For Ray and his man-crush

Shimmering, silver-shot silk, stolen in time gone, not found. She walks, declaims, burdened in wool, she is inside, not out, not belonging. My focus is not focus, my me is mine. I am inside, not out, not belonging. Outside is not of me, I will remain in me. NO. NO. NO.

Garaja.

Ever stopped someone for driving on the wrong side of the highway and had them pull a gun on you? It sucks. For them. I didn't have to shoot him though. Probably should have. He dropped his unloaded weapon almost before my weapon cleared the holster. Good times, my friend.

Is no computer, chilluns.

The one invention of the 20th century (somewhat arguable, some Frenchman made one in the 1760's,) that has made more far-reaching changes in us as a society is the automobile. It has made us terribly impatient. We have to have everything now, you dig. I hate the automobile and we'd be better off without it. We'd be nicer, completely independent of oil (before the auto, oil was considered a useless toy; well not completely independent, we need it for plastic,) and I really think we'd have richer lives. Take it slow. Take it light. I hate working wrecks.

Parabellum.

"Load with ball. Go from head to head. None will be left FOR dead. All shall be left AS dead."
Is "The Postman" prophetic? Why did I just get a flash of myself with hoary head, scarred face, ragged uniform and tarnished badge on horseback addressing troops amidst bodies? Perhaps a hackneyed story is forming in me head? I must be spending too much time around cannons. I might try and contact that lit agent I read about in the paper last week. Maybe I can get that backlog of stuff I've got published for a little extra cash? Not much chance, but I'm no Emily Dickinson, hoarding things, hoping they'll never see the light of day. Of course, I'm NO EMILY DICKINSON, but who the hell knows.

By the by...

I positively detest Steely Dan, the Eagles, the Allman Brothers, (particularly that Gregg foochie; that, 'baby let me show you my tattooo' song has to be one of the gayest ever,) Van Halen (heresy!!!) and Creed. Good god, man. Good to hear Creed's ignorant ass sacked that lead singer, Mr. "My wife kicked my ass with a telephone." Now I won't have to hear too much of that shit coming out of my radio anymore. Did anyone see him on "I love the 90's" all fat and doped up? I just saw him on television, and this is the closest I can get to giving him a dick punch right now. I did punch the singer for Counting Crows once. Speaking of shit coming from my radio, if I could get that Manfred Mann "Blinded by the Light" homosexiness deleted from all radio playlists, I'd be a relatively happy guy. I really miss 780AM and the old FM105.9. That was good radio. 780AM was the best, but FM105.9 played "96 Tears" by ? and the Mysterians a lot, one of the best songs ever. I remember back in the summer of 1966, that song was just about the only thing you'd hear on the radio. Oh wait, no I don't, I wasn't around back then. Seems like I was, because for some reason, I can clearly remember it. Odd, that. About the Counting Crows guy. When I was in the ninth grade, they played in Jackson, and friends dad's company was one of the shows sponsors, so we got backstage passes. I asked the fuckjobber for an autograph, and he pushed past me saying "I don't do that rock star stuff." So I drunkenly swung at him, my fist glancing off his shoulder. I don't even think he noticed, but now I have this story. And now I'm out of breath.

Chatty Cathy

Old people freak out when you get behind them in a patrol car. Hmm...an old lady in a Buick would make the perfect dope mule. Except you could only let her transport dope, never money. The reason being, if she had your money, and were to pass, say, a casino/yard sale/bingo parlor, you'd be fucked.

Elucidation...

I used a phrase in one of my blogs some have needed clarified. Here goes:

Badge Bunny- a police groupie, of which there are two types.

1. Late 20's-early 30's female, usually an office professional, very attractive in that "clubbin' " sort of way. Nutjob of the "shithouse rat" variety.

2. Late teens-early 20's overweight female, usually a student, usually displays some sort of NASCAR decals upon their personal vehicle. Generally more aggressive in their pursuit than type one. Nutjob of the "shithouse rat" variety.

While both types must be avoided at all costs, particularly avoid type one, as she is much more of a danger to an officer's career, property, and person.

Folderol....

