he scene is the non-descript, grey-walled office of a lieutenant. A desk covered in neatly organized piles of papers sits in a corner facing two padded leather chairs. The windows of the office are adorned with blinds -- lowered, but not closed -- and they provide a view of the rest of the precinct, replete with detectives sitting at their desks, wandering officers, victims’ families and the odd lawyer.

Leaning against the desk is Lt. Core; six feet tall, barrel-chested, with short, black, slicked-back hair. To his right and holding a coiled notebook is Officer Landt; as tall, but slimmer and younger, despite the prematurely grey hair on his temples. Seated in one of the chairs is the fifty-something, but still fit and muscular Owens, a member of the Special Gang Land Operations Unit, and Martin, the fat, bald, red-faced mayor’s liaison.

Lt. Core: Gentlemen, I don’ want to waste your time. Lord knows we don’t have much of it. The Hot Snakes are back.

Owens: What?

Martin: I thought they were finished.

Lt. Core: So did we. After that ambush in 2000 we were positive we wouldn’t have to deal with those punks again, but --

Martin: Those scum ransacked our summer social.

Lt. Core: I know --

Martin: They gave the mayor a stroke.

Lt. Core: It was a very powerful assault --

Martin: They mock everything this town stands for.

Owens: Shut up, Henry. What are we going to do, Jack?

Lt. Core: Well, we learned about the possibility of a second siege some time ago --

Martin: And you’re just telling us now?

Lt. Core: We didn’t want to alarm anyone before it was absolutely necessary. I’ve been working day and night with Officer Landt, digging up dirt and gathering as much information about the Hot Snakes as we can in order to brace ourselves for what’s to come. Go ahead, Gerald.

Landt: (Opening his notebook.) Thanks, Jack. First of all, this new attack is being assembled the same as the last one: with little to no outside help. The Hot Snakes have always preferred to do everything themselves. That’s good for us. The fewer involved in this mess the better. But overall, it seems as though the Hot Snakes are plotting something different this time around.

Owens: How so?

Landt: Their ideas are no longer coming from a central member and being carried out by a select crew of lackies. Hot Snakes have become collaborative, a partnership.

Martin: That’s good, isn’t it? That bastard -- that John Reis -- as much as it sickens me to say it, he’s a mastermind. The less he has to do with things the better, right?

Landt: Not necessarily. It would only be advantageous if the men Reis is working with were dolts, first-timers or born losers. Unfortunately...

Owens: What is it?

Landt: Froberg’s still around.

Owens: Shit.

Martin: Good lord.

Landt: And he’s taking on more responsibility. All our information points to Froberg becoming more than just a mouth-piece. He’s plotting and planning with Reis every step of the way.

Owens: (Running his hand over his face.) What else?

Landt: We can’t be certain at this point, but we think Gar Wood is a full time member of Hot Snakes now. Previously he had just rode along when they would infiltrate other towns, but it seems as if he’s decided to join full time.

Martin: Why do these sons-of-a-bitches insist on ruining their lives?

Owens: What does that mean for us, Ger?

Landt: In a word: trouble. I don’t need to tell you, Terry, that a larger gang is a more dangerous gang. Especially when they’re --

Owens: Organized.

Landt: Yeah. (He looks at the pale, baffled faces of the men in the room.) There is some good news. (The men focus on Landt’s face.) Kourkounis is missing.

Martin: Are you serious?

Owens: Where is he?

Landt: (Looks in his book.) Presumed to be...somewhere else.

Martin: Christ.

Landt: We don’t know. We don’t know where he is, but sources tell us that he is no longer affiliated with Hot Snakes. He does have a replacement.

Owens: Who?

Landt: J. Sinclair.

Martin: Who the hell is that? I’ve never heard of him? Is he dangerous?

Landt: We don’t know.

Martin: My my, thank you so much for the vital information.

Landt: We’ve done all we can --

Martin: Jack, why don’t you have someone more experienced working on this?

Landt: With all due respect, sir --

Martin: Please, son, the grown-ups are talking.

Core: Alright, alright. Enough. First of all, Henry, you asked if Sinclair is dangerous. Obviously he is. He’s a goddamn Hot Snake. Second, you were invited here. Your presence is a courtesy, not a necessity. You show my men, especially the ones volunteering for this operation, some respect. Understand?

