Moon Madness: Tales Of A Street Cop

By Idaho

A selection of humorus stories about the average working day of a big city cop and the people he/she encounters during their tour of duty. Very street smart and funny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483500690

Book preview

9781483500690

BEFORE WE START:

I guess, for the one of two people who actually will read this little collection of stories, some background information is needed. I have been in law enforcement all my adult life, working local, state, and finally federal. Before reaching that exalted state of being known as Special Agent, I was a working street cop for many years. The stories you are about to read come from street: raw and real.

All the incidents described in this book are based on actual events, However, the names and places have been changed to protect the innocent, the stupid, the depraved, the dead, and the ones still in uniform. In our legalistic society, every bullet fired from a gun and every word written on paper, comes with a lawyer attached. Hell, I even changed my own name, in case I woke up one morning wanting to sue myself.

Policing by its very nature is a regional affair. How cops would handle something in the mid west or on the west coast would be entirely different in the south, and, this is where these little stories come from, the Deep South.

Providing a grid locking population of over 6 million, this southern center is a Petri dish of humanity, each swimming in their own cultural juices: Whites in all shades, Blacks, Asians, Latinos, Arabs, Indians, and many of the Heinz 57 variety, in other words, a prime environment for human weirdness.

Now, if you are either sensitive, politically correct, or an employee of the U.S .State Department, you don’t want to read this book. I cannot be responsible for your bruised feelings or shocked sensibilities. Over the years, I have thought long and hard about whether or not I am a racist, and, I have come to the conclusion that I am not, I just don’t like most people.

We all have our prejudices; it’s just that most people lie about them and I don’t. I could make you a laundry list of things I don’t like, beginning with Nigerian cab drivers; I never met one who wasn’t a world class, arrogant prick. Don’t assume from what you read in these stories, there is a racist overtone, it’s just the south, and things are different there.

Now, if you are expecting to read a story about gunfights and naked women, you will be disappointed. I have focused on the funny, weird, and wacky nature of humanity, both civilians and cops. Leave the sexy gunfights to film and game producers, for, in real shootings, you are either dead, injured, or sued.

Throughout my career, I have found that people who work in the business of maintaining our society’s values, (cops, fireman, nurses, paramedics, and teachers) will always have the greatest, weirdest, wackiest, sense of humor.

You have to develop this ability: or eat your gun, drown yourself in alcohol, or ingest enough Zanax to drop a water buffalo. This ability to cope will humanity’s problems doesn’t come quickly, but, like a fine aged wine; your ability to laugh comes with experience and seasoning.

Finally, you will notice that I will refer to myself as Grasshopper. This was a nickname given to me by my first Lieutenant, a grizzled veteran who was a fan of old TV show about a Kung-Fu master roaming the west in search of a higher meaning in life. Once he found out I was martial artist and being a skinny white boy in uniform, he never called me anything else, even in roll call.

OUR MOON IN ALL ITS POETIC GLORY:

The moon is Earth’s only natural satellite, it’s one and only baby, and how does it celebrate this relationship? It’s trying like hell to run away from us. Because of a loss of orbital energy to gravity from the Earth, it is slowing moving away, possibly to plague some other alien cops.

In the early history of our planet, the moon looked about 3 times larger in the sky, because it was closer to Earth. God, I am so glad I wasn’t a cop back then, 3 times bigger, means 3 times the trouble. Ever since the Assyrians shot their arrows into the sky and Galileo turned his beady eyes to the cosmos, the moon has been responsible for more chaos than a Middle East peace summit.

It has been a lofty witness to mankind’s follies, from civilizations rising to their eventual destruction, our little floating ball of iron has seen it all, and God Forbid, let’s not leave out the fact of worshiping the moon, from the creation of Werewolves to the Harlequin romance writers.

I mean, seriously, even I can write a few steamy lines like this, The pale shafts of moon light sliced through the old wooden window shutters, falling across her bare breasts, lighting up her swollen nipples with a pale glow…..(mmmmmmm, well . )

But for street cops, the moon takes on a whole meaning, one in which we know those gravitational tides affect our denizens with a madness that runs unabated through their little used subconscious minds. Once it goes into its final phase of plump roundness, men and women start shedding their civilized skins, like a snake in the summer heat.

Couples, who have pledged life and honor until death, start really planning the death part. Men’s balls start to grow as their minds shrink, women start down the path of a slow hormonal drift, either to kill, maim, or give birth under the roof of a squad car.

