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Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Contest Entry · #2236933
Police psychologist tries to talk a man off the ledge.
I stuck my head out the window of room 1447 of the old Parker Hotel in Georgetown and saw why I had been called to the scene. A white male wearing a red MAGA hat stood on the ledge staring down at the odd mix of rioters and celebrators clashing on the street below. The man was well dressed in a suit perhaps a size too big for him and held a .38 snub-nosed revolver against his left temple. This night was already worrisome, and I knew now it was only going to get worse.

The elections were over and the votes were finally counted. Thousands of people were cheering, and thousands of others were angry, and the blustering voices from the growing crowd could be heard easily all the way up here. I could see the flames from exploding Molotov cocktails leaping out of broken glass windows of shop after shop. It was a mess down there, and now this guy!

I brought my head back inside. Standing behind me in the hotel room were three men. I looked at them hard, one by one. The first was my captain at the 33rd, fat and dumb as a box of rocks. I looked behind him at a thin man with long sideburns and a pencil-thin mustache who claimed to be the hotel manager. I saw in the very rear a young man of Puerto Rican descent wearing a bellboy’s uniform with a name tag on his chest that said, Pepe. Apparently, it was he who called in the report of “A man standing on the 14th floor ledge,” which I later corrected in my log to be the 13th floor ledge because no hotel in America calls their 13th floor the 13th floor, but, nonetheless, we of the 33rd are trained to be accurate about such details.

“So, whadaya think?” my captain asked with his normal scowl. The man had a great mistrust of me, which he never tried to hide. He claimed I was a green, snot-nosed boy with a Ph.D. that didn’t know shit from Shinola, and he was half right. I promised myself that one day I would Google Shinola, find out what the hell it was, and correct the situation, but so far hadn’t gotten around to it.

“What do I think, you ask?” They all three nodded their heads eagerly as I loosened my tie. “Well, it’s a little premature to make any definite proclamations as to the man’s actual intentions, but I think, and don’t quote me just yet, but I would wager that the guy wants to off himself. Also, it is quite probable he may be simply looking for sympathy of some kind, a not unusual reaction normally due to a feeling of being picked-on, or misunderstood, and could well be a result of many other factors, having an overbearing father for one, or perhaps deep-seated issues of abandonment as a child.”

“Jesus Christ, Charley,” Captain Holmes said loudly. We don’t need a full analysis, can you get the shithead off the ledge?”

“In addition, and I will speak frankly here, for I am schooled in the troubled mind, as you know, Captain. I believe that in addition to an assortment of many other possible mental disorders, this shithead, as you call him, may very well have an extremely small penis which fuels the dichotomy of possessing both a low sense of self along with an over-powering ego mixed in with an almost lustful desire to pull wings off flies when nobody’s watching.”

Now the three men seemed speechless, some might say tongue-tied.

“Forgive me one second,” I said and made my way back to the window. I again stuck my head out into the cold darkness. The man on the ledge had not moved. His eyes remained on the street below. The pistol remained snug to the side of his head. A flair up of firelight coming from a car now exploding on the street suddenly lighted the man’s face up.

ducked back inside. “Okay, sports fans, this is what you’re going to do. Ready?” They all three nodded their heads. “You!” I pointed to the hotel manager. “Call downstairs and get three pots of hot coffee sent up pronto! Pepe, you and the captain get to make a run down to McDonald's and bring back three or four cheeseburgers and some fries. And catsup. Bring plenty of catsup. Then swing by Dominoes. Captain, badge your way to the front of the line and pick up a couple of large pies and some buffalo wings! And for the love of God, don’t forget the Ranch dressing!”

They stared at me. “Go! Go!” I screamed and clapped my hands. “A man’s life is at stake!” Both men ran for the door.

I went back to the window and stuck my head out.

“Okay, Mr. Trump, don’t you worry! We got your favorite food coming. Everything is going to be just fine!”

--833 Words--

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