05 Newmarket Heat

In the shocking and explosive finale of the first Fake Cop Trilogy, Fake Cop is back from Beverly Hills and back in Newmarket. Prepared to start a new life, a new nemesis steps forward, threatening his job and dream, leading to a showdown Newmarket has never seen before. Some men play by the rules. Some men break them. They will all face the heat. This is Newmarket Heat.

Transcript

SPEAKER_01 0:44

That was for Spadino. I think anyway. My final words for the killer of Spadino ricocheted through my head like the bullet that killed him. Or bullets. Plural. There were a lot of them. Possibly hundreds. I fucked him up pretty bad. I also fucked up the largest fentanyl ring in California history. That'll teach him for trying to hide it under Fruit Loops. Fucking idiots. I may or may not have gotten a lot of people killed. I definitely didn't get Spadino killed. That one's not on me, no way. Well that was his own goddamn fault now, wasn't it? Guy moves out to Southern California to follow his dream of being a personal trainer, gets a job as a security guard in a warehouse to supplement that dream, then steals a bunch of German barabons from a Spanish-Albanian fentanyl dealer. I mean, come on, he did kinda have it coming, right? But still, there was Johnny Kelly, that poor fucking sadsack. And three generations of the Mendoza family. I probably got them all killed. I uh I don't know. I'm still trying to work it out in my head. Johnny Kelly, Mendoza, Mendoza Jr., Mendoza Jr. Jr. or whatever his fucking real name was. Plus all the other ones that I don't really care about enough to mention. Was everybody right? Was I dangerous? Reckless? Did I have superficial charm and a grandiose sense of self-worth? Was I prone to boredom with a need for stimulation? Was I vengeance-minded? Did I show a lack of remorse or empathy? Did I display cold, callous behavior and shallow affect? Was I a manipulative, pathological liar with a parasitic lifestyle? Was I sexually promiscuous? Did I have poor behavioral controls? Was I impulsive and irresponsible? Did I lack long-term realistic goals? Did I have a history of juvenile delinquency? Did I display criminal versatility? Did I fail to take responsibility for my own actions? Was I a fucking moron? I didn't know. Apparently I checked off a lot of those boxes, especially that last one. Anyway, I didn't fucking care. Ramirez and I came back from Beverly Hills changed men. I should go on vacation more often. In Southern California, there are only two jobs: actor and personal trainer. Whether you're a lawyer, a doctor, a server, a cop, a teacher, a nurse, whether you're in real estate, you're only doing that to supplement your real dream of becoming an actor or a personal trainer. Actor Haitman wanted to be a personal trainer, but that dream is as dead as he is. As for Ramirez, Los Angeles had inspired him to go the other route. He wanted to become an actor, but not like Bobby De Niro, he said. Some guy named Peter North. That's what Ramirez told me anyway. I swear to God, I'd never heard of this Peter North fella before in my life. Not my entire life. Swear to God, honest to God, never heard of the man. Anyway, Ramirez already had an audition lined up right here in Newmarket. He answered an ad on the internet somewhere. Craig's letter or list or some fucking thing. I don't know what kind of movie-making business Newmarket has, but it looks like Ramirez is already breaking into it. Good for him. We need more arts and culture around here anyway. I didn't want to become an actor, like Bobby De Niro, or the other guy Ramirez was talking about that I swear I'd never heard of. Like Hector Haitland at exactly half of Southern California, I decided to follow my dream of becoming a fake personal trainer. But first I had to build up a client list. Takes a little bit, you know? Need to establish yourself, gain a reputation, trust. I had a lot of work to do. Fortunately, that didn't include getting certified. Since I was only being a fake personal trainer, I didn't have to worry about formalities like certification or any bullshit like that. Kinda like being a fake cop. Didn't need any training for that either. I certainly didn't have to go to some stupid academy. I just bought a retired 2003 Chevrolet Impala Ontario Provincial Police Pursuit Car in 2006, drove it off the lots, and that was it really. That was all I had to do. It was pretty fucking easy, actually. I would do personal training on the side and build a solid list of motivated clients dedicated to meeting their fitness and lifestyle goals. But in the meantime, my regular job would still be a fake rogue cop. And the streets of Newmarket were calling for my attention. Things still hadn't settled down since Blackjack Blackadar had been bumped off by Angel Dubois. Every mob in this town or city or