Sunday, July 3, 2011


The two police officers sat in their unmarked Crown Victoria and drank their over-sugarized coffees that they had gotten from the station 20 minutes ago. They meant business. Which is funny because meaning business is completely different from doing business. They both wore Starter jackets. The one sitting in the driver’s seat, Frank Thomson, was decked out in his Raiders jacket. The one sitting in the passenger’s seat, Bobby Thompson, was wearing a Spurs jacket. They were the type of cops who scared the crap of neighborhood kids who ran through stop signs with their bicycles. Any one who committed more serious crimes would ask, “who?” when you mentioned their names. They were staked out because Thomson had heard about someone selling ‘joints’ in the apartment complex they were parked outside of. The car smelled of BK Stackers and cigarettes. Those were just the main smells. There was some old coffee with dust mixed in there. It choked both of them and perhaps was making them more delusional than they usually were. These two were to the type to get excited about going to the shooting range and getting to go out in a squad car. Though in all fairness, car rides are a lot of fun. “Man, it has been awhile. Are you sure this guy lives here?” Thompson asks as he turns to Thomson. Thomson looks at Thompson, frowns, turns back to the complex, and replies, “Yes. The tipoff definitely said it was here. This is where he said he got his ‘joints’ from.” Thomson pauses for a second for dramatic effect and to think about the reception they’d get for cleaning up the streets. The applause would be enough for him. Both of them might get a medal. He scratched his chin and started again, “And this is where we make our name.” There was a long pause. “Are ‘joints’ weed?” asked Thompson.

He was walking back from the coffee shop where he had parked his macbook toting buttocks for the afternoon. The girl he had been talking to was a cutie. A cutie with a booty. She also happened to be an amateur philosopher. Or so he thought. That was the impression she appeared to be trying to give him. He liked her. She inflated his ego, complimented him on his clean fingernails, and she liked the same kind of smoothies as he did. She had said something to him today that he had really liked. It was something along the lines of, “y’know what’s sad? The fact that no one, not in the entire world, will have the same experiences, thoughts, feelings, and consciousness that you do. You will be completely alone in your thoughts and your mental film of your life.” After she had finished she bit her bottom lip nervously like she saw the movie stars do. He liked the idea. No one would ever be him. He was the most unique person he knew and he was glad to keep it that way. He often tried to show off his uniqueness by never mentioning family or his history to others that he met. He thought it made him seem like he had always been like he currently was; forever 25, selling dirt cheap used sportcoats for a profit. To others it would seem as though he was some minor immortal, as if he had been born of the city, and he was doing what he loved for longer than others due to that immortality that he oozed. He was still grinning as he entered his apartment to pick up the ‘joints’ that he kept in his duffle bag. He had found a bunch of Italian sportcoats at his secret thrift store and he was reselling them for a profit. He picked up the duffle bag and began to walk it out to his car.

“There he goes,” Thomson almost jumps through the roof of his car as he sees the sportcoated man exit his apartment. “Are you sure that we can do this?” asks Thompson starting to get a little scared. It was too late though. Thomson had already grabbed his bat and was stalking over. Thompson scrambled out of the car after him.

Two goofy looking guys approached him as he threw his duffle into his trunk. They looked silly, carrying bats and wearing Starter jackets. He almost laughed. Though with the first swing, he had no breath to laugh with. They knocked him down and almost put him out but he hung onto consciousness as he worried if these guys would steal his car. The taller one stood over him with a bat as the shorter rummaged through his duffle. “Thomson,” the rummager whined, “there aren’t any ‘joints’ in here! These are all just sportcoats!” The taller one turned and ripped though the contents of the bag. “No weed?! But he said his duffle was always full of joints! Fuck! We’re gonna’ have to make ourselves scarce!” The taller one wheeled about in rage. The shorter one looked as though he was about to cry, “I don’t think that this was lega-

When he came to, his forehead was bleeding. Evening had started yet no one had bothered to find out was wrong with the man. Not their problem. He pulled himself up onto the curb and held his head. His lip was dripping blood onto his Brioni and onto the pavement. He wished someone would help him. Maybe that philosophy girl would take pity on him if he showed up to her apartment. He would tell her all about what had happened, she would understand exactly what had gone down and believe him, feel his pain, and share in his confusion in why he had been brutally beaten down. He wished his mother were there. She made really good cookies.

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