before I have to bring out my secret weapon."
Los Her-Manos dropped the gun directly onto Max's forehead and clapped their snapping fingers towards Sam.
"Oh, yes. I've had a secret weapon all this time. One that would definitely put an end to your putrid possession."
"Sam, if this is a second bonesaw, I'd rather risk getting ventilated."
The dog backed towards the closet door. "Don't make me use it. If I do it all wrong, it could mean the end of The Freelance Police as we know it."
"What is it? A bazooka? Napalm? Baguettes hard enough to crack diamonds?! Out with it, man!"
Sam flung the door open and risked turning his back to draw the secret weapon. Max watched his hands jerk upwards. A pair of translucent blue, vaguely starfish-shaped beasts flew out of Max's palms and propelled themselves at Sam's backside. The Wolfhound whirled onto them with the Wreck 'Em, Deck 'Em Droids hefted between his doughy fingers. Right as he prepared to press both buttons, Los Her-Manos burrowed their spectral selves into the backsides of the twin droids. And...Sam set it on the desk.
Max sprung onto his feet, kissing his beaten hands. "It's okay, babies. Papa's here!" He picked up and stroked the Luger's barrel. "I promise I won't ever let anyone else grapple your delicate self ever again." After giving it a few grateful kisses, the lagomorph's beady black eyes swiveled onto the now-possessed toys. "That was a bit anti-climatic."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that…"
Infuriated by the deception, the sapphire droid tried to slug the tip of Sam's nose. But because it couldn't turn around, it jabbed the crimson droid's jaw, instead. The crimson droid responded in turn, working its dark blue opponent's collarbone and throat. Soon enough, Los Her-Manos forgot all about the Freelance Police while they spent every second clobbering one another.
Max chuckled. "I guess you're right, Sam. This isn't so bad."
"Yeah. Whoda thought such a perfectly punchy plaything would protect–?"
The lagomorph screamed and clutched his ears. "No more alliteration! I can't stands it no more!"
Sam smirked. "Can't blame me for enjoying some wonderfully wacky wordplay."
Max blinked, shrieked, and dove at Sam's head. Los Her-Manos paused once to watch them brawl across the trashed office. Their own battle resumed once the crimson droid sucker-punched his cohort in the shoulder. The sounds of biting, cursing, noogies, and metallic punches to the face rang out long into the night.
