[Previously Titled ‘The Paddy Wagon’]
The Curb
He was sitting on the curb handcuffed before the cops got there, with little Jimmy standing over him somewhat protectively. Mister Jerry was being paged on the overhead speakers over and over again by Kay, “Mister Welsh to courtesy. Mister Welsh, you have a customer at courtesy.”
He was apparently needed to handle a product return at customer service. Harvey was right callous about that, “That old bitch will be waiting a while. It’s probably that skinny old lady complaining that the low fat milk doesn’t taste as good as the skim milk used to back in the day.”
Kay continued to page the now dead Mister Jerry Welsh, a pretty regular guy for a boss; not a bad guy at all really.
The handicapped guy pities your poor decision making skills. That should be a heads up.
Harvey was pacing around nervously until the cops showed up, two of them in the same cruiser, which he thought was odd. There was a tall muscular black cop and a short muscular white cop. The cops walked up to the three of them, and addressed Harvey, “Another battery thief. He’s a big mug—wait, he’s one of you guys. Where’s Esham and Jerry?”
Jimmy started to cry and Harvey just milled around and mumbled, “Shit yo, shit, this is so messed up.”
The black cop spoke up, “What the hell is goin’ on here? This better not be some practical joke.”
Harvey just mumbled and Jimmy cried. Pozer spoke slowly, “Harvey, what did you tell the nine-one-one people?”
“To the send the cops dude, and here they are; two of them.”
Jimmy was now wiping his tears and snot on the back of Pozer’s work vest as he balled his eyes out. A crowd of employees began to build behind them. The white cop then looked at Pozer, one foot on the curb, “Okay meathead, do you mind telling me what happened?”
He caught motion up over the officer’s shoulder and saw him there, the condor, sailing on the wind: God of the Sky. He felt warmth within. A growing peace suffused him. The voice that eased from his lips sounded clinical: “Two dead: two-hundred-and-eighty-two pound African male from cardiac arrest; one-hundred-and-ninety-six pound Caucasian male from blunt force chest trauma; in the lunchroom, just past the men’s room.”
The white cop got down into his face, “You? You killed them?”
Eating Asphalt
Another cop, a tall dark haired one, was stepping out of another cruiser. The white cop rushed into the store talking into his radio. The black cop hefted Pozer up by his wrists and slammed him face first onto the pavement. Jimmy was crying back among the cashier ladies now and Harvey was just walking around wooden-legged and swearing into the sky. He took some toe kicks to the ribs, some telescopic baton strokes to the back and legs, and then got dragged out into the parking lot by three hands. He was now between the cop cars getting lumped up. After a few more kicks the new cop said to the black cop, “Check this out Jackson!”
As those words echoed in his head a stinging mist engulfed his face and his eyes burned like they were being roasted. Even his throat burned like he had eaten a whole jar of peppers. He could no longer see through the thick mist of pain and tears. Jackson’s voice cut through the pain, “That’s that new industrial strength mace?”
“Yeah. That shit’s badass ain’t it? Works pretty good if you ask me. This skinhead looks like a chink baby now.”
“Sure is Sarge. Can I try it?”
His eyes began to burn worse and even breathing was a problem as his lunges seemed to catch fire.
This sucks—but really, is kind of funny.
He heard the calming voice of The Man in The Gray Suit, felt his hand on his shoulder, was relieved by his presence, as they watched the mighty condor soar above, “You have special gifts Posie. At some point in your life you will be called upon by a higher consciousness to use these gifts in service to others. Until that day do nothing to draw attention to yourself—keep your abilities hidden.”
Where are you Mister Gray Suit?
I think it is about time I start listening to my own consciousness.
He inhaled deeply, blinked his eyes to clear them, and looked up at Jackson, “Can I have some more officer?”
Jackson slammed his shoe into Pozer’s ribs and dragged him over to his cruiser, “You wanna have some fun Cue Ball? Well we aren’t waiting for the paddy wagon. I got somethin’ fo yer murderin’ skinhead ass! How about it Sarge?”
The commanding cop, miffed now that his new toy was lame after all, smiled harshly into Pozer’s face as Jackson purposely banged his head on the door frame. He kept an eye-lock on Pozer and spoke to his subordinate, “I’m going to stay and supervise—Daniels and Marcy just pulled up. I’ll send Mullens out. If you two decide to stop by the casement pond and feed the ducks I don’t know a thing. Just make sure he is in the chair in forty-five minutes.”
He then grinned harshly into Pozer’s face, “Jerry was a good man. You will never walk free again.”
Continued in The Love Police: Out of Time #5
