The two dead cops

The two dead cops.

It was a rough evening. When I was pulled over, I was twelve Hamms deep, Rustoleum swirling in caustic, cancerous waves about my bloodstream. I crooked the mirror to get a look at the cheap shit - 'bout five ten, stocky. The man walked as if he owned the planet. He didn't. I pulled a long, slow drag from my swisher, drenched in anal fluid. I like it. Ruddy thighs, milky spills soaking my feet as if the entire car were my personal sauna of death. And as the white-yellow glow of the mag filled my bubble of shit, I ham-handedly rolled my stinky fish jeans up at the left leg, revealing a .380 stinger strapped loosely at the ankle. Slid from its holster now, it was already cocked, loaded. A crooked smile spread like a wildfire across my pocked dick face.

Tap tap tap, the end of the MAGLITE like a door knocker. I rolled the window down. It was one of those shit windows where the crank was missing (I'd lost it in a card game three years prior.) "How's it going, sir?" The crab. "The fuck you think it's going?" I haphazardly spat. "Do you know why I pulled you over THIS EVENING?!" I jumped at his careless tact and nearly put a round through the door and into his sternum right then and there. Just wait. Let this candied pup tart wiggle his peepee around in my face for just a few more minutes. "DEPENDS ON HOW LONG YOU WERE FOLLOWING ME." I found myself screaming. He casually slid his right hand to his service issue. The torch still held high like a sword. Beyond his smoky bear fuck hat, thunder rolled, a light spray of rain prompted the cabbage to squint. "Sir, have you been drinking tonight?" I couldn't tell if he was drooling. "Fuck you, pig." I know, I could HAVE thought of something better, but we were sharing such an intimate moment, I couldn't ruin it with trivial banter. The lawman stepped back and calmly said, "License and registration, proof of insurance." "Drrrrrrr....drrrr....I HAVE CANDY IN MY ASS OOOH YOU FUCK YOU BEASTLY FIENDISH PIECE OF SHIT!!" I was getting real riled up, banging on the steering wheel and shit. From a distance, it may have appeared I was sitting on hot coals. "WOOOH WOOOOH YOU COCKSUCKER!" Well the bastard had had enough as I began rolling that god damn window up again, right in his puny face. He bashed in the glass with his shit light and pulled his gun. What a winky stinky. I began to cry. He seemed to feel bad, but nonetheless he starts shouting real drill like "Step out of the vehicle NOW!" Then he poops away into the motorola on his vest something about backup. I swear I heard an old woman crackle back "I am king shit" or something to that effect. Well, before you know what's next, I had the chrome tip between his eyes, hollow point in line three inches from his birthday wishes, a clump of his wiry hair wound in my fist. That first shot, it was louder than I expected. It blew the windshield out like confetti. That god damn smokey hat flew away behind as if it were on a string, a pink mist gliding upward as if finally escaping. His eyes were all white as a flush of bloody mucus spilled over his forehead and out of his nostrils. I thought about watering the grass the previous autumn. POP POP POP the stinger's shells pinged me in the cheek, scalding. His grip on the Maglite tightened and miraculously the end plinked off spilling the batteries. A single blam from his Beretta missed my left eye by inches. Before I know what's happening there's this other motherfucker badged who has seemingly leaped from the shrubs on the other side of my car and he's blasting away like a kid at the fair. He's screaming too, like he's just woken up in his dark bedroom and Kurt Cobain minus head is standing over him.

There's no escape. I had two rounds left in the .380 so I aimed real nice and put them both into his left ear as he rounded my shit wagon. He bit his tongue off and four of his teeth shattered out like stepped on seashells. My windshield wipers had been switched on somehow. They were the only noise. My ears were ringing and I tasted metallic. I'd vomited. Without candor, I flopped from the driver's seat and onto the wet pavement. Found one of my shells, picked up the officer's shells. Walked slowly to the rear cruiser and found the log book, took it, ate the first four pages and shoved a burning Zippo into the gas tank. Vigilantly, I cleaned up all the evidence I could find and then drove away. I remember when I got home the cats were pissed. I poured a vase of orange juice with rum and tequila and half a bottle of Jack Daniels and three Coors Light. It was nine thirty. What without an unease could my visions be recognized? I buried the stinger in the park, took a long shit on it and passed out in a trash barrel. THE UNPLEASANT ODOR OF WEEK OLD LEFTOVER SALMON, HUMAN FECES AND STALE BEER LULLED ME TO DREAMS.