Jack Hangem
Jack Hangem
The seedy underbelly of Hollywood is home to Aggressively Obese Ricardo, a mafia kingpin who rules the LA crime syndicate with an iron fist. Despite their best efforts, local law enforcement can’t stop Ricardo’s reign of terror. With nowhere else to turn, the fate of Tinsel Town now lies in the hands of a noose-wielding cop on the brink of self-destruction.
His name:
JACK HANGEM
Hollywood, California.
Twelve men brandishing machine guns bum-rush a Chase Bank. Their intimidating presence prompts innocent customers to cower. Nearby police officers surround the front entrance in a matter of minutes. Unfortunately, they’re incredibly outmatched and outgunned.
An intense firefight develops. Amidst the chaos, an older officer takes cover behind a squad car. He frantically screams into a CB radio.
“Mayday, mayday! We got a 211 in progress at Chase Bank! These bastards got machine pistols! I need medics, warm bodies with big balls, and a miracle, stat!”
The SOS signal reaches the office of Captain Powell, who’s in charge of the Hollywood precinct. Powell sits at his desk while communicating with the officer who made the distress call. Just outside his office, a rookie officer eavesdrops on the conversation.
Powell violently hangs up the CB radio.
“Goddamn city is fallin’ apart at the seams!” he laments.
The eavesdropping rookie leans his head into the entranceway of Powell’s office.
“Something wrong, Captain?”
“Buncha rotten assholes are knockin’ over Chase Bank.”
“Any chance they’re associated with Aggressively Obese Ricardo?”
“How the hell should I know? You see a crystal ball on this desk?”
“Forgive my eagerness, sir. I’m just an eavesdropping rookie hoping to become a noble officer of the law.”
“A rookie, huh? Got a name?”
Before the rookie can answer, Detective Richard Hans enters Powell’s office.
“Did someone say: Noble officer of the law?” Detective Hans quips.
Powell rises from his desk to greet Detective Hans with a macho handshake akin to the one from the 1986 film Predator. The rookie officer watches in awe.
“Rookie, this is Detective Richard Hans: The best damn cop on the force.”
“I appreciate the love, Captain. But at the end of the day, I’m just a simple man trying to protect the city I love. Speaking of which, it sounds like a party’s going down at Chase Bank. I’m on it.”
Seeing an opportunity to earn the respect of his peers, the rookie officer hesitantly steps forward.
“I-I-I can back you up if you’d like,” he stutters.
Detective Hans scans the rookie and scoffs.
“Dammit, rookie!” Powell chastises. “Do yourself a favor and let the professionals handle this! Last thing I need is another dead cop on my hands.”
Detective Hans continues to stare down the rookie.
“At ease, Captain. I don’t mind babysitting junior as long as he’s potty-trained.”
The rookie glares at Detective Hans. Amid their stare down, the omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead. The music startles the rookie.
“What the heck was that?”
“That’s our department’s omnipresent soundtrack,” Powell explains. “Two guys named Eric and Kenny. One plays rhythm guitar, and the other plays saxophone. Think of them as God.”
“Why does the department need a soundtrack?” the rookie asks.
Detective Hans leans forward menacingly.
“They enhance dramatic tension,” he whispers.
On cue, the omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead. It’s heavily reminiscent of the instrumental score from Lethal Weapon.
Detective Hans shoves the rookie aside and exits Powell’s office. The young officer eagerly follows.
—
The scene at Chase Bank is incredibly dire. Siren lights of several abandoned police cruisers continue to rotate as their respected owners lie motionless across the hot concrete.
A Mustang cruiser driven by Detective Hans arrives at the scene. Riding shotgun and appearing anxious is the rookie. The young officer nervously fiddles with his gun as Detective Hans looks on with a shit-eating grin.
“You gonna be okay with that pea shooter?” the arrogant detective sneers.
“Back off, Hans. This is a standard issue pistol, and you know it.”
“Well, well. Looks like you got some dog in ya after all. Too bad it’s a Pomeranian.”
Detective Hans begins to exit his vehicle.
“Be a good mutt and keep her running for me.”
Before Detective Hans can approach the bank, the rookie grabs his arm.
“Nuts to that! I’m coming with you!”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, junior.”
“Look who’s talking. Do you even have a plan?”
Detective Hans stares confidently at the bank.
“Yeah, I got a plan. I’m gonna talk some sense into those scumbags and get them to surrender. After that, I’ll strike a heroic pose for the media. It’ll be another front-page story starring yours truly. That’s what I’m gonna do. What are you gonna do?”
The rookie reluctantly releases Detective Hans from his grip.
“Thought so,” the arrogant detective quips.
Before leaving, he gestures towards the rookie’s weapon.
“Try not to shoot your eye out with that thing. I just had the leather seats detailed.”
Detective Hans calmly struts towards the bank’s elevated entrance. He brushes his hair with effortless swagger as he ascends the steps.
“Alright, listen up! The name’s Richard Hans: LAPD’s most noble detective! If you caught my profile on Sixty Minutes, you’ll know that most days, I prefer to shoot first and ask questions never. But if you come out now – peacefully and with your hands in the air – I won’t drop the hammer down on you dirtbags.”
A moment of silence transpires. Detective Hans smiles confidently.
“So, what’s it gonna-”
Before he can finish his sentence, machine gun fire from within the bank rips him into chunky meat pieces. Once the bullet storm settles, his lifeless body tumbles down the stairs.
From the safety of Detective Hans’ vehicle, the rookie officer jolts backward in shock. He eventually snaps out of his trance and fumbles for the car’s CB radio.
“Come in, Captain Powell! Hans is dead! I repeat: Hans is dead! They turned him into Swiss cheese!”
Back at the precinct, Powell grabs his CB radio.
“Goddammit, rookie! You were supposed to be his cover!”
“I tried, sir, but-”
“Save it!”
On his desk, Powell observes a framed photo. The snapshot depicts an uncharacteristically joyful Powell receiving a birthday cake from Detective Hans. Powell reaches out to caress the photo. The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead.
“Fall back, rookie. This is a problem for the feds now.”
“Come on, Captain, give me a chance! I-I-I can get these scumbags! I just need backup!”
“Forget it! Hans was the best man for the job! There are no more heroes left in Tinsel Town.”
“Come on! There’s gotta be somebody!”
Powell sighs.
“Well… there is one other guy.”
“Great! Who is he?”
“The last resort.”
—
At a nearby Trader Joe’s, disgraced LAPD detective Jack Hangem shops for groceries. His cart contains an absurd amount of cigarettes and booze. A cancer stick dangles vicariously from his mouth. He takes a long drag and emits a miserable sigh.
Hangem’s shopping gets interrupted by an SOS signal via his portable CB radio.
“Jack! It’s Powell. There’s trouble over at Chase Bank!”
Hangem begrudgingly answers.
“Must be pretty bad if you’re ringing me.”
“Trust me; I wouldn’t if I had the choice.”
“Yeah? Where’s Wonder Boy? Vacationing on Catalina Island?”
“Watch your mouth, Jack! Detective Hans got killed in the line of duty this morning.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead.
