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Published on May 20, 2021 3:54 AM

 
I Hate Cops
I was driving down a wide, mostly empty street a few miles from Portland. It was late Friday, hot for a September afternoon in Oregon. I was on my way home. I had promised my wife I'd take her to our favorite cafe, good chowder and service, not too busy.

Rush hour traffic had thinned, loud sirens approached from somewhere. I prepared to stop for a yellow light when suddenly a light blue speeding Ford Mustang ran the light ahead to my left. The Mustang skidded in a wild, screeching slide, plowed directly into my '92 Honda. My chin hit the steering wheel hard, steam and smoke poured out the hood, and I stumbled out the door to one knee. I must have hit hard; my car was smashed on the left front side pretty good.

I heard a noise, turned and saw a chunky uniformed cop rushing toward me, gun drawn. What the hell? He skidded to a stop a few feet away, like a character out of a "COPS" segment, fat barrel pointing somewhere near my left eyeball. "Put your hands behind your head, asshole! the cop shouted, squatting like a hunter taking a piss, both hands holding the gun.

Was he talking to me? I had only been doing a few miles over the speed limit, hardly enough reason to draw his gun. I knew right away I didn't care for it much; nearly scared the crap outa me! Was there someone else he was talking to? I was still dizzy from the blow on the steering wheel. I looked to my right. Inside the Ford a guy with a shaved head crouched, tried to hide. Or maybe he was injured. What the hell?

I turned to the cop and pointed to the Ford, "He's the one who hit me..." I offered, interrupting his shouting. You know, it's not that I hate all cops, just the hateful ones.

I looked back inside the Ford. The shaven head moved a bit then something like an old Seagate hard drive hit me on the side of the head. I fell over, wondering in an off-handed way where the stars and roaring music had come and hit I solid ground in slow motion just in time to feel a boot like a jackhammer do its job on my right lower side. It hurt.

"I told you get your hands over your head", the cop, amazingly, continued to bark commands, pushing me down with his boot like I was George Floyd. I gasped for breath, blood pouring in generous pools over my white shirt, onto my jeans, and the hot afternoon asphalt.

"Put your ugly face on the street scumsucker!", the cop yelled, moving to cuff me. Sumsucker? And they say cops are inarticulate! I had just about caught my breath and I was getting pissed somewhere beneath fear and disbelief. He obviously had the wrong person, must have been chasing the other guy in the Ford. That must be it.

"You've got the wrong..." I tried to explain ... A knee slammed into my side. It didn't quite connect the way it should because I had twisted upward in an effort to stand. It was time to get pissed in earnest I thought. I mean, I've been angry before, but the stupidity of it really got to me. Who the hell did this jerk think he was? All I could think of was ramming my fist down his throat, grabbing his balls, squeezing then ripping hard!

I'm not a huge man but I stood up, both feet, raised my hand and pointed directly into his twisted face, "You have the wrong guy asshole!" He backed a bit, gun still pointing at my face, looking around at a gathering crowd. There were a few people behind him, cars stopped in the middle of the road, a couple kids here and there, more people off to both sides.

Perhaps sight of the crowd gave me support. I don't know, didn't care. "Go head, asshole, shoot", I dared. "Pull the trigger, you damn idiot. "Go ahead, shoot me, spend all your life in jail. You don't have the balls!"

I knew I was right, but I waited for the bullet, wondering if I'd feel it at all. It didn't matter what happened, you know, not at that moment. I was right and boy would he be sorry. The jerk cop with the gun was wrong. Maybe he sensed it in my tone because he actually stepped back a couple feet. "You've got the wrong guy." I took another step toward him, about three feet separating us. I didn't think he'd miss, even for a cop. Then somehow, I knew he was beginning to pull the trigger. Christ, what an asshole. It was obvious, I realized, doom and gloom quickly replacing indignation.

I suddenly realized I had only once chance. I spun to my left, leaped forward as his gun fired, a blast whistled an inch from my ear. I lunged forward, pushed his weapon aside, grabbed at his throat and smashed my forehead into his nose, hard, a couple times. I had always wanted to do that, had seen it on TV or some movie. Something cracked on his face. It felt good. I guess it wasn't me anyway. He let go. I grabbed his gun, pointed the barrel at his face, finger on the trigger. "All right, asshole", I said, standing over the cop who had fallen backward tripping on his feet, staring up at me with a stupid, open mouth. It was my best cop impersonation. "You wanta shoot someone? How does it feel, dork?" Someone in the distance urged me to kill him. I came so close to pulling that trigger; I had this incredible vision, looming large, overpowering, bullets slamming into the cops distorted face, stomping his head to mush, brains and blood running over his sloppy uniform, down the street, kicking his fat stomach until small intestines worked loose, mixing with the rest of the debris. It would take a good rain to clean up the mess.

Only a fraction of a gram on the trigger separated me from an act of manslaughter. Murder, indeed. You kill a cop and they fry you, no matter what. Kill one and they're an instant hero. Kill a kid, a nun, a Girl Scout, rape her and you get 20 to life. Kill a cop and you end your life on deathrow. Why? Because if you kill a cop you'd kill anyone. Right? Bullshit. Kill a cop? Creeping dumb-asses, think they're so great, scum of the world, pea brained boys following the leader. Now, could I have been standing over a kid on the street like this, a nun, or a woman, me, ready to pull the trigger under the same circumstances? Hardly. Christ, I hate cops!

Then, suddenly, I thought of my wife, the most lovely thought a man could have. Her sweet face. What would she do while I wrote her letters from prison? Do you have any idea of the miraculous achievement this thought represented, to ignore my feelings of smashing that cop to malto-meal under my feet? Now, that's love. That's dedication. That's control.

Now honestly, my dad was a copy and my cousin captain of police in Memphis long ago. But it is the total lack of respect for human life taht drives me to my opinion. And I was quickly realizing I was no better than this officer, my mind turning to such violent thoughts.

Three months later, after paying lawyers and other bills, I nearly wished I had gone postal and killed the sunofabitch, there on the street, first and finally. I had healed pretty well. I considered half-backed plans, dreams really, to get even with the cop, the Chief, the DA, and don't forget my lawyer. Scumbag. And the psychiatrist too. But the city attorney apologized, publicly, to avoid a law suit and paid for everything and a few thousand to boot. Not much but it ruined my daydreams. I have to admit, it felt good. The public apology. But am I supposed to be grateful? Screw you.

Now, I'm a normal law abiding citizen. But I do have rights. We all have our rights. So, yes, I bought a big gun. That's what I did. The guy who ran into me that day, the one the cop was actually chasing? Well, he was drunk, that's right, driving drunk. Yeah, I hate drunk drivers too because they are murdurers in waiting. But that's another story. The cop had been chasing the drunk, it seems. The drunk driver, in an effort to get away, sideswiped the cop, which, of course, amounted to "ATEMPTED MURDER" giving the cop the right to chase the guy as though he was a bank robber, placing everyone, including me, in danger. The guy sideswiped me too but I couldn't file attempted murder charges, or any charge against the cop, even though he shot at me, point blank. I know. I tried. He wanted to murder my ass. Right? I had no gun. Go figure.

So, the guy was a drunk driver. Bad enough, it nearly got me killed. He survived. We had dinner last night. Yeah, me and the drunk. He hates cops too. Okay so it's only a few cops I hate because of their cavalier attitude, like the cop who put his knee on George Floyd and ended his life.

Anyway, this particular drunk might be okay when sober, as drunks go. I ended up selling him my gun, real cheap like and bought a couple bottles of Scotch and a bag of grass, good stuff, just to keep him happy. He knows where the cop lives.