Free Kick Ass by Carl Hiaasen

mandatory semi-nude swimming scene.
    2. The Dumb Blond Jock is the next to be mangled.
    3. The Goofy Comic-Relief Guy is third on the menu (and the only character whose mutilation seems to sadden the audience).
    4. Next is the Concerned Cop, who gets beheaded.
    5. Then there’s quite a tedious Stalking Sequence, with lots of bad camera work and bass violas.
    6. The climax is the tired old Car-Won’t-Start-Scene, with Mr. Mutilator clumsily hacking his way through the convertible top.
    7. Finally the killer is gored, stabbed, burned and run over by the young collegiate heroine, who is (I swear) a self-proclaimed virgin and proud of it. She also is a master of kung fu, as any Southern California virgin must be.
    During all this carnage I expect raucous outbursts from the crowd, but the theater is reverently quiet, as if we are watching Olivier do Hamlet.
    According to my notes, the only audible exclamation comes during the decapitation scene when a man in the back row cries, “Oh s!” Which pretty much sums up my sentiments, too.
    Sitting one row ahead of me is a handsome gray-haired woman with an embroidered shopping bag. She watches the entire film silently, without a murmur or a flinch. In fact, she is sitting so still that I begin to worry that she might have passed away during the marlin-gaff scene.
    But, moments after the final mutilation, the old woman bolts for the exit, understandably eager to escape before the house lights come on. I catch up with her and ask what she thought of The Mutilator.
    She smiles and says, “It’s incredible, yes?”
    Oh yes.
     
    Crowd gripped by “real” crime drama
    April 12, 1986
    One color of death was bright yellow.
    Yellow were the police ribbons that stretched from tree to tree, to keep people away. The ribbons fluttered in the morning breeze, and crisscrossed in mock gaiety the Kendall neighborhood. Outside the ribbons, crowds stood and stared. On the inside, men with radios and clipboards and tape measures and cameras moved grimly from one corpse to the next. There were four corpses in all.
    Yellow was the color of the plastic sheets that covered the two FBI agents, who lay dead in the shade of a black olive tree. Occasionally the breeze would lift the sheets, and a policeman or federal agent would hurry forward to cloak them again.
    The dead killers lay bloody and uncovered.
    Incredibly, seven agents had been shot here. It was the bloodiest day in the FBI’s history. A federal prosecutor who knew the dead agents watched and wept. He was not alone.
    From an elevated parking ramp, reporters, photographers, TV cameramen and dozens of bystanders looked down on the tableau, at the intersection of Southwest 82nd Avenue and 122nd Street. Construction workers drank beer and guessed about how it had happened. A lady shopper with an Instamatic snapped a picture.
    It was a bright cloudless day, a day when all the colors of death were vivid.
    The broad bloodstain in the middle of the road was already burgundy, turning to brown in the heat.
    A shotgun lay nearby, five empty green shells shining like emeralds on the pavement. A few feet away was a black-barreled pistol and, beyond that, what looked like an automatic rifle.
    During the chase, two cars had crunched into a bottlebrush tree, its blossoms crimson; beneath its outer branches were two cream-colored FBI Buicks, one pocked by bullet holes. The brake lights were still on.
    Once all this had been noted and absorbed, there was little else to see.The shooting had lasted only minutes. It had been quiet for hours now, and still we stood and watched. The wounded were gone, die dead were silent.
    Up the ramp came several Palmetto High School students, some skipping class, others taking an extra-long lunch break. None of them was clowning around, but the distance from the bodies made casual talk an easier thing.
    A blond teenager in a sleeveless T-shirt watched for a few minutes, then turned to go. “Death in Miami,” he said to some