Variations on Tonight’s Authoritarian Spotlight

Posted on December 22, 2009

0


COP LIGHTS

Dropped Kim off at her place downtown and made my way back to the north side of the city, and mid-way I see reflected the kaleidoscopic urgent blinking patrol-vehicle lights. Cop lights. Lighting me up.

Me, already quite lit, literally (well, figuratively but literally) in the sense that Kim and myself had gotten quite high in my car only shortly prior. Boxed that shit. I can’t smell it but the car probably reeks of weed.

The cop flashes his cop lights in my eyes when he walks up. Taking advice from a How-To-Act-In-Cop-Run-Ins viral video,  I roll down my window only enough to pass him my license and registration. That way the cop can’t force his face into your window and say he smells pot. Even if he didn’t. Which he would have. And if he’d searched my front-right pocket in my jeans, he would have found confirming evidence.
Cop says: “Evening sir, I’m Officer Forgothisfuckingname. Can I see your license and registration?”

I’m nervous, and I start to stutter t-t-telling him-Err, asking him rather – why it is exactly I pulled you – I mean you pulled me – over?
He says he notices my right headlight is out. The first cop in the months it’s been broken to actually give a shit enough to pull me over. Someone has a quota to fill.

I keep my composure, tell him I haven’t noticed but that it “seems to have dimmed a bit recently, now that you mention it.” He has me turn on me vehicle and confirmed the broken headlight.

I keep my composure.

He says to me to wait and I see another patrol car slide behind the first. 5-0 called for backup. Code One. Shit. Someone must have talked. The cop tells me to wait here. Heartbeat. Heart. Beat. Pause. Beat. Pause. Beat. PauseBeat. Pausebeat. pausebeat. pausebeat pausebeat pause and then he comes back and he says “Okay, I’m going to let you go with a warning for tonight. Just get this taken care of as soon as possible.” I thank him and I drive off, my beating heart penetrating through my chest as it protrudes outside in-and-out the inside.
I get home, and when I see my reflection in the mirror I see my eyes looking glazed and scarlet. “How in the FUCK did I get away with this?” they humbly inquire.

COPS LITE

Dropped Kim off at her place downtown and made my way back to the north side of the city, and mid-way I see reflected the kaleidoscopic urgent blinking patrol-vehicle lights. Cop lights. Lighting me up.

Me, already quite lit, literally (well, figuratively but literally) in the sense that Kim and myself had gotten quite high in my car only shortly prior. Boxed that shit. I can’t smell it but the car probably reeks of weed.

Cop thrusts his flashlight beam into my eyes, blinds me, tells me to get outta tha fuckin’ car. Now Scumbag. I move to take my seatbelt off and right after it clicks the fuzz jockey impales my driver’s side window and the glass hits the side of my face and my buccal nerve is torn through until it’s dangling raw meat. I can’t even process what’s happened and next thing I know the cop is dragging me out of the same window by my shirt collar, shards being pulled out and embedded in my stomach like little glass quills. I’m on the dirt on the side of an unfamiliar road and the cop is kicking me in the head. I choke.

“What – The – FUCK – Do you think you’re doing? ” he snarls. I respond with: “Wh-wha-mrgh…h-k-” and he says “You are in direct violation of the USAPATRIOT Act, Section 16, and uh, sections, uh… 215 and… Look, not a good idea to refer to the good green by its given name on the phone, son. You never know who may be listening. Now I’m gonna have to make you pay.”

He brandishes his stun baton and I instinctively jab at his closest appendage – his ankle – with my car key. He makes a face, a compressed sour-face, and there is a faint hiss. His body wrinkles as the rest of the air (helium perhaps?) is pushed out of him and he crumples into a pile of synthetic man-suit.

Of course, I say, relieved. A remote-controlled surrogate officer-decoy. Signals intelligence had apparently risen to a level of automation the authoritarian hierarchy of the past ten years could only have dreamed of achieving.  I have to be more on my toes. I need to stock up on a cop-lite’s (diet cop)  sole weakness: thumbtacks, push pins, the bended-out paperclips I use to clean my paraphernalia.  Also maybe a nailgun.

SEARCH LIGHTS

Dropped Kim off at her place downtown and made my way back to the north side of the city, and mid-way I see reflected the kaleidoscopic urgent blinking patrol-vehicle lights. Cop lights. Lighting me up.

