Oh yeah, I guess it was also good that Neal the Stunt Pilot was pretty much okay. Lucky for him, those Cupids he crashed into peed all over everything and helped put out the fire. So Neal the Stunt Pilot was basically unharmed except for the fourth-degree burns covering 60 percent of his body, a shattered femur, an obliterated spleen, and a left eyeball that was just kind of dangling out of the socket in this really gross but also totally awesome way.

Yeah, he’d probably never fly a helicopter again—he’d be lucky if he could ride a Rascal with those injuries. But let’s be honest, the skies are much safer without him. He had no idea how to conquer his fear, no ability to embrace danger, to walk down that long, dark alleyway and never turn back.

And he also wasn’t very good at dodging crazed hawks, but mostly his problem was fear.

“What are we gonna do now?” George Lukas shouted as the medics carted away the pathetic screaming stunt pilot. “We can’t just call off the shoot! This is fucking Airwolf!”

His assistant sighed and shook his head. “Craigslist doesn’t seem to have any other—”

“Wait!” George Lukas said. “What’s that sound?”

A deep, steady rhythmic thumping echoed over the smoky field. It was the sound of ancient Native American warriors beating their sacred drums before battle. It was the sound of your enemy’s heart, still beating after you tear it from his chest. It was the sound of Dr Disrespect piloting his own personal Russian Kamov Ka-27 Helix attack chopper.

I flew low over the horizon, parting the swirling clouds and landing just inches away from the Apache’s wreckage. I was also blasting a favorite song from my prototype Bose XV-9000 sound system—

Bump-tsshhh.

Bump-tsshhh-tsshhh.

“They call him Doc!”

Because I know how to make an entrance.

“What the…?” George Lukas said.

He and his assistant stared, stunned, their mouths open, their eyes wide. They looked like a couple of idiots. It was pretty funny.

My chopper’s blades slowed. I stepped out as the smoke and flames of the wreck whirled around me, along with some extra smoke from the dry-ice machines I’d brought along. My frame was massive, my superiority obvious. My hair’s black steel caught the light of the fire and my tactical goggles gleamed as I surveyed the destruction around me.

“Looks like you’ve had some helicopter problems,” I said.

Fuck, what a line.