whatever it fucking is were at war trying to fill the power vacuum. They had really hit the mattresses. It was a mess out there, and only I had a broom big enough to clean it up. But it looked like I had some competition. Apparently there was a new cop in town. A new fake cop. He showed up while I was away in Beverly Hills. People were talking. He had a perfect record. No citizen complaints. No disciplinary action from the real cops. No outstanding warrants. He was allowed to fucking fly. They said he was untouchable. Couldn't be bribed or bought. Couldn't be corrupted. He was clean. A clean fake cop in Newmarket, Ontario, Canada. Yeah, right. Untouchable? Also, yeah, right. Nobody was untouchable. Oh, I'd find this fake clean cop and I'd touch him all right. I'd touch him all over the fucking place. I'd touch him so many times and so many places, uh shit. You know what I mean. The first time I ever saw him was on Main Street. I was coming out of Fitzy's. The fake cop bar I've got a private booth in. He was doing a slow roll in a 2025 Ford Crown Victoria fake cop car. Not a bad choice, actually. That's a classic right there, that Crown Vic. I went with the Explorer because of the extra leg room. But still, I was suspicious. How could a fake cop who wasn't on the take afford a brand new fake cop car like that? It didn't make sense. It didn't square. He was young, 20-something, had a mustache, but it wasn't a cop mustache. It was a pretty weak fucking mustache, actually. We're not talking Magnum P.I. or Matt Houston here, no way. Especially Matt Houston. And what is it with these young dudes in their mustaches now, anyway? They got weak mustaches and fucked up hair. And this guy was no exception. He was small, wore mirrored sunglasses that were just a bit too large for his face. They would fall off every time he looked down. So he never tried to look down. Apparently, he just graduated from university. Kinesiology major. Eh, college boy, huh? Got ourselves a college boy here. Figures. I never did go myself. Never saw the need. Guys like me, we fake our way through everything. Look it up, it's part of the checklist. I was gonna have to do something about this fella. I couldn't have another fake cop messing around in my business. Especially if he was clean. Well, we'll see how clean he was. In this business, the more whites you wear, the more the dirt shows. College boy didn't look over at me when he rolled by. But he knew I was there. The timing was no coincidence. We'd see each other soon enough. We had some good news back at Fitzy's. Ramirez got that role in the movie he auditioned for. At a boy, Ramirez. Yeah, I figured he would. The kid had the talent. I was proud of the young man. Actually, was proud the right word. Was I proud of other people? I don't know, not really. But they could impress me. And this young man impressed me. First, by holding his own doing security in the hospital, then by helping me shoot Hector Haitlin an unreasonable amount of times. Now, he just got the lead role in a movie after his very first audition. I had no idea what kind of movie it was, I doubt Bobby De Niro was in it. But still, this young man impressed me. He didn't hesitate, he just did things. I came back into Fitsies and saw him sitting at the bar, alone. I was gonna buy him a beer. But after looking at his face, thought he'd be better off with a cyanide pill. I figured he'd be happy, but instead he looked uh well, not happy. I don't know, it's hard for me to recognize emotional expressions sometimes. But he didn't have one of those big stupid smiles on his face. So I figured something was up. Ramirez, I said. I just heard you got the lead role in that new movie they're making in the alley behind Personie's gym. Why the long face kid? That's when he told me. He finally achieved his dream. But he had no one to share it with. No family. Ramirez was from an orphanage, raised in foster care. He never met his real parents. Parents he needed. Parents he longed for. Especially a father. He never had a daddy. He told me I was the closest thing to one he ever had, which was kinda fucking weird, but whatever. I could see the kid was in pain. I couldn't feel it because I was impossible. But I could see it. In a kind of I do have a form of cognitive empathy. Then with my left hand, I began to pat his back in a mechanical fashion, saying, There there, Ramirez, there there. I work for Judy Black, but it wasn't doing much for Ramirez, and that was the best I could do, so I decided to pull the plug on a comfort thing, and that's when he pulled out his wallet and a picture from inside. It was worn and faded, but you could clearly see the smiling, handsome face of a young man with black hair. You could distinctly see his face, I mean it was pretty clear. And you know the funny thing? He looked a little bit like Holy