As a street cop you are right there, soaking up this residue of madness, trying to keep your walnut sized brain from overloading and turning you into some type of zombie: reeking of alcohol, and playing Halo 4.

"Man, what the hell is going on?

I drove to the rear corner of the precinct parking lot around 10PM and stopped under a huge live oak tree that was old enough to have seen the rise and fall of the Confederacy. I liked the tree and counted on its presence every night to add some type of sanity and stability. Our precinct house squatted like a fat bullfrog on the edge of the old city zoo. Getting out of the truck, I was often assaulted by the screams of Howler monkeys and the cries of peacocks, always a reminder of the nights coming domestic fights.

Easing out of my truck, I gently closed the door and stood still for a few moments, soaking in the tree’s wisdom and hoping some pigeon wasn’t going to shit on my uniform shirt. It was nice and quiet.

Well it was, until, I heard the rear precinct door creak open and someone bellow out Grasshopper, is that you? looking over the hood of my truck, I saw someone leaning his fat gut out the door. Christ, it was Sims. I have a hard time dealing with Sims, he was a 20 year veteran with the build of Porky Pig, the walk of Quasimodo, and the IQ of a crack baby, plus, he used enough Old Spice to repel mosquitoes.

(What the hell did he want?)

Grasshopper, he bellowed, is that you? by this time, I knew he was not going away, so I walked around the side of my truck and waved him a one fingered salute. In the dark, he couldn’t see the finger, so, slamming the door with another bellow, he marched across the parking lot in that funny little mincing steps fat men use to follow their bellies around. He was breathing heavy by the time he arrived at the oak, and was not happy about his work out of the day.

God Damn! Grasshopper, can’t you hear? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

I was listening to the tree, its song of wisdom was singing louder than your cries for attention.

Titling my head, I looked up into the leaves and said, See its leaves are speaking to me, see how they twist and turn, dancing in the moon’s brilliant rays?

Sims actually looked up and squinted through his little piggy eyes. Damn, you are crazier than a sprayed roach, he said, but, that’s not why I walked across this damn parking lot, Big Cynthia, told me to tell you to get your skinny white ass in her office, like now".

At the mention of Big Cynthia’s name, I felt my balls shrink and my heart thump with a shot of adrenaline. Big Cynthia was the end result of some black sailor’s Polynesian fantasy, ending with him skipping the island, cursory of the U.S. Navy. She was a 6 foot 3 in, 220 lbs of solid man hating muscle, more than willing to stomp some skinny white boy’s ass.

‘What does she want?

‘How the hell do I know? I just work here, and she said to get your skinny white ass in the office"

I stared at Sims and said, Why do you keep saying skinny white ass, you’re a white boy yourself.

I watched him process that question, seeing his eyes roll back and forth like a slot machine, until finally it reached payoff, because, Big Cynthia said for me to tell you exactly what she said, or she would stuff my ass in the lion cage.

‘OH, ok, that makes sense; I understand now, really, I do. If she asks me I will tell her, you carried her orders out with a precision only NASA could appreciate."

Fuck You, Grasshopper. But, it’s not me standing in front of Big Cynthia’s desk" and with final snort, he minced back into the precinct.

I took my time walking across the parking lot, doing a mental review of the past several weeks: No, I had not kept any drugs for personal use, or shook down a crack dealer for lunch money, or copped a free blowjob from one of the hookers on Crystal Street, or damaged a squad car, or shot the wrong person. Even my arrest stats were good.

(What the Hell?)

Big Cynthia was actually Sergeant Cynthia and she was the administrative supervisor on the night shift. She was also the Major’s main hatchet man or (woman), just knowing that an audience with her was usually either an ass chewing, or a transfer to the airport detail. Neither of which I wanted tonight.

(Well… Shit).

Sending a look of despair toward the moon, I entered the precinct from the back door and walked down the hallway, my combat boots echoing off the hard tiled floor. Reaching the end, I turned past the holding cells and headed to her office, located three feet from the Major’s hallowed grounds. No one got past Big Cynthia if the Major was making one of his night visits.

Her office door was open, and, I could see her typing away on an ancient keyboard. Christ, she’s bigger than the last time I saw her. I thought those rumors of her going into professional wrestling may have a kernel of truth.

I gently knocked on the office door frame and cleared my suddenly parched throat, You wanted to see me, Sarge?’

