"The partially, nearly Naked Gun 3 : 'They Saved Crumpf's Brain'..."

Summary: Frank Drebbin is out of retirement and on the case when he learns the fanatical former president and loser candidate Fred Crumpf may not be quite as dead as he left him and he and/or his crazies including his family threaten the newly elected President Woodrowmina Wilson.

Of course Nordberg is no longer on the squad because of, well, we never talk about that...

Part VI...

"So...Since We don't need to be here..." Derke in his cameraman outfit,with camera next to the Uber he and Banner had been forced to take. He and Banner carefully keeping well in shadows in alleyway several blocks from the secret venue.

That's the royal We in my case, hope you got that, Derke eyeing Banner.

Banner glaring at him...

"Well, I just meant you said you had the best on it." Derke, apologetically.

Though hey, second heir apparently here...Or is it apparent? Anyway, who's da boss here?

"I don't leave matters to chance, kid." Banner frowned, peering with binoculars over to the entrance of the "secret" awards venue, yeah right...Not to this neo-Nazi/fascist/Klansman, etc/illegitimate grandson of Goebbels with well-placed sources.

Very well-placed sources. But I'll have to kill you if I told you. And that can wait till I come to power, behind the throne.

"Oh...Ok." Derke shrugged.

Geesh, Dad does that all the time. "What am I paying midlevel losers for, if not to manage the details. Be a big picture guy, like me, kid. What's your name again?"

"Derke, Dad...Your number two son, Derke?"

Ah the memories of growing up with Dad...Like it was last month.

Oh, right ...It was.

Anyway what do we do if they fail? Take on all those cops trying to look as inconspicuous as possible for strutting LAPD cops. And the other guys who even I can see gotta be Secret Service?

I'm the number two heir...Ya can't risk the back-up heir.

Unless...

"What is it?" Banner eyed him.

When the punk tries to think, it's not only pretty obvious but always likely to be trouble.

"What do we do if things go wrong?" Banner suggested.

"Well, I was considering..." Derke noted.

"These two don't fail. They're the best. And if they misfire here, they'll keep on till they get Drebbin. But don't worry, we observe, we do not engage, ourselves."

"Oh, right." Hmmn...

Couldn't we just go get a burger and read about things in the paper tomorrow? I mean the guy's a hero, they gotta tell you if heroes get whacked, right?

"And it's important I check with my most important sources before we return to the Lair. The whole real point of our being here." Banner, peering again through binoculars.

I wonder if you could see Mars with those, Derke thought eyeing the binoculars.

...

The Taglyan Complex in Los Angeles is renowned not just for its stunning European-inspired décor and a 5,000-square-foot stained glass ceiling that captivates all who visit, but also for its dedication to community service. Since its inception in 2008, the complex has been involved in numerous charitable endeavors, earning accolades for both its philanthropy and its status as a premier event venue. The Grand Ballroom, with its circular stained glass ceiling and crystal chandeliers, alongside the elegant Taglyan Foyer and beautifully landscaped Taglyan Gardens, offers versatile spaces for a wide range of events, from intimate gatherings to grand celebrations.

"Oh my God..." Mayor Barkley, stepping in, with her senior aides, from the elevator to the parking garage, looking around...Secret Service everywhere, carefully checking the environs. The LA Police respectfully requested to cover the outside of the building...

As in, you trigger-happy, when not overtly racist, bozos, aren't getting anywhere near the President.

"Here? Who the hell choose this place?!" she cried to her aides. "Look at that stained glass ceiling?!" All looking up... "That lovely European style décor, those sheets of glass windows." She waved arm to take all in. "This place is a death trap with Drebbin about."

"I chose it, Madame Mayor..." a tall, fortyish athletic-looking black woman in sheer silvergown, hair piled, elegant but tasteful small diamond necklace shimmering on throat, approaching. "Marjorie Steward Bailey, chief of the President's combined security staff." Offering hand. "It's isolated, easily blocked off, excellent, easily protected and controllable access routes, and the windows at least are bulletproof and shatterproof. It was the best venue available, I assure you."

"I'm sure..." Barkley shaking hand. "Tell me though, has the President arrived?"

"We prefer to keep President Wilson's whereabouts secret as much as possible. Napoleon followed a similar strategy. He may have lost his empire in Russia but no one ever got to him personally." The woman noted.

"Not here yet...Good." Barkley sighed. "The ceremony will be short and sweet, as the President told me over the phone? When I begged her not to do this?" she asked, hopeful.

"Not more than an hour." Ms. Bailey nodded. "And the President wants Mr. Drebbin honored properly to send a message to these people. We've taken all needed precautions for her and your safety, Madam Mayor."

Hmmn...Drebbin could take out this city in an hour, the Mayor thought.

"So, our guest of honor, Lieutenant Drebbin, didn't choose to ride with you?" Ms Bailey noted, looking about.

"What?! God,. No!" Er, calming at look from an aide. "He prefers to check on developments on his own." Solemn nod.

"Developments?" Ms. Bailey eyed her. "What would those be?"

