Cannons blazing. George Van Housen’s Lone Star helicopter swept up and over the estate wall. The double-line of bullet tracks sliced bloody grooves through the croquet courts, exploding strawberry mountains and splashing chocolate everywhere in addition to leaving broken bodies in newly soiled whites. The strafing run carried almost all the way to our pavilion, but veered off as the Yakuza chased the copter away with ground fire.