“Never much cared for Hans. Something didn’t hang well between us.”
“That was a bad noose pun even for you, Jack.”
Hangem becomes flustered.
“Yeah, well, it’s early! I’m a little tied up at the moment. I guess you could say my brain’s in a knot of sorts-”
“ENOUGH! I ain’t entertaining this pun-shit! Where the hell are you?”
“Trader Joe’s.”
Powell scoffs.
“Restocking on smoke and poison, no doubt.”
Hangem observes the booze and cigarettes overflowing within his cart. He then glances at a nearby shelf to his left, which contains boxes of pasta.
“That’s not all. A man’s gotta eat if he wants to hang with the best of them.”
Hangem reaches for the shelf and drops one box of pasta into his cart.
“Christ,” Powell sighs. “Can you get to the bank or not? I got a pipsqueak rookie on the scene. He thinks Aggressively Obese Ricardo is behind this shit show.”
Hangem’s face suddenly shows determination.
“You tell that rookie to hang tight. Jack’s on the case.”
“One more thing! I don’t wanna see any of your public hangin’ bullshit on the news! Ain’t nothin’ but bad press for the department!”
Hangem takes a long drag from his cigarette.
“I can’t promise you anything, Captain. After all, I’m Jack Hangem.”
“GODDANGIT, JA-”
Hangem turns off his CB radio, cutting Powell short.
“Sorry to leave you hanging,” he quips.
—
At Chase Bank, the rookie remains seated in Detective Hans’ Mustang cruiser. In the distance, a Cutlass Supreme careens violently towards the crime scene. Its driver: Jack Hangem.
Hangem screeches his car to a halt, stopping just short of the rookie’s position. He unrolls his window. A large cloud of secondhand smoke pours outside.
“Are you the rookie from Powell’s precinct?”
“Yeah. Are you the last resort?”
“Seems that way. The name’s Jack Hangem. What do I call you?”
Before the rookie can answer, the front doors of the bank blast open in a fiery explosion. Shortly after the detonation, the robbers exit the bank on motorbikes. Each member of the posse carries a gym bag full of cash.
Hangem’s eyes lock with the rookie’s.
“Get in, kid!”
The rookie quickly exits Detective Hans’ vehicle and joins Hangem in his smoke-filled Cutlass Supreme. He glances towards the back of the car and notices the large grocery haul of booze and cigarettes.
“That’s an impressive stash of vices you got back there.”
“Thanks. The booze keeps me hydrated, and the cigarettes prevent my mind from succumbing to the darkness that lingers within.”
“Gee. What’s got you down?”
“The death of my darling wife, Rosemary.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead.
—
The robbers split up in an attempt to lose the newly appointed duo. Of the twelve, three decide to migrate towards the highway. Hangem follows closely behind. He reaches for his belt compartment and pulls out a noose from what seems like thin air.
“Take the wheel, kid!” the hardened detective commands while weaving in and out of highway traffic.
Hangem lets go of the steering wheel and begins to lasso a noose. The rookie reluctantly grabs the wheel.
“Hangem! What the hell are you doing?!”
“The only thing I know how to do.”
Hangem leans out his driver’s side window and throws his noose towards a robber. Upon catching their neck, he tugs the rope with all his might. This action sends the robber flying backward. Their skull violently collides with the front tires of the Cutlass Supreme.
The rookie cannot believe what he just witnessed. He stares at Hangem with equal parts wonder and confusion.
“How the heck did you do that?”
Hangem begins to lasso another noose.
“Do what? This?”
Hangem throws his noose at another robber. This time, he lets go of the rope. The noose travels towards the robber and successfully catches their neck. It then flings the robber off their motorbike and travels towards the far right side of the highway, where it magically ties itself to the back of a U-Haul’s bumper. The lifeless body of the robber gets dragged by the U-Haul as it exits the highway.
Back in the Cutlass Supreme, Hangem reaches into his belt compartment to retrieve another noose. The rookie is stunned.
“You just lassoed that man to the back of a U-Haul with what appeared to be a sentient noose!”
“What’s your point?”
The rookie struggles to comprehend Hangem’s composure. He’s eventually able to ask another question.
“How many nooses are in your belt?”
“An infinite supply.”
“Pardon me?”
“Look, I don’t understand why this is such a hard concept for you to accept.”
“Everything you just did defies the laws of physics!”
“Let’s get one thing straight, kid: The laws of physics don’t apply to Jack Hangem.”
Hangem locates the third robber, who’s making a break for the Santa Monica exit ramp. In a bold move, the detective yanks his vehicle’s e-brake. Once his car skids to a halt, he quickly exits and begins to lasso a noose on foot. Upon release, the noose magically ties itself to the bottom of the Santa Monica exit sign. Unable to stop their forward momentum, the third robber enters the loop of the noose and breaks their neck.
Hangem celebrates victory by lighting a cigarette.
“I sure did hang up his plans,” he proudly exclaims.
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead. As Hangem smokes, the rookie sits motionless within the Cutlass Supreme, clearly suffering from shell shock.
—
Our heroes cap off their violent spree of mayhem by partaking in an afternoon meal. The rookie buys a hotdog from a vendor. Meanwhile, Hangem sits atop the hood of his Cutlass Supreme, chain-smoking and binge drinking.
The rookie appears concerned for his partner’s well-being.
“Damn, Hangem. It’s barely noon.”
“What can I say? I like to live my life on the edge of the gallows.”
The rookie rolls his eyes. He joins Hangem on the hood of the Cutlass Supreme.
“Spin me a yarn, kid,” Hangem requests. “What’s your story?”
“Not much to tell. My dad was a cop. His father was a cop. His father’s father was a cop. It’s in my blood to serve the public trust.”
“Ever have an independent goal outside of the fatherly tradition?”
The rookie ponders.
“During career day in kindergarten, I expressed interest in becoming a cyborg.”
“Bitchin.”
“Truth be told, I just want my efforts to be appreciated. No one in the precinct takes me seriously. Especially Captain Powell. What I’d give to get some respect from that man.”
“What kind of respect?”
“Familiar with the film Predator?”
Hangem scoffs.
“Forget it, kid. He reserves that macho handshake for bootlicking sonsofbitches like Hans.”
The rookie grows despondent at the mention of Detective Hans.
“I was supposed to be his backup. A brother of the force is dead because of me.”
“Don’t sweat the small stuff. Hans was a self-centered prick.”
“That’s not the point! He could’ve been the nicest cop this side of Tinsel Town, and I still would’ve let him down!”
Distraught, the rookie hops off the hood of Hangem’s vehicle and tosses his hotdog wrapper in a nearby trash bin.
“I have bad anxiety, Hangem. I graduated from the Academy by the skin of my teeth.”
Hangem reaches into his pocket and retrieves a fresh pack of cigarettes. He tosses them to the rookie, who is reluctant to take them.
“Thanks, Hangem, but I don’t smoke.”
“You wanna combat that anxiety, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah, but-”
“Cigarettes are anxiety killers and confidence builders. Everybody knows that.”
