His fingers wrapped around the butt of the zapper.
I know it’s called a stun gun, but zapper is so much more fun to say. And when he zaps me, maybe the big comic book onomatopoeias will pop up over my head in an electric thought bubble. ZAP!
“Sir, have a seat.”
I rolled my eyes into the back of my head like a rebellious teenager. I even muttered something under my breath that the officer wouldn’t be able to understand—it made me feel tough, though, like I had a voice. Also, much like an angsty teen, after my show of insolence, I obeyed the officer. Sitting with my knees bent upward, I allowed the robe to slide down my thighs and split apart, so Officer Buzzkill could get a nice view of my down-under.
“Officer,” I said, adjusting my outfit to a more modest position, “did I catch you peeking? I might have to report sexual harassment back to your superior. It’s Officer Chester, right? Tell me, Mr. Molester, am I being arrested? If not, I think I have the right to go on my merry-ass way. I know you’re dying to cavity search me, but I think that violates more than just my constitutional rights.”
“Are you Joseph Hunter?” the officer asked.
I narrowed my eyes and scrunched my nose and glanced at the sky. “That name doesn’t sound familiar. I’m Junter. Hoseph Junter.”
Another cruiser appeared, lights flashing. It bounced onto the curb beside the first officer’s vehicle. Apparently, law enforcement didn’t respect the unspoken laws of sidewalk courtesy and the walking needs of their average civilian. The car wobbled back and forth as Shaquille O'Neal stepped out. Okay, maybe not the Shaquille O’Neal, but someone close enough to fit the description. He stood about twenty feet tall and gave elephants a run for their money when it came to bulk.
“Reynolds,” the new man said, his voice too high-pitched to fit his body. “What’s...” He trailed off when he saw me.
I grinned. “Hi. It’s a real pleasure to meet you. Listen, I have this terrible itch right between my legs. You mind getting it for me?” I gestured to the serial killer with a nod. “Your buddy, Officer… what did you say? Reynolds? He won’t let me lower my hands from my head—which is ironic, considering that it’s my head that itches.”
“This him?” the rhino asked the baby-faced officer, only to answer his own question. “It looks like him.”
“I get that a lot, guys,” I said, shuffling back a few inches and straightening my legs. Sitting on cement was terrible for the lumbar. “I have one of those faces. Most people say I look like Justin Timberlake, back when he had those frosted tips. Some say Paul Walker. In all honesty, I think I resemble Ana de Armas. It’s the cheek bones, if you ask me.”
“What do you think?” Reynolds asked the rhinoceros.
The new guy shrugged his mountainous shoulders and shook his tractor-tire head. “You have identification on you, sir?” he asked me.
“Just my balls. Are you guys still using that method to identify people? Mine are as mossy as river rocks—and believe it or not, just as green.” I was tempted to allow my robe to fall open again, but I resisted. “My doctor says it’s normal in gonorrhea cases, so I’m not too worried about it.”
Officer Serial Killer shifted his stance, and I finally placed him.
“Fucking shit hole,” I said. “Boo Radley, that’s who he looks like. Still, very much a serial killer thing going on, but more on the good guy serial killer side.” I squinted at him. “Like Dexter.”
The rhinoceros guffawed, elbowing his brother in blue. “He’s not wrong, Reynolds.”
Boo Radley—I mean Boo Reynolds—scowled at me, not liking that I’d tickled his buddy’s funny bone. Not contributing to the conversation about his rail-thin features or milk-pale skin, he discussed the department’s policies with the other officer about detaining me on suspicion and bringing me into the station for an intense grilling.
Bored of their conversation, I glanced to the side and saw a man hurrying toward us. He had gold hair—not blonde or brown, but gold—and he moved like he’d had a long, rough night with a group of well-endowed men. His hurried gait must have alerted both of the officers. They both looked up from their conversation and regarded the stranger, now about ten yards away.
“Keep moving along,” the rhino said in his odd tenor.
The golden-haired stiff walked right up to me, pausing to drive his knee into my face—not the worst way I’ve been introduced to a stranger. At the last second, I leaned to the side, dodging his attack but falling onto my shoulder. With my hands still on my head, I wriggled to my feet and faced the attacker. The sudden movement had reopened my wounds, and blood pooled around the white bandages about my torso and arm.
“What the fuck?” I glanced at the officers, then back at my assailant. “You see that? Can I take my hands off my head now?”
Reynolds pulled his gun—not the zapper, but the big boy. Rhino removed his baton. I guess their respective sizes determined their weapon choices. Or maybe just their desire to keep a job.
“Get on the ground! Now!” Shaq commanded, his voice suddenly thirteen octaves scarier.
“Me?” I asked.
The stranger had his back to us. He didn’t move or breathe. He stood there like carved stone.
First quiz of the day. Make sure you’re sitting for this. Do you have paper and pencil? Perfect. And no, that’s not the question you’ll be graded on, smart-ass. It’s people like you that forced me to avoid classrooms like the plague. But that’s neither here nor there. Back to the quiz.
Do I:
A) Shove the gold-haired asshole in the back, despite the cops standing right there with their weapons drawn.
B) Let the boys take care of this incident and pretend it never happened?
Alright. Time’s up. Do you have your answer sheet filled