shit, that's Mendoza. Well, that's a picture of Mendoza. Well, about the same age Ramirez is now. Good god, could it be true? Ramirez never knew the identity of his biological father. All he had was this old, faded picture from 1996, of a man he had never met. From a time before he was born. Could it be true? Of course it could, made total fucking sense. Mendoza was an absolute dog. God knows how many kids he's got walking around out there. The man was like an NBA player for Christ's sakes, he was that bad. So not only did Ramirez have a father, but he had a brother and a cousin. But they were all dead. Cut to pieces. I mean they were really cut to pieces. So he had lost his father a second time, and his brother, and his cousin. That was a goddamn tragedy if you care to think about it. He did have a full family I could introduce him to. Are the rest of the Mendozas, right? A big, huge family, with more brothers and more cousins and more uncles and aunts, and a mother, too, Mendoza's wife. All wonderful people who could take care of Ramirez and finally be the family this kid's needed his whole life. But they've got a restraining order against me, uh, the whole family. So to be honest, I'm not sure what to do about this. I think it was time for a night ride. To clear what was left in my mind. It was late at night, so I headed out for the highway, the open road. I exploded on the highway 404 in my 2023 Ford Explorer fake cop car. I had no license, registration, or insurance. It didn't matter. I had the wind. The outlaw wind. Its tail was behind me as I galloped down the road, pushing me further, faster. 110, 120, 130, 140, 150, so on. Aurora, Stowville, Richmond Hill, Markham, Toronto. And there it was, that old familiar sign. Welcome to the city of Toronto. A sign Johnny Kelly never got to see. Johnny Kelly. I'd stopped thinking about that other guy, uh, Spadino, whatever his name was, a little while ago. But Johnny Kelly was clinging to my mind like King Kong of the Empire State Building. Did he have it coming? Yes, yes, he was very, very stupid. So in a way, he uh he did, right? But still, Angel did him wrong. She wasn't supposed to shoot him, she was supposed to set him up as a fall guy, that's it. Now, she was doing a life stretch up in Kingston at the P4W. She'd been locked up for more than a year now. I think anyway, the uh the time frames are impossible to respect when writing shit like this. And then Mendoza and Ramirez, father and son, would I tell Ramirez? Should I? Well, it just caused the boy more pain. Sure, he'd been searching his whole life for his biological daddy, even carried a picture around since he was five years old. He stared at it every day for hours, wondering where his biological daddy was. I had to tell him. I didn't want to, actually. It would just fuck everything up, wouldn't it? Ramirez and I had established a decent social dynamic. That's pretty hard for me to do, you know? And I didn't want a bunch of fancy emotions dancing in and ruining everything. Then I thought about my own daddy. A fake cop who stopped talking to me years ago. A fake cop who couldn't be bribed with the Hope Diamond, with a son that could be bought off with a Van Halen album. A C D no less. Not to mention all the more uh serious criminal activity. My own daddy was a damn good man. Raised me right. I had some uh purly problems, you know. He tried to steer me in the right direction. Maybe the family footsteps would lead me there, instead of to wherever the fuck I am now. I looked up, and there was the CN Tower. Johnny Kelly always wanted to see the CN Tower from the inside, looking down. I shot off the Don Valley Parkway onto the Gardner Expressway like a pinball. To my left was Lake Ontario, absolutely filthy body of water. Couldn't possibly swim in it. I wouldn't, but it looked pretty impressive under the full Toronto moon. I looked over to my right, the Skydome. Johnny Kelly loved baseball. But it was hockey, that's what was in his heart. And there was the Scotia Bank Arena, where he would have played for his beloved Toronto Maple Leafs, even if they sucked really, really bad. Who was that guy? Uh, the uh the one I went out to Beverly Hills to avenge. Spa. Spadino, yeah, that's right. Spadino. I keep forgetting about him. Pretty soon I won't remember him at all. But I'll remember forever what they wrote on his chest after they killed him. The Toronto Maple Leafs suck. Johnny Kelly didn't care. He would have played for them anyway. No matter how bad they suck, no matter how many game sevens they blew. It was his dream. But the dead don't dream. Or maybe they do. Apparently, their hair still grows after they die, so I don't know what the fuck happens, you know? I got off at South Kingsway and doubled back eastbound down the Gardner, back onto the DVP, and then home to New Market on the 404. New