"You want a piece of my ass?"  The man was clearly on something, probably meth. 
He was standing in front of his porch, in flannel pajama pants and a robe, no shirt, a
broken beer bottle in his right hand.  He had long, scraggly blonde hair and a crooked
mustache, which was barely discernible as such against the considerable stubble he had
going.  His feet were bare, and he stood in a wide stance, breathing heavy, the early
morning dew of the grass glistening in contrast to his filthy skin and garments.  
	Ryger put his Beretta away under his shoulder.  He was standing directly in front
of the man, only ten feet away from him, close enough to smell the bender this man had
obviously been on for the last few days.  Richards was to Ryger's left, still keeping his 9
pointed at the man's chest, glancing nervously from the man back to his partner.
	Ryger threw his jacket onto the lawn, then mindfully took off his shoulder holsters
and laid them on top of his jacket with great care.  He stared deep into the man's eyes,
hands at his sides, head defiantly cocked to the side, smirking insanely.  He was now
unarmed.
	"I don't want a piece ... I want the whole damn thing."  Richards' mouth gaped,
and then he went back to focusing on the man.  Just as he did, the man let out a beastly
roar and began to drunkenly charge toward Ryger, stumbling a good deal, and Richards
began to gingerly squeeze his trigger.  "No," Ryger breathed, "don't."  Richards let his
finger off the trigger but kept his pistol pointed at the man that was coming toward Ryger
like a freight train in slow motion.
	As soon as the man was within distance, Ryger's right foot whipped up and landed
firmly in the man's crotch.  The man's eyes went wide and his grip on the beer bottle
tightened to the point of whitening his knuckles.  Spittle flecked the corners of his lips.  As
Ryger brought his fist high above his head, a woman slammed open the rickety screen
door at the house behind and screamed, "Oh, Rob!"
	Both Ryger and Richards looked up at her; she was beautiful, or at least had been
ten years ago.  Now her arms made it look like her elbows were train stations, she had so
many tracks; her eyes had rings around them so black as to almost seem unreal; her hair
was stringy and still wet from a shower.  Her tattered clothes clung to her damp body, and
what was left of her teeth gleamed in the fading moonlight.
	As Richards and Ryger were imagining what this woman must have looked like in
her prime, Rob had regained his determination, and his shoulder slammed into Ryger's gut. 
A lungful of breath shot out of Ryger's mouth, and as he was being tackled to the ground,
he brought his elbow crashing into Rob's back, just below his neck.  It seemingly had no
affect whatsoever.
	Rob straddled Ryger, raising the bottle high above his head.  Ryger, still gasping
for breath, moved his left hand up to block the soon to come thrust, and his right thumb
went upwards, seeking eye.  Rob's left hand grabbed hold of Ryger's right, squeezing it
with unbelievable force.  As the two men's hands went between them like a piston, Rob
began to stab at Ryger's face with the bottle.  But Ryger's hand stood between the glass
and his face, and took the brunt of the cuts.  Blood splashed everywhere, but Ryger
preferred having a cut up hand to a cut up face.  
	A single crack rang out, making Ryger's ears ring.  A shell landed just to his left,
still smoking, steaming off the dew from the grass.  Rob looked down at the bullet hole in
the center of his chest, then over at Richards, giving him the evil eye.  Then he returned
his attention to trying to slice and dice Ryger.  It became apparent that Rob wasn't on
meth.  He was on PCP.
	From beyond Rob's grunts as he kept on pummeling Ryger's hand with the beer
bottle and almost broke his other, squeezing it, Ryger heard Richards sigh.  This wasn't
going to be easy from here on in, now that PCP was involved.  He couldn't help but grin;
for some reason, Richards always seemed to have the worst luck.  But then Ryger realized
he was the one working on losing both hands, not Richards.  He grinned even wider as his
own blood rained down upon him.
	Four more shots rang out, in the space of no more than two seconds, and Rob fell
backwards on top of Ryger's legs.  Ryger's neck muscles relaxed, he laid his head back,
and took a deep breath.  He couldn't really feel either hand, although there was a sensation
of cold coming from the left one.  He'd brought this on himself; he'd figured he could take
out his frustrations by beating this poor druggie like a rented mule.  Instead he was lucky
to escape with his life.
	Rob's woman was screaming horrible things at Ryger and Richards from the porch,
in between sobs.  Ryger looked over to see Richards putting his pistol away and coming
over to make sure his partner was okay.  All of a sudden the woman shut up, and it
seemed somehow akin to crickets stopping chirping; a bad omen. 
	Like a movie monster, Rob rose right before Ryger's eyes.  Peripherally he could
see Richards fumbling to get his pistol back out.  But before he could, Rob threw his
broken bottle into Richard's face, slashing him and making a bonk as it hit his cranium. 
Richards stumbled backwards out of sight, and then Rob was up, five shots in his chest,
impervious to them.  Ryger frantically tried to get up, but it was difficult with his mangled
hands.  He watched helplessly as Rob picked up his twin Berettas and pointed them at
him.  
	Then a rather large chunk of Rob's right shoulder went flying off in a mist, and a
shot deafened Ryger in his left ear.  He turned to see Richards lying on the lawn not far
from him, his 9 out and firing rapidly at Rob.  Ryger turned his attention back to Rob, who
was now firing back.  Ryger lost his hearing, but still watched the drama unfold before
him.
