Lille Shoop was headed in for some hard time. Unfortunately he was not a hard man. The police even felt sorry for his ass, so much so that they suggested that he not even talk to them and that he get a lawyer. He sure wished he knew a lawyer. But they weren’t exactly thick around the East side Zippy-Mart.

Lille Shhop was just a little dude, was going be a rapper, was just selling enough dope to get his street creds so he could rap about that shit. That was the same reason he had the gun. Little did his young ass know—all of 15 and about to go down like a grown-ass man—that some gorilla with a brick was going to take all of his shit, and that when he defended his self he was going to be arrested like he was the criminal when he was just sellin’ shit and minding his own business.

Now he was in the jail wagon drove by the two police, the big white one and the big black one. The white cop laughed at him. The black cop shook his head like he didn’t even want to know his name.

He was in the back with this gigantic white dude who was like a drunk viking that spoke in country music. He so wished they had both been shackled to the seats. This guy was like a monster. He was so glad that those big tattooed hands were cuffed behind the man’s back. Lille Shoop made himself as small in the corner of the jail wagon as he could. Then, for some reason, the little intercom thing that the cops up front used to give orders, flipped on, like by accident, and they could hear the conversation between the cops:

Captain Korn: “You realize, that in six more months, Boone is going to be eligible to join the force.”

Uncle Problem: “Shoot, brother, could you imagine how bad that is going to be? If it is not bad enough that he’s Super Screw, insisting we do everything by the book when we drop off the accused, can you imagine having to serve next to this man on patrol? Shit will be like Iraq in 2004!”

Captain Korn: “Well, I’m hoping he takes an excessive force charge at the jail so he never becomes eligible for patrol—what a dick!”

Uncle Problem: “Hell, brother, what you’re really pissed at is not a cracker—no offense intended—in that jail has ever stepped up to Super Screw and so much as challenged him.”

Captain Korn: “Well, brother—no offense intended—but at last count twenty-nine of your oppressed kin of the criminal kind, have had the black beat off of them by that sumbitch!”

The big viking was now crowding up next to the speaker across from Lille Shoop listening intently, his face aware and his eyes all a glare.

Uncle Problem: “Well, my white bread brother, it would be a shame—beings as it is in our union contract that we don’t have to help offload our suspects, who are all innocent until proven guilty—that Officer Hardass Boone might have an incident with some BAD ASS dude while we were checking the air pressure in the front tires?”

Captain Korn: “Yes, but assuming there was such a bad ass in our van, and he was white, well, he would certainly use his extensive education—unlike your kin—no offense offered...”

Uncle Problem: “None taken. I am a proud VMI graduate.”

Captain Korn: “Well, its not that white jailbirds can’t fight the cops. It’s that they do not suffer from a high time preference. And hence do not make that time-extending decision.”

The viking looked at Lille Shoop as if he were an insect that was found wanting and Shoop shrank up even smaller.

Uncle Problem: “No offense taken, brother. But I have to ask you, let’s sayin’ that there is a white boy somewhere in this county—other than YOUR KIN Boone—who actually has the balls to throw down with a corrections officer [and let us specify that assaults on corrections officers lead to charges at a ratio of one-to-four to assaults on patrol officers] and this titan out of Valhalla decided to step across the Bifrost Bridge to chastise said Boone...whatever would be in it for him?”

Captain Korn: “What did I do with the report on this biker we just picked up for pissing on the hood of the old lady’s car back at the diner?”

Uncle Problem: “Oh, shoot, Sarge—its lost! I could rewrite the citation from memory. Look, let’s saying maybe Boone just gets a little bit of an education, maybe knocked down a peg or two—no jump-stomping etc—I think we could forget the part about the biker actually feeling up the old lady?”

Lille Shoop thought to himself, as he looked up at the giant bearded menace with arms tattooed with baby skulls, “What terrible people! And I’m going to be the one spending my life behind bars?”

The viking in his big heavy boots, leather vest, braided beard and shaven head that had Fuck You tattooed on the back of it, began to snarl silently, flex his hands in the cuffs and pace back and forth.

Lille Shoop stayed cringing in the head of the jail wagon after it stopped and the two police got out and greeted an unseen person who had a very professional voice, theirs with joyful tones, as if he were their best friend.

The giant stood, his fists flexing behind him.

The doors were unlocked and one officer each pulled the doors aside and a tall but not real big blond-headed jail cop stood there with his hands on his hips and said to the giant, “Mister Henderson, step down please.”

“Fuck you, pig!” snarled the giant viking as he stood at the end of the truck, his head barely clearing the roof as he stepped slightly forward almost over the back bumper so that he could straighten up and flex.

Captain Korn: “Oh, looks like your expertise will be required Reverend Boone.”

Uncle Problem: “Now son, Officer Boone asked you nicely.”

The viking snarled, “Officer Bitch can fuck off!”

The viking seemed like he was going to use one of his boots to kick the cop, like he wanted the cop to come closer to the tailgate. For as big and dangerous as his arms and hands were, they were cuffed behind him.

The jail cop stepped up closer and said, “You need a hand down, Mister Henderson?”

As he said that the viking lashed out with one boot like he was going to kick the police in the face and the police moved his head and swung one of his legs up over the tail gate and into the one standing leg of the viking and it snapped, right in there somewhere covered by the boot, and the big man fell with one foot out and the other all dangling unnatural like until his head and shoulders hit the back of the jail wagon bed and he flopped out into the pavement. As Lille Shoop stood, the jail police was dragging the moaning giant off to the side.

The two regular police seemed stunned and the jail police, all pumped up, shouted with a horrid voice of command, “Jason Little, get down here!”

Tears welled in his eyes, and he wished that wasn’t all as his shorts ran with pee and his sneakers were drenched with the contents of his own fear-released bladder and, and…

The viking was whining about his ankle being broken while the white cop gave him a hard time for messing with old ladies and the jail police seemed kind of sad about Shoop’s condition and the black police, looked wide-eyed at Shoop’s formerly white sneakers and drawled pitilessly, “Seriously, Boy—you done shit on yourself in my truck?”

The jail police actually apologized to him and helped him get cleaned up.

But everyone knew.