Dangeruss & Tazer

Jermaine Kearse rolled over and blindly reached for the ringing phone. "H'lo." He mumbled.

"Chop Chop, are you still in bed?" Mike Rob, his best friend, shouted. Mike loved to call him “Chop Chop,” as that was Jermaine’s nickname. Everyone knew him by this name. It was because, as he explained to everyone, he was “the other white meat.”

Jermaine opened one eye and looked at the clock on his side table. "Yes, Mike. Normal people are still in bed at 5:30 in the morning. What do you want?" He shouted.

Mike looked at this watch and realized that his best friend was right; it was only 5:30 in the morning. "Sorry, Chops. I couldn't sleep."

"You couldn't sleep, so you woke me up to join you?" the Seattle wide receiver replied as he sat up and shrugged the covers off. He padded his way to the kitchen and poured a glass of milk. "What's up, buddy? Why are you awake at 5:30 in the morning on a Saturday?"

"I . . . I shouldn't have called you. I'm sorry I woke you up," the fullback replied and hung up the phone.

Jermaine stared at the phone in his hand for a moment and hit redial.

"Hello."

"Alright, Mike, I'm fully awake now. Where are you?"

"My apartment."

"Stay put, I'll be right there."

"Jermaine . . .Thanks."

"See you in a few." Jermaine grabbed his keys and headed for his car; he had once called it his ultimate freedom machine, but since he had started dating and focusing on the more important matters, such as playing football, things were different. A shiver ran through him at the thought. "Did I really just entertain the idea of practical?"

He made his way to Mike’s house much faster than usual thanks to the lack of traffic on the streets at such an early hour. He quietly knocked on the door. "Mike!" He hissed, trying to keep his voice low.

“Mike” opened the door. Jermaine's eyes quickly roved about the room. "Hey, are you okay?" He took in “Mike’s” slightly dishelmed appearance. "You look nervous and . . ." Jermaine heard the unmistakable 'click' of a handgun and was quickly yanked inside the apartment.

His eyes drifted to the man he had thought was his friend. But now, he could see that this wasn’t Mike Rob, the Seattle Seahawk fullback. This was a different man. He could feel the cold, hard steel of the handgun against the nape of his neck. He instinctively put his hands up, in surrender mode. "Wh-what's this all about?"

“Avery, you do the honors." The assailant handed his disguised buddy – now known as Avery - a blindfold and had him place it over the offensive man's eyes.

"Ooooh, your voice is all Darth Vader-y. But this is hardly fair. Mike can see you, why can't I?" His wrists were pulled, by "Mike" he assumed, behind his back and tied together.

"Mr. Mike, uh, can't exactly 'see' me either, but in due time, Mr. Kearse, in due time." The assailant replied.

"Oh, I understand now. You have me confused with my dad. He's Mr. Kearse, I'm Jer . . ."

"Mike" or the other man, who was now dressed from head to toe in black, a mask covering his face, stepped forward and unceremoniously slammed his fist into the side of Jermaine's face, momentarily rendering him senseless. The wide receiver fell back on the couch. This man wasn’t Mike Rob. That was for sure. But who was he. He looked very familiar…Crabtree!! That’s right, Michael Crabtree, the enemy 49er to the Seahawks. Jermaine inched himself back to an upright position on the couch, wincing at the pain radiating throughout his head.

"Mm alright, Crabtree man," he mumbled. "What do 'Darth Vader' – Avery - over there and you want with me anyway?"

"Okay ‘Chop Chop’, that's enough talk." Avery approached Jermaine from behind and wrapped his arm around the younger man's neck. He tightened his grip, restricting Jermaine's breath. The Receiver tried to breathe, but couldn't. He moved his head from side-to-side, but couldn't shake his assailant, at least not with his hands tied behind him. Jermaine began to lose consciousness. His lips were turning blue and all of the color had drained from his face.

"You'll kill him!" Crabtree shouted. “We don’t want that!”

"He'd already be dead if that was my immediate intention," Avery snapped.

When the assailant was satisfied that Jermaine was completely unconscious, he motioned to his partner. "You're going to help me load him into the trunk of your car."

Michael Crabtree saw Avery, his partner, pull the handgun once again, and take aim at Jermaine's left thigh, and pulled the trigger. The pain from the gunshot wound immediately brought the unconscious man around. "Arghh!" He cried out. "What the . . . you let him shoot me!"

“Shut up!” Avery quickly placed a handkerchief over Jermaine's nose and mouth. The Seahawk fought to stay awake, but again succumbed to the darkness of unconsciousness.

"Chloroform?" Crabtree questioned. "Really? Why didn't you use that the first time?"

“Can’t have him getting it easy now. He’ll put up a fight, he’s got to be wounded, you know?” Avery paused. "The redness around his throat will be more traumatic when his quarterback sees it." He motioned to his football friend again. "Now, let's get him in the trunk."

“Alright. What’s the shaggy blonde boy gonna think about this new arrival?”

“He’s still the main priority, but this will give us leverage over those cops, Dangeruss and Tazer! But we will still focus our assault on little Kanerboo.”

“I see. Let’s go then, before one of his other buddies comes.”

They loaded Jermaine into the trunk and Avery closed it, at once, snickering.

“You drive?” the hockey player asked.

“Sure…I guess!” the football player responded with a grin.

Notes

And now comes Jermaine Kearse, AKA Chop Chop! :)