Sunday, August 18, 2013


The next day, as he patrolled the north side of the city, Officer Sam Reynolds was still seething over the treatment he received from Heather.

I won't forget this, he thought. Treated like garbage by a sorry bitch who shows her titties for a living. No sir, I won't forget this. I’ll remember this a long time and I know where she lives.

It was true. He had waited in the parking lot of the Pink Kitty Kat till he saw her leave in her car, then followed her and memorized her license plate number sitting at a red light, and the next day ran the number through DMV and learned her home address, a shabby apartment complex on Russell Street.

All he needed now was a plan. He had ideas, but no coherent plan, just ideas—actually, images that went round and round in his brain. Images of all the things he would do to her. I will break her, he thought. Break her and make her beg me not to kill her ...

Suddenly, in the midst of these thoughts, Officer Reynolds got a call on the radio. Two young males, one White one Hispanic, had been seen tagging the side of an empty warehouse off Palmer Avenue.

He turned on his siren and floor-boarded it, shooting through red lights, weaving around stalled rush-hour traffic, running cars off the road. This was just what he needed …

Meanwhile, a cell phone buzzed in the back pocket of one of the taggers.

The tagger was known as Jag and he was standing on a ladder spraying red paint onto the wall. He put down the paint can and answered, and heard his lookout Mystik shouting into the phone, “Pigs, man! They’re coming!”

Jag clambered down the ladder, calling to his buddy, “Zoop, it’s the pigs!”

Zoop and Jag left their paint cans and ladders (stolen) and jumping on their skateboards shot down the wide streets of the industrial park. They dodged an oncoming van as they veered sharp left. Then they went down another street, hit a curb and flipping over it with precision jumped off and catching their boards ran into the tall grass to hide and wait for Mystik to join them.

Mystik was on the roof of a parking garage next to the warehouse, where he had been skateboarding when he heard the distant siren. At first he had thought—hoped—it was nothing to do with his buddies. But just to make sure, he zoomed in with his Canon and saw three cop cars racing straight up Parmer towards them. This was when he called Jag.

Now, after he was sure his buddies were safe, he hopped on his skateboard and started shooting down the ramps of the parking garage. There were four ramps in all and it took several minutes. Yes, he might have hidden in the garage, but he had learned from experience it was better not to be anywhere in the vicinity of pigs, especially when they were frustrated and looking for somebody, anybody, to fuck over.

His buddies meanwhile crouched in the grass, breathless and watching the garage exit, hoping he would make it out before the cops arrived. “Come on man,” said Zoop, “stop fucking around.”

Mystik shot out the exit an instant before the cops appeared, then shot around the other side of the garage and out of sight. Jag and Zoop cackled.

Jag texted Mystik, “Dude you made it Thanx.”

Mystik texted back, “Meet me Red Wag.”


Jag pocketed his phone. Then he and Zoop watched the cops get out of their cars and stare up at the almost-completed graffiti (a colorful masterpiece depicting Godzilla roasting the president) and look around at the turned-over paint cans and ladders.

One of the cops looked at the other two and said, “Who turned on the siren?”

“I did,” said Officer Reynolds.

“Oh, so it was you. Well, thanks for warning the taggers, dickhead.”

A third cop said, “Shouldn’t we look for them?”

The other cop rolled his eyes, got back in his car, and drove away. The others followed.

Hearing this, Jag and Zoop snickered. Then they smoked a joint, admiring their artwork in the setting December sun. Then they got on their skateboards to rendezvous with Mystik at Red Wagon Burgers.

(To be continued)