7524/The Greasy Turtle and the Detective Squad Blast-o-Rama

The Greasy Turtle and the Detective Squad Blast-o-Rama
Date of Scene:	18 May 2019
Location:	Windsor, Buchanan, Central City (Gem Cities), Missouri
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Turtle, Impulse

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Turtle has posed:
On a hustle contract for a Dixie-aligned thieving guild out of Louisiana, thieving guilds being the southern Protestant equivalent of the Catholic-aligned Mafiaso of Europe and America, Turtle has been called in to do a spot-take on Central City police. Police lives are valuable, and if the thieving guild in question, the Arms of Sant-Vivre, can acquire the pictures of each police on the cloistered force, they can make a killing selling them to the African gangs of Louisiana that smuggle for Sandinistas and Caribbean Yardies. The Reds and Posses will pay primo, and that means, Turtle gets a fat cut. In Flash's city, that fat cut needs to be eaten rapidly.

But Turtle, is a tidy eater, so he'll need a seat in the back.

Turtle had a low-rung cutman with a prizefighting ring he pulled off the street after Flash shut down his 'gig', mount a flicker-trigger camera on the roof of Los Pollos Hermanos, facing the police station across the street. Meanwhile, around back, in an alley, a stolen kennel truck rams through a dumpster and up to the back, alerting the kitchen staff of a problem. Police in the restaurant look up in shock, at the loud noise outback, some of them standing, others slowly chewing in blaise and dull surprise. The staff, meanwhile, opens the back door, only for the Turtle to shove the fry cook over and barge in, muscle his way about with the tight confines of the kitchen and his considerable girth, followed by a pair of henchmen wearing Irish golfer caps and grey sweat-suits, representatives from the Sant-Vivre organization.

"Grease! Now!" Turtle says, jabbing a finger at the manager, then at the vats of used and spoiled grease, often valuable as recycled product for medical testing or industrial reprocessing.

Impulse has posed:
Impulse just wanted chicken.. lots and lots of delicious chicken.. Seriously what did they put in this stuff, it was /addictive/ and /so/ affordable something about the method they cooked it, and their secret recipie all those herbs and spices! 10 bucks is enough to feed the teen for an entire meal. 8 pieces of chicken, big tub of mashed potatoes. Bart Allen is halfway through his meal when the sound of the wreck in the back crunches through the restaurant. "ohh.. That doesn't sound good!" the teen comments to nobody in general, quickly making his way out the front of the building and slipping around to the side.

With a spark of lightning, and a quick nanite reconfiguration of the clothes he's wearing Impulse races around to the back. "You know.. I've heard of petty crime before. But knocking over a chicken joint. I don't think you're gonna get the Uncles secret sauce recipe from a franchise buddies." he calls out as he skids to a stop.

Turtle has posed:
As police get onto their chest radios and call in the crime, police begin filing out of the police department across the street, laughing at the easy bust Turtle has given them. Central City Police have such a safe city and such a boring time busting petty criminals that the Flash handles easily, with his skills as a lightning-witted forensics chemist to take down the Rogues (the professional thieves), that they don't even suspect that Turtle has a sly play in mind.

As the police move out of the station, the camera flicks, taking picture after picture, transmitting to an off-site computer drive located conveniently under a box of movie prop upholstered turkey in a theater house. The computer is scheduled for pickup by the Arms of Sant-Vivre, regardless of completion of the job by Turtle.

Turtle looks across the cops as they grin and place their hands on their gun and nightsticks, a small handful of four or five in the restaurant proper, their uniforms greasy with fried chicken residue and slimy potato gravy on their bellies and hands. They're the abusive Midwestern cop type, the Mississippi River type that goes upstream to the bayous and plantations that are thicker in heat and in history than the joyful port of New Orleans (although not without its own darker corners).

"Well, boys, it looks like we're in an odd position. I want your chicken grease, and you want my greasy chicken."

As the two thugs carry vats of grease out to the back, they spot Impulse in his costume, dumping down the vats on the ground.

"Uncle's Secret Sauce, eh?" one of the thugs opines, with a Creole accent, his face Cajun with a bit of Patois Haitian. The other, a whiskey-man Irish-English git, much older and wiser and stronger, takes a step back, and reaches behind him, to a slimjim hidden in the back of his pants, while his friend does the talking.

Impulse has posed:
Impulse shrugs. "You know, Los Hermanos, herbs and spices.. finger licking good.. Though you might wanna wash your hands before you lick em. You might get hoof and mouth disease." he says looking at the dirty hands of the talker. "So.. What's the game? Steal the grease.. go slip-n-sliding in the desert and listen to the sizzle Mr. Guimbelleaux?" he asks his suit able to feed him facial recognition of the talker. "Long way from the bayou ain't cha??" he asks still unaware of Turtle's presence.

Turtle has posed:
"Something like that," comes the retort from the Cajun-Haitian with a slow spread of his slick, plump lips, showing his missing teeth, as he approaches Impulse first.