market. The end of the 404. The last stop. How it used to be anyway. That's when I saw the lights in my rearview mirror. The unmistakable lights of a 2025 Ford Crown Victoria fake cop car. That could only be one person. College boy. Somehow College Boy had found me bombing down the highway, and it looked like he had something to say. I figured I had nothing to lose. See what the hype was all about. I pulled over on the side of the highway just before the Davis Drive exit. I rolled down my window as College Boy walked up. He said, What do you say I buy a double-double? I looked around and then back at him and said, Sure. Let's go. Follow me, he replied. I knew where we were going. There was a Tim Hortons just off the Davis Drive exit. I took my gun out of the glove compartment and followed him. We both parked aggressively and diagonally across four parking spots at a Tim Hortons, and we went inside. Seven years in the mall. Three at Egggy's. I looked at him, slowly nodding my head. Before that it was Eggnu. Tough as they say. What are you looking to become a shoe store manager? Are you looking to go back? You know, I chased down some dirty fake cops. Guys just looking a fuck up. They get busted back to the mall. That you? You must do work some dipshit dirty fake cops. You see me doing thrill seeking mom and pop hardware store shakedowns with a born to lose tattoo in my chest? No, I do not. Right. I am never going back. Then don't be a fake rogue cop. I do what I do best. I'm a fake rogue cop. You do what you do best. Trying to stop guys like me. So you never wanted a regular type life? The fuck is that? Barbecues and ball games? I actually love barbecues and ball games, but I was playing a role here. Yeah. Just a regular type life like your life. My life. No, my life. No, my life's a disaster zone. I got a stepdaughter all fucked up on shoe polish all the time, because a real father is this large type asshole. I got a wife. We're passing each other on the downslope of a marriage. My third. Because I spend all my time chasing guys like you around the block. That's my life. A guy told me one time, don't let yourself get attached to anything you're not willing to walk out on in 30 seconds flat if you feel the heat around the corner. When you're around me, and you gotta move when I move. I expect to keep her in a a marriage. That's an interesting point. What are you a monk? I have a woman. I lied, I didn't have a woman. Well, there was Angel Dubois, but she was doing life in prison for a crime I set up. What do you tell her? I tell her I'm a shoe salesman. So then if you spot me coming around that corner, you're just gonna walk out of this woman? Not say goodbye? That's the discipline. That's pretty vacant. That is what it is. That's that we better both do something else, pal. I don't know how to do anything else. Neither do I. I don't much want to either. Neither do I. You know, I have a uh recurring dream. I'm sitting at this big banquet table. All the victims of all the fake murders I've ever worked are sitting at this table, and they're staring at me with these big black eyeballs. Because they got eight ball hemorrhages from the head wounds. And here they are. Big balloon people, because I found them two weeks after they've been under the bed. There they are, all just sitting there. What do they say? Nothing. Nothing. No talk. They say absolutely nothing to you. They don't call you a fucking weirdo or a pervert or something. You got some pretty strange dreams there, fella. I have one where I'm drowning, and I have to wake myself up and start breathing, or I'm gonna die in my sleep. You know what that's about? Yeah, I haven't enough time to do what I wanna do. You doing it now? Nah, not yet. I gotta build up a bigger list of clients. Personal training is a tough gig. Gotta establish a reputation, gain a lot of trust, you know, that kind of thing. But in the meantime, I kinda like what I'm doing. You know how we're sitting here like a couple of regular fellas. You do what you do, I do what I gotta do. Now that we've been face to face, if I'm there and I gotta put you away, I won't like it. But I'll tell you, if it's between you and some poor bastard whose wife you're gonna turn into a widow, brother, you are going down. There's a flip side of that coin. What if you do? Got me boxed in, and I gotta put you down. Because no matter what, you will not get in my way. We've been face to face, yeah, but I will not hesitate. Not for a second. Maybe that's the way it'll be. Or maybe we'll never see each other again. My final words lingered in the air as we both sat there, knowing we'd see each other again. Or maybe we wouldn't. I don't know, I haven't written that part yet. I went out to the 2023 Ford Explorer Fay Kopcar, and I found something pinned under the windshield. It was a message, and individually