Okay, boys and girls, this is one of those semi-complex scenarios where you can hardly tell the players without a scorecard, so let’s make up some names and jersey numbers right now. First, there’s Paul Brite, a 53-year-old Florida businessman.
Like a lot of law-abiding Americans, Paul doesn’t care for the idea of becoming a crime statistic, knows that food doesn’t really come from grocery stores, and safety doesn’t emanate like a forcefield from police stations.
He’s got a valid CCW permit but doesn’t even pack a roscoe on his person, preferring to simply keep a sidearm handy.
Second comes Carl Lee “Brains” Reese, a 21-year-old self-made punk with multiple arrests for carjacking in two states and a lonesome parole officer wondering where the heck ol’ Carl’s gone off to.
Third in the lineup is Mario Danele “Wheels” Sikes, Reese’s cousin and apparently his biggest fan. At 17 years old, Sikes’ juvenile record is protected from our prying eyes, but he’ll soon be batting in the big leagues, the “Big House” leagues, anyway.
Then you’ve got Jim Haire, owner of a painting and decking business, who probably never pictured himself as a traffic controller, especially in the middle of a gunfight. The rest of the mob can be introduced as we move along.
It’s your basic sunny morning in Coral Springs where one Paul Brite is showered, shaved, and just finished running his Lexus through the neighborhood car wash. All seems absolutely hunky-dory until he is engaged in intense conversation by Mssrs. Reese and Sikes, one of whom holds a handgun to Brite’s attentive head.
A short time later, having covered about a mile, Reese turns onto a quiet side street and stops, apparently voicing some concern to his cousin that they may have screwed up mightily and locked their victim in the trunk with a cellular phone.
They agree to open the trunk and investigate Brite’s communications potential. Reese makes the move while Sikes resumes his station wagon navigator spot.
It seems that, no, they didn’t lock Brite in with a carphone, but the briar patch they threw him into happened to be where he keeps a loaded revolver and an equally stuffed semi-auto pistol, which he now holds, one in each hand, as he exits the trunk like a jack-in-the-box.
Two-Gun Paul bursts out of the trunk, loudly ordering “Brains” Reese to the ground, punctuating his commands with a few shots fired in the air. This definitely gets attention throughout the neighborhood.
Reese, no rocket scientist, greets this edict by reaching for his pocket. Brite reluctantly but resolutely pops a cap in Reese’s abdomen, which, indeed, convinces him to get on the ground.
“Stay still! Stay still!” Brite shouts, “Somebody get the police!” Reese, mortally wounded, stays very still.
And then The Little Rascals arrive. A flock of residential ragamuffins starts circling the still-energized Brite and recumbent Reese on their bicycles. Enter Jim Haire, on the run.
Waving his arms and shouting at the TV-trained kids, Haire bravely tried to convey the message that this was not a video game, boys and girls, and real bullets may re-commence flying momentarily.
Meantime, “Wheels” Sikes fires up the geriatric wagon, puts the pedal to the metal, and tries to play Lawnmower Man on both Brite and Haire.
Brite, dancing around so as not to place the street urchins in the line of fire, responds with another fusillade of hot lead, ventilating the Vista Cruiser but missing Sikes, who then decides to exit rapidly stage right, weaving through the flying circus of bicycles.
As the credits roll, we find the kiddies miraculously okay, Reese declared dead at North Broward Medical Center, Sikes taken into custody a short distance away, Haire wondering how he ever got into this melee and Paul Brite, a law-abiding citizen, miraculously not charged with violating the rights of his carjacking kidnappers.
Brite and Haire take justified bows. Sikes takes the rap for theft, kidnapping, and felony murder — for participating in a felon.
Mark Moritz hung up his satirical spurs last issue to a collective sigh of relief from America’s gunwriters whom he had lampooned in “Friendly Fire” for two long, painful years. The 10 Ring is written by Commander Gilmore, a retired San Diego police officer who bases his humor, like Mark did, on actual occurrences. All the incidents described by the Commander are true.