Pickles sits in jail fuming!  No, he doesn't smell bad, he's angry!  Once again, he has been kept down by the man.  Forced to fail . . . by the man.  The man was opressing him again.  Who is this man?

"Damn Whitey!  That honkey paleface!" Pickles kicks the metal bars that serve as his exterior wall.  "Don't trust Whitey!"  Pickles yelled while clanking his tin cup against the bars.  Someone in another cell starts playing a harmonica.  What's the world without a good cliche?  Shadow Dragon knocks quietly on the window outside.

"Hey, Pickles . . . stand back!"

"What?"

BOOM! 

Shadow Dragon blows up the side of the jail to release the nefarious Truck Depot failer.  Pickles runs free!

Anna is taking a little time to relax in her favourite coffee shop across town from the city jail. As she idlely stirs sugar into the coffee in front of her, she glances at the morning newspaper and sighs as she reads the headline; Suspected YAOWA Army Don arrested in late night swoop. Feeling her stomach lurch, she opens the newspaper up to page 5 and reads the article on the arrest, and with a sinking feeling, confirms her worst suspicions; the arrested Don was Pickles, a friend and a member of the same crew. Staring at the back wall, Anna begins to formulate a series of complicated plans to bust Pickles out, using mainly spoons to burrow beneath the walls of the jail without being detected by the somewhat lacking guards, when the door swings open, the cool air that chases into the shop jolting Anna away from her thoughts. Looking up, she see's with great surprise the man himself, Pickles, stood before her, with a somewhat frenzied look in his eyes.

Pickles! she exclaimed in huge surprise, I just read about your arrest, I thought you were still in jail, I was trying to figure out how to break you out! Here, sit with me, tell me what's been going on, how on earth did they track you down? Were you sold out by an associate? Did someone fuck up?

As Pickles takes a seat opposite to her, Anna waves to the waitress across the room to bring a hot cup of tea for Pickles, to help him to recover from the rough events of the night before.

Tell me everything, you should be safe enough here for a while.

Pickles pulls up a chair and sits across from Anna.  He takes a sip of his tea and begins to tell his tale of woe . . . but he swallows the tea first to make sure it doesn't dribble out while in conversation.  Manners are a must.

"I was trying to raid another depot.  I had Dons and Consiglieres, and we had a good plan, too!  We staked out the place.  I had blue prints.  We had a truck.  But, the plan just wouldn't succeed without a driver.  I needed one more person.  I found Whitey. Whitey said it was okay. I blame Whitey."  Pickles becomes more agitated.  "Don't trust Whitey!   Whitey will keep you down!  We had loaded up the truck with our stolen good, and I jumped in the cab of the truck with Whitey behind the wheel.  And, guess what!  He drove me STRAIGHT to the police station!"

Pickles sits silently, then realizes he forgot to add one last thing to his unfolding story to Anna.

"What are we going to do about Whitey?"

Anna stirs sugar into her coffee with a little more feeling than usually as Pickles tells his tale.

Well, Pickles, for sure it sounds like one thing we need to do for a start is buy him a map.. perhaps he was hoping for a favor from one of the agents we bribe? Maybe some driving lessons as well.. I know when he drives trucks for me, I surely get the fear of God put into me. I mean, listening to Whitey is usually a safe move, but that.. I guess he lost his head for a little while there.

Anna finally stops stirring the coffee and takes a sip, wincing a little as the hot liquid scalds the inside of her mouth. Putting the cup back down on the table, a smile lights up her face.

Perhaps we should track Whitey down, Pickles.. teach him how to follow directions? Possibly with the help of a very shiny fork? Or perhaps a rusty hubcap?

"I say we chase him out of town with pitchforks and torches!" exclaims Pickles!  Then he pulls out his 47 Enterprises © Collapsible Pitchfork - Angry Mob Edition ™.   He hands it to Anna while making an impromptu torch out of the table cloth.

"To the streets?" Pickles asked Anna.

Pickles thinks back to the glorious days of angry mobs with their torches and pitchforks chasing Frankenstein's monster out of the village.  Then he remembers the actual book by Mary Shelly . . . such a gentle educated creation who just wanted to thrash the Swiss doctor for making him a monster . . . but, Whitey was no such creature.  He needed to feel the wrath of mob rule.  Or at least a pointy prong to the posterior.

Taking the pitchfork, Anna feels at first a little uneasy at the prospect of going after a fellow New Yorker with an angry mob, until she remembers all the times Whitey has tried to steal her prized stash of hubcaps, and finds herself clutching the pitchfork tightly, her eyes glowing. 'A pitchfork,' she thought to herself 'would make a fantastic tool for forcing the more stubborn hubcaps off.. and Whitey's car has had hubcaps on a day too long!'. Rallying herself, and thinking of the four shiny hubcaps she would surely be adding to her collection at the end of the day, she twirls her newly acquired pitchfork around in her hands, nearly knocking over the drinks on the table. Looking at Pickles, she smiles, an evil light in her eyes, and says in a menacing tone,

Let's do this. All his hubcaps shall be ours!

Anna skips towards the door, pointing her pitchfork at random at the other patrons of the cafe, attracting some very curious looks. 'If only they knew how much self control it takes to not yell "ROAR!" at them too', she thinks to herself, and shakes her head a little sadly.

