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a chunk of zardburger and did his best to chew. She thinks you’re crazy, you damn fool. And maybe she’s got a point.
Jumpin’ at the damn static from the radio. What the hell kinda soldier
are you?
    But the static had sounded squiggly. At least to Karnage’s ears.
But had it been the right kind of squiggle? And what angle had it
come in on?
    Cookie would have known. But Cookie couldn’t help him now.
Nor could Koch. Or Heckler. Or Velasquez. He was all that was left
of his once mighty platoon.
    Karnage worried a gristly bit of zardburger between his teeth. A
one-man army, huh? Sounds like a goddamn hero. You don’t fancy yourself
a hero, do you, soldier? We both know that heroes don’t do nothing but get
folks killed.
    Karnage’s ears picked up a new bit of white noise. There was
nothing squiggly about it. It was the high-pitched buzz of an engine.
He looked out the window. A pair of lights crested the horizon.
They floated down the long strip of highway, weaving back and
forth. There was something in the way they moved that put the
hairs on the back of his neck on end. They weaved across the road
like they owned it, and were hoping like hell somebody would try
and challenge them on it. A pair of smaller red lights flashed to life
below the larger white ones.
    Karnage scowled. “Cops.” He pulled the golf club up against his
thigh.
    The flashing lights pulled into the parking lot. They were
attached to bikes hovering inches above the ground on spheres
like those on Flaherty’s car. The cops floated to a stop right outside
Karnage’s window, their beams shining in his face. Two helmeted
silhouettes were just visible beyond the glare of the lights. The
lights flicked off, and the silhouettes dismounted. They stood at the
window, looking in at Karnage. Karnage ignored them. He took a
bite of his zardburger and pretended to enjoy it. The figures moved
from the window and headed for the door.
    The bell above the double doors chimed.
    Karnage kept a discreet eye on the cops through the reflection
in the window. They had kept their helmets on. The mirrored visors
masked their faces. The helmets were stylized Dabby Tabby heads.
Stubby ears jutted from the top. A nose and a pair of eyes were
sculpted into the helmet just above the mirrored visor. Their boots
made a sharp clack-stomp against the linoleum. The badges on their
chests were sculpted out of Dabby’s silhouette, and embroidered in
gold thread. The DC logo in its centre bore a striking resemblance
to the “DRINK DC COLA” sign hanging above the counter. They
stopped in front of Karnage’s booth. Karnage saw a gloved thumb
rubbing the end of his night stick.
    “Hi there,” the taller of the two cops said.
    Karnage tore off another chunk of zardburger, chewed slowly,
and swallowed.
    The fatter cop put a hand on his night stick. “Hey. My partner’s
talkin’ to you.”
    Karnage picked up the pitcher and drank. He took large
exaggerated swallows. He tilted his head back and drained the
pitcher while he wrapped his fingers around the golf club nestled by
his thigh. He placed the empty pitcher back on the table and wiped
his mouth.
    “Hey!” Bad cop smashed the pitcher off the table. “I’m talkin’ to
you!”
    Good cop placed a hand on bad cop’s shoulder. “Take it easy
there, Harvey.”
    Karnage looked straight at bad cop’s mirrored visor. “You best
listen to Princess there, Harvey.”
    Bad cop shrugged good cop’s hand off his shoulder. “You hear
what he just called you?!”
    “I did,” Princess’s tone remained neutral.
    Harvey’s face went red. “You gonna just stand there and take it?!”
    “We’re going to do this like the captain said.”
    “He’s not my captain.”
    “He’s our captain until brass says otherwise.”
    “Oh yeah? Well fuck brass!”
    Karnage grinned to himself. Maybe their good cop/bad cop routine
is more than just an act.
    “Jesus, Harvey! Not now.”
    “Yeah,