Martin: Yes I do. My apologies, Officer Landt.

Landt: Don’t worry about it. I seem to remember reading some reports in the Star about you and the Hot Snakes.

(Martin becomes visibly upset.)

Owens: (Pats Martin’s knee.) We all do, Henry. That’s why we’re here.

Martin: She was going to marry Bert Waskit’s boy, Bert Waskit, Jr. Jesus, did she drag it out for a while. Her mother did the same thing to me. He asked her to marry him three times. The first time Bert Waskit, Jr. asked her she said “maybe” and then didn’t talk to him for two weeks after word. After the second proposal she ignored him for a week. Third time, she said yes as if it was the greatest surprise she had ever been given. (He begins to blubber.) It was, too. That boy, that Bert Waskit, Jr. was as charismatic as his daddy and was going to be just as successful.

Core: You don’t have to re-hash this, Henry. We all know the story.

Martin: And then the day came. June 8, 2001. Three hundred people in Scharrin’s Park. White taffeta and blue roses. My little girl on my arm. (He’s crying now.) Tears streaming down my Mary’s face, god rest her soul. The preacher spoke...“Does anyone...have...objections...”

Owens: Come on, Henry. Cut it out.

Martin: And then she looked over at me. “Sorry, daddy.” She took off her veil and slid off her dress, right there in the park. I could hear the crowd gasp as they saw her bare back. Three of her aunts fainted. She turned to face the crowd, to apologize...and I...saw...it. (He folds in half on his chair.)

Owens: (Pitting an arm around Martin.) Jesus, Henry.

Landt: What? What was it?

Lt. Core: (Grabbing tissues from off the top of his filing cabinet.) Never mind.

Landt: Come on, Jack.

Lt. Core: (Giving a tissue to Owens who gives it to Martin.) No.

Landt: I think I deserve to know.

Owens: It was a tattoo, Gerald. Big. Black. Block letters. Guess what it said.

Landt: (Quietly.) “Hot Snakes”?

Martin: (Sits up in his chair.) OH GOD!

Owens: Please, Henry, calm down.

Martin: BERT WASKIT! (He falls into Owens and sobs.)

Landt: Fuck me. (To Core) What happened then, Jack.

Core: (Checks to see Martin is not listening.) She ran, in nothing but lace panties, toward a black car. She hopped in and disappeared. Last contact anyone had with her was a birth notice she mailed to her mother. Bouncing baby boy. Arturo Beckett Reis.

Landt: That miserable shit. We’ve gotta take ’em down, Jack. I could give a shit about Martin, but these guys have no business behaving the way they do. No regard for the rules. Not a whit of consideration for the way things are supposed to be.

A knock on the door, and in leans a gorgeous, gigantic-breasted, black-haired receptionist.

Receptionist: Lieutenant, there’s a very rough looking kid out here who says he needs to see you.

Owens: (Quietly) Oh no.

Core: Send him away. We’re busy.

Receptionist: He says it’s about the Hot Snakes.

Owens: You heard him, Glory, get him out of here.

Receptionist: Fuck you, Terry. What do you want me to tell him, Jack? He looks very bad.

Core: Did he say anything specific?

Receptionist: No. Just that he needs to see someone about the Hot Snakes right now.

Owens: I don’t think we have time for this, Jack.

Core: Thanks, Terry, but I think we should see what’s up. Let him come.

Receptionist: Okay. I’ll make sure he’s still conscious. (Leaves.)

Owens: I thought you said we don’t have much time. Why are we bothering with some nut job passed out in reception? We need to get to work. Now.

Core: Let it, go Terry. What we need is more info. Maybe this kid can help us out.

Owens: I hope you’re right. This time.

Core glares at Owens as the door opens. Propped up by Glory, Stintz staggers into the room carrying a paper bag. He is beaten, his hair is a mess, dried blood lines his nostrils. Owens stands up and leads him into a chair.

Stintz: (Hissing in Owens’ ear) Fucker.

Core: Stintz? What are you doing here? What happened?

Stintz holds up the bag, it’s 12”X12”. He hands it to Core. Core opens the bag and slides out what appears to be a vinyl record. On the top of the bright yellow record jacket one can clearly make out the words “Hot Snakes.”

Concerned by the silence that has swept over the room, Martin looks up. He sees the record and jumps to his feet. He lunges at the record and attempts to wrench it from Core. He is subdued by Landt and Owens. He sits back in his chair and seethes.