"Oh, well...I mean he likes to see what's going on."

"And what is, 'going on', Madam Mayor? As Chief of Presidential Security, I need to know. As do my team and the President." Firm stare...

"Well..."

...

About six blocks away Hocken's car was coming up the main boulevard to the Center, surrounded by its escort phalanx of cars.

"I do believe that uniform suits you, Mr. Creed." Ford, likewise in LA PD officer's uniform as he drove his vehicle, a stolen police car, the original officers lying dead in a field near the warehouse where he and Creed had earlier met, closer to Hocken's.

"I must agree, Mr. Ford." Creed nodded, eyeing the uniform. Does he mean get one to bring home to wear around the house? "But on you, the uniform is simply magnificent. I think you may likely have found another profession should you ever choose to give up our time-honored one."

"My mother would be proud." Ford nodded. "But, sadly, she's in Heaven...Though at our last meeting it was a comfort to her to know I'd apparently passed my medical boards."

"Ah, yes the doctor role..." Creed nodded. "When you killed that rather talkative prostitute in San Francisco for those business moguls." Carefully holding his position and distance...

"Car four, maintain a tight security perimeter...You read, over?" the radio crackled.

"Yeah, this is car four...Closin' up." Ford noted, with LA accent. "Code PX57..." Slight chuckle... "Ya won't get us that easy. We're not slouching with the feds around."

Chuckle on radio... "Right, code acknowledged. Good job."

:"Four out." He hung up radiophone.

"Yes, the poor thing had escaped an earlier attempt..." he resumed. "By a rather rank amateur among the moguls' security staffs...With serious, if possibly non-fatal injuries. I like to think I performed my Hippocratic duty in easing her suffering that day."

"Fine accent there, by the way.." Creed smiled. "I find it hard to select the proper one for Los Angeles, the popularion being so diverse."

"More of an affectation, really. Giiven that diversity." Ford shrugged, pulling closer "But I appreciate the praise. Excellent job, may I say on your part obtaining the code from that dying officer."

"Well, a brave man but a better father..." Creed nodded reflectively. "I certainly can't fault him for putting his wife and daughter's lives over his duty, even if some might question it. I myself felt his effort to hold out till I showed him the pictures of the girl's bedroom through the window, with her in it, quite noble."

"One must appreciate a man's love for his family and make allowances." Ford nodded.

"Do you think, now?" he glanced at Creed as their car matched speed perfectly with Hocken's.

Creed eyeing Hocken's car... "Just a bit...Hold it...Steady..." He pulled small computerized targeting and bulletproof glass piercing gun up slowly, silencer set, naturally. Eyeing the small video targeting scene, much like Luke's in the first Star Wars... "Just a bit more, if you would."

"Certainly..." Ford nodded. Creed ponting carefully, the tinted windows just...Enough...to block a view of him in the car where anyone might have otherwise spotted him and his gun. Yet not so dark as to arouse suspicion in most, given the car seemed what it should be and the officers aboard her had responded with the proper security code...

...

Hmmn...Seated in front passenger seat of Hocken's car, Frank eyed his own sachel, the original of Jones' work, thumbing slowly through the papers...

What page did the actual...Well, hello...He eyed a buxom young beauty's portrant. "Miss UK 1994, Jones did get around..."

"Anything, Frank? I don't mean to press but..." Ed noted. "...Edna's life may hang in the balance."

"Given her condition and increasing all around constant bitchiness, when in the grip of her Hyde fugues, I'd say it hangs by an unraveling thread." Frank nodded thoughtfully.

Ed staring...

"Oh, sorry..."

"I'm a little edgy about things, myself, Frank. By the way, not to rush things or seem insane with rage, but when do we start killing those Nazis docs?"

"Ed, not all are Nazis.:" he noted. "Probably. You have to remember that when we start...Or you do, if I don't survive. Also you have to question them first, see if the Nazi ones can help Edna."

"I guess..." Hocken fumed. "But I get so filled with the backed-up, repressed rage I've been feeling at Edna's bitchiness and nastiness, her promiscuity...Not that I don't love all the kids and consider them mine...And when I think they've not only taken away bits of my Edna but put her life in danger, maybe irreversibly. I gotta kill, kill, kill, Frank!" he swerved car a bit.

Hmmn. Creed thought, trying to aim. I hope the fellow's not been drinking. I know the LAPD has a negative reputation but this is a national, if secret, event tonight.

"Ed!" Frank, rocking in car...Dropping his sachel, with the book and cliff notes original...

"Sorry! It's cool. It's cool." Hocken nodded. "I'm cool."

"Captain Hocken?" the radio crackled.

"I'm cool...Just have to avoid a cat. Hocken out."

"He doesn't seem that cool to me." Ford, hearing on open radio. "And I'm sure I didn't see a cat. Terrible thing to endanger fellow officers like that." He noted. "Mr. Creed? Alls well?"

"Just stay with them...A bit more..." Creed noted as the cars sped.

Ah...Creed beamed...

I've got you now.