cut-out newspaper letters, just like the movies. Smart. It said, Meet me at the warehouse down by the docks tomorrow at midnight. Tomorrow at midnight. Well, it was 11 p.m. now. Midnight was technically tomorrow, which was one hour from now, so tonight. I think. Now did these fuckers mean tonight or tomorrow night or what? Anyway, I looked around. I couldn't see anybody but the usual riffraff. College boy was long gone. I stayed back for a few minutes at the Tim Hortons, watched him drive away from my seat by the window. Never went near my fake cop car once. Somebody was pretty sneaky. And I was gonna find out who. And I had a pretty good idea where. Actually, I had no idea where, but I'd start anyway. I texted Ramirez and told him to meet me at Fitzy's. I'd swing by and pick him up. We would come up with a plan, and maybe, just maybe, I'd tell him Mendoza was his biological daddy. But probably not, I wasn't sure yet. This warehouse thing was gonna be a bit of a situation, you know? And I needed Ramirez to stay frosty. I couldn't afford to have him crack in the middle of a fight, thinking about his long-lost dead dad and a bunch of other shit that could get me killed. We pulled up to the warehouse at 11.55 p.m. I didn't know if these guys met midnight tonight or midnight tomorrow night or what the fuck. 12.01 a.m. would have been a less confusing and more considerate time. So I thought I'd show up tonight just to see what would happen. At the very least, I get a chance to scout the place. Then again, I'd been there before many, many times. And at the very best, well they'll be here, and I can finally get revenge for Mendoza, his son, and his nephew. Then Ramirez could get revenge for his father, his brother, and his cousin. Now to be honest, I didn't care much about that. I just wanted to kill these guys. I'm a punctual man, and I don't appreciate a confusing schedule. Ramirez and I were sitting out front of the warehouse, right in front of it, in full view. Anybody could see us, literally anybody, in the very spot that the Mendozas and I were parked in. I was gonna tell Ramirez about Mendoza, but first I decided to order a pizza. Yeah, I knew it was risky. The last few times I ordered a pizza from this very parking spot in front of this very warehouse. It blew our cover, and three generations of the Mendozas ended up getting cut to pieces. I mean, they got cut to fucking pieces. It was bad, man. Three separate incidents, too, didn't happen all at once. But Pizzaville had a limited offer for a three-topping large for only $15.99. A three-topping large for $15.99? In this economy, come on, how could I resist? I mean, they were practically giving them away. Of course, by the time Uber Eats brought it to me, it would end up costing $82, and it would probably blow our cover. Just like before. Three times it happened. But whatever, I had to take the chance. I turned my phone on, dialed up Uber Eats, or whatever you do, I hit a bunch of buttons. And my three-topping large was heading my way. Literally, this thing popped up on my phone and said, headed your way. Comforting, you know? It's always comforting to read that. My god, I couldn't wait. The only time I've ever felt anything close to anxiety was waiting for pizza. What if it didn't work? What if it didn't go through? What if my location wasn't specific enough for the driver? What if the guy who made the pizzas didn't even show up that night? I had a lot of questions, but I had a feeling tonight was my night. There was no need for some false simulation of anxiety. It was my first sense of true hope in a while. I then turned to Ramirez to finally tell him that Mendoza was his biological daddy. That's when the bullet tore into Ramirez's head. The pizza hadn't even come yet. Now that was gonna be awkward when it did. God damn it, Ramirez. Why? Well, I know why. I uh I ordered a pizza through an app on my phone. Uh, not for the first time either. But still. Why? I didn't have a chance to see where the shot came from. It was definitely a sniper. Ramirez looked like he'd been hit with a 50 caliber. We're talking about a bullet the size of a hot dog. Fuck, I love hot dogs. I could eat about 12 of them. Other like grilled cheese sandwiches, you never get full. I wasn't gonna eat this bullet though. I don't care how much it looked like a hot dog. It just went right through Ramirez's head. I wasn't touching the fucking thing. Little gross, you know. I cradled Ramirez's headless body in my arms. All these different emotions running through me. Actually, there were only two, and one of them really wasn't an emotion. Oh, I was definitely angry, but I was confused. The bastards did mean midnight tonight. This was only supposed to be a scouting mission, and now Ramirez was gone. Dead. Shot in the head. By a sniper. Just the one time, though, it was a 