Me, already quite lit, literally (well, figuratively but literally) in the sense that Kim and myself had gotten quite high in my car only shortly prior. Boxed that shit. I can’t smell it but the car probably reeks of weed.

The cop flashes his cop lights in my eyes when he walks up. Taking advice from a How-To-Act-In-Cop-Run-Ins viral video,  I roll down my window only enough to pass him my license and registration. That way the cop can’t force his face into your window and say he smells pot. Even if he didn’t. Which he would have. And if he’d searched my front-right pocket in my jeans, he would have found confirming evidence.
Cop says: “Evening sir, I’m Officer Forgothisfuckingname. Can I see your license and registration?”

“No, actually,” I say, and with the Beretta U22 Neos I have concealed that he doesn’t see I put two very large, egg-sized holes in his face. One goes through his left eye which is converted to ooze in an instant. The other hits him through the right maxilla, blows off a chunk of his jaw and he chokes on his own brain matter.

Reinforcements have already arrived and the cacophony of sirens and radios and shouts fills the Florida sky. “Damn Neil, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”

I accelerate but my Volvo is almost as old as I am so I’m no match for nitrogen-boosted patrol vehicles. I slam on breaks and the two cop cars on my tail collide into me and I am jettisoned through the windshield, flying like an eagle to the sea, flying like an eagle, search lights monitoring me. I get up and to my shock I am unharmed even if there is a little blood and I make a run for it into the woods, through stickers rife with thorns systemic. They send the doberman dogs after me and those little cerberus fucks can’t make it through the vegetation like I can, and I transcend the speed and time of the search lights. Time slipping, slipping, slipping. Into the future.

COP FRIGHTS

Dropped Kim off at her place downtown and made my way back to the north side of the city, and mid-way I see reflected the kaleidoscopic urgent blinking patrol-vehicle lights. Cop lights. Lighting me up.

Me, already quite lit, literally (well, figuratively but literally) in the sense that Kim and myself were aglow with beaming smiles after finding our lives and loves to be comparable – connective, if you will. Needless to say I’m not ready to have my good mood shattered. To my fortune however, the patrol car’s lights cease to blink. I squint and see why; the troubled, nervous face, the cough I can see jump out of his congested chest, and the interior clearly fogged as a result of marijuana use. Boxed that shit. I can’t smell it but the car probably reeks of weed.

The cop turns as soon as he can, presumably too paranoid to pull me over.

Fucking stoners.

COP HEIGHTS

Dropped Kim off at her place downtown and made my way back to the north side of the city, and mid-way I see reflected the kaleidoscopic urgent blinking patrol-vehicle lights. Cop lights. Lighting me up.

Me, already quite lit, literally (well, figuratively but literally) in the sense that Kim and myself had gotten quite high in my car only shortly prior. Boxed that shit. I can’t smell it but the car probably reeks of weed.

The cop flashes his cop lights in my eyes when he walks up. Taking advice from a How-To-Act-In-Cop-Run-Ins viral video,  I roll down my window only enough to pass him my license and registration. That way the cop can’t force his face into your window and say he smells pot. Even if he didn’t. Which he would have. And if he’d searched my front-right pocket in my jeans, he would have found confirming evidence.
Cop says: “Evening sir, I’m Officer Forgothisfuckingname. Can I see your license and registration?”

I’m nervous and I start to stutter, t-t-telling him-Err, asking him rather – why it is exactly I pulled you – I mean me – over?

“Frankly, sir,” the cop says armed to the teeth with tooth-filled taunts, “you are obviously under the influence of cannabis. Not only can I smell it clear as crystal in the car but your breath stinks of the cheebah, kid.”
This is it, I think. “I’m going to jail, aren’t I?”

“Not if you puff, puff, pass,” he says. Holy shit. My heart. Beat. Pause. Beat. Pause. Beat. PauseBeat. Pausebeat. pausebeat. pausebeat pausebeat.

Pause.

Beat.

pause


Puff.

Puff.

Pass.

Even though it’s just mids, me and this cop get really, really fucked up. Then he gives me a $120 ticket for my busted headlight.

COP BITES

When I drive home from Kim’s place I get pulled over by a cop. I’m nervous because I have drugs on me but it doesn’t smell too much like weed because we had smoked a lot of cigarettes and anyway my window is only rolled-down halfway. The cop takes no suspicion, only my information, and politely lets me off with a warning. I tell him thanks and drive home after I call Kim to tell her what happened. I drive home safely and write about it on my blog. Nothing particularly  interesting happens.

Advertisements