RIP materialized on a cobblestone street, his chrome finish reflecting the warm Italian sun. Columns and togas surrounded them, the air thick with the scent of olive oil and political intrigue.


Max stepped out, adjusting his hastily donned toga. "Ave, Roma! Looks like we've crashed a toga party, team."

Monday, looking oddly at home in his white garb, consulted his notepad. "Rome. Circa 50 BCE. Height of the Republic. Caution: Caesar crossing."


Suddenly, a commotion erupted in the nearby forum. Citizens scattered as a squad of Black Bar Troopers marched through, led by a centurion-styled lieutenant.


"Attention, Romans!" the lieutenant's metallic voice boomed. "By decree of The Censor, the Roman Empire is hereby canceled. Too problematic. Prepare for mandatory togas-to-tunics conversion."


"Not on my watch, bucket head!" Max declared, reaching for his Rubik's Cube blaster – only to find it tangled in his toga. "Uh, little help here, partner?"


As Monday attempted to untangle Max, a figure somersaulted over their heads, landing gracefully before the Black Bar Troopers. His mullet flowed majestically in the breeze, incongruous with his monk's robes.


"Cease this temporal tomfoolery!" the newcomer demanded, striking a kung-fu pose. "I am the Mullet Monk, guardian of history's most righteous hairstyles!"


The Black Bar lieutenant scoffed. "The mullet is scheduled for elimination in 1996. Prepare to be preemptively styled."


"Now, now," Max interrupted, finally freeing his blaster. "Let's not lose our heads over a little hair, shall we?"

Chaos erupted in the forum. Black Bar Troopers clashed with the Mullet Monk, his flowing locks seeming to have a life of their own as he dodged and weaved. Max and Monday joined the fray, their togas flapping wildly.


"RIP!" Max shouted into his communicator. "We need a distraction!"


The monster truck revved its engine. "One Roman rush hour, coming up!" He peeled out, scattering a group of surprised senators and creating a traffic jam of chariots and oxcarts.


As the battle raged, Monday noticed a Black Bar Trooper slipping away towards the Senate building. "Detective Power, the suspect appears to be targeting a significant historical structure."


"On it!" Max called back, using a fallen column as a roll to dodge enemy fire. "Mullet Monk, fancy a team-up?"

The monk nodded solemnly. "For the sake of history and haircare alike, I shall assist."


Together, they raced after the trooper, weaving through panicked crowds and leaping over upturned market stalls. They cornered the Black Bar agent just as it was about to enter the Senate.


"Halt, in the name of law and luscious locks!" Max declared; blaster raised.


The Mullet Monk's hair seemed to bristle with anticipation. "Prepare to be styled... out of existence!"


As they closed in on the cornered trooper, the ground began to shake. The sky darkened, and a massive temporal vortex opened above the Colosseum.


"Uh-oh," Max muttered. "Something tells me we're in for one toga-ripping finale!"


The Mullet Monk nodded gravely. "Indeed. It seems the climax of our Roman holiday is upon us. Shall we make history, Retro Cop?"


With a grin and an adjustment of his aviators, Max stepped forward. "Let's show these censorship centurions why you don't mess with the classics!"


As they prepared to face whatever emerged from the vortex, one thing was clear: in the eternal city, Retro Cop and his team were about to make some eternal memories – and maybe save Western civilization in the process.