Pickles and Anna head north on the street, dead-set on ousting Whitey from his comfortable home.  Anna whispers into Pickles' ear, and they stop, turn around, and head south on the street, dead-set on ousting Whitey form his comfortable home.  Pickles turns to Anna, "You know what would be really nifty?  Some kind of global positioning system so we don't get lost again."  Anna nods.

In his mind, Pickles has a veritable army of angry people full of the mob mentality behind him.  But instead only a stray cat follows them on their quest.  After walking a few blocks, they arrive at Whiteys house.  They stop.  "Now what?" asks Pickles, unsure of how to proceed.  Too bad 47 Enterprises © doesn't publish a book titled "How To Lead An Angry Mob."

He hands his torch to Anna, and rings the door bell.  He waits.  He looks around.  Whitey's car is in the driveway.  Pickles notices the shiny hubcaps Anna was telling him about.  Why isn't he answering.  He rings the door bell again.  Then he knocks.  And knocks again.  Still nothing.

"Should we have called ahead to make sure he's home?"

Anna starts poking the rose bushes with her pitchfork.

"Maybe we should leave a note?  I don't suppose you brought any toilet paper or rotten eggs?"

Pickles sits down on the front door steps confused.  Wondering how to proceed next.

"What do we do now, Anna?  Whitey ruined this for me, too!"

Whitey opened the door to the front of his house and strolled out carelessly in a robe and slippers, a half smoked cigar hanging lazily from his mouth. 

Can I help you fine folks with something?

Whitey took a large roll of money out of his robe and started counting it, with a cheeky grin and a twinkle in his eye.

Ya know, 100% of $500,000 is a hell of a lot better than 20%

Picking her way carefully through the grass, trying to ensure not a single speck of dirt would mark her freshly dry cleaned black trousers, Anna turns to Pickles and lightly pats him on the shoulder.

Well Pickles, we did try. We really did try. I guess it just wasn't meant to be.

Anna leans down to stroke the stray cat as it wound itself around her ankles, and as she does so, she spots the shiny hubcaps of Whitey's car; suddenly, her whole demenour changes. A look of wild happiness spreads across her face, and quick as a flash, she crouches down beside the front left wheel, shielding her work with her back - after all, she must protect trade secrets. With a satisfying clang, the first hubcap hits the floor, and she moves on to the next wheel, then the next, then the next. With all four hubcaps gathered in her arms, she leaves her trademark under the wipers of the front window; a small drawing of a hubcap. 

As a flight flicks on in the upstairs of the house, Anna's head snaps upwards and she mutters under her breath, Pickles, RUN!, before taking off around the corner with speed herself, her loot still in her arms. As Pickles catches up to her a couple of streets away, she turns and says to him, Don't tell me the night you spent in jail wasn't worth it for these things?

Whitey watched silently as Anna stole his hubcaps. He should've known she wouldn't pay him a speck of attention when there were hubcaps about. Whitey stared at Pickles' open mouth and dead eyes, he knew Whitey would be furious they'd stolen the hubcaps off his Cabriolet. Anna started to book it but Pickles stared at Whitey a little longer...

'BOO!' Whitey bellowed at Mr. Pickles

At this, Pickles too followed after Anna hurriedly, knowing Whitey for having a temper. After seeing two Dons steal his hubcaps and scamper off frightened as a house cat being chased by a junkyard dog, he doubled over in laughter, wiping tears away from his squinted bloodshot eyes. He removed the 'cigar' from his mouth and looked at it with admiration.

'This shit might just be too good.'

Whitey took another puff and strolled off to his car to find his hubcap and make cheeky comments about the two Dons, so he could laugh at their expense. 

Pickles and Anna run away as fast as they can, then Pickles stops Anna . . .

"Hey, I think I forgot something back there!  I could have sworn I showed up with a torch."

Anna grabs Pickles onto the sidewalk from the street as a fire truck zooms past.  They look back at the smoke billowing from Whitey's house.  Pickles' and Anna's eyes got wide and they both had the same thought.

"RUN FASTER!" screamed Pickles.  Unfortunately for Pickles, Anna isn't thinking that. 

She pushes Pickles in front a policeman and yelled "He's an arsonist!  He kidnapped me at pitchfork point!  Pitch point?  Fork point?  He did it!  He did it!  He did it!"

And once again, Pickles is arrested.

___________________________________________________

Pickles sits in jail fuming!  No, he doesn't smell bad, he's angry!  Once again, he has been kept down by the woman.  Forced to fail . . . by the woman.  The woman was oppressing him again.  Who is this woman?

"Damn Anna!" Pickles kicks the metal bars that serve as his exterior wall.  "Don't trust Anna!"  Pickles yelled while clanking his tin cup against the bars.  Someone in another cell starts playing a harmonica.  What's the world without a good cliche?

LuckyLuciano sits on his bed in his cell, three down from Pickles.

"How many times are you going to do this to yourself Pickles?" He yells down the block. "Or.... here's a better question, how many fucking times are they gonna break your ass out, while I sit here and rot. I honestly think Whitey and Anna are just playing with you. They let me serve my time cause I'm no fun, but you? HA! You make for a show if you get loose."

Luciano quiets down, mutters to himself and rolls onto his uncomfortable plank of a bed. Two more days. Just two more days of this bullshit.