New story excerpt: One bad day can always get worse (Part 1)...
Once again, as a courtesy to friends and family not particularly fond of my blue language from time to time, I must once again beg your forgiveness and rate this with R. For the rest of you, though (let's hum a few bars and give that first bunch a chance to log out: Hmmm, hmm HMMMM hmmm hmm ) . . . Alright. Is that all of them? Here we go then.
“What the hell do you mean, you called the law?”
“I mean I called the police to report your dang dog,” Bob says. “That beast kept me up all hours barking last night. No one should have to put up with that kind of racket.”
“He was barking at your damn car, which you drove through my fucking fence, you moron.”
“Oh, we’re back to that are we?”
“Hell yeah, I’m back to that,” Doug says, taking a couple steps forward, now really irate. “I never left it. Your fucking driveway if on the other side of your damn house. I still don’t see how anyone managed to plow through my fence way over here.”
“Now there’s no need for the hostilities,” Bob says. “I done told you, my nephew borrowed my car last night and was having a fight with his girlfriend. It was an honest mistake…”
“Honest mistake? How the hell do you honestly mistake a curb, three flower beds, two goddamned trees and an eight-foot-tall stone fence? Was she clawing his fucking eyes out or something?”
“Language please, Mr. Palmer…”
“I haven’t even fucking begun to enhance your fucking vocabulary yet, you sorry sack of shit…”
Bob eyes light up and his uptight nervousness seems to melt away as he sees a uniformed officer step out of the golf cart he used for his daily neighborhood patrols.
“Figures,” Doug spat, trying to lower his tone so just Bob could hear. “You call the law, and they send some little Mickey Mouse motherfucker. What you and Barney Fife over there gonna do now?”
The cop eyes Doug coldly, having heard every word out the old man's mouth. He steps over the deep swerving ruts in the yard supposedly left by Bob Hanson’s nephew the night before, the ass end of the Buick still jutting out from Doug’s previously pristine eight-foot-tall stone fence. Doug’s Doberman, Clancy, peers through the cracked windows of the wreckage and begins the first of a series of throaty complaints at the new arrival on his turf.
“What seems to be the trouble here, gentlemen?” the boy cop asks, swiveling his oversized head to check out the surroundings before taking his I’m-on-duty stance on the edge of Doug’s yard between the two men, both hands at the ready on his beltline. One's in handy reach of his Taser, the other, poised just behind his sidearm, should things really go south.
Both Bob and Doug answer his question simultaneously, each with equal enthusiasm. Clancy places his paws atop the crumpled hood of Bob’s Buick, really raising hell now along with his master. Combined, the two old geezers yammering and the dog barking, they sound like something between talk radio and Tejano on a poorly tuned AM radio.
“One at a time, please, gentlemen,” Boy Cop says, lifting his Taser hand as if to part the Red Sea. His official-looking stance has no affect whatever on Clancy, who is now fully involved in the argument outside his enclosure.
“I called you, officer, to report that dang dog,” Bob says. “He won’t quit barking.”
“You do realize that’s a violation of Ordinance 316,” Boy Cop says, once again eying Doug as he lowers his Taser hand back into place. “And I know our department has already received a number of complaints from the neighborhood association about this… wreckage… in your front yard. We take these sorts of things very seriously in Palmer Oaks, you know.”
Doug’s jaw falls slack momentarily as the officer’s words sink in.
“You're fucking punking me, right?” Doug says, taking a couple steps forward, his head panning left then right. “Come on, where’s the fucking film crew?”
Both of Boy Cop’s hands now shift to his right hip and start fumbling the latch on his holster. He pulls his shiny new Glock (probably never been fired) and targets Doug’s torso. Apparently, that forward motion was seen as a sign of aggression, although he’d need a good throwing arm and a fairly large rock in hand to do much damage to anyone at this distance.
“I’m gonna need you to calm down, sir,” Boy Cop says.
“What the fuck?”
“YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN, SIR.”
