Meanwhile...
The Hound laced his running shoes tight; scanning the highways from his luxurious penthouse suite he espied his target: an Ambulance!
"Alright...a possible client:" he celebrated the possible payday via voiding an aromatic toot fueled by his earlier lunch of camel's balls stew.
Running faster than Usain Bolt due to good desert genes he quickly caught up to the harbinger of mercy at a stoplight.
"Hey buddy, want to make a few bucks?" He waved his card.
The window opened: the driver, Robert, snickered and said "I already have more money than god can count."
"Really? You're in your seventies: if you're so rich why are you still working?"
Non-plussed and unused to such analytical responses to his brags, Robert floored it through the red light.
Alas, his scofflaw behavior was espied by motorcycle cop Karen Tashanathan: she pulled the wayward death trolley over.
"License and registration."
"What the hell? Since when have you people been allowed to question the actions of my people?"
"Sir, it is well known that you are part black,"
"Yeah, but it doesn't really show; I'm just a bit swarthy."
As he ogled the buxom yet fleshy cop he couldn't help but proposition her, and bored, she accepted: they quickly consummated their moment atop the gurney in back of the rig.
"Happy Juneteenth" they said upon uncoupling.
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