It’s your basic sunny morning in Coral Springs where one Paul Brite is showered, shaved, and just finished running his Lexus through the neighborhood car wash. All seems absolutely hunky-dory until he is engaged in intense conversation by Mssrs. Reese and Sikes, one of whom holds a handgun to Brite’s attentive head.
A short time later, having covered about a mile, Reese turns onto a quiet side street and stops, apparently voicing some concern to his cousin that they may have screwed up mightily and locked their victim in the trunk with a cellular phone.
They agree to open the trunk and investigate Brite’s communications potential. Reese makes the move while Sikes resumes his station wagon navigator spot.
It seems that, no, they didn’t lock Brite in with a carphone, but the briar patch they threw him into happened to be where he keeps a loaded revolver and an equally stuffed semi-auto pistol, which he now holds, one in each hand, as he exits the trunk like a jack-in-the-box.
Two-Gun Paul bursts out of the trunk, loudly ordering “Brains” Reese to the ground, punctuating his commands with a few shots fired in the air. This definitely gets attention throughout the neighborhood.
Reese, no rocket scientist, greets this edict by reaching for his pocket. Brite reluctantly but resolutely pops a cap in Reese’s abdomen, which, indeed, convinces him to get on the ground.
“Stay still! Stay still!” Brite shouts, “Somebody get the police!” Reese, mortally wounded, stays very still.
And then The Little Rascals arrive. A flock of residential ragamuffins starts circling the still-energized Brite and recumbent Reese on their bicycles. Enter Jim Haire, on the run.
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