50 caliber round. You heard me describe the bullet already. One shot's all it takes with one of those suckers. Ramirez had his whole life ahead of him. He was on the runway. He was gonna be the next Peter North, whoever he was. Instead, he was dead, just like his dad. And his brother, and his cousin, and a bunch of other people I've had close personal contact with. God damn it, Ramirez. He was gone, and he didn't even get the chance to die in the warehouse, like most of the rest of his family. He didn't even make it out of the parking lot. Didn't even make it out of the car. I drew my 38 Derringer from my ankle holster, just like Elvis would, and braced for another round from the 50cal, but it never came. Just then, I saw lights coming from behind. Oh, thank God. It must be Uber Eats with my pizza. I was starving, and there's nothing like a large three-topper for $15.99 to turn your night around. Trust me, but it wasn't Uber Eats. God damn it. I knew something had gone wrong with that order, I just fucking knew it. Then I recognized the lights. They were the unmistakable lights of a 2025 Ford Crown Victoria fake cop car, and I was halfway happy to see them. College boy. I stepped out of my 2023 Ford Explorer fake cop car and started to walk towards College Boy. He asked me if I was okay. I said, yeah, I was totally fine, I'm always fine. But Ramirez, he got cut to pieces. He looked over at Ramirez, headless in my passenger seat, and slowly nodded his head. He called for some backup and some ambulances. College Boy was always on the ball, although I don't think Ramirez was gonna need one. I looked at him wondering how we knew we were here. And what the fuck even happened by the way. Regardless, everything was cool for now. College Boy had taken care of the sniper, disarmed him, and left him tied up next to a tree near the warehouse. I would have fucking killed him, obviously. But College Boy does things by the book. Because he can read, I think. Now he was standing with me and Ramirez. Well, kind of with Ramirez. He looked over at the warehouse, then he looked back at me and said, They'll be back. Yeah, I knew they will, I replied. And the next time, I'd be ready. I'd already been fooled four times. I'd never been fooled five times. Not in a row, anyway. Well, once. I thanked College Boy for saving me. Then I told him he was a damn good fake cop. The best I'd ever seen. He blushed and lowered his head. I knew what was gonna happen next, because I planned it. Ah, fuck, not again. Hang on. As his oversized mirrored sunglasses slipped off his face and fell to the ground, he bent over to pick them up, and that's when I shot him in the head. And that's why College Boy always tried to never look down. I knew those glasses were gonna get him killed one day. Probably by me. Yeah, I know. It was a pretty brutal move, even for me. But it had to be done. Sometimes you have to do things, you know? Can't hesitate. Look for starters. There's only room for one fake cop in this town, or city, whatever it is. That meant trouble for him. But maybe, just maybe, we could have worked something out, you know? But being a kinesiology major, oh that raised a flag for me. A big, giant, waving red flag. Now why would he take kinesiology if he didn't want to become a personal trainer? I did some more digging, and I found out he was doing personal training on the side, trying to set up his own thing and go full-time, which was how he was able to afford a brand new 2025 fake cop car on a fake rookie salary. He wanted to pursue his dream of becoming a personal trainer. I couldn't have it. No fucking way. Two fake cops in New Market. Now that was one thing, but nobody was standing in the way of my dream to become a fake personal trainer. Not even College Boy. There was just way too much competition. I mean, I'm busting my ass every day trying to establish a solid client list, you know? And College Boy just waltz in a town or city and tries to take my clients away. No way. He had to go down. And he was down, on the ground, just like the Mendozas. Just like Johnny Kelly. Just like that other guy whose name I'm starting to forget. Uh fuck, I went out to Beverly Hills to get revenge for him, killed a bunch of people too. And of course, just like Ramirez, college boy was making a few sounds. Uh fuck, he was trying to talk after I shot him in the head. From a foot away. I was a tough son of a bitch. I had to give him that much. I leaned down close to his mouth. It was filling up with blood, which was totally gross. But I wanted to hear what he had to say. I bent down a little bit closer. He whispered something in my ear. I couldn't really hear him well, so I said, Will you fucking speak up, man? Come on. Can't hear shit. And then he died. I cradled his head for a few more seconds, and then just kinda let it go. Yeah, a little