That's it, really. Let ME roll it, it's not your turn. Maybe there's more. Oleo. Wax in the chocolate? Can I be your chocolate bar? Be it time to skate in my well-lit ghetto sled? Fuck. Dirtywhiteboyjeezumcrow. Somebody talk at me, huh? Rusty Bennett gone check yo' ass, I'm telling you. Burn it.

The return of the Black Donnelly's- Canada's tragic roustabouts.

Pursuit. Tonight. He wrecked, ran, almost drowned in a dark and muddy stream. I could not see, but heard him thrash. When the light came, he was nowhere to be seen. I returned to his smoking car and removed his rocks and his beer cans. I then filed multiple affidavits and issued nine citations, mostly obscure code sections. Obscure, but quite valid. Felony fleeing. Failure to comply. Failure to yield to blue lights. Open vehicle into traffic. Leaving vehicle with engine running. Leaving the scene of an accident with property damage. Disregard for traffic device times two. Driving while license suspended. Expired tag. Reckless driving. Open container. Resisting arrest. Felony possession of controlled substance.
In two weeks I will drag him from his bed at 2AM. His mother will cry. As will he. Pay to play. My mind keeps returning to the time I built sandcastles with Cheryl Ladd. The sea. The moon. The angel.

Honduras-engaging now.

Spooky and rolling on fog laden streets, buzzing at my hip. The television mutes and the nudity abides. I've not seen my familiar, not yet gone. When drips and drops slide and slither, I know that I need new rubber and blades, but the money's all gone. So I keep dragging, and hoping the meat doesn't spoil, and knowing that my relief will come when I summon. Summon. Seasons and paper. Olden and dust. Frightened cats and keyless genies. Viceroy. The bells. Within. I am here.

98's and blood....

It was longer ago than my dreams let me realize. Long black cars, very fast, very loud.

Sonduhdahooring light.

Barmy fucker walked out with my flashlight. Liar. I blew smoke in a straight-edgers face tonight. He attacked the sheik/priest/Bogart/student. The smoke made him sneeze, the stole'd-on made him seethe, and the pistola made him plead. I didn't say bleed, so don't see red. All God's chilluns got treble anywayhownomore.

Making your guide rod.

Where's it at anyway? Who got a convertible, I got spring fever like that motherfucker ever-one be talkin' 'bout. Sunlights and breezes and my pretty little redhead shredding flowers. And the new one, quiet one, calming down sometimes only for me. I really am the Pied Piper (the burghers said, 'Do your worst, play your pipes 'til you burst!') My girl wants some Kool-Aid and I feel weird making it. My mom always did it for me. I'd come in sweaty and panting from hardcore, near drunken play, and she'd offer me Kool-Aid but I'd say "No, mama when I thirsty I'se just wants some water," and she'd say thats OK, it's grape anyway, and who likes grape? Everyone prefers the red kind, but I like the orange and my dead dog went nuts for it. Aw'ange. Come see me, huh? I'll be here all weekend.

Cybele.

Half-crazed with lust. When there is a lag in the action, it always helps to have a man walk through the door with a gun. Huntin'-fishin'-huntin'-fishin'......blocking the road. A man bought it on his motorbike yestiddy. Helmet's are cool, but they don't work on your knees, zhu know?

Seen "Poltergeist," right? Similar situation around here. A few very old graves were churned (churned) up to make way for a new subdivision. No one knows about it but the workmen (long gone, no habla Ingles,) and the cops. Bad juju down there. Palpable. Don't build a house. I'm gonna do some prelims in the next few days to confirm my logical suspicions and obvious feelings. It's getting pretty bad, even Durex man stays away. If I can come up with anything tangible, I'll note it fer ye, and you can check it out. IF YOU DARE!

Fine! We'll talk about the Goddamn Time-Life books!