“I guess I’m just nervous about the possibility of getting lung cancer.”
“We’re all gonna die of something sooner or later, kid. Might as well speed up the inevitable.”
Though hesitant, the rookie lights a cigarette. Upon inhaling, he instantly starts to gag on the smoke. Hangem smiles proudly.
“There you go. Let the nicotine engulf you. Feel that surge of confidence?”
The rookie tries to respond but keeps coughing. He eventually regains composure.
“You must think I’m a candy-ass.”
“Not at all. When we were chasing down those perps, you took the wheel like a goddamn pro. You might have anxiety, but you’re no candy-ass.”
“Thanks, Hangem.”
Though finding comfort in Hangem’s words, the rookie remains deflated. Hangem takes note of this behavior and reluctantly opens up.
“Look, kid. If it makes you feel any better, I’m pretty sure I have anxiety, too.”
The rookie laughs.
“I don’t believe that for a second.”
“Believe it. I haven’t been intimate with a woman since the tragic death of Rosemary.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead.
“I’m afraid if I let another woman into my life, I’ll just end up losing them.”
“I’m sorry, Hangem. That’s a legitimate concern. Have you considered therapy?”
Hangem immediately grows uncomfortable at the mention of therapy.
“Naaaaah, I don’t need therapy. I turned a real corner after buying a blowup sex doll in Venice. Her name is Penelope. She comforts me on the darker nights when it’s too cold to sleep alone.”
“Oh… that sounds healthy.”
“Yeah. She’s the perfect match for a guy like me.”
“How do you figure?”
“She doesn’t have a soul… and neither do I.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead. The rookie takes another drag from his cigarette. This time, he coughs less.
“Listen, Hangem, if you’d ever be up for it, there’s a speed dating building near my apartment. I can get the address for you – if you’re interested.”
“Thanks, kid. But a man as emotionally beaten as me could never love again.”
Just then, Hangem’s CB radio signals off. The gruff voice of Powell explodes out of the tiny speaker.
“JACK! You and that lousy rookie are in some serious shit! If your asses aren’t in my office in the next fifteen minutes, I’ll have both your jobs!”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead.
—
Hangem and the rookie arrive at the Hollywood precinct. They walk in unison down various hallways leading to Powell’s office. During their journey, a police psychiatrist named Dr. Holly Klean cuts in front of the duo and blocks their path.
“You’re long overdue for a mental evaluation, Hangem,” Klean reports.
Hangem sidesteps Klean and continues forth. The rookie follows.
“Forget it, Klean. I don’t have time for your psychology bullshit.”
Klean chases after Hangem.
“It’s not bullshit! It’s scientifically proven to help you overcome your grief!”
“Well, you’ll be happy to know I’m cured in that department. Back me up, kid.”
The rookie appears incredibly uncomfortable.
“H-he, uh… bought a blowup sex doll.”
Hangem stops dead in his tracks.
“Christ, kid! Show some respect!”
The rookie blushes. He sheepishly looks Kelan in the eyes.
“Her name is Penelope,” he utters under his breath.
Frustrated, Klean grabs Hangem by the shoulders.
“Hangem, please hear me out. I’m not the enemy. I don’t have an agenda. I just want to help you. What do you say? We could play Coping Shuffle! It seems to be working on other officers with similar issues.”
Hangem gently brushes Klean aside. He grabs a pencil and a piece of paper from a nearby desk and begins to sketch.
“I got a game for you, Klean. It’s called hangman.”
Hangem reveals his sketch to Klean. As promised, it’s a game of hangman. The mystery phrase is two words: the first word has four letters, and the second has three.
Klean rolls her eyes and makes her first guess.
“A?”
Hangem sketches a head onto the gallows. Klean becomes aggravated.
“E? I? O? U?”
Hangem sketches a neck and body to the head. He then jots an “O” and “U” into the mystery phrase. So far, the two-word phrase reads: “_u_ _ O_ _.”
Klean ponders.
“F?”
Hangem fills in the letter “F.” The two-word phrase now reads: “Fu_ _ Off.”
“Fuck off,” Klean sighs.
Hangem whips out his lighter and sets the piece of paper on fire. He holds the flame to a fresh cigarette and takes a long drag.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he quips.
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead. Hangem crumbles the smoldering piece of paper with his bare hands and leaves the charred remains with Klean.
“Asshole,” Klean mutters.
—
Powell wordlessly gestures for Hangem and the rookie to grab a seat. He proceeds to turn on a television that resides in the front of his office. The screen depicts the highway chase from earlier, as filmed by a news helicopter. The footage cuts to an image of the third bank robber, who hangs lifelessly from the Santa Monica exit sign.
“You wanna tell me what’s wrong with this picture?” Powell asks.
Hangem ponders the image of the third bank robber hanging from the exit sign. He takes a long drag from his cigarette.
“He’s not wearing a helmet.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead. Powell slams his fist on his desk.
“Goddangit, Jack! I thought I told you to keep your noose to yourself out there!”
“What’d you expect from me, Captain? I’m Jack Hangem.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass! You coulda detained that situation in a much less horrific way!”
“How? By shooting at them? You know that’s not how I work anymore.”
“Yeah, well, the way you work has Mayor Mackerel up my ass!”
“And that comes as a surprise to you?”
“What are you gettin’ at?”
“Come on, Powell. Aggressively Obese Ricardo has the mayor by the balls.”
“That’s real cute. Got any proof?”
Hangem doesn’t speak. His eyes drift away from Powell’s glare.
“Thought so. Do me a favor and save your crackpot theories for the barflies, Jack.”
Powell shuffles some paperwork on his desk. He returns his attention to Hangem.
“I’m suspending a month’s pay from your salary. But you’re still on call for last-resort scenarios.”
Powell turns his attention towards the rookie.
“As for your rookie ass, you’ll be pushing papers for three months. No pay for the first month.”
“Christ, Captain, give the kid a break. He backed me up under my command. None of this is his fault.”
“Oh yeah? Tell that to the grieving family of Detective Hans.”
“That sonofabitch had it coming,” Hangem mutters.
Captain Powell slams his fist on his desk.
“Get outta my office, Jack, or I’ll cut your pay for two months!”
Hangem begrudgingly rises from his chair. Before he can leave, the rookie speaks up.
“Hang on, Captain!”
Powell glares at the younger officer. Conscious of his anxiety, the rookie reaches into his pocket and lights a cigarette with shaky hands. He takes a long drag. Once the nicotine hits, he’s able to find composure.
“What if I told you we can bag Aggressively Obese Ricardo and avenge the death of Detective Hans?” the rookie purposes.
Hangem and Powell’s eyes meet. Their tense expressions suggest years of unresolved conflict. After a few moments, the noose-wielding detective shakes his head remorsefully.
“Forget it, kid. I’m not appreciated here.”
Hangem exits the office. Taken aback by his abrupt departure, the rookie stumbles out of his chair and chases after his partner.