disrespectful, but uh he wasn't gonna complain. Then I thought about his last words as he whispered them into my ear. I just wanted to be a personal trainer. He tried to do it the clean way, too. The right way. By going to school, taking kinesiology, working on his certification. That was a goddamn tragedy if you care to think about that kind of thing. He didn't have a shot anyway. Not at personal training, no way. He just didn't have what it took. Didn't have the stomach for it. Obviously wouldn't kill for it. It's just way too hard building up a sustainable client list. Not cleanly, anyway. And there was no way I could have any competition. Well, it was bad enough having another fake cop to deal with. Not I couldn't have any more competition on the personal training market. I was looking to dominate there. You know, really grind it out. Still had to build up that client list, though. Hey, let me know if you want to get in shape. Get your shit together, you know? I'm your man. I fit all your personal training needs. Nutrition, lifestyle, goal setting, everything. But to be honest, which I'm not usually, he was a pretty damn good fake cop. Even if he was clean as a whistle. Never understood that phrase, by the way. Whistles go in your fucking mouth. Which is totally gross. Nothing clean about that. But college boy, he was trying to do the right thing, you know? For once, in a town or a city, that stopped trying a long time ago. So, I guess he had it coming. And I had a pizza coming. Just then the Uber Eats guy showed up with my pizza. And thank God too, I was getting a little impatient, you know? I looked over to the passenger seat of the 2023 Ford Explorer Fake Cop car and saw the headless body of Ramirez. Then I looked down to the ground, at my feet, at the partially headless body of College Boy, who I had just shot a few moments ago. Then I looked up at the Uber Eats guy, who was standing there like an idiot with my three-topping large. He didn't know whether to shit or go blind. I think he did both. I didn't care what he did as long as I got my pizza immediately. I walked over to him, putting the derringer back in my ankle. I took the pizza from his hand and immediately replaced it with an original vinyl copy of Rumors by Fleetwood Mac. He looked like a Stevie Nick's fan. I said, Fleetwood Mac, rumors. Original vinyl. I'd been sitting on that one for a while, waiting for a special occasion. This kind of seemed like one. Then I put a $20 bill into his breast pocket, tapped it twice with the back of my fingers, and said, keep it fair. I figured that would keep him quiet. Or the damage to his central nervous system because of what he just rolled up on. And if that didn't work, well, uh, you know. But it would have been a shame to have one last night of the road out there making sure pizzas arrive safe, hot, and on time. If I took this guy out, I might be biting my own ass down the road next time I ordered a pizza. Hopefully the Fleawood Mac album and the 20 bucks would keep his mouth shut. I opened the box to make sure the toppings were right. Now they fuck you sometimes, you know. I nodded at the Uber Eats guy, then walked away, away from the warehouse, away from the 2023 Ford Explorer fake cop car, away from Ramirez, away from College Boy, and I kept walking all the way back to Fitsi's, where I went to my private booth in the back, opened my pizza, and poured myself a tall glass of room temperature water. I finished the last slice of my pizza and washed it down with the last mouthful of my room temperature water. I love pizza and room temperature water, but they tasted flatter than my emotional affect. A father had lost his son. Uh, two sons, actually, but only one of them he knew about. Two sons lost a father, but only one of them knew he was his father. A cousin lost two cousins, but only two cousins knew each other existed. So there were three cousins in total. Uh, let me see the uh he had the two Mendoza kids, and then Ramirez, right, right, that's right. And a young fake cop was dead, one with dreams of becoming the best personal trainer in Newmarket. He had it coming. They all did. We all do. Just then, Endo the bartender, came up to me wiping his hands with a white towel. Said someone is here to see me. A young fella, he said. You know, as a matter of fact, he looked a lot like me, but only from one side at a particular angle. It was pretty weird, he said. The resemblance was just uncanny. Curious, I asked Endo if the young fella had a name. Endo replied, Yeah, I think he said his name is uh Johnny. Uh Johnny Kelly. Johnny Kelly uh Jr. Yeah, that's right. Just then, the large frame of Johnny Kelly Jr. came into view. The fuck? Yeah, hey Pops, how you doing? My god, Johnny Kelly Jr. The fuck, Pops? Did he just call me Pops? Hey, whoa woah woo woo. What the fuck, man? What the fuck?