Celebrity Culture - Olivia Munn TG/TFPD

 

On the trail of a smuggler known as Janik Schaper, we'd tracked stolen genetic material from Hollywood, via LAX, all the way to a warehouse on the outskirts of Berlin. The air was thick with the meaty tang of cellular broth as we kicked in the door. A dozen-over-the-counter hot tubs had been installed, each a body-temperature bath of bubbling stem-cell infused liquid. Our torches focused on the sole occupant of the warehouse.

"Wenn Sie wegen der Party hier sind, sind Sie früh dran, meine Herren," the girl said.

"TFPD. Hands where we can see them."

"Americans? You have no jurisdiction here.” She had Olivia Munn’s voice, albeit thickly accented in German, as well as her body.

"Mr Schaper, I presume," stated Donovan, my partner.

"I'd like to see you prove it. No fingerprints.” She seemed only mildly annoyed at our intrusion. “Look, Americans, there is 40 thousand euros in my satchel over there. Take it and go. Or if you prefer, wait around an hour and I can provide you an Olivia or two. Or three? Eight? And the girls are so eager when they're fresh.” He gestured to the other hot tubs. “We have Scarlet Johansen if you prefer. Over there we have the Olsen twins… soon to become the Olsen quintuplets. Now there's an orgy I am excited to see.”

"Afraid we only got eyes for you, Herr Munn,” retorted Officer Thompson. “Go call in the locals, rookie, I’ll keep an eye on this one.”

   I was outside, still half-way through explaining illegal stem-cell infusions to the emergency services in my best high-school German, when Donovan came waddling out of the warehouse buckling his pants, a blissed smile on his face. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looked €40,000 heavier, and his balls a little lighter.

“He got away.”

“He WHAT?!”

“The money too.”

“You son of a-”

“Stow it, rookie. The man was right. We’re way out of our jurisdiction. We’d never have nailed him - heh- for it. The best we can do is flush the material and get a list of his clients when they show up. And you can sleep easy in bed knowing there’s a hundred less Hollywood starlets in the world, and a hundred more German perverts.”

“Great,” I snarled through gritted teeth, half-tempted to punch that smile off his face.

Celebrity Culture - Emmy Rossum

It was one of the largest illegal DNA busts the TFPD had made. A criminal gang were running their operation out of a tower block where they were manufacturing and distributing celebrity status - cells stolen, grown, and pumped back into anyone who could pay for it.

The SWAT team entered through the parking garage at the base, heading up, sweeping floor by floor, room by room, past vats of bubbling flesh-coloured goop.

“Watch you dont get that shit on you, rookie,” Daniels growled behind his respiratory. “Unless you want to spend your career as Anne Hathaway.”

The patients and low level technicians administering the treatments were fleeing. The real criminals were fighting back, gunshots echoing down the concrete corridors. The radio channels erupted as resistance was encountered. 

“-got a Downey Junior heading for the roof with-”

“Kardashians have sealed the stairwell. I need gas grenades.”

“Oprah is armed. I repeat, Oprah is armed.”

I kicked in a door and swept the room. Empty, oversized IV bags dangled above a chair in the center of the room.

A half-clothed figure darted past me from the shadows, sprinting for the elevator, trailing an IV drip behind her. She must not have realized we cut the power. I found her desperately thumping at the buttons. She cowered back at the business end of my rifle.

“Miss Rossum, I presume. Hands where I can see them.”

She doesn’t resist as I push her against the wall, patting her pockets until I locate a wallet. One hand pressing her face against cold steel, I flip it open to her driver's license.

Poor guy. Men’s prison wouldn’t be kind to him. He sniffed miserably. “I just wanted to be someone…”

Two floors up, the roar of a machine gun turned my blood to ice. The radio chatter became screams. Shit. Our intel hadn’t mentioned that level of firepower.

“Don’t be here when I get back,” I hissed, shoving the ID back into his hands and sprinting back into the fight.