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the Yuma Territorial Prison. It was broken only by the distant percussive
stutter of automatic-weapons fire and intermittent explosions.
Bronzini came up out of his crouch. In the courtyard, cameras stood
unattended. His guards were gone. Bronzini wasted no time. He attacked the
cell door. The wrought iron was held in place by two horizontal crosspieces
attached to hinges. Since the former hellhole of Arizona had been turned into
a tourist attraction, the cell doors had been maintained with an eye toward
appearance, not practicality. Bronzini knelt beside one crosspiece and tried
to force it. The screws were embedded in three-foot-thick stone walls. He felt
some give, but not much. The top crosspiece felt solid.
Bronzini looked around the cell. There were only a bed and a plain wooden
dresser for furniture, but in the center of the stone floor a fat steel
restraining ring was bolted to a metal plate. Bronzini went to this. He
squatted over it, taking a position not much different from one he used to
lift heavy weights.
Bronzini began pulling slowly, then with greater force. The veins in his
reddening neck bulged. He groaned: The ring refused to budge, but he was
Bartholomew Bronzini, the man with the greatest muscles in Hollywood. He
grunted and groaned with the strain. Sweat soaked the hack of his black
leather combat suit.
Bronzini's animal-like groans grew into a crescendo, and were joined by
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another groan-the inhuman cry of metal stressed-to the breaking point.
The plate gave: Bronzini fell on his ass. But he had the ring. He jumped up
and attacked the door with it. It took very little time. One hinge cracked.
Another one came free. The door hung by the padlock. Bronzini shoved it aside
impatiently.
He stepped out into the stone courtyard and made his way past the rows of
open-air cells until he came to the parking lot. He moved cautiously, although
he expected to encounter no opposition.
There was a pickup parked in front of the museum gift shop. Bronzini got in
and hot-wired the engine and soon had the pickup squealing up Prison Hill
Road.
Bronzini drove recklessly, not exactly sure where he was going or what he was
going to do once he got there. The roads were deserted, but as he pulled into
the city, there were people standing in their yards, looking anxious and
confused. Bronzini pulled up to one of them.
"Yo! What's going down?" he barked.
"The Japanese have pulled back into town," an older man said excitedly.
"There's heavy fighting, but no one knows who they're mixing it up with."
"Rangers?"
"Your guess is as good as anyone's. We're all wondering what to do."
"Why don't you fight? It's your city."
"With what?" the man demanded. "They took all our guns."
"So? This is Arizona. The wild west. Take 'em back."
The man peered closer. "Say, now, aren't you that actor fella? Bronzini."
"I'm not exactly proud of it right now, but yeah."
"Didn't recognize you without your headband."
Bronzini cracked a pained grin. "This wasn't supposed to be a Grundy movie.
Know where I can find some guns?"
"Why?"
"Back where I come from, if you make a mess, you clean it up."
"Now, that's right smart reasoning. They're supposed to have weapons cached at
the Shilo Inn," Bronzini was told. "Maybe you could sort of spread 'em
around."
"If I do, will you and your friends fight?"
"Shucks, Bart. I seen every one of your movies. I'd fight with you any day."
"Tell your friends, I'll be back."
Bronzini took off. He floored the pickup until he got to the Shilo Inn. As he
pulled into the parking lot, he spotted uniformed Japanese troops in the
lobby. Bronzini wheeled the pickup into a parking space, and there, leaning
between two cars, was his Harley. He slipped over to it and kicked the
starter.
The Harley gave a full-throated roar that brought a smile to Bronzini's
sleepy-eyed face. He backed it up and sent it rocketing toward the lobby
entrance.
Attracted by the noise, two Japanese came out shouting. The Japanese had
AK-47's. But Bronzini had the element of surprise. He went through them like a
hurricane. They threw themselves to the ground. The bike hit the curb and
vaulted through the glass doors. It wasn't special-effects candy-glass,
however. Bronzini sustained a gash that opened up one cheek, and a shard
embedded itself in his right thigh.
Undeterred, Bronzini danced off the careening bike and landed on the plush
lobby seats. He yanked the triangle of glass from his thigh and used it to
slash open the jugular of the Japanese who jumped from behind the front desk.
Bronzini pried the AK-47 from the guard's fingers. He pulled off the bayonet
and sheathed it down his boot. Then he stepped outside and sprayed the two
guards while they were picking themselves off the ground.
That accomplished, Bronzini raced through the firstfloor rooms. He found the
guns behind a door marked with the Red Christmas Productions symbol-a
Christmas tree silhouetted against a mushroom cloud. This was the film's
in-town production office. Bronzini carried the rifles out to the pickup under
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both arms. He filled up the bed with rifles and crated hand grenades and then
lifted his Harley into the back by main strength.
Before he drove off, he tore one of the sleeves off his combat suit and used
it to dress his leg wound. There was some cloth left over and Bronzini tied it
over his forehead to keep the sweat out of his eyes.
"What the fuck," he said as he climbed behind the wheel. "Maybe we'll retitle
this Grundy's Last Stand." Bronzini returned to the knot of men. It had
doubled in size. He distributed the guns from the back of the pickup. While
the men checked their weapons, he raised his voice.
"Yo! Listen up, everybody. There's more guns back at the hotel. Form teams and
go get them. After that, it's up to you. It's your city."
Bronzini mounted the Harley and started her up. "Hey, where are you going?" a
man asked.
"It's your city, but it's my problem," he said, shoving stick grenades into
his belt. "I got a score to settle." And with that, Bartholomew Bronzini
roared off, his ponytail dancing after him like a fugitive spirit.
Jiro Isuzu no longer had to rely on radio reports confirming that his crack
units were being decimated. He had only to look out the window where the tanks
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