The three cops inspect the record.

Core: Hmm. Suicide Invoice. Twelve songs.

Owens: They don’t even have the guts to list their names on the jacket. Cowards.

Landt: Look at the shrink-wrap. It’s been opened.

Core: Have you heard this, Stintz?

Stintz: Yeah. They made me.

Core: Who?

Stintz: Who? Who do you think? The Hot Snakes.

Landt: What? What were you doing anywhere near them?

Stintz squints maliciously at Owens.

Stintz: He made me.

Core: What?

Owens: That’s bullshit.

Core: What’s he talking about, Terry?

Owens: He’s not talking about anything. He’s lying.

Stintz: He told me that you had fucked up last time Hot Snakes were in town and that he’d be damned if he was going to let you do it again.

Core: Terry? This true?

Owens (glares in silence at Stintz before turning to Core.): Yes. I didn’t want to see my town terrorized again. I respect you, Jack, but you blew it last time. Henry, the mayor and I thought we could prevent another attack if we infiltrated the Hot Snakes.

Stintz: Worked pretty good, didn’t it, Owens.

Owens: Shut your mouth, you little snot, you little failure. Seems to me you were supposed to get back to us before the record came out. Failing that, it was back to rehab for you.

Core: Jesus Christ. You pulled this poor kid out of rehab, out of Automatic Midnight rehab no less and then sent him off to mingle with the Hot Snakes? You’re not authorized to make those decisions, Terry. The chief’s going to hear about this.

Martin: The chief already knows.

Core is dumbstruck. He gapes at Owens and Martin, and then at Landt who shares his disgust and shock.

Owens: You’re out, Jack.

Landt: This is bullshit. How does something like this even happen.

Martin: Cool your jets, sonny. Things like this happen all the time. All you need to know is that it is happening.

The men are silent as they let the power in the room shift.

Core: (Handing the record to Owens.) We’re going to have to listen to this.

Stintz: (Sitting up in his chair, very attentive.) Right now? Can I stay?

Owens: So long as you keep quiet.

Stintz: Mmm. It’s really fucking good. I know you pigs are too square for this shit, but --

Landt: Shut up, Stintz.

Owens: (handing the record to Landt, smiling all the while.) How would you like to help me. Young man. Drop the needle on this, Ger.

Landt (through clenched teeth): Fine.

Landt heads over to the stereo, lifts the cover and turns on the amp. He slides the record out of the sleeve and stops dead in his tracks, shaking his head.

Landt: Damn it.

Core: No.

Landt: Yeah.

Core: Don’t say it.

Landt: It’s 180 gram.

Core and Owens grimace. Landt gently lays the record down and drops the needle on the first groove of the first side. Stintz slides out of his chair and onto the floor. He crawls over to the nearest speaker and clings to it. Martin is disgusted, Owens is satisfied. Landt and Core are looking at the floor.

Rumbling noise begins seeping from the speakers. Stintz gasps and begins to shake in delirious expectation. Core goes to Stintz, lifts him up and settles him into Core’s chair firmly.

A slow, jagged stagger begins pounding from the speakers. It’s “I Hate the Kids”.

Owens: Is...is Froberg crooning ?

Martin: Why’s it so slow?

The song progresses, restrained and deliberate, a mournful, Clinic-like wail (a keyboard? a mouth organ? the men don’t know) pierces the din seldom enough to give it an air of absolute dread. There are a few volume shifts, but nothing recalling the balls-to-the-wall opening of the Hot Snakes’ last attack.

Landt: That wasn’t so bad.

Stintz: (Chuckling uneasily.) Just wait.

The driving clatter of “Gar Forgets His Insulin” begins.

Owens: Uh oh.

Stintz: Mmmhmm.

The vocals cry, “He’s in a drawer/He’s in a bag/He’s on a lazy Suzanne/He’s on the slab.”

Martin: What the hell is he singing about? The death of the bass player? What is wrong with these people ? Don’t they care about anything ?

Landt: It sounds like they’re playing rockabilly in an airport hangar.

The next song, “XOX” begins. It is as immediate and as bracing a song as any of the men have ever heard.

Stintz: (shuddering with pleasure) Fuck.

The dissonant, clashing guitars give way to a thick, muscle-bound chorus.