As I wrap my arms around you, I can tell you've never been this far before. If your child needs a Daddy, I can help. Know when. Crying in the rain. They call him the streak. On that ro-ad. Let's go. Star-spangled ro-de-o. All the wrong places. Golden ring. Loo-siana wo-man. He stopped. No, no, no, this is my favorite. Here you come again. Another somebody done somebody wrong. Further I fall, over the edge. Shove it. You picked a fine time. Mama made it. No way to hold my head that didn't hurt. Just a sin away. Any day now. It do make 'em blue. We re-ly on each other. Sleeping single in a double bed. Behind closed doors, hair hanging down. If YOU happen to see the most beautiful girl? I never promised you none rose garden. The reason God made Oklahoma? YOU! I'll never know just what she see's in me. Gobble my crank, Eva Murray. There ain't no getting over me. Jus' a swingin'. I love a rainy night too Mr. Rabbit. I'm guilty of love in the first degreeeee. On the other hand...........



In St. Louis, MO, a housewife felt a sharp pain in her left hand. Three thousand miles away, at the exact same moment, her daughter burned her left hand cooking bacon. Coincidence? Or something more?

Ubi ignis est?

Electric velvet with burnt out wiring. Negative space. Not bad for a seventeen year old kid in the anteroom. Afraid of midnight, watching the doorbell lights. Jump the nightly train, the whistle rocking. My radar runs a short, strip out the screws, don't forget the inserts. The composition of inhaled smoke drags down in the light. Dead legends, missing fingers, I say hatchet but I really mean lighters. Welcome home it's really right here, I'm searching for the sunken aerie. Costumes made from upholstery, drunken thrashing winning dartguns. The tension grows thick, the moments etched.

Straight jamming.

I'm on the move, I'm in the groove, alls I gotta do is choose. AIM! FIYUH! My hands have come into the the old dexterity, my feet as a mountain goat. Emphasis on GOAT chillun's you all know what he means. When the darkness comes and the dust rises, I'll be there at the center. And this center WILL hold. There will be nothing thrown off in widening spires, and this will NOT be televised. It ees ze' bool, ze' bool, we must runs senor! He eyes run silvery like nickles. Leave them broken with their mouths wide open.





Update: The kid is unstoppable. Stop. All the others have been swept away. Stop. The end is nigh. Stop. Take shelter and pray. End.

Memory palace.

Start out with a little Chongg Ran. Black and white simultaneously, not grey. There. Television snow. I see it as spackled asbestos tiles. I put my little shoes on the screen and feel I'm walking around Howard's, looking to buy a plastic boat, maybe a peddler's wagon. These shoes aren't the ones I wanted. I wanted the Nike's with the waffle soles. My dad rationalized them away by saying they would track mud. I think it was a money thing. They're fine, it's fine. These shoes keep my feet on my bike pedals. My Flash bike has solid tires. Fucking solid tires. It's a real dog to ride. Rationalized away as never going flat. But the wheels still busted. I headed towards McDonald's and went straight off the bluff. Fuck. That hurt. Still here? Check. I'm intact. No scratches, lost some paint from my arm. I'm cool. Enough of all that.

Look, out there! It's there, do you see it? I think I do.

Negative space.

Memory is an elephant. Memory has strawberry blonde hair and a pager. I'll be watching some grindhouse when the kids go at a sleep. Right now? I'll be doing the same thing Steven Spielberg is. Maybe I can call him if I get stuck. Just give me two hours or so. I've got more than that, maybe nine, probably ten, but there's too much of the subject line phrase. Hey, I think I love you. Really. I mean it.

We found Do-Funny up to no good the other night. I hit him and he ran. The lady hadn't cuffed him. He left a wad of cash behind, so I was just going to let him run, but the lady wanted to give chase, and found him. He thought he'd hide under a house, but the homeowner/renter/squatter had a dog that a-fear'd him. We went under and dragged him out. The jail wouldn't take him, so I tossed him from a bridge. He hit the creek and hated getting wet. He'll be back. I ought to burn his shack down and drive him across the state line. Next time. For the last time. He's had too many of those next times.

Using-consuming/highway-road-alley/completed.

