1.

There simply aren't any gentlemen of good intentions wandering around L.A.'s warehouse district at three in the morning. So when I saw the three leather-jacketed punks headed my way, I steeled myself for a scrim. I'd been doing some intense martial arts and street-fighting training for the past year, and had taken to late-night strolls in shady areas hoping to ply my craft. I was looking forward to this.

They were just crossing the street to intercept me as I planned my attack: debillitating knee to the groin for the big bruiser in front, and the unfriendly end of my cigar in the eye of his buddy on the right. That left me vulnerable to a suckerpunch from the junkie looking faux-hawk bringing up the rear, but I'd just have to roll with the hit.

My aim was perfect on both counts; the two beefier thugs went down screaming. I had rolled my head to the right, thinking to cushion the force of number three's blow, so I didn't actually see him turn tail and run back off down the street so much as hear him. Common sense dictated that I be thankful for my good fortune and let him run.

I caught up with him on the next block. By the time the police got there, I had broken faux-hawk's neck. Which is how I found myself in the office of Lieutenant Dawson, LAPD.