J: Good, chill off now, be cool!
J: I said cool it!
Sparks fly. Each hammer strike lands with a whipping crack. J exerts all his strength to tame the restless metals, his muscular frame shedding sweat in the glow of the flames.
Copper and tin, when combined, are temperamental and irritable, always reluctant to cooperate with J. The two metals bicker ceaselessly until they unite in the flames.
Forging bronze, though, is not nearly as difficult as dealing with steel, which manages a temper all on its own.
He must be forceful, seizing the moment, forcing the uncooperative metals to bond in the heat.
Iron is prouder and more stubborn than the others. Taming it requires a touch more nobility and persuasion.
He's drenched in sweat, each hammer strike echoing as the reverberations traverse his spine, his endurance eventually earning the metal's approval.
Aluminum is light and playful, and gold is elegant and silent, never opposing his will.
J: COOL IT!
The metal resists purposefully, but after a decisive strike of J's hammer, all becomes still.
Each and every metal eventually submits to him, like a wild horse accepting its master. A new sword is about to be born.
J: Here's hoping you're not as bloodthirsty as some of your predecessors. A good sword should only come out when it's really needed, pal.
J sets aside his tools, downs a jug of cool water, and wipes the sweat from his brow, before picking up a metal badge.
J: Nice, very nice!
A modest gift, intended for his old friends soon to be freed.
A trinket of his own design that marks the wearer as a friend of J from Haight Street.
Becket: J, someone's here for you.
J: Another sword-buying bigwig?
His last deal didn't exactly go as planned.
The visitor enters the forge ahead of J, the sheriff greeting him with a warm smile.
Sheriff Blackhand: Good morning, J. Hoo-whee, it is hot as hell in here!
The forge is still blazing hot as he enters.
J: Arming your boys with some fresh steel?
Sheriff Blackhand: Haha, no. But if you're in the market for something, just let me know.
Sheriff Blackhand: I'm going to cut to the chase before my eyebrows singe off. I need you to come down with me to the office, got some papers for you to sign.
J: So, you putting in an order or not?
Sheriff Blackhand: You wish. Nah, not buying anything. It's about your immigrant friends.
The time has come for him to keep his promise.
Sheriff Blackhand: I've worked something out between the Mayor's Office and INS. They'll let your friends stay, but only if they get a sponsor.
Sheriff Blackhand: It's a formality, really. Just need to make sure we've got someone to blame if they get into trouble. So you'll have to watch out for them.
J: Count on it. I'll be there for my friends.
J: Come on, Becket, go get Hollick too. If he's snoozing, give him a kick.
J: And grab that stack of those badges from the table.
J: How many left?
Sheriff Blackhand: It's one stack per head, J.
J can't recall the last time he wrote this much. Would have to have been before he left school. Maybe never.
Polly woulda left a trail of neat, pretty signatures. Not like his ugly scrawls.
J can't help but think of his sister, Paulina. She probably does this much paperwork every day at her fancy "Foundation" job.
J: All set?
Sheriff Blackhand: All set. Now, I mean it. Don't let them get into trouble. I pulled all the strings I've got to get this done.
Sheriff Blackhand: Stay put for a bit.
The sheriff motions for him and his colleagues to depart, leaving the three companions waiting beside the mounds of paperwork.
J: Wasn't the last time we were here to bail Hollick out?
Hollick: It was Becket, after he slashed that dude's tires.
Becket: I was trying to get you some extra work. You're welcome, buddy.
Hollick: But all the extra dough I got just went to your bail ...
J: Wait, how come I was left outta the loop on that little scheme?
Becket: Well, it didn't work out, did it? So, I learned my lesson.
Hollick: Only because you got busted.
Sheriff Blackhand: Who got busted?
The sheriff strides in, followed only by two uniformed deputies.
Becket: Just saying how glad we were that our courageous sheriff busted up those Grant Avenue boys.
Sheriff Blackhand: Sure, sure. But I can't take the credit on that one. You fellas did the legwork.
Sheriff Blackhand: Of course, the bigwigs have already lawyered up. Looks like this time we're only going to nail the leftovers.
J: But you're still going to honor our deal, right?
Sheriff Blackhand: Yeah, it ain't your fault this city's rotten. Besides, they've been making a fuss since they heard you were here. Last thing I need is a riot.
Sheriff Blackhand: But I can't exactly just have them go hooting and hollering out of the pen.
Sheriff Blackhand: I'll get them out one by one when we've got time. We'll drop them off around Tang Ji's.
Sheriff Blackhand: I'll play the good Samaritan and cover their lunch too.
J: Just make sure they get these.
The gleaming badges symbolizing J's friendship and his promise of protection.
Sheriff Blackhand: You looking to be the sheriff of the underground, eh? Haha! Alright, I'll see to it that everyone pops up at your eatery wearing your little badge.
Sheriff Blackhand: Just remember to whip up something tasty for them. They'll be needing it after a few days of holding pen grub.
J: Don't you worry about that? I'll hook them up with jobs again and make sure everyone gets a decent meal!
But first, the boys and I are gonna soak up some of that California sunshine.
...
J: Did it conk out?
Becket: Weren't you the one who said this clunker was fixed?!
Hollick: Well, when it came into the shop, it was just the tires that were shot. I sorted that out way back ...
The tires might be the only thing on this wreck that isn't busted.
J: Alright, so we stop wherever the car stops.
J: Time for a photo op! To mark another triumph!
Becket & Hollick: Another victory for J! A victory for Haight Street and for the diner gang!
J: Now, let's hit the gas! Get moving!
J: And if the car stalls, we bail out. This place ain't half bad. Take a look, guys, the bridge's right behind us!
The Golden Gate Bridge looms up high behind them, crossing the bay that's launched a million dreams, and took just as many in.
The trio steps out on the curb, unloading the trunk's contents.
Cameras, tripods, beer, fried chicken, fruit ... After wrapping up a big job, it's only right to have a little fun.
Hollick: Help me out, J. I ain't too sharp with this stuff.
J: Stick the timer in the shutter, wind it up, give us ten seconds.
Hollick: Twist, twist, then press it down, boom! J, we're good!
The novice photographer isn't quite familiar with the device, a far cry from the hefty iron wrenches he's used to handling.
Hollick: It's showtime, J.
J: Move it, buddy! Get over here! Pick up the pace!
Ten, nine, eight ...
J: Seven, six, five ...
J: Hollick!
J: Hahaha! Watch it!
The shutter captures the exact moment before their hefty friend takes a tumble.
J: You okay, buddy?
Hollick: Damn, who's the joker who tossed this banana peel here?!
Becket: Yeah! We might be crooks, pals, but litterbugs?!
The culprit feigns ignorance, rubbing off the remaining scent of banana in his pockets.
J: Becket, show us your hands.
Becket: Just had some fried chicken, boss—fried chicken! They're all greasy. You don't wanna see that.
Hollick: Becket!
J: Whoa, easy there, Hollick. Careful you don't take another spill!