Once alone, Powell’s gruff bitterness morphs into sorrow. He examines the framed birthday photo of himself and Detective Hans. Upon removing the frame, Powell retrieves a hidden photo beneath the aforementioned snapshot. The image in question depicts an earlier birthday of Powell’s – but with a twist. This time, it’s Hangem who presents Powell with a birthday cake. An important detail to note: Hangem isn’t wearing his belt compartment with infinite nooses. Instead, he’s brandishing a traditional gun holster.
Upon reviewing the photo, Powell lets out a pained sigh.
“Goddangit, Jack,” he whispers.
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead.
—
Outside the precinct, Hangem approaches his Cutlass Supreme cruiser. The rookie is not far behind.
Hangem turns to face his younger partner.
“Save your breath, kid. Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”
“Don’t be like that, Hangem. I know you want to bag Aggressively Obese Ricardo. I do, too. But I can’t do it without you.”
“I appreciate the fire in your belly, kid. But Powell doesn’t want anything to do with me. We used to see eye to eye, but those days are over.”
Hangem opens the driver’s door of his vehicle.
“Besides, even if I wanted to help, I’m useless to you. It’s physically impossible to hang a man of Ricardo’s stature.”
The rookie is visually baffled by Hangem’s admission.
“I thought the laws of physics didn’t apply to Jack Hangem.”
Hangem slams his door in frustration and faces the rookie.
“He weighs over 800lbs! IT. CAN’T. BE. DONE!”
The duo falls silent. Hangem relocates to the hood of his vehicle and lights a cigarette. The rookie joins him.
“What happened between you and Captain Powell?”
“It’s a long story. Believe it or not, I used to be the department’s top dog.”
“Until Hans swooped in and stole your thunder?”
“Hans wasn’t the issue, kid. Just the replacement.”
“Powell would probably change his tune if you adopted a crime-fighting method that wasn’t so controversial. Why not ditch the noose for a gun?”
Hangem falls silent.
“I don’t use guns.”
“But why?”
“A gun killed my wife.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead. Hangem sighs.
“It was my 30th birthday. Rosemary rented us a cabin up north, which had a gun range. Back then, I loved guns. So much so that I went by Jack Gunman.”
“I’m sorry… You went by Jack Gunman?”
“What’s wrong with that? You don’t see me ridiculing your name, do you?”
“But I haven’t-”
“As I was saying! We left the city for a weekend’s stay at the cabin. On the morning of my birthday, Rosemary gifted me a present.”
Hangem takes a deep drag from his cigarette. When he exhales, a magical cloud of secondhand smoke appears. The rookie is startled.
“What the heck is that, Hangem?!”
“Relax, kid. It’s just a flashback cloud. I’m hoping it’ll make my story a tad more interesting. Just sit back and watch.”
Hangem and the rookie observe the magical flashback cloud.
—
In northern California, Hangem and Rosemary lounge in the bedroom of a rustic cabin. Rosemary hands her husband a gift-wrapped shotgun.
“Happy birthday, Jack.”
Hangem smiles. He takes the wrapped present with the visible shotgun outline and shakes it to his ear. Rosemary laughs.
“Don’t be such a goof! Open it!”
Hangem unwraps the shotgun. He turns to Rosemary and smiles.
“You know me like the back of your hand.”
The two lovers share a tender kiss.
“Why don’t you go outside and shoot some inanimate objects while I make pancakes?”
“I thought we were gonna make pancakes together,” Hangem laments.
“I can handle it! Besides, it’s your birthday, Jack Gunman. And that gun’s not gonna fire itself.”
Hangem gently caresses Rosemary’s hair.
“Did I ever tell you how broken I’d be without your patience, love, and guidance?”
“Once or twice,” Rosemary smiles.
The couple embraces.
—
Back in the present day, the flashback cloud begins to dissipate.
“Sweetest Rosemary,” Hangem sighs. “We were two peas in a pod. I had her back, and she had mine.”
Hangem lights another cigarette. He takes a deep drag and exhales yet another magical flashback cloud. As the cloud begins to form, Hangem turns to the rookie.
“Now, what you’re about to see next has the potential to be confusing. Just know this: Rosemary and I were best friends. And sometimes, married couples who are also best buds like to play practical jokes on one another – just to keep things interesting.”
The flashback cloud begins to play another piece of the story.
—
Outside the cabin, Hangem fiddles with his new shotgun. His back faces the cabin’s front entrance. Just then, Rosemary quietly exits the cabin. She snickers and proceeds to put on a clown mask. Hangem remains oblivious to her presence.
Rosemary tiptoes her way to Hangem. Upon reaching him, she grabs his sides and playfully shrieks. Startled, Hangem turns around and accidentally squeezes the trigger of the shotgun, blowing Rosemary’s skull into chunks. Hangem collapses to the ground and cradles the corpse of his wife. He sobs uncontrollably.
—
Back in the present day, the flashback cloud begins to dissipate. The rookie’s complexion is ghost pale, and his mouth is agape. Hangem pats his disturbed partner on the back.
“Rosemary knew I had a terrible case of coulrophobia,” the detective explains. “It was a running joke of hers to sneak up behind me while wearing a clown mask. She got me good that day, kid. For one last time.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead.
“What happened next?” the rookie asks.
“Shortly after the funeral, I quit the force. There was no point in being a cop if I couldn’t muster the strength to carry a gun. I was a wreck. I cut off all communication with Powell, which was bizarre at the time since we were closer. My days were spent isolated in my apartment, drinking booze and smoking cigarettes. It was only a matter of time until I hung up the metaphorical towel of life. But fate had other plans.”
Hangem smokes another cigarette and produces a third flashback cloud. The duo observes the magical cloud of smoke.
—
Hangem sits at a kitchen table in his old apartment. He appears incredibly distraught. On the table is a picture of Rosemary. Hangem observes the photo while smoking a cigarette. He eventually exits his chair and approaches a nearby noose.
Just as he’s about to position his neck in the noose, the sound of a shattering window pulls Hangem back into reality. Suddenly, a masked thief brandishing a butcher’s knife enters his kitchen. Upon seeing Hangem, the thief swiftly pins him to the ground. While attempting to force his knife into Hangem’s neck, Hangem retrieves an empty bottle of booze from the floor and smashes it over the thief’s face. The thief releases Hangem from his iron grip and staggers to his feet. Hangem roundhouse kicks the thief in the chest as hard as he can. The blow from this move sends the thief flying head-first into Hangem’s noose. He struggles for several seconds before submitting to his grim fate. Hangem returns to his chair at the kitchen table. He lights a cigarette and observes the thief’s lifeless body with great intent.
Later that evening, Hangem enters the Hollywood precinct to visit Powell. He’s brought along the deceased body of the thief, whose neck remains caught in the noose. Powell is shocked to see his friend.
“Jack! How the hell are ya? I haven’t heard from you since-”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead.
“The funeral, I know. Thanks again for the flowers.”
“Shit, Jack. It’s the least I-”
At that moment, Powell notices the dead thief attached to the noose. His somber tone quickly changes to that of anger.
“Jesus! What the hell is this?!”
Hangem raises the noose in the air so Powell can get a better look at the strangled thief.
