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The Atomic Samoan
The Last Good Cop #4
Wow, 59-years old and exactly one year from retirement. What could possibly go wrong?
I mean, I have this worthless dyke partner posing like Dirty Harry next to me while we wait for this big fucking Samoan to get done tearing the door off of his girlfriend’s apartment—we would not want to interrupt that!
Babarella—well, her name was Barbara, but she was going through gender reassignment and was not exactly sure what her male name was going to be once she got her tits cut off and her pussy turned inside-out, was young and eager and had asked for dibs on being lead in this call, so he let her do it her way:
“Sir, sir, sir, sir, sir! Sir, please—oh my God, you tore it off the hinges—sir, desist!”
We still use that command—really. Aren’t we a little bit beyond desist?
The man, standing six feet five inches and easily scaling 400 pounds, turned ominously and Juan could not help himself, “Wow Barbara, desist did it. You got his attention. I think he’s clean forgotten about his cheating girlfriend on the other side of that ruined door!”
Barbara panicked and drew her taser.
“Really Barb? He’s dressed like Conan’s father. That must be an entire Yak-hide he’s wearing for a bathrobe…”
The man advanced ominously, waddling like a subterranean demon out of a Tolkien novel.
“Okay, Barb, project confidence and do not discharge the taser. Let’s see if we can do this the easy—”
“Stop right—air” her voice cracked, “Mutherfucker,” it recovered shrilly.
“No, oh no…”
She then discharged the weapon and it got caught in the yak-hide smoking jacket and the man who should have been throwing Vince McMahon across the ring in the next Wrestlmania was charging down the hall at this dumb bitch who was his partner.
As she screamed into her hands and balled up into a fetal position, Juan stepped into the perpetual breech in reality which has always awaited him, had always told him it would be yawning wide to test his resolve, and he was good for it.
Juan Stabone stood like Leonidas at Thermopyle and waited with a an ancient stoicism as the big man stopped before him, massive hands out-stretched to wring his neck, and he said, “Now, let’s be reasonable sir,” and the hands closed.
No way was he going to destroy his back hip-throwing this refrigerator. So he went classical KA-RA-TAY on his ass and used his steel-toe boots—not exactly regulation, but who would know—to front kick this big bastard in the balls. It was a really good kick, with 220 pounds of muscle and forty years of training behind it, and it did nothing.
So Juan kicked those nuts in again.
Nothing.
But the hands are not as tight around my neck.
Again!
Holy shit he’s picking a single leg—oh fuck that, I’m not ending up under all that!
With agility worthy of a man half his age, Juan grabbed a hold of that Rapunzel-like Jew-fro of hair, ran up the wall, came down behind the now kneeling and lunging giant and began toe-kicking his nuts from behind, felt the tail bone give a little, toe-kicked that fucker again as the big beast howled. Then he was riding him like a rodeo bull, legs wrapped around that enormous torso, raining down hammer fists and punches to the back of the head, the ears, the temple, the jaw—over and over and over and over again, punch after thudding punch!
Eventually the man rose to his feet with Juan on his back and Juan, with one titanic effort smashed that hairy head into the concrete side of the building, again and again and again until it sounded like some Dickensian pauper trying to open a walnut on Christmas Eve without a nutcracker…
People were standing around, looking at him like he was the bad guy.
Barbara was looking up at him in horror like he was the bad guy.
Back up officers, Clint and Jesse were helping him pry his cold, blood-soaked fingers out of that magnificent head of Samoan hair.
The bleach-blonde, Chinese-Negro hooker who the Samoan was recently trying to kill was ranting and raging about how this barbarian “super cop” had waylaid and abused her “man.”
One year to go until retirement, he thought.
My daughter has another year left in graduate school—she’s only thirty-two. I can’t let her down now!
Oh no, what am I going to do—really, this big faggot is crying now. He tore a door off the hinges and tried to ring my neck and now he’s crying?
Oh, this is bad.
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