Meanwhile, the other Arms of Sant-Vivre draws his slimjim and moves around to the side of the truck, watching Impulse through narrow, appraising eyes, past his narrow, triangular nose.

Turtle puts his hands up, as cops draw guns on him. "Well, we wouldn't want an incident in our racial relations, here, would we? I mean, this is a fine state with such history, and myself being a fan of General Stonewall Jackson, I wouldn't want to block your finer digestions, would I?"

The police outside Los Pollos Hermanos have the restaurant surrounded by now, more marching out to cover the alleys and sideblocks, the camera continuing to record.

Turtle looks a cop, straight in the eyes, an insidious grin spreading across his face now, not just the cops, as if he's a serial killer that's been caught and is chatting up the police about their mutual law enforcement jobs.

"Say, Pickins, what's the story with you boys liking your chicken so much? I thought that was for your less fortunate friends down in the penitentiary."

Turtle swings around and goes running towards the back, his hunched frame taking several bullets to his kevlar-thick shell that he doesn't even feel, before he bursts out the back, in clear view of Impulse and his two henchmen.

Impulse has posed:
Impulse quirks a brow.. "Kay fellas.. When the pudgy green guy shows up, it's Happy nappy time." The speedster says, vanishing into a blur his suit reinforcing his knuckles as with several loud cracks, the men are taken out sprawling on the floor before Impulse is visible again just a few feet infront of Turtle. "So these guys are from Lousiana.. You from Texas? Are you The Armadillo or something?" he asks curiously.

Turtle has posed:
The pair of thief ringers are laid low, knocked across the alley cement in the dirt and muck, as Turtle arrives, slamming the door behind him and ratcheting a dumpster across the door so the police can't get out for a precious minute or so.

"Turtle's the name, Speedster. Thing's in this part of the woods used to work slower, you know. Something to do with the schools being for a finer nature of man." He smacks his lips and smacks both legs, watching Impulse appraisingly. "You, I don't recognize. You're a kid, but you've got a certain flash to your flair, that even the Flash doesn't have."

Turtle moves with a plodding but rapid inertia and kicks both vats of grease over, in Impulse's direction.

"Gotta run!"

Turning around, with the grease pouring out across the alley and gumming it up, he goes running to climb into the back of the kennel truck, the engine gunning as the driver revs it, facing down the police trying to seal off the alely.

Impulse has posed:
Impulse starts to run after the guy, but grease... His feet rapidly moving in one place for precious several seconds before his shoes grow cleats to allow him to start running after the get away vehicle, the police diving out of the way as the truck slams through the partially constructed blocade. Catching up to the drivers side, Impulse easily is able to keep up with the old truck. "You know you're not getting away like this right?" he calls out over the sound of moving traffic, vanishing infront of the truck to scoop a pair of pedestrians and deposit them on the side before he returns to the side of the truck in less than a second. "Seriously. unless this thing can fly.. Just pull over and give it up before I start dismantling this thing in like five seconds and leave you hanging upside down from a light pole in your tighty whities.." he finishes.

Turtle has posed:
Turtle, in the back of the truck, leans around the side, as the driver careens it down the street.

"Not getting away, eh?"

Turtle tosses a weather balloon out the back, with a cat tied to it by its tail, and a two kilogram weight hanging beneath the cat, dragging down the street as the weather balloon slowly inflates and overpowers the weight, bit by bit, the cat mewling in terror.

"So, Speedster, can you solve the crime of the flying nun?"

Impulse has posed:
"HAAAAAAH! KITTY!" Impulse says suddenly in worry and shock.. "You.. You I'll be right back for mister.. Both of you!" he says slapping the side of the truck a large glop of his suit sticking and burrowing into the door. "Ohh, by the way.. stole your pictures, gave you a bunch of monkeys instead." he yells as he runs after the cat running up the side of the building to catch the cat, phase the weights and balloon off the little critter, who then goes /nuts/ clawing and yowling in mortal combat to attack the teen. "No! no! BAD KITTEH!!!" he yells trying to get the cat off him, the process taking the better part of a minute before he gets free to go catching back up with the truck..

Turtle has posed:
"To the sun, driver!" Turtle says with a laugh, slapping on the inside of the truck behind the driver's seat.

The kennel truck veers around a sharp turn, while Impulse is saving the cat, and goes hurtling through a barrier, and into the river. It hits the water with a ponderous, heavy splash, lurching forward and then leveling lopwise as the back levers into the water. The driver hustles out and goes swimming away, as Turtle sinks to the bottom of the Mississippi River, high north in the muck, with a scuba tank and a pair of goggles, plodding through the silt and mire with his shell restraining him for rising, heading for an open drainage canal to get into the sewers.

Impulse has posed:
Impulse catches up to the truck just as it goes for the dive.. moving quickly, he catches the last thug dragging him along the water with a yelled 'garblleehbebebebeel' returning him to the police before he is back. Looking for the turtle and not finding him. "This isn't the last time we'll meet TURTLE!" he yells out into the open air!