Martin: Why do they do that?! Why can’t they just keep the serious songs serious and the rock songs light and fun? Why do they insist on combining them?

Core: Because it works.

The men are silent after Core’s statement. They sit motionless until a solitary guitar clang near the end of the song startles all of them. “Who Died” begins.

Landt: It sounds like they’re swaggering right by us.

Core: They’re confident.

Owens: Listen to Froberg. He sounds so...relaxed.

Core: They’re not afraid of us anymore.

The heavy, mid-tempo stomp subsides.

Martin: I don’t know what to make of this song. That one didn’t hurt like --

The album’s title track begins, a thumping, percussive stew of guitar and drum.

Martin: -- oh. Oh no. This is not good.

Owens: My god. It sounds like Sonic Youth with that hussie from the Detroit Cobras singing for them.

Core: Please, Terry.

Owens: What?

Core: Don’t do that.

Owens: Don’t do what?

Core: That fucking “this band sounds like Band A plus Band B”. That’s for limp-dick rock critics.

Owens: Maybe. But it’s true.

Core is silent. He listens to the rest of the song.

Core: Yeah. You’re right.

“Paid in Cigarettes” begins. It’s an air-y, hardly distorted, laid-back track with an off-time verse. With the exception of some soaring guitar breaks, the song barely registers with the cops.

Martin: (Laughing.) Hah. You can’t even clap your hands to this. These fools.

Owens: I think we can handle this.

Core: I don’t know. I know it’s not my place to disagree with you, chief , but this song worries me.

Stintz giggles.

Owens: Really. How so?

Core: It’s too breezy, and -- see, listen to that creepy, atmospheric ending. The other shoes got to drop, Terry. I’m almost glad you completely fucked me over for seniority on this one.

Owens: Blah, blah, blah.

Martin: Yeah, Jack. Be a man. For once.

Landt: (Lunging at Martin) You old shit.

Owens gets in between Martin and Landt. Core shoves Owens. Two wrestling matches ensue. The skirmish subsides when the four warring men hear the orgasmic grunts of Stintz, who has begun grinding his crotch against one of the speakers.

Core: Sweet Jesus. That’s it. Stintz, get out.

Stintz: No. I need to hear this.

Core: (Corralling Stintz, pushing him out the door and squeezing the door shut on him.) Out.

With order restored, Owens makes his way to the stereo and plays the second side of Suicide Invoice . “LAX” bursts from the speakers.

Core: I knew it.

Owens: Christ. These songs all follow such a basic formula. Angular guitars --

Landt: Driving, simple rhythms --

Core: Shouted lyrics --

Owens: But they always seem to work.

Martin: But we can stop this, right Terry? Terry?

Owens (Looks at the stereo and then at Martin.): I hope so.

Landt: It’s over already?

“Bye Nancy Boy” begins, a romp of pounding chords rounded off by sharp picking.

Core: Did you hear that?

Landt: Yeah.

Martin: What? Hear what?

Landt: That keyboard woven into the chorus. Very subversive. Very destructive.

Martin (Looks at Owens.) Did you hear that?

Owens: Huh? Yeah. Of course I did.

For the remainder of the album the men sit in silence. Occasionally one will open his mouth to say the songs he is hearing are nowhere near as riot-worthy as the material on Automatic Midnight , but then something will leap out -- the lush guitar insertions of “Paperwork”, the exceptional melodic choruses of “Why Does It Hurt” and “Unlisted”, and “Ben Gurion”’s anthemic call of “Let my people go” -- and he will close his mouth, continue to stare blankly and realize there is nothing he or anyone else in this room can do. They are up against too formidable an enemy.

When the album ends the men silently filter one-by-one from the room, drenched in problems brought about by the power of one small group of men. Landt is disillusioned by the treachery of his compatriots. Owens is in over his head. Martin’s faith in Owens is considerably shaken. Core is smiling. While not happy to be on the receiving end of another well-crafted assault, he is happy that assembling a futile defence against the Hot Snakes will not be his responsibility. He smirks as he walks out of the room.

In order to leave the room, each man must step over Stintz, who has been listening at the door. He is lying on the floor, drooling, eyes glazed over. The stage lights dim as Stintz’s repeatedly grunts and sighs. The stage is completely black.

Stintz: (Hissing in complete satisfaction.) That...Was...Goooooooood.