“This is my comeback. Or should I say-”
Hangem quickly lights a cigarette. He takes a long drag.
“My hangback.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead. Powell is dumbfounded.
“It’s wordplay,” Hangem reiterates.
“I-I guess in the grand scheme of things, it’s not the worst noose-related pun I’ve ever heard… Oh, what the fuck am I even sayin’? Who is that dead sonofabitch, and why is he in my office?!”
“He’s a perp who broke into my apartment and nearly killed me with a butcher’s knife. But that’s irrelevant. Just take a look at his neck.”
“What about it? The poor bastard was hung.”
“Exactly! Hung by the very noose that I was gonna use on myself! Don’t you see, Powell? This is my ticket back into the force! My gun-slinging days might be over, but I can use-”
“A noose? You wanna come back to the force wielding a goddamn noose?!”
“It’s the only way.”
Powell sighs.
“If it means getting Jack Gunman back on the streets, then okay.”
“There’s just one thing, Captain. I don’t wanna go by ‘Jack Gunman’ anymore. My love for guns resides in the past, along with the cherished memories of my beloved Rosemary.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead.
“Call me Hangem. Jack Hangem.”
“If you wanna change your name, you gotta make an appointment with Carol at Human Resources.”
“Oh. Will that take long to finalize?”
“You’re lookin’ at a three-week process. Then again, Carol’s on vacation. More like four weeks.”
Hangem takes a long drag from his cigarette.
“I guess I’ll just hang around until she gets back.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead.
—
Back in the present day, the flashback cloud begins to dissipate. Hangem and the rookie remain seated atop the hood of the Cutlass Supreme.
“Did it feel good being back on the force?” the rookie inquires.
Hangem shakes his head.
“The vibe was different. I was always taking things ‘too far.’ When I tried going after Aggressively Obese Ricardo, Powell got heat from the mayor about my public hangings. We had a falling out. Detective Hans entered the picture shortly thereafter. Meanwhile, I got shafted with ‘last resort’ duty.”
For a few moments, the duo sits in silence. Suddenly, a spark of determination enters the rookie’s eyes.
“How confident are you that Aggressively Obese Ricardo is controlling Mayor Mackerel?”
Hangem contorts his face in a comically unconfident manner. He sheepishly shrugs his shoulders.
“Don’t answer that question,” the rookie sighs. “Just follow me for a second. If Ricardo has the mayor in his pocket, any major opposition looking to overthrow his racket will likely get shut down. Your hanging methods are far too direct to go unnoticed. The only way to bag Ricardo and bring justice to this city is through subtle police work.”
“Subtly really isn’t my thing, kid. After all, I’m-”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah; I KNOW. You’re Jack-freaking-Hangem. But what if you resorted to a much less problematic ‘strangle and release’ approach?”
Hangem ponders the idea.
“I don’t know, kid. You’re probably better off without me.”
The rookie glances at Hangem. The noose-wielding detective looks broken.
“Hangem, without you, I never would’ve had the confidence to speak up to Captain Powell.”
“That wasn’t me. That was the cigarettes.”
“Yeah, but you gave me the cigarettes. And when we were in that high-speed chase, you trusted me to take the wheel. Every person I’ve ever encountered has gone out of their way to belittle me. But not you. You believe in me. And I believe in you.”
Hangem glances at the rookie. A smile creeps across his hardened face.
“You know, we’re not gonna get far if the mayor finds out I’m working the Ricardo case again.”
“He shouldn’t care if we play things by the book. And if he does interfere, we’ll know it has nothing to do with police ethics and everything to do with Ricardo pulling the strings. All you have to do is abstain from hanging anyone to death.”
“If it means stopping Ricardo, then I’m in.”
Hangem jumps off the hood of his cruiser.
“Let’s go, kid. We got work to do.”
“Hold on, Hangem.”
The rookie extends his hand out for a Predator-style handshake. Hangem grins and accepts. The results are epic.
Hangem and the rookie enter the Cutlass Supreme. Before turning over the ignition, Hangem faces his younger partner.
“The journey we’re about to embark on will take weeks of investigative groundwork. In favor of speeding along the proceedings, I propose a montage.”
The rookie nods. Hangem lights a cigarette. After taking a deep drag, he exhales a magical montage cloud of secondhand smoke. As the montage cloud engulfs the interior of the vehicle, the following events rapidly transpire:
THE ROOKIE’S APARTMENT – A FEW HOURS LATER: The rookie and Hangem look at a bulletin board filled with Aggressively Obese Ricardo’s henchmen. An image of Ricardo is present at the center of the board.
HOLLYWOOD PRECINCT: INTERROGATION ROOM – THE NEXT DAY: The rookie attempts to get information from one of Ricardo’s henchmen. Suddenly, Hangem bursts into the room. He begins to strangle the henchman from behind with his noose. After a few moments, the rookie signals for Hangem to stop. Once released from the noose, the henchman spills all the information they have. Hangem and the rookie celebrate with a Predator-style handshake.
AN ABANDONED WAREHOUSE – A FEW HOURS LATER: The rookie and Hangem bust a drug deal at an abandoned warehouse owned by Aggressively Obese Ricardo.
THE ROOKIE’S APARTMENT – LATER THAT NIGHT: Hangem stands next to a poster labeled: “How to Smoke Cigarettes and Deliver Puns like a Badass.” The rookie sits close by, taking notes.
THE ROOKIE’S APARTMENT – THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON: The rookie sits at his kitchen table. He’s reading an advertisement for the next speed dating event near his apartment. Just then, Hangem walks in wearing nice pants and a sweater. He looks uncomfortable. The rookie smiles and gives Hangem the thumbs up. Hangem sighs.
SPEED DATING CIRCUIT – LATER THAT EVENING: Hangem hits it off with a woman named Francesca. They exchange phone numbers.
THE ROOKIE’S APARTMENT – THE NEXT DAY: The rookie and Hangem add new evidence to their Aggressively Obese Ricardo bulletin board.
NEWSSTAND IN DOWNTOWN HOLLYWOOD – THE NEXT DAY: A newspaper headline reads: “Crime Rate Drops Thanks To Detective Hangem and The Rookie.”
MAYOR MACKEREL’S OFFICE – LATER THAT EVENING: Aggressively Obese Ricardo is forklifted into Mayor Mackerel’s office by one of his henchmen. He carries a copy of the newspaper featuring Jack Hangem and the rookie. Mayor Mackerel promises to halt the duo’s progress.
—
Several weeks pass. Within the halls of the Hollywood precinct, Hangem and the rookie schmooze by a water cooler.
“How’d your date go last night?” the rookie asks.
Hangem takes a deep drag from his cigarette. When he exhales, a flashback cloud of secondhand smoke appears. The duo observes the cloud.
—
Hangem and Francesca make out on a couch while the Clint Eastwood film Hang ‘Em High plays on television. Suddenly, Francesca stops.
“Hangem, before we continue, I must confess something.”
“I’m all ears.”
Francesca adjusts herself on the couch. She takes a deep breath.
“When making love, I like to be… strangled.”