Cleared by half-measures. Wee cups of grog for the lovelies. NO ONE lives in the courthouse WLBT. Enteredbyofficersupervisor. Careless and cleared by complainant. It's not here tonight, but why not? Do it anyway. What else? I'm sore. Need to log some miles. Tired. Coffee not working. How do you watch the fucking weather channel all day? I don't farm, I don't work construction, so I could care less. But still, people ask me in great earnest whether it's supposed to rain. It's always raining, motherfuckers. Once you figure that out, every thing seems so much easier. Too much goddamned want. No one has any clue anymore what a genuine need is. Perspective is what sets me apart. Fucking automobile (refer to first five posts.) Here's a little cop wisdom for you today: anytime someone calls anonymously to tell you that someone is selling drugs, it's because they got burned on a deal. Here's another. Remember a few weeks back when the lady said her child was in the car when it got stolen? Only the kid wasn't in the car. Yeah. White people have a tendency of telling you that something really obscene and wild is going on around their house, i..e., gunshots, break-in in progress, gang rape in the street. So you haul ass running code to get there, and when you do, what do you find? It's really just loud music, loud cars, drag racing, stupid shit. Pisses you off. Most times, you can check the complainant for warrants, have them come back positive, and take their asses to jail. Teach a motherfucker to call the goddamn cops. Legitimate complaints are fine, just don't lie to me and make me risk my ass all because your neighbours dog is barking.

Subject to terms.

Jesus Christ in a jumped up golf cart. What an image. Would he have a helmet? Goggles? A scarf? Would his knees be up around his chin? If so, could you see his balls? Would it make a cool video game? I'm going to hell, and so are you, so stop laughing.

Night again. I see light twice a day, for so little time that I almost can't function without sunglasses. Why don't more people wear sunglasses? Such a sensible thing to do. Let me tell you about it. Harangue you. The side of the road is no place for a lecture, no place at all. I had to crawl around under a house tonight, but it's been so dry the dust just fell away. I was slightly burned by mace, I hate that stuff, don't carry it. Shot an old can of it, but it was so old, it no longer had pressure. No bang, no pop. Like this. I'll work harder next time, I'm a bit distracted.

SFST Vicksburg.

Shining. There's a fog in town. Winter returned after a one day absence. I had to take an empty sardine can to the dump so it wouldn't smell up my office. I'm here alone. Had get my patrol sled fixed today, needed a new coil. Heard a bit of news that made me really glad I no longer work at my old department. Shudder to think how things would be were I still there. Other than the less than the high school kid at the mall makes paycheck, I have it made here. I'm left alone, I'm in charge of the P.M., and I'm not locked into any one division. I can patrol, I can investigate, I can TCAP, I can serve warrants, anything.

I've been investigating tonight. A can of beer and two cigarettes got me the location of a local wanted guy. Once I get another warrant cut, I'll have to take some of my guys into the woods to snag him. The woods? That's where he's been hiding. Honestly, so long as he stays there and doesn't come to the city to stir things up, he's fine. It's even better to lock him up though. Not tonight though, the fog's too thick. Last thing I want is to be alone in the woods and get knocked in the head. Not to mention they're those damn haunted woods I may have told you about.

Once, when I was not long in the uniform, I had to chase a guy into the woods. I took off my radio and threw it at him, but forgot about the repeater mic on my shoulder. A repeater mic is the little thing you see on cops epaulets, the mic that connects to the radio. Some of them have straight cords, some have the curly ones. This one was curly. So when I threw my radio, the cord stretched as far as it would go, the radio came back, the radio clocked me in the head. The guy I was chasing stopped running and let me arrest him bacause he felt sorry for me. Not all bad guys are bad guys. I now have a straight cord.

Fog's getting thicker. Were it not so cold, I might walk around a bit. I like to walk around the court house, especially when the moon is bright. I really like to climb the bell tower. They used to hang people from it, long ago. I should walk around anyway, damn the cold. Come spring, rebirth.

Use the 10/31 blades.

What the hell am I wearing?

Ah, fuck it, not gonna matter when they're done burning holes in me.

After a short intermission we will show all of that,

and none of that,

accompanied by ascending notes.

If you'd like, you could,

make a quick run to the

store,

home,

wherever you'd like,

but please don't wear those blister shoes, and don't go

TOO far.....

It's hot out there, you know.

Anon and anon: Advertising Canaberia; come see sunny!

Suffering and not, the distinct disinterest,

my ashes dance at the moving window, they

fall back in.

My shirt is covered so I hose it off and toss an empty can, I

stop the car and he smiles.

Anathema.

