Tried to pull away, but he couldn't budge. A squeal of metal drew all eyes to the opening jail door. A fat old lady walked in. She wore a dowdy knee length dress, a gray sweater and a babushka. Yellow with a pattern of purple plums you are criminals. She said, in a voice is pleasant as you'd expect from a wrinkled grandma. It's it's time for your trial. She stepped back out of the white room. A swarm of men rushed in, all wearing hooded white robes and rubber masks. They filled the room. Groups of them moving to each chained person. As if that weren't surreal enough, the first one to rush Pookie looked like the Burger King. Pookie threw a straight right jab that knocked the king off his feet. Then quickly went down under the weight of the others. Cloaks and daggers John Smith didn't know what to think. His Harley roared down the street. He followed the black station wagon for once he wasn't afraid of some random gunman. He didn't have the bandwidth to fear them, not with trying to process what he'd seen. That woman had delivered electrical shocks with metal whips, did the whips generate the shocks, or did she generate them? Oh, and the small detail that he'd shot her in the face, instead of hitting the deck and joining club body bag, she jumped out of a third story window, she should have been a broken thing on the sidewalk, but when he got down to the street, she was gone. And it wasn't just the girl with the chains. What was the deal with the gigantic bony head? Robin had shot that man four or 5 times at point blank range. Yet the man had stood up, so yeah, maybe there were worse things to fear than snipers. Robin, dead, murdered like a goddamn drug lord, gunned down in her own apartment, and her last words to John