The room falls silent. Hangem reflects longingly on all of the criminals he’s strangled.
“I think I can work with that.”
—
In the present day, the flashback cloud dissipates.
“She gets me, kid,” Hangem warmly proclaims. “And I get her.”
The rookie’s eyes light up with excitement. He eagerly retrieves a cigarette from his pocket and takes a long drag.
“It sounds like you guys tied the knot.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead.
Hangem smiles.
“Not bad, kid. Although, when I hear the phrase ‘tied the knot,’ marriage comes to mind. And we’re not doing that anytime soon.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” the rookie laments.
“Hey, it’s like we talked about. Most puns are gonna be mediocre at best. It’s the smoking that makes the wordplay pop.”
The rookie nods while jotting down Hangem’s advice in a notebook. Their moment of bliss is interrupted by the thundering voice of Powell.
“Jack! Rookie! My office!”
“I know that tone anywhere,” Hangem sighs.
“What do you think it is?”
Hangem takes a deep drag from his cigarette.
“Second act tension.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead.
—
Hangem and the rookie enter Powell’s office. The police captain evokes quiet frustration. After a few moments, he manages to speak.
“I’m pullin’ you off the Aggressively Obese Ricardo case.”
A wave of confusion crashes over the rookie. Meanwhile, Hangem remains silent. He saw this announcement coming a mile away.
“Captain, I don’t understand,” the rookie laments.
“Mayor Mackerel thinks you’re gettin’ too close for your own good. He fears the public safety is at risk.”
“Bullshit,” Hangem interjects.
Powell doesn’t scold Hangem. It’s clear he’s unhappy with this situation, but there’s only so much he can do.
The rookie leans forward.
“Captain, with all due respect, we’ve uncovered mountains of evidence.”
“I don’t give a damn! This is above me, rookie. The mayor wants you to step down, and that’s that.”
The rookie leans back in his chair.
“I don’t believe this. We played things by the book. No chaos, no public hangings. Just ethical police work.”
Hangem antagonistically locks eyes with Powell.
“Forget it, kid. This sonofabitch is about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.”
Powell shoots up from his desk.
“You got somethin’ to say to me, Jack?”
Hangem stands up from his chair.
“Yeah. You don’t give a fuck that Ricardo is using the mayor as his puppet.”
“I ain’t puttin’ my job on the line for some crackpot theory cooked up by a drunken has-been!”
“Your idea of captainship is a crackpot theory, you selfish prick!”
“That’s it, Jack! You’re finished!”
The room falls silent. The shared hostility between Hangem and Powell subsides. Expressions of regret now populate the faces of both men.
“What are you saying, Powell?” Hangem asks.
“I’m sayin’ you’re done, Jack. Hand over your badge.”
Hangem slowly reaches into his pocket to retrieve his badge. He carelessly tosses it on Powell’s desk.
“And your nooses.”
Hangem tightly grips his belt compartment.
“Fuck that. They belong to me: Jack Hangem.”
“No. They belong to Detective Jack Hangem, which you no longer are.”
Powell retrieves a police code of conduct book from his desk and hands it to Hangem. Upon opening, Hangem finds a bookmarked page. He begins to read the page aloud.
“When relieved of duty, a detective must relinquish their badge and personalized weapon of choice. Should a detective argue that their weapon belongs to them, please direct them to this passage. For more information, please refer to the ‘Second Act Conflicts’ section on page sixty-five.”
Hangem reluctantly undoes his belt compartment and gently places it on the desk. He lights a cigarette.
“Crochet,” Hangem quips while exhaling a cloud of smoke.
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead.
“What the hell does crochet have to do with anything?” Powell asks.
“It’s wordplay.”
Powell and the rookie share confused glances. Hangem sighs.
“Wordplay on ‘touché.’ And the practice of crochet generally involves rope.”
“That’s not wordplay,” Powell argues. “And rope’s got nothin’ to do with crochet! You’re thinkin’ of yarn!”
“Can you blame me for not knowing the difference?!”
Hangem fights back tears in an attempt to regain composure.
“Have a heart, Captain. I’m nothing without my nooses!”
Powell appears emotional but keeps his composure.
“I ain’t your Captain no more.”
“Powell. Please-”
“And I ain’t your friend no more, either.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead. Devastated, Hangem exits the office. Powell slowly sits behind his desk and stares at Hangem’s belongings.
Suddenly, the rookie stands up, reaches into his pocket, and retrieves his badge. He slams it atop Powell’s desk.
“You know something? All I ever wanted from you was respect and a Predator-style handshake. What an arrogant fool I was.”
The rookie prepares to exit Powell’s office.
“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?”
The rookie turns to face Powell.
“I’m gonna bag Ricardo on my own terms. If you want to stop me, I suggest you shoot to kill.”
While nearing the exit, the rookie pauses.
“One last thing, Powell. My name is Ki. Roo Ki.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead.
“Is that Korean?” Powell asks.
“You’d better believe it.”
“Huh. You don’t look Korean.”
Roo Ki retrieves a cigarette and lights it dramatically. He takes a long drag.
“I know.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead. Powell buries his face in his hands as Roo Ki exits.
—
Several weeks pass.
It’s nighttime at the Magic Castle Motel. This sleazy establishment is a well-known refuge for those wishing to indulge in self-destructive benders.
A police car driven by Powell pulls into the motel parking lot. While observing the lot, he spots Hangem’s Cutlass Supreme cruiser parked in front of a dingy room.
“Bingo,” the hot-headed captain mutters. “Figured you’d be here, Jack. Let’s hope this room is yours.”
Powell parks his squad car and approaches the room in front of Hangem’s cruiser. He knocks on the door.
“Jack. It’s Powell.”
No one answers. Powell knocks louder.
“Jack!”
No one answers. Powell tries opening the door but finds that it’s locked. He begrudgingly repositions himself by taking two steps backward.
“I’m gettin’ too old for this shit.”
Powell forcefully kicks down the door and walks into Hangem’s living quarters. Empty bottles of booze and crushed cigarette cartons populate the floor. An unopened bottle of booze sits at the table near Hangem’s bed. Powell reluctantly reaches for the bottle.
“Goddangit, Jack.”
Suddenly, a noose made from shoestring materializes from underneath the bed. It grabs the bottle by the neck and yanks it beneath the mattress. The sudden movement startles Powell, who reaches for his gun. Just as he’s about to shoot the mattress, Hangem awkwardly reveals himself from under the bed. The unopened bottle of booze is in his right hand, and the noose made from shoestring is in his left. A lit cigarette dangles from his mouth. He takes a long drag.
“Welcome to the party, Powell.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead.
Powell lowers his gun. Hangem opens the bottle of booze and slams it down in seconds. He carelessly tosses the empty remains behind his shoulder.
“Say, if you’re here, who’s running hell?” he quips.
Powell sighs.
“Jack… I’m sorry.”
“Sorry, my ass! Those nooses were all I had!”
“I see you had no trouble making a new one.”
Hangem observes the handcrafted noose he made out of shoestrings.
