“Yo Saunders, ever been in a department run by some kind of Donald Trump/Mike Tyson mutant combo?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“If you did, it was only in reference to the fact the you both project great physical intensity, sir.”
“I got something sir, on my camera.”
“I don’t know.”
“Is this some kind of exercise?”
“You ever seen anything like this?”
“Weird, man.”
“Real bad idea, Lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant, get up.”
“Lieutenant.”
“Come on, you with me?”
“Come on, squared away?”
“What the hell is that?”
“Ahhhhhhh!”
“Ahhhhhhh!”
“What happened?”
“What?”
“Who’s in charge?”
“Fire control’s offline. I need three minutes.”
“(Heavy sigh)”
“My dad said they’d come. Said it my whole life. He said one day we’d find them, or they’d find us. Know what else he said? He said, I hope I aint around when that day comes.”
“No sir!”
“Nothing sir, nothing.”
“Yo, hey!”
“Come on, come on, come on.”
“Mahalo, motherfu—”
“What the hell is that?”
“Sir.”
“Roger, Echo 1-1.”
“Box 24. Ready to fire.”
“India 3-7, locked.”
“Sir, we’re hot over here. We’re good to go, let’s light ‘em up.”
“Tango 1-9, loaded.”
“Whiskey 2-5.”
“Negative, sir, it’s moving all over the place. I can’t get a line on it.”