"Oh, don't worry!" Howard said cheerfully, beaming as he took the speeding ticket as if it were a holy grail. "I have plenty."

As if to show the officer, Howard pulled the key from his ignition and jingled it in front of Kyle's face. A Ho-oh themed keychain with Kyle's face branded onto it danced in front of the officer's nose. Arceus above, the League did not put much effort into cranking out those keychains. It was as if they didn't even know what the Top Champion looked like, before tossing the design into an oven and letting it melt slightly.

"You're the Top Champion! I have all your matches on tape!"

This was incredible! Incredibly fucking terrible. The Top Champion was stopping them! To make matters worse, there was a stolen safe in the trunk of the car! If Kyle caught on, Howard, Shred, and Grigori were ultra-mega-turbo-fucked. They'd be sent to prison for years, and Walsh would willingly throw away the key.

"Ehehehehehe... Thanks for the autogr... ticket! Thanks for the ticket, Mr. Lopez sir!" Howard inspected it with awe. The lazy signature, the apathetic strokes... This was it!

This was the signature of a man who spent most of his time playing video games and browsing the internet!

"We'll be on our way now!" Howard beamed at Kyle, with the hope that the Top Champion would forget about the trunk. "Bye-bye, pooch!"

---

kyle lopez Shred Zeppelin Grigori Sokolov

Top champion? Of what? Grigori remained further and further from the truth of the matter as Howard continued to gush to their potential guillotine. Maybe this had to do with some video game, and this cop was one of them ‘streamers’ that played to a live audience. But then… this looked terrible for Howard.

Did Howard have a parasocial relationship with a police officer?

He made a mental note to ask who that was after this encounter. For now, the grunt nodded along to the officer’s assessment of the driver’s enthusiasm. “Idolization only leads to disappointment and suffering.”

But they got their ticket. It looked like no one would actually check the trunk. Did they come out of this encounter unscathed? Some part of Grigori wanted the cop to check the trunk and arrest them all. After all, this was blatant theft and assault. The other part of him said to shut it and stay low profile.

He needed to take his mind off this low anxious feeling. So, he tried to peer over Howard’s shoulder. “Mr. Howard, how much did this… oh good heavens. Mr. Shred, do you see what I’m seeing on that ticket?”

That number was as the kids say, ‘Obscene’. Crazy. Could their driver even afford a price like that?

---

howard slayte Shred Zeppelin kyle lopez

You don't respond.

Not to Kyle's lackadaisical attitude to law enforcement, not to Grigori's visceral reaction to the weight of the fine, and certainly not to Howard's shameless display of bootlicking. No, you just slump back in your chair and stare into the middle distance. If your eyes move even an inch away from the Sprote Cranberry billboard that you've locked your eyes too, you're pretty sure it'll cause your brain to melt.

So, not quite content but still eager for any exit to this car crash of a social scenario, you just watch and wait as Howard drives away like nothing ever happened.

...You think you might be depressed now.

---

howard slayte Grigori Sokolov kyle lopez

"Alright. Gotcha. Awesome! Thank you, Mr. Lopez!" Howard beamed as he started the car and held the ticket reverently, as if it were a gift from the heavens. In a sense, it was. If the heavens were ruled by a lazy gamer and his absentee Ho-oh, at least. "Goodbye, Pooch! This rocks!"

Howard turned to Shred and gestured at the ticket. "See? Look how lucky we are?"

Shred and Grigori had never seen Howard so happy to finally declare bankruptcy.

Reaching for his checkbook, Howard casually wrote a check to pay off the fine and tossed it at Grigori. "You can mail that for me, yeah?" Despite Howard's bemoaning at paying for extra fries, the archaeologist seemed perfectly content to throw his money away at Kyle Lopez, his tickets, and various flavors of Kyle Lopez merchandise.

"He didn't check the trunk." Howard said, cackling as they drove off. "He didn't check the trunk!"

"Wait."

"Is there a body in my trunk?" Howard asked as they turned the corner onto the interstate.

---

kyle lopez Shred Zeppelin Grigori Sokolov

How the absolute fuck did they get away with that? Was all it took an unhealthy obsession with a police officer in order to get out of absolute arrest? This felt surreal. Grigori could only watch as the cop walked away, Howard started the car, and he was told to mail in a check for him.

“...Mr. Howard, who the heck was that? And why are you so obsessed with him,” he asked. However, he quickly followed it up with the shake of his head. “On second thought, I don’t think I want to know.”

He slumped in his chair, blood smeared on his face and a jacket way too small for him on his back. This was certainly a ‘good’ thing– not for society as a whole, but for the lot of them. Not because they broke the law, but because the driver probably had some relationship issues and formed one with someone that barely knew him. Even after he’d asked to check the trunk.

Grigori slurped from his near melted Freezy and contemplated the course of events that lead them here. “Well, Mr. Shred. I know there is a safe in there. Did you actually…?”

---

howard slayte Shred Zeppelin kyle lopez

...You're gonna to do it. You're really gonna do it this time. You're going to kill Howard and then yourself, and you're going to make Grigori watch. You're seriously gonna do it. YOU'RE GONNA FUCKING DO IT...

"...No, Howard. There are no bodies in the trunk of your car." You deadpan. If looks could kill, yours would have atomised the archaeologist in an instant. He would've been reduced to little more than cosmic dust before your blistering gaze. Naught but memories would remain. "But there's definitely one idiot in here, and he's in the driver's seat."

You proceed to slap the man over the back of his head. Then, you flop back into your seat. Arceus, you're tired. You need to go to bed. Preferably for sixteen hours straight.

"Fucking hell..."

Fucking hell.

---

howard slayte Grigori Sokolov kyle lopez