by Bob'n Around
Invisible matters of the mind turned real into the written word.
|Co-win Daily SCREAMS!!!
Things happen. You are going along minding your own business when those flashing lights appear in your rearview mirror. “Traffic check,” you hear.
The cop is having a bad day and about to transfer the honors. “License and registration please.”
Lucky you. You find it without needing the cop to get a search warrant while you are cleaning out your car. “Here, officer.” Total respect.
“Step out of the car.” Traffic slows to a crawl, faces wide eyed, wondering who you killed.
All except the guy on his cellphone, smoking pot, texting it is not his fault why he’s going to be late. Lucky him. Good reflexes. He swerves from crashing a domino pileup effect totaling twenty cars. Takes out the cop instead, gives you the finger, tosses out his lit joint and keeps on going blending safely into a string exiting an off ramp.
“Why’d you do it?” There’s a gun at your head. Highway patrol stopping where all the gawking is slowing people down. “Lay down. Spread your arms and legs while I call this in.”
There you were, leaning over the cop, hand on his throat feeling for a pulse. Your other hand feeling the bloody lump on his head. You’re not murdering him. He is already dead. Smell of marijuana smoke rising up from the lit cig under your shoe.
“Hit and run, officer. He’s getting away.” You start to rise. Helpful. Ready to describe what happened.
Luck runs out. Tasered to the ground. One foot accidentally hitting the Highway Patrol guy a grazing blow in his nuts. You receive a close up face full of mace. Handcuffs. A knee on your neck. Hot melting asphalt coats your teeth.
“Where’s your I.D.?”
It is nowhere, of course. When the cop got hit, spun, and turned into a corpse, your wallet became air born and split the scene. “I want a lawyer.” It comes out garbled spit, gravel and hot tar, turned into half angry denial, the rest maybe a curse.
“Everyone thinks they’re a tough guy.”
Pulled up on your feet, pushed running to catch your balance, duck and roll out of traffic. “Trying to escape?” A billy club sends stars dancing in your head. Lights out.
Wake up in vomit too old to be your own. Sliding length wise in the back seat of a traveling cop car. Siren going. Head splitting. “I didn’t do it. You got the wrong man.”
“Tell it to the queers having a get acquainted party in your cell. Special favor only for cop killers. No I.D. you could be an illegal alien. No rights. No lawyer. No phone call.” The Highway Patrol guy starts whistling between gritted teeth.
It’s the guy whose car hit the cop faces you when the cell door whines open. “You.” He says. Eyes widen. Maybe your luck has changed.
My knee jerks up into his groin. All I have to do is get him to talk. I grab him by the hair. It comes off, a hair piece. Other cell mates circle, sheltering the fight from the hallway’s view. “Let’s make it interesting. Give them a knife.”
Out of nowhere, one spins across the floor. We both lunge for it. Men start taking bets. The two of us scramble, getting kicked, pushed and shoved. The knife gets thrust at me, handle first, from the sidelines. “Do it.”
“All right. Break it up.”
More chemical spray mists the air. I slip the blade inside my pants. I don’t know who may come at me next. “Him. He started it.” A fellow prisoner yells in my ear.
Eyes and nose streaming, I slip in blood, trip over the body of the man who could have set me free. Someone else did him. Not me. The knife slides down out of my pants to flash into view. “It is a set up.” I groan.
The same hustle all over again. This time with ICE agents battering me around. Another car ride. No jail. A warehouse filled with Spic’s who look like me. I’m American but it makes no difference. “On the bus. We’re overcrowded. Sending you home.”
There is no way out. No one is listening. Things move too fast. We are let out in the middle of nowhere an hour across the border. No water. No food. I feel someone trying to pick my pocket. There is a wallet I just stole placed there.
I keep and hold the thief’s hand. “Los Zetas, drug cartel. Make contact for me and keep the wallet. There’s more when we meet up.” There is a hesitant silence, a shrug and a nod. The thief lifts a cellphone to his ear.
I am given respect. Other’s move away from me. Even the pickpocket’s eyes are filled with fear. We walk. A car approaches. Conversation is made. I am given the cell phone. The thief gets his cash.
We ride away in air conditioned comfort for me to give my report. It is a good thing the drug deal went down successfully in the states. I was on my way to return for the next deal. My new bruises, cuts, scrapes and scabbed wounds elevate me in the minds of my bosses. “Take a break, your choice of a woman, extra money, a two week beach vacation.”
It is not a request. It is a command. "You a rising star. Maybe we make a political assassin out of you. You got staying power."
They know I will be back. Once a member and a mule for Los Zetas, there is no way out. No turning back. Not if I want my family left alone. I've heard from my mother about the rape of my sister. I know I am being watched, to see how I handle this thing.
She is now a Puta. A piece of flesh, no longer human or worthy of respect. Will I put her out of her misery while carrying out my revenge? I will use my newly given resources to find a way. There is a sadness in me I cannot express. Life has lost its honor.
There is no turning back, for me or for my many enemies. How many will I take with me into an unnamed grave is yet to be known.