She took her time turning around, and, I was able to monitor the flow of muscles under her starched shirt. Christ, I thought, what a woman! And I suddenly had a mental image of her naked: smoky passion rising like a fog from her massive body; it must have lasted longer than I realized, because, she slammed a palm down on the desk and said, What the hell are you looking at?

Caught off guard, I scrambled to remove the powerful image and stumble out an answer, Nothing Sarge, just listening to your radio, thought I heard a help call".

Her eyes narrowed, like a jackal getting ready to kill, letting that one brown eye and that one green eye pierce my subconscious. I stared at her forehead, concentrating on her one little curl of hair falling from that death’s head bun of hers, and, quite proud, that I hadn’t pissed my pants.

She broke the silence, you’re lying, but, sit your skinny ass down, I don’t have much time.

(Christ, I thought," what is with this skinny shit tonight), as I took the rickety chair across from her desk.

Hunching forward like a linebacker waiting for the snap, she penned me with those weird eyes and asked" How long you been working here?’

About two weeks, Came over from District 4.

Leaning back now, taking the weight off her shoulders, she reached under her desk and pulled out a red file folder, slapping it on her desk, know what that is? She asked.

No. but, I had a sinking feeling what it was, my latest evaluation from the commander of district 4 , he was the only prick I knew who used RED file folders, like it was some secret CIA document. (What a dickhead)

It’s you’re eval, from Captain Martin.

(Christ, I thought, what did he write?) Was he still pissed about that little incident of hiding his gun while he was taking a shit? Hell, he never proved it was me.

Grasshopper, I am going to ask you three questions, answer the one that describes you the best, understand? If I am going too fast for you, just let me know when that walnut brain of yours decides to catch up.

(I nodded my head and wondered if she was finally going to come over the desk and squash my ass, killed in the line of duty by a man hating half breed Polynesian).

Ok, answer this grasshopper, are you a smart ass bastard who hates authority?

Or are you a smart ass bastard that hates Martin’s authority?

Or are you are smart ass bastard who hates MY authority?

Silence.

Sarge, I replied, is that a trick question, something you learned in management class"?

I saw her eyes narrow again, so, I hastily screamed, just joking!, just joking!, Sarge. I eased in a calming breath. Look, wait, it’s just that I am a misunderstood guy with a sense of humor, with a strong desire to enforce the law and do a good job for you and the Major… (Not bad, I thought, not bad)

Silence.

Grasshopper, the point I am trying to make is, you’re smart ass comments and lack of respect for authority won’t make it here, do you understand"?

(No, not really, I thought, because I didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about, that dickhead Martin must have really screwed me.)

Ok, Sarge, I will keep my mouth shut, and my comments on life, I will write them down in my spare time, ok?

Silence.

Those shark eyes are still looking at me. Finally, she burped, and said the Major wants you in his office at 2300 hours.

(I felt my jaw drop open, Christ, I thought, first Big Cynthia, now, Major Mad Max. Holy shit, what was going on?)

Cynthia burped again, louder this time, and said You can close your mouth now or flies are going to start laying eggs in there".

I shut my mouth with an audible click and squeaked out a why?

As she leaned across the desk, her massive shoulders moved and sent a ripple across her shirt. I decided to shift focus and concentrate on the green eye only; the brown one looked too much like an open grave to me.

The Major has just come back from the FBI National Police Academy for Executive Leaders, and they filled his head with new ideas on how to manage problem officers, you know, someone like you, tapping the red folder with a finger the size of a turkey sausage. Once he saw Captain Martin’s eval, he decided he was going to try out his new enlightened methods on some smart ass like you".

I swear, I caught a glimmer of humor in that green eye, when she said and I think you and the Major will get along just fine, in fact, he will probably want you to date his daughter. Now, get the hell out and be at the Major’s door at 2300.

2300 hundred hours: Major Mad Max’s Office

Even when I was a budding rookie in the police academy, I heard stories about Major Mad Max. He was living legend in the department, whose feats were immortalized on the level of some Greek god. Hell, he killed 5 men in the line duty some said, others said 8, or just credited him with personally wiping out every bag guy in the city since the end of the Vietnam War.

He was man who ate 10 penny nails for lunch, and shit out railroad spikes before dinner. Plus, he was crazy as a shit-house rat, possessing a quiver full of the weirdest obsessive compulsive habits known to mortal men and gods alike.

He was fanatical about his department issued vehicle. Day watch guys claimed he had it washed once a day, including