Requests - Part 2 - Number 11 Over John Law's Head

When I saw the sirens and the golden car, I was fairly sure that I was going to be beaten and possibly killed.

The guy that got out of the car was completely supportive of my forseen idea of the future. He was tall and lean, huge watch on his wrist and sunglasses that completely obscured his eyes. His gun, obviously not a departmental issue weapon, was so heavy that his belt showed wear and tear on the side it was carried on.

The gas station were parked in was deserted and in shambles. Most of the broken glass had been swept away, but the frames of the windows were not pulled and replaced. It looked a lot like a scene from a post-apocalyptic film, and it was definitely the kind of movie where the black guy dies early...
"Mr. Chenault, could you step out of the car please?"

He hasn't even seen my license, so his knowledge of my name in advance can't mean good things.

"Is there a problem, officer?" I said as I got out of the rental.

He holds up a finger and gets on his radio. He was asking about the complaint from the house I had just been in. There was quite a bit of chatter, so I guess he decided he'd rather sit than stand. With a long scratch of the hair under his hat, he settled against the hood of his car and began writing down whatever was being said.

After about ten minutes of me standing there scared and him writing and scratching, he stood and turned off his radio.

"You been to Don's house today?"

"Yeah. His wife --"

"Right."

He walked a little closer to me, his mirrored glasses shining in the sun. The dust was starting to really make my nose itch. I scratched with one sweaty hand and used the other to shield my eyes from the sun.

Click

The radio stopped making the hissing sound I'd now grown used to tuning out. I was now terrified. My bladder instantly filled to capacity and forced my knees together. I was certain he was going to shoot me and leave me there.

"... Don's wife is a real bitch, ain't she?"

I was so shocked that I dropped my keys. I laughed sheepishly.. after all, what kind of response can you give to that?

"You just be sure you don't go over there no more. Otherwise I'll have to lock you up. You want that?"

"No sir."

"Right. Have a good day, man."

He left with tires spinning in the sand. I waited till I couldn't read his plates anymore and took a long, exasperated leak. Suddenly scared of the exposure, since I'd chosen to piss behind a dead pump, I tucked in and peeled out.

After that, I secretly carried a knife with me on every call. I got caught with it in the airport and lost it long after I left Mississippi, but I'll always remember buying it and giving the story as my reason. The guy I bought it from, Otis if I remember correctly pulled out a bowie knife from under his jean jacket and set it on the table. He told me I should buy a gun if I wanted to get away. I just laughed and said my chances of getting away were "slim to none" even with a gun, so why not "give them an injury to remind them of me." He laughed and just said:

"Make sure to twist it. Breaks the bone if you've hit a limb or gores and tears when you've hit the torso."

I raised an eyebrow and he just said "same reason you got yours, I got mine."

And that's my best cop story.