“Crochet.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead.
“Alright, Jack. I’ll let you have that one. But I didn’t come here to listen to your puns.”
Powell struggles to continue. It’s evident from the somber tone of his voice that something is amiss. He exhales.
“Your suspicions concerning the mayor and Aggressively Obese Ricardo were valid. But you were wrong about one thing.”
Powell retrieves a candid polaroid of Mayor Mackerel and Aggressively Obese Ricardo schmoozing in a hot tub. In the photo, Ricardo hands a comically large bag of money to the mayor, who happily accepts it.
“The fat bastard ain’t controlling Mackerel,” Powell reveals. “Those assholes are working together.”
Hangem observes the polaroid.
“How’d you get this photo?”
“The rookie took it. He went rogue.”
Hangem smiles proudly.
“Way to go, kid. Where is he now?”
“That’s the bad news. Ricardo’s henchmen found him shortly after he snapped this polaroid. Beat his ass to a pulp.”
“Shit. What’s his condition?”
“They got him in the ER. Last I checked, he was lookin’ pretty good. Body’s showin’ strong signs of improvement.”
Powell’s cell phone begins to ring unexpectedly. He answers it.
“Go for Powell. Okay, thanks for the update.”
Powell hangs up his cell phone and acknowledges Hangem.
“He’s dead.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead. Hangem drops to his knees and screams in frustration. After a few seconds, he glances up at Powell.
“I want my belt compartment of infinite nooses back.”
“It’s not that easy, Jack-”
Hangem shoots up from the ground and stares down Powell.
“Goddamit, Powell! I want bodies!”
“And you’ll get them! But I can’t have you runnin’ rampant and hangin’ people under my command!”
“Then why the hell are you even here?!”
“Because I need you!”
“To do what?! I can’t be the precinct’s last resort if I don’t have my badge and nooses!”
“I’m not askin’ you to be the precinct’s last resort. I’m askin’ you to be Jack Hangem – off the books.”
Hangem catches his breath and finds composure.
“If the public found out the department was behind the vengeful slaughter of a mafia kingpin and a sitting city official, they’d never trust the police again,” Powell explains. “I need you to go rogue. And I need you to be clean. If things get bloody, you better scrub that shit four times over. And if you get caught, you’re on your own.”
Hangem sighs.
“I’ll do it for the kid… Shit, I wish I knew his actual fucking name.”
“Oh, get this, Jack. He told me it before he went rogue. It’s Roo Ki.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead.
“Is that Korean?” Hangem asks.
“Yeah.”
“Huh. He didn’t look Korean. He kinda reminded me of Joseph Gordon Lovett, circa 2012.”
“YES! I feel that!”
“When he told you his name, did he do it while smoking in a cool fashion?”
“Yeah, he did.”
“Attaboy, Ki,” Hangem smiles. “Well, I’d better saddle up.”
“But Jack, you got no belt of infinite nooses. What’re you gonna use for weapons?”
Hangem observes his handcrafted shoestring noose. He takes a long drag from his cigarette.
“Looks like I’m gonna have to improvise.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead.
Powell drops his head and cracks a smile.
“Goddangit, Jack.”
—
At a nearby Home Depot, Hangem shops for makeshift strangulation equipment. His cart contains Christmas lights, iron chains, extension cords, and garden hoses.
Hangem rolls his cart to the checkout line. He’s greeted by Dusty, an eighty-year-old employee and devoted friend.
“Oh, my stars… Jack? Is that really you?! Why, I haven’t seen you in ages!”
“How’s it hangin’, Dusty?”
“Great! My granddaughter just had twins! Pamela and I are visiting them tomorrow after my shift.”
“Congratulations! By the way, how is Pamela?”
“She’s stronger than ever after beating breast cancer. And tonight’s our 50th! I’m taking her to the Olive Garden.”
“That’s fantastic. Glad to hear it.”
Dusty begins to scan the items within Hangem’s cart.
“This is quite the strange assortment of items you’ve got here, Jack.”
Hangem discreetly leans forward.
“Dusty, can you keep a secret?” he whispers.
“Sure!”
“All this stuff is for off-the-books revenge. That bastard Ricardo killed my partner.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Jack. If you don’t mind me asking, why not just use your nooses?”
“Well, I got kicked outta the force. And my nooses technically belong to the department. It’s complicated second act bullshit.”
Dusty remains perplexed.
“I still don’t understand why you’re buying all this stuff.”
“I told you, Dusty, they took away my nooses. Now I have to improvise.”
“But we have actual rope you can purchase.”
Dusty points to the designated rope aisle.
“Huh. I didn’t know you could buy rope.”
Dusty laughs.
“Well, where’d your previous nooses come from?”
“My belt compartment. It can hold an infinite supply.”
“Okay, but how did you acquire those nooses? It’s not like they came pre-loaded in the belt, right?”
Hangem struggles to answer Dusty’s question.
“Uhhhhhh… The laws of physics don’t apply to Jack Hangem?”
Suddenly, the ground begins to rumble. In the center of the store, a large hole forms. Nearby objects and people get sucked into the void.
“Shit, is that an earthquake?” Hangem asks.
Dusty shakes his head vigorously.
“Worse! It’s a plot hole! Get the hell out of here while you can, Jack!”
“But I haven’t paid for my improvisational nooses!”
“Forget it! It’s on the house! Now get out of here!”
“What about you!?”
“I’ve got to close my register! Just go! I’ll be right behind you!”
Hangem dashes for the exit. Dusty calls after him.
“Go get ‘em, Jack!”
The sucking power of the plot hole intensifies. Dusty dangles in the air while gripping his register for dear life.
“You’ll never take me alive, plot hole! I survived Korea and Vietnam!”
Suddenly, the sucking force of the plot hole becomes strong enough to engulf Dusty and his register. The friendly cashier screams his wife’s name as he descends into the void. Shortly after devouring Dusty, the plot hole implodes.
—
While packing improvisational nooses into his Cutlass Supreme, Hangem takes a moment to observe the wake of destruction caused by the plot hole. He lights a cigarette and looks to the sky.
“Godspeed, Dusty. When you reach heaven, find Roo Ki and tell him justice is coming.”
Hangem enters his cruiser and takes off for Aggressively Obese Ricardo’s compound.
—
At nightfall, an aura of dread descends upon the Hollywood Hills. Nestled atop this winding neighborhood resides an intimidating stilt property owned by Aggressively Obese Ricardo. A dozen or so heavily armed henchmen surround the perimeter. Despite seeming vigilante, nothing can prepare them for what’s coming.
The revving motor of Hangem’s Cutlass Supreme startles the henchmen. As the cruiser barrels towards the compound, the henchmen open fire and effectively kill the car’s forward momentum. A lone henchman approaches the driver’s side window and looks within. Penelope (Hangem’s beloved blowup sex doll) sits behind the wheel, deflated.
The henchman points their machine pistol at Penelope.
“Who are you working for?!” they shout.