	Slugs kept slamming into Rob, all over his torso, but he kept on firing back, with a
pistol in each hand.  He emptied both, and then tossed them carelessly to the ground. 
Ryger looked over to see Richards was shot in the chest, just below the sternum.  He was
still breathing, but was unconscious, his gun emptied and at his side.  Ryger looked back
toward the house to see Rob stalking towards him.
	Desperately Ryger's feet pushed into the soft ground beneath him, and thankfully
found purchase.  He pushed himself away from Rob, then managed to get to his knees,
and then he was standing, Rob still calmly advancing on him.  All the rage Ryger had 
from the previous happenings of the evening, and now with those he felt toward this idiot
that had just shot his partner and ruined his plans for some venting, welled up inside of
him, and he managed to raise his hands, and to his surprise he saw he could still move the
fingers of his right; there wasn't much flesh left on the fingers of the left hand, so he let it
drop uselessly to his side.
	Ryger smiled emptily at Rob, who didn't seem to get the joke.  So Ryger decided
to help him out.  He knelt down and hiked up his right trousers leg.  From his ankle he
retrieved a miniature pistol and, standing back up, leveled it at Rob.  "Bring it," he
thundered defiantly.
	Rob again growled like a monster and began to lunge without much coordination
at Ryger.  Eleven rounds later, there wasn't much left of Rob's head.  Ryger tossed the
empty pistol aside, and went over to make sure Rob wasn't getting up this time.  The
man's face looked like hamburger; if he got up after almost a dozen rounds of hollow-
point 9mm at practically point blank to the head, he'd most likely hold the new record for
most unbelievable PCP tale.
	From beneath his sweaty and bloody brow Ryger scowled up at the woman
sobbing on the porch steps, without compassion for her or remorse for what he'd just
done.  If anything he was only sorry he couldn't have given Rob more of a beating before
he'd killed him.  He still felt so upset that his face burned just as much as before with his
anger.  
	Ryger went to the squad car, called it in on the radio, then went back and sat down
in the wet grass next to his dying partner, and stifled his own tears.  Now that the
adrenaline was leaving him, he was beginning to feel the fire in his hands and guilt began
to creep in.  He and Rob's woman stared at each other icily as the sirens began to wail in
the distance.  

	The murmur of the squad room was barely audible from within the waiting room
of the lieutenant's office.  Ryger sat in the ancient, battered sofa, looking at his twin
bandaged hands and remembering why he was here.  Richards was still in the hospital, but
no doubt would be going through the exact same drill just as soon as his doctors said he
was able to get out of bed.
	There was the hollow plastic slamming of a phone from within the office, and then
Lieutenant James whisked his door open and glared at Ryger, taking up the entire door
frame.  "Get in here," he rumbled, then turned and went to sit at his desk.  Ryger sulkily
trudged into the office, shutting the door behind him with his foot.
	Ryger was ordered rather colorfully to take a seat, and he stopped himself from
saying "Don't worry, I will on my way out," and just sat.  James glared at him from behind
a giant stack of papers in his In-Box.  
	"I've read your official report quite a few times, Karl.  And we both know there's
more b.s. in here than in Texas.  Now I want the straight facts, what really happened, and
most importantly, why."
	Ryger was too tired to even try to deny that he'd acted foolishly and
unprofessionally.  He sighed, and began.
	"About 3:30 on the day in question, I received a letter from my father.  In it he
belittled me as he always has and always will.  My best will never be good enough, and he
made sure I knew it.  This upset me a good deal.  So about twelve hours later, when we
arrived at 1104 Pinecrest, I saw this man, Rob MacKenzie, as a means to let out my
frustrations.  But ... things went a bit sour."
	James snorted.  "Sixteen 9mm rounds in this man, one in your partner, from your
gun, and you with broken and sliced fingers.  And his girlfriend suing the city for a
hundred million, wrongful death.  So I take it he didn't instigate the incident, then, as you
wrote in your report?"
	Ryger stared at the floor.  "Well ... he started it."
	"How so?"
	"He asked me if I wanted a piece of him."
	"And you responded by ordering him to his knees, as procedure states, right?"
	"No, I -"
	"No!  I knew it!  You egged him on, didn't you?"
 	"Well ... I suppose ... "  Ryger was in it deep, and he couldn't see a way out, so he
saw no point to even try to deny the truth.
	James slammed his palms down on his desk, spilling the pile of papers.  "So just
because you were a little mad at daddy you decided to kill a man!"
	Ryger rose to his feet and got in James' face.  "You listen to me, jackass.  You
have no idea what my life with him was like.  Every day I spent in his presence was a
living hell.  He -"
	James pushed Ryger in the chest, knocking him back into his seat.  "No one calls
me a jackass and stays in this squad, Ryger.  And if you -"
	But Ryger was again on his feet, again right in James' face, eyes seething with
anger.
	"You don't understand me or my life, so don't pretend to.  Do what you want.  I
honestly couldn't care less.  I'm out."  He put his hands in James' face, realizing too late he
couldn't flip the man off.  He spit on the Lieutenant's desk and stormed out, teeth
clenched.  James blared on behind him about insubordination and trials and other empty
threats.  Ryger strode defiantly out of the squad room, hating the feeling of all those eyes
on him.