Doug raises his palms at the cop and takes a step back. His tenor, however, doesn’t change a lick: “This asshole rams his fucking car through my fucking fence and you’re here telling me I need to worry about damn noise ordinance? Don't you drawing down on me in my yard lest you intend to use that cap gun there, Skippy. And how about start talking some real crimes, like drunk fucking driving and destruction of fuckin' property and--"
“You need to refrain from all this profanity, sir,” Boy Cop says, still aiming as he steps forward.
“What? Y’all in same in the same Bible class or something?” Doug asks, glancing over at Bob, who this odd little smirk on his lips. The old man spits again, and glowers back at the policeman.
“That’s it,” Boy Cop says. “I need you the lie down, face on the ground, and put hands on your head.”
“Then what we gonna do? Take in a round a of golf? You can fuck yourself, man. It’s too damn muddy out here, and besides, I got a trick knee. Don't forget, I pay my taxes, which means I’m paying your damn salary, you twerp. You can stick that pea shooter up your ass, because I ain’t done a damn thing wrong.”
Reminding a cop that he’s a public servant isn’t the most enlightened thing to do, especially not when that public servant has a loaded weapon trained on your balls. Nor is publicly suggesting he engage some act of self-gratification at that particular moment. Of course, Doug never was the shy, quiet type.
Clancy, meanwhile, sounds like he's trying eat his way through Bob's Buick, barking his fool head off at the same time metal pings and pangs are sound from the from of the and big clamps down the bumper and grill guard, having seen some stranger toss his master on ground like wet sack of assholes.
“222 to dispatch,” Boy Cop says into his shoulder.
“Dispatch over,” some female of Southern origins responds.
“I have one suspect in custody and I’m gonna need Animal Control here at this location as well.”
Not once, other than that neighborhood association reference, did Bob’s crashed Buick ever come up again in conversation. . .
One bad day can always get worse…
It could have happened to anyone, anyplace, at any time. It happened to be a Tuesday for Doug, not long after he handed a raft of shit to his neighbor, Bob, that should've come with paddles.
“What the hell do you mean, you called the law?”
“I mean I called the police to report your dang dog,” Bob says. “That beast kept me up all hours barking last night. No one should have to put up with that kind of racket.”
“He was barking at your damn car, which you drove through my fucking fence, you moron.”
“Oh, we’re back to that are we?”
“Hell yeah, I’m back to that,” Doug says, taking a couple steps forward, now really irate. “I never left it. Your fucking driveway if on the other side of your damn house. I still don’t see how anyone managed to plow through my fence way over here.”
“Now there’s no need for the hostilities,” Bob says. “I done told you, my nephew borrowed my car last night and was having a fight with his girlfriend. It was an honest mistake…”
“Honest mistake? How the hell do you honestly mistake a curb, three flower beds, two goddamned trees and an eight-foot-tall stone fence? Was she clawing his fucking eyes out or something?”
“Language please, Mr. Palmer…”
“I haven’t even fucking begun to enhance your fucking vocabulary yet, you sorry sack of shit…”
Bob eyes light up and his uptight nervousness seems to melt away as he sees a uniformed officer step out of the golf cart he used for his daily neighborhood patrols.
“Figures,” Doug spat, trying to lower his tone so just Bob could hear. “You call the law, and they send some little Mickey Mouse motherfucker. What you and Barney Fife over there gonna do now?”
The cop eyes Doug coldly, having heard every word out the old man's mouth. He steps over the deep swerving ruts in the yard supposedly left by Bob Hanson’s nephew the night before, the ass end of the Buick still jutting out from Doug’s previously pristine eight-foot-tall stone fence. Doug’s Doberman, Clancy, peers through the cracked windows of the wreckage and begins the first of a series of throaty complaints at the new arrival on his turf.
“What seems to be the trouble here, gentlemen?” the boy cop asks, swiveling his oversized head to check out the surroundings before taking his I’m-on-duty stance on the edge of Doug’s yard between the two men, both hands at the ready on his beltline. One's in handy reach of his Taser, the other, poised just behind his sidearm, should things really go south.