I arrested a scary dude for DUI one night. He had six knives taped to his body and a revolver rusted shut. I thought I was gonna get my ass kicked but he was so downtrodden I felt like crying instead. Blackjack = thirteen (13) ounces of lead sewn into eleven (11) inches of leather = compliance upon display = my best purchase in a long time. Everything beautiful is gone. What now?

I think that was lightning, dear.

I don't like for my shirts to say anything. I'm very vain, I have fat that needs to go. I have high blood pressure, and go unmedicated. Too many cigarettes, and five pots of coffee a night. I drink beer when I'm not working, but not to excess. I'm entering personal ad territory with this, and I have no need for a personal ad. Socially anxious? Sure. Bad at times. If I see someone out when I'm rolling, I look away and pretend to fiddle with my vehicle intruments so I don't have to answer their wave. I WILL NOT call to order pizza. I have no problem with crowds, absolutely no stage fright, and sometimes take over interactions. I humbly submit that I once was a lot of fun, but I doubt it now. I take my children everywhere. I not so humbly submit that I have a nice turn of the thought. My vanity takes over when it comes to my lightspeed intelligence. I really am several steps ahead of most. Sorry. Sorry for me really, it makes me hard to be understood. Like now. I really like monkeys wearing pants and no shirt. (Seen the 'Trunk Monkey' videos? Those kill me.) I am an excellent horseman, and dislike to ride. I want a helicopter terribly. The nicest compliment I ever received was that I don't have "boy" feet. Ask to see them, I don't mind. My sideburns grow unruly. I've missed lots of opportunities. I'm allergic to gun oil, and I play with guns for a living. Sulla's epitaph fits me squarely. Is this enough? You tell me. There's more.

Spill the wine.

If yer gonna read me, at least let me know. I like that. Seriously, tell me you like it, tell me you hate it, tell me you wish you wrote it, anything. "When you reach the part, where the heartache starts, the hero would be me." Damn. I want out of this uniform, I want to work in the sun, I want a car that goes with me, and I want you to pay for the gas. I toured a nine million dollar jet last night, and I want one of those too. From Spokane, WA to Raymond, MS in 3 hr 51 min. Yes. I want Nicaraguan real estate, I want a colonial. I want a mule and a cart, and a big straw hat to wear. I want a little boat, and I want you to be there to laugh when I fall into the water. Ere it was won, or maybe one, who knows?

UPDATE: As of 02/15/2008, the gas, the car, and the sun have come to pass. Still waiting on the jet and the colonial.

Beleaguer the new. Second.

Selfish impulse on that one.
Both ways is a no. A no.
I'm outside making conspicuous,
the cops are driving past.
I'm looking at a car, two cars
and I don't like them.
Mine is covered in tiny flowers.
I saw the same flowers on another car.
It was today.

I'm thinking now.
I've plied my trade and come up aces.
Back then....
sat next to me in her work shirt and underwear.
talked, can't look at me
could not comprehend my listening.
saw my sad and was touched, she slept in my bed instead.
I said what's next and she cried.

Still thinking.
Hard to nail down.
I'll get it, I always do, I have to, and I will.
Now...
Residence to residence.
One place the wrong place.
Telephones undone.
A photograph. Somethings wrong. Something.
I find. I find. I find.

Vas deferens

Attn: Imaginary readers

Subj: Headings

If a blog subject heading refers to or is named after a component of the reproductive system, please be advised that the following blog will contain particularly vulgar sexual references. If such references are troublesome to you, please refer to the subject heading before continuing to read. If such references are appealing to you, then Goddamnit, subscribe to my fucking blog. Such topics can appear at anytime, can be very salacious, and oftentimes quite comical. Wouldn't wanna miss that, now would you?Thank you. And with that having been said, on to the posting. I love you too, fuckers.

