From out of the wall of flame and screaming sirens, the tractor trailer lurched like a whale with a mortal wound, leaning on four side wheels as it tore down the docks, spraying shattered wooden planks behind it like exclamation marks in a hurricane. The cab twisted underneath the unstoppable momentum of its own cargo trailer, jackknifing vertically and crumpling into an undefinable mass of twisted metal. With the sound of a bone as large as Rhode Island snapping messily into fragments, the Freightliner FLD 120 broke through the pier and plunged into the black, corpse-laden East River.

Exploively, the 48-foot trailer followed the example of its forward section and lurched downwards. Now an apocalyptic comet of unstoppable metal, twelve tons of speeding calamity, the vehicle tore the dock into shreds and raised a virtual tidal wave as it struck the water with the full weight of its body.

Striding the juggernaut, unsopported and unprotected at the tail end of the cargo trailer, SuperBad reached into his jacket with his free hand and unholstered his Mk23 Mod 0 American Army issue automatic. He aimed casually, wisps of thinning hair whipping like wild bull's tails about his neck and face. Firing once, he neatly placed one bullet through the vent of one of the pursuing Sikorsky-manufactured UH-60A Black Hawks. Unerringly, it struck the pilot, blew through his pulmonary artery and exploded out his aorta, severing his vena cava and leaving his heart dangling like Pinocchio with his strings cut.

The chopper lurched dangerously low, its pilot slumped against the controls. SuperBad holstered his piece and rode the final, dying buck of the tractor-trailer as it launched him into the air. Without considerable effort, he grabbed the starboard landing rail with one hand and swung into the cockpit, collapsing the trachea of the lone gunman with one well-placed, snakeskin-boot to the throat. With a sweep of his foot, he sent the choking man spiralling out the open door. With one confident hand, he pulled the dead pilot from his chair and sent him to his comrade, then settled in the chair and took the controls. Veering towards the other Black Hawk, he was singing the Turkish Song of the Damned.

Below in the fire-ruined streets, the M109 Paladin clumsily maneuvered through the narrow alleys; slow-moving and wounded civilians were crushed under its treads. It's ponderous cannon turned slowly on the aerial dance of the now-rival BlackHawks, and took on an almost pornographic appeal as it waited for the command to release fiery death to the skies.

"Did you keep a watch for a dead man's wind! Did you see the woman with the comb in her hand!" SuperBad spun his chopper towards his enemy, all but melting the barrels of his side mounted machine guns. Brutal, jagged pockmarks tore up the buildings and the streets below, shattered engine blocks, vaporized windows and, occasionally, struck the other copter.  

"Wailing away on the wall on the strand as you danced to the Turkish song of the damned! Wooooo! Screw this, it's taking forever to bake cookies the old fashioned way!" SuperBad leaned on the stick and turned to face his opponent - guns blazing, engine overheating, a terrified whine coming from the overpowered blades, SuperBad dove his stolen ride headfirst towards his enemy.

SuperBad jacknifed and let the momentum throw him from the copter, all the while he was close enough to see the look of terror on the faces of his victims as the rear propellor cut through the cockpit and exploded through the roof into the blades of the BlackHawk's main propellor.

Seeing the flaming hell plummeting towards them, the crew of the Paladin panicked. Emerging into the hail of gunfire from SWAT teams, NYPD and gun-wielding New York citizenry, the driver died quickly.  Vainly struggling to get out before the ruined copters reduced them to greasy ash, someone accidentally fired the cannon - just as the shrieking, fused machines crashed into the turret.

The heavy shell fired wildly, its own thunderous explosion practically drowned by the fifty-five foot tall fireball exploding from the colliding . It bowled over police cars like paper cups, even as the nearby buildings succumbed to the heat and shockwave of the dockside explosions, the super-heated air creating a vaccuum which imploded a half-dozen nearby structures and sent them wildly crumbling in masses of dust and broken gas mains. Veering sharply right, the shell collided with a trawler loading fish oil, and sent waves of smothering flame over a square mile.

The water glowed red from blood and flame.

***

Bad Mother slid uncomfortably out of the back seat of the BadAssMobile, hair tousled, jacket crumpled, a half bottle of Jack in his hands. As if hearing the narrator, Bad Mother muttered "Half-a ... I can fix THAT!" and swallowed the remnants whole.

He looked into the glowing red armageddon before him - which coulda been glowing green as far as his sad-ass colorblind self was concerned - and took it all in. Several New York City blocks in ruins, on fire, or in danger of being blown sky-high as gas mains went up throughout the whole of the city; a perpetual mushroom cloud rising over the obliterated dock; fire spread out on the surface of the water as far out as the horizon; an ominous bloodred cloud that hung low over the city, obscuring anything taller than Trump Tower; somewhere, loudly, someone prayed to God. Bad Mother shot blindly into the low-hanging dust. The praying stopped. The shot was GOOD!

A giant shadow was cast on the smoke over Bad Mother's head - as it grew smaller, he could see that it was SuperBad angling in on a burning parachute, one hand on the release and the other holding something away from his body. In his drunken haze, Bad Mother couldn't remember if he was supposed to shoot SuperBad or not,  so he decided to let him land and think about it later.

"God DAMN!" SuperBad swore as he dropped ten feet from his released harness, "You owe me a hundred bucks. Check it OUT!" SuperBad put out his occupied hand, revealing a shotglass with a double shot of Smirny, filled to the brim.

Bad Mother eyed it critically. "Yeah, not bad. You didn't spill a drop."

"That's nothing," SuperBad reached into his coat pocket, "I didn't spill the Coke back either." and he held up a frosty glass of the Pause that Refreshes.

"Shit." Bad Mother pulled a hundred dollar bill from his stolen money clip and handed it to SuperBad. "Alright, your turn."

SuperBad slammed his double, took a slug from the Coke, and looked at Bad Mother. "All right Bad Mother Fucker." His eyes narrowed and he pointed directly at his drunk partner's wavering eyes, "Truth .... or DARE?"