Both Bob and Doug answer his question simultaneously, each with equal enthusiasm. Clancy places his paws atop the crumpled hood of Bob’s Buick, really raising hell now along with his master. Combined, the two old geezers yammering and the dog barking, they sound like something between talk radio and Tejano on a poorly tuned AM radio.
“One at a time, please, gentlemen,” Boy Cop says, lifting his Taser hand as if to part the Red Sea. His official-looking stance has no affect whatever on Clancy, who is now fully involved in the argument outside his enclosure.
“I called you, officer, to report that dang dog,” Bob says. “He won’t quit barking.”
“You do realize that’s a violation of Ordinance 316,” Boy Cop says, once again eying Doug as he lowers his Taser hand back into place. “And I know our department has already received a number of complaints from the neighborhood association about this… wreckage… in your front yard. We take these sorts of things very seriously in Palmer Oaks, you know.”
Doug’s jaw falls slack momentarily as the officer’s words sink in.
“You're fucking punking me, right?” Doug says, taking a couple steps forward, his head panning left then right. “Come on, where’s the fucking film crew?”
Both of Boy Cop’s hands now shift to his right hip and start fumbling the latch on his holster. He pulls his shiny new Glock (probably never been fired) and targets Doug’s torso. Apparently, that forward motion was seen as a sign of aggression, although he’d need a good throwing arm and a fairly large rock in hand to do much damage to anyone at this distance.
“I’m gonna need you to calm down, sir,” Boy Cop says.
“What the fuck?”
“YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN, SIR.”
Doug raises his palms at the cop and takes a step back. His tenor, however, doesn’t change a lick: “This asshole rams his fucking car through my fucking fence and you’re here telling me I need to worry about damn noise ordinance? Don't you drawing down on me in my yard lest you intend to use that cap gun there, Skippy. And how about start talking some real crimes, like drunk fucking driving and destruction of fuckin' property and--"
“You need to refrain from all this profanity, sir,” Boy Cop says, still aiming as he steps forward.
“What? Y’all in same in the same Bible class or something?” Doug asks, glancing over at Bob, who this odd little smirk on his lips. The old man spits again, and glowers back at the policeman.
“That’s it,” Boy Cop says. “I need you the lie down, face on the ground, and put hands on your head.”
“Then what we gonna do? Take in a round a of golf? You can fuck yourself, man. It’s too damn muddy out here, and besides, I got a trick knee. Don't forget, I pay my taxes, which means I’m paying your damn salary, you twerp. You can stick that pea shooter up your ass, because I ain’t done a damn thing wrong.”
Reminding a cop that he’s a public servant isn’t the most enlightened thing to do, especially not when that public servant has a loaded weapon trained on your balls. Nor is publicly suggesting he engage some act of self-gratification at that particular moment. Of course, Doug never was the shy, quiet type.
He began realizing the error of his ways right about the same time said public servant cleared the roughly 30 feet between in half a blink and slammed him, hard, face-first in the mud. It happened so fast, Doug didn't even see him coming, despite staring right at him, and before he could say ouch, his arms were pretzeled behind him as Boy Cop snapped the cuffs on. Apparently, this kid paid extra good attention on take-down day at cop school.
Doug, now soaking up yesterday’s rains into his best Hawaiian shirt, looks back at the house in hopes his wife, Maggie, might somehow intervene. Of course, Criminal Minds hosting an all-day marathon on the O! Channel that day, chances were slim.
Clancy, meanwhile, sounds like he's trying eat his way through Bob's Buick, barking his fool head off at the same time metal pings and pangs are sound from the from of the and big clamps down the bumper and grill guard, having seen some stranger toss his master on ground like wet sack of assholes.
“222 to dispatch,” Boy Cop says into his shoulder.
“Dispatch over,” some female of Southern origins responds.
“I have one suspect in custody and I’m gonna need Animal Control here at this location as well.”
Not once, other than that neighborhood association reference, did Bob’s crashed Buick ever come up again in conversation. . .
Like what see so far? Plenty more where that came from. Wanna see the rest? Let's hear from you. . .
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