How ever did Frank Cannon manage to routinely catch assorted fleet-footed and well-motivated bad lads simply by lumbering painfully around his classic piece of early 70's, swimming pool-sized, rocking-suspensioned, Detroit iron lump? Especially with his red-faced wheezing, puffing signs of imminent cardiac disaster at the mere effort of just squeezing himself out of the door.
Then, without further pursuit (since Direction must have this week's villain keep running on the spot until our porcine pursuer catches up from around the other side the of car hood) immediately disable them with one blow on some random anatomical feature (such as a shoulder blade, say, or that well-known vulnerable bit on the top of the arm) from his flailing hammy forearm?
I'll never know. But there you go. It passed the time til Jim Rockford showed up. And it was A! Quinn! Martin! Production!
Then, without further pursuit (since Direction must have this week's villain keep running on the spot until our porcine pursuer catches up from around the other side the of car hood) immediately disable them with one blow on some random anatomical feature (such as a shoulder blade, say, or that well-known vulnerable bit on the top of the arm) from his flailing hammy forearm?
I'll never know. But there you go. It passed the time til Jim Rockford showed up. And it was A! Quinn! Martin! Production!
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