Suddenly, a garden hose moonlighting as a makeshift noose descends from a nearby telephone poll. It successfully grabs the henchman’s neck and pulls them in the air. Terrified at what they just witnessed, the remaining henchmen resort to panic fire. Several more makeshift nooses descend upon them.
After successfully clearing the area, Hangem steps out from the shadows. He notices a nearby henchman hanging from a palm tree, their neck wrapped in Christmas lights.
“The asshole was hung by the palm tree with care,” Hangem quips. “Tis’ the season to be dead, you no-good sonofabitch.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead.
—
Hangem enters the compound, where he’s greeted by Aggressively Obese Ricardo. The mafia kingpin sits comfortably in a forklift operated by Mayor Mackerel.
“Good evening, Jack Hangem,” Ricardo sneers. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Mayor Mackerel exits the forklift and draws a shotgun on Hangem.
“Not so fast, Mackerel,” Ricardo orders. “Before killing our guest of honor, we must taunt him with our master plan to take over the city.”
“I’m good,” Hangem shrugs indifferently.
Ricardo and Mayor Mackerel glance at one another with looks of confusion.
“You’re good?” Ricardo asks. “What do you mean you’re good?”
“I’d rather we just got on with it.”
“I-I don’t understand,” Ricardo stammers. “We have history, dammit! This is the first time we’re meeting face-to-face!”
“Yeah!” Mayor Mackerel adds. “Aren’t you curious about the grandiose mischief we’re planning?”
Hangem proceeds to rest his aching bones on the floor of the compound. He casually lights a cigarette.
“Guys, it’s nothing personal,” the detective stresses. “I’m coming down from a several-week-long bender. My head is SCREAMING at me. I just wanna avenge my partner’s death and go home.”
“I think you’re being incredibly selfish,” Ricardo asserts. “I spent the entire day planning this evening, and you show up unenthused with a high and mighty attitude.”
“You could’ve taken an aspirin before coming here,” Mayor Mackerel interjects.
“We’re supposed to be archenemies,” Ricardo continues. “And yet, I know next to nothing about you. What’s your deal, man?”
Hangem sighs.
“Alright. A gun killed my wife. A noose saved my life. I smoke like a chimney and drink like a sailor. Therapy scares me. The laws of physics don’t apply to me. You two assholes killed my partner. Once I finish this cigarette, it’s hangin’ time.”
Mayor Mackerel pumps his shotgun.
“You really think you have a chance against me, cowboy?”
Hangem points a finger gun at Mayor Mackerel.
“Draw,” he quips while exhaling smoke.
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead. This distracts Mayor Mackerel, who glances back at Ricardo.
“Where’s that cheesy jazz coming from?”
While seated, Hangem lassos a noose constructed from extension cords and hurls it towards a ceiling fan above Mayor Mackerel. The top of the noose magically ties itself to the fan, while the bottom section captures the mayor’s neck, effectively breaking it.
“Hangem!” Ricardo bellows. “You’ll pay for that!”
Ricardo retrieves a snub-nosed pistol from his jacket and points it at Hangem. Hangem releases his final makeshift noose, constructed from iron chains. Although the noose catches Ricardo’s throat, it’s not strong enough to suspend a man of his stature. The chains snap as a result.
“I thought the laws of physics didn’t apply to Jack Hangem and his bizarre nooses,” Ricardo cackles.
Hangem remains seated on the floor.
“Looks like that hoagie diet paid off,” the detective quips.
“You’re goddamn right, it paid off! And now you’re gonna die! Just like that punk-ass partner of yours! The only thing that could save you now is a third act plot twist masquerading as a tired cliché!”
Ricardo cocks his weapon.
“It’s time to hang up the act, Jack.”
Hangem closes his eyes and accepts his fate. Before Ricardo can pull the trigger, a fiery explosion occurs at the front doors of the compound. Through thick clouds of smoke, the silhouette of a cyborg appears.
“What the fuck are you supposed to be?!” Ricardo screams.
The menacing cyborg lumbers into the light. Hangem’s jaw drops to the floor.
“The name’s Ki,” the cyborg announces with robotic auto-tune. “RoboKi.”
Ricardo begins to hyperventilate.
“I-It can’t be. We killed you. We killed you!”
Ricardo shoots RoboKi, but the bullets are useless against his cybernetic armor. RoboKi raises both arms towards Ricardo. His fists transform into rocket launchers.
“My turn,” RoboKi quips.
The cyborg proceeds to fire rockets at Ricardo. The obese mafia kingpin explodes into a thousand meaty pieces.
RoboKi unarms his rocket launchers and approaches Hangem.
“How’s it hanging, partner?”
With the help of RoboKi, Hangem slowly rises to his feet.
“It’s good to see you, Ki.”
Hangem observes his partner’s cybernetic body.
“How did this happen?”
“Well, you know how a person can opt to be an organ donner on their driver’s license? I opted to be a cyborg.”
“Looks like you get to live out your childhood dream after all.”
“Affirmative.”
Hangem rubs his head in agony. Upon noticing his friend’s discomfort, RoboKi retrieves hot coffee and aspirin from his cybernetic chest cavity.
“Trade you for a cigarette,” RoboKi quips.
Hangem gleefully swallows the aspirin with a swig of coffee. He proceeds to light a fresh cigarette for RoboKi. The cyborg takes a deep drag.
Hangem observes the bloody mess surrounding the interior of the compound.
“Christ. This is gonna take weeks to clean up.”
“Leave it to me, Hangem.”
RoboKi’s feet transform into Roombas, thus beginning a painfully slow cleaning process. Hangem watches the underwhelming display while sipping his coffee and smoking a cigarette.
“So, how’d you know I was here?”
“Upon re-awakening, I immediately contacted Powell, who disclosed the details of your rogue operation.”
“You saved my ass, Ki. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”
“Think nothing of it. Before I met you, I was a helpless rookie incapable of taking action. Now, I’m a capable cybernetic killing machine who saved their partner from death’s door.”
“Wow. Talk about a satisfying transformation of character. It must be nice to experience growth.”
Hangem hangs his head in sadness. RoboKi awkwardly clears his throat.
“Cheer up, Hangem. I bet Powell will let you back on the force now that Hollywood is free from corruption.”
“I don’t know,” Hangem sighs. “Powell’s a good man. But he doesn’t appreciate my hanging methods. Even without a corrupt politician breathing down his neck, I imagine we’ll continue to butt heads.”
“Well, if you’re not returning to the precinct, neither am I. There must be other places for justice seekers like us.”
Hangem observes the lifeless body of Mayor Mackerel, who remains hung from the ceiling fan. Upon approaching the corpse, Mackerel’s tie magically falls into Hangem’s hands. The detective has an epiphany.
“Say, Ki. If I ran for office, how’d you like to be my deputy mayor?”
RoboKi glances at Hangem with starry-eyed admiration.
“It would be an honor, Jack.”
“Fantastic. There’s just one problem.”
Hangem gestures the tie to his cyborg companion.
“Do you know how to work one of these? I’m only familiar with a hangman’s knot.”
The omnipresent sound of smooth jazz blares overhead. Hangem and RoboKi share a laugh while performing a Predator-style handshake.
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