John Fogarty's "Rock 'n' Roll Girls" is an excellent song. Of course, John Fogarty only has one song really, but it's a damn fine song. While musing upon this, I noticed that the song that was following it on the radio was the Eric Clapton "Unplugged" version of "Layla." I remember that this song was playing during my first ever sexual experience. I was in the 8th grade. In my hometown, the local Methodist church held dances after every home football game. I was at one of these dances with a new girlfriend. I sought this girl out because she was a known slut, and I was pretty mercenary about such things at the time, being fourteen years old and ready to step up from masturbation. You know how that goes. Anyway, me and this little tart were sitting against the wall in the gymnasium, and she asked me to finger her. "Huh?" I said, as I was unaware of the term. She enlightens me. "Put your fingers in my pussy." That I understood. So I did. After a minute, she says, "You're supposed to move it around, asshole." So I did. Then she tells me to add more fingers, all the way up to four. Although I didn't know what the hell "fingering" was, even I thought that four was a bit much. More than should be possible with a girl my age, at least. But, like I said, she was a slut, so you get what you pay for. A few days or weeks later, I had my first sexual intercourse with this same girl. Right after we broke up. We screwed several times after that, always immediately following a break-up. Odd, that. "Hey, let's go, all over the world, Rock 'n' Roll girls."

Vae Victus

Zagar of Zagar and Evans. 2525? You know you're into it. All of this was down yesterday when I really wasn't feeling it but it wouldn't post. So I'll try again. I was pissed, to be sure. On with it, oh weary scribe.



"Lost loves, part the first."

When I was in kindergarten, there was a beautiful little dark-haired girl in my class. We got on together very well, and played many games of Stratego. Aside: (When my classmates and I played Monopoly, no one wanted to land on Charles Place. It was called "the stinky place" because of this one kid that was always shitting his pants. His name? You guessed it, Charles. Children are thoughtlessly cruel oftentimes. Kids are generally decent until they meet other kids. You give away so much of who you really are when you begin to socialize.) Face forward. One day she asked me if I liked her. Liked her? I loved her, and love her still. Being the insecure five year old I was, I told her, "No!" At this she became very upset. I frantically back-pedalled, correcting myself, "Of course I like you, I like you very much, please believe me, I do!" She would have none it, and for some reason wasn't in my class after that. I don't know why, but I always think of her when I sit at red lights in the rain.



"It's my party and I'll cry if I want to."

In that same kindergarten class there was a really rotten Isaac from "Children of the Corn" looking motherfucker named David. A total shit, for real yo'. He was deathly afraid of heights, so as punishment when he misbehaved, the male teacher would hoist him upon his shoulders and walk around. One day lil' Davy came to class and handed out birthday party invites to everyone. I didn't want to go to that impish little bastards party, but my mom made me. The other mothers did not. I was the only kid that showed up. Since it wasn't much of a party with only me and David, his mother took us around with her while she ran errands and shopped. She bought me a G.I. Joe and cried the whole time. Now that I have children of my own and understand a little better, the thought almost makes me want to cry. David and his mother seemed to walk on eggshells around his father. I don't know how David's life has turned out, but I don't think it's been all that great. A prayer for Dave and his mom, huh?



"Lost loves, part the second."

My family and I always took an annual vacation to Florida. While enroute the summer after seventh grade, I locked eyes with a girl in the car next to ours. Something passed between us, something real, and we knew, we KNEW, and we were found. Then she was lost. Her car took an exit. In the eleventh grade, when my classmates and I took the Functional Literacy Exam, the essay question was "Who would you like to meet and why?" I wrote of wanting to meet that girl, and you know why. I like to think that she and the little dark-haired girl were one and the same. Mayhap they were.



"Did I fuck up?"

Eleventh grade again. I was sitting in my friend Ernie's red Beetle parked at a gas station (the Chevron where now sits a Walgreen's.) The car was sideswiped by an old "Good Times" van with 70's striping and bubble windows. Probably had a mattress in the back. A very nervous old white man got out and hurriedly exchanged information with Ernie. While this occured, I noticed two small black children in the van watching us from the cab. The exchange was completed, and the old man sped off. It didn't occur to me later that maybe something was wrong. What were the old man and the children doing together? Why was the man nervous? Was his information even correct? I didn't hear of any kidnappings, or bad things happening to small children, but I worry about it still and it's why I became a cop. May it never happen on my watch, but I hope to be able to stop it if it does.



Skating away on the thin ice of a new day.

Exodus

My 40 days in the wilderness are over. I leave Raymond for the last time today, never to set foot upon it's bloody soil again. I have spent a large part of my career in this town, essentially for naught. I return from whence I came.

According to quantum theory, nothing takes form unless it observed. By that logic, if I don't see this place, does that mean it's not there? Maybe I should ask Scott Bakula.

Greatest lyric ever.

"I float up the river. I kill all the people. With my laaaaser gun."

-Devo-

Headshot

Headshot
Originally uploaded by The Clipper

It's not soft lit, I photographed a photograph.

An old one

The Nights Are All One.

By Clif Kirkland

I woke up and was about to shoot my mirror. I didn't for fear of striking my brother in the next room. I was disoriented. Thought I was in my childhood bed. No. My bed. My house. I had bought it when I had money and credit. Money's gone. I'm a cop.

Up front, my girls were watching "The Toy." Richard Pryor's dead.

"Hey Daddy, we help you get dressed,"

My kids hand over my duty gear as I get ready for work.

"Sure thing. How about getting me a dollar?"

It was odd. They always seemed to have dollars. They brought me a ten. What the hell?

"We're saving our dollars for Red Lobster Daddy."

Red Lobster? Huh? The day before, my oldest wanted to toss a penny in a wishing well. She did, but took about twenty minutes to make a wish. Lots of thought. She wished for cotton candy. My kids are better than me. I got dressed.

Driving to work, I turn my radio to top volume. I sing along, and hold the phone to my ear. Looks like I'm talking. No one likes a singing cop.

I get cabin fever outdoors in this town I patrol. Just a few square miles. No crime. I'm really just a driver. So I drive.

It's been hours. Nine hours into a twelve hour shift.

Radio squawks, "Nioba S.O. to Nioba 3."

Fuck.

"Go ahead to Nioba 3."

"Perimeter alarm at the courthouse, no keyholder responding."

FUCK.

"10-4 S.O., show me enroute, show me on scene." I was right there.

Upon my arrival, I, Ofc.....Anyway, I get there and see a moving shape. Draw down.

"Out. I want to see you."

He steps out, and I see it's Oscar, a local. I don't know what kind of work he does. He's straight. I know that.

"Oscar, what the hell are you doing?"

He crumpled.

"Oh Lord sir, oh Lord, shole don' want to go jail, shole don' want to go jail, gots to work in the mornin'."

I sighed. "Oscar, what are you talking about?"

"Ohhhhhh!"

"Damn it Oscar, no one said anything about going to jail. What?"

He began to smoke a cigarette with fury and vigor. It seemed to give him his balls back.

"I was sittin' on the conner down to the Chiveron when he come up an' I stobbed him. Then he ax me could he use my phone call 911, but I warn't gon' let him, uh uh, no way man, ain't got many minutes lef' on it. He kep' on axin' me, so I tol' him I'se gwinter stob him agin'. I tol' he gon' use the phone, he could crawl on back to his house and use he own damn phone. He say it got cut off an' he cain't, so I stobbed him agin' 'cause I know he a damn lie, an' I'se gittin' tarred of him hollerin'. He still ain' shut up, so I drop a brick on his head, that make his ass shut up. I feel bad fo' his mama, but I cain't stand that sumbitch what he done, so I kick him in the nuts 'cause I still gots rage on him. What he did, you know what he did, he done!"

Well. Arrest. Reports. Overtime. Oscar's kids, wards of the state. Fuck that. I did know what "he" did, what "he" done. I knew who "he" was.

"Oscar, where is he?"

"He between the Chiveron and the Post Office."

"Was anyone around?"

"No sir."

"Did you see anyone else, see any cars?"

"No sir."

"Then get your ass down to the bar and tell Lynn that your baby's been done right and to remember that you've been there all night."

"Yes sir!"

He was gone, I didn't even see him go. He was never there.

"He." I found him right where....who had told me he was there? No one. Right. Found him on routine patrol. He was dead, for sure. But...no stab (stob) wounds. No bricks. Cell phone in his hands, numbers nine and one dialed. I kicked him in the balls because he had murdered Oscar's little boy. I kicked him in the balls because he had died a natural death.

Sun up. Go home. More singing. My girls are up.

"Morning, Daddy! We got more dollars for Red Lobster, see?"

My kids are better than me.