The doors of the Fourth Precinct opened
up, and a small parade came in—six police officers, a mariachi band
in handcuffs, and Beacon City's own villain-turned-hero, Punchline.
“Morning, Sergeant Hamed!”
Punchline called out, and waved at the desk sergeant.
“We're not friends,” William Hamed
replied. “You personally knocked me out four times.”
“Don't be that way, Sarge. I brought
you a present!” Punchline pointed at the freshly-arrested
Murderachi.
“You brought me more paperwork, you
mean.” Sergeant Hamed poked at the keyboard on his desk, bringing
up the proper forms.
“Caught these goofs trying to shoot
up a benefit breakfast. Good news, only one injury, and it's not
life-threatening.”
Anna started shouting at Punchline in
extremely broken Spanish. The hero responded by tearing off her fake
mustache.
“You three aren't
even Mexican. C'mon, guys. Cultural appropration is wrong.”
Without looking up,
the desk sergeant added, “Also, murder.”
“Also murder.
Good news is, with all the practice time you're about to get, you
won't be committing any more crimes against music.”
“I don't think
so!” a new voice shouted. All heads turned to see the face of
Sheila Okabe, the famous defense lawyer. “This is a gross violation
of my clients' rights as defined by the Ostrander Act!”
A collective groan
went through the station. Only Punchline seemed glad to see her;
after all, she'd kept him out of prison a few times with her legal
prowess.
“Article 4,
Section 12, Paragraph 3: law enforcement officials are not allowed to
remove a suspect's mask at any time during their arrest,
incarceration period, or in a court of law.” Sheila held up an
accusatory finger at the strip of felt in Punchline's hand.
“But it's not a
mask! It's a mustache!”
Okabe gave a
grin—the same grin that saved Punchline's bacon many times, when he
was on the other side of the law. “HA! United States vs. Yarborough
clearly states that a mask is considered any and all clothing or
costume items worn specifically during the perpetration or prevention
of a super-crime.”
“You've got to be
kidding me. Look, Sheila, can't you help me out for old time's sake?”
Sheila leaned in
closer. “Sorry, doll,” she said. “You don't pay the bills
anymore. I expect my clients to be released immediately.”
All three members
of the Murderachi held out their cuffed hands expectantly. Punchline
felt the glare of every cop in the room...in fact, he could have
sworn more cops had rushed in, just to glare at him.
“Whoops.”
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