“I was pulled over for doing seventy-four in a fifty five zone by a bridge cop, a troll who only works the bridge. He asked me if I had been drinking and I told him that I had had a margarita for lunch. He insisted on giving me a breathalyzer, which I was okay with. But my mother started yelling at him that we were working under cover for WIC and then got out of the truck. He told her to get back in the truck and she did. Then she got out the other side and told him to go fuck himself. So he threw her on the ground and cuffed her.

“I was looking at my mom handcuffed in the police cruiser and was really nervous. This troll cop was a real dick, and he was also out of control. He gave me the breathalyzer over and over and over again as he yelled at me. He kept saying that I was ruining the test. Finally, he told me to blow harder—that he was giving me one last chance—and, thank God, it worked and I was not under the influence.

“Finally some real cops pulled up and they couldn’t believe how he was acting. They told me that he had been a narcotics cop in the city and that something went down that was not right and he was assigned to the bridge as a punishment. He didn’t want to be a troll cop on the bridge so he was looking for a big arrest. I felt so much better with the real cops there.

“Then he searches the truck, which I had just inherited from my father, who had just passed away, and had not cleaned out yet. He pulls out this big machete that my father had spray-painted fluorescent yellow for some reason, and began waving it around and said, “Ah ha!”

“He also found my two cartons of cigarettes which I had bought in West Virginia. Everybody thinks you are allowed two cartons of out of state cigarettes, but, in Maryland, its two packs! They gave me two packs and took the rest—I suppose smoked them. I was arrested for concealing a deadly weapon and for transporting cigarettes with the intent to distribute.

“I wanted a jury trial, which really freaked them out. So they offered me this plea; they would drop everything—no points for speeding, which I really wanted—and only charge me with two year’s supervised probation for the machete. I wrote a letter to the court and got them to reduce it to one year and they had to return my father’s machete. So I get arrested for having a machete in the truck that I did not know was in the truck, but am allowed to walk out of a courtroom and down the street with the thing under my arm?

“I saw the probation officer three times. Mind, you, I am a grown woman. The only thing that the probation officer was worried about—she was a woman—was whether or not I had any contact with my mother! Of course I’m not going to stay away from my mother because the court doesn’t want me to see her. Besides, we worked together! What a joke.”

“After that the kids started calling me Madam Machete.”

Be mindful that The Boned Zone is not only stalked by hoodrats and thugs, but by pigs, the deadliest enemy a U.S. citizen can confront. They are God with a Gun and they know it. So by all means do not tell your friendly neighborhood pig to go fuck himself.

Last week, when I was at the local bar with Mescaline Franklin and Quinn, in a neighborhood where pigs drive right by packs of hoodrats hanging round the ATM machine, where Big Jim, the White Vice Lords and I are the only white pedestrians who have not been mugged, and where businesses are already boarding up for the next round of black youth riots, a white thirty something pig, walked into the bar and stared us all in the eyes one by one, in a limp-wristed attempt to intimidate men who were mostly 20 years older than him and had no criminal records, but worked, unlike his parasitic ass.

That is, what we call in Harm City, "a police" and "that's how they do."

The policeman is not your friend, but you must be his or you will pay. Call the asshole in the phony military outfit, "sir," until he's done flexing his blueceps.