I guess I should've seen it coming. Smoke thinks as he sits in the back of the police patroller. His hands have been brought together by the handcuffs that were placed on him by the two police officers in the front seat. There was no point in resisting, he understood what Shane meant and did not want to put his role as captain in any more jeopardy than it already was in. Better to let it wash over now before the Lethal Lottery, rather than have it stewing afterwards.

As they are stuck in the mid-afternoon traffic, the early sunset reflecting its orange rays against the glassy walls of all the skyscraper and corner store windows in town, Smoke has time to think, as he waits to arrive at the police station - which would probably have been a shorter trip if the traffic wasn't as congested as it is.

Since moving to San Diego, a lot of things had changed. Things like how he behaved and acted around others, how he'd inflict pain if it desired him to do so (an example of this is the whole premise of the FTW UFO Championship) and basically how he's almost nothing like he was back home.

Well, that's not true. The desire to be one of the best still stood predominately in his mind but other than that nothing was really the same. I think the final nail in that coffin was stabbing a man nine times just to win a match.

Smoke Man exhales a heavy sigh. Between having his belt stolen and this whole ordeal happening with Shane , Smoke hadn't gotten enough sleep the night before. It had been a long week and he is ready to just rest - even if it meant in the custody of the San Diego Police Department. A bed's a bed any way you swing it. And right now, he's ready to sleep on anything any bed, even if the odd spring poked out of the mattress.

The traffic lights ahead slowly inch from red to green and the conga-line of cars slowly move forward at a snail's pace. See, this is why I walk everywhere.

Smoke quietly chuckles at his own thought, which must have been loud enough for one of the officers to here. He pivots on his seat and looks at Smoke through his large-lens sunglasses. The first thing noticeable about him is his rotund figure, which is greatly exaggerated by him having to slowly shuffle to actually face Smoke Man, and even then trying to adjust himself a little. He's loudly chewing some gum with his mouth wide open, similar to how a giraffe eats fruit from the trees. Except he's not eating fruit. And his neck is nowhere near thin.

Is somethin' funny boi?

The man's accent is an almost perfect replication of what young kids do when they are asked to do an American accent: a deep and more-or-less exaggerated Texan vibe. All of this, coupled with the fact that this officer in particular was the one who was driving, very nearly sends Smoke in fits of laughter.

But he contains himself, keeping his face still and level, staring at his own reflection in the cops glasses.

Ah thought so.

A car beeps its horn from behind the police car, telling it to hurry up. The cop looks over Smoke Man's head and out the rear window, yelling:

Ah'm moovin' ya fuckin' commy!

He shuffles as fast as he can until he is facing forward and out the window. The road ahead is almost completely devoid of cars, except for a few just passing through a green light down the road. The officer accelerates the police car down the road and towards the lights. But just as he gets there, the lights turn red.

The fat officer slams his hand on the top of the steering wheel, to a chorus of car horns going on behind them.

Got fuckin' damm-eet!

Smoke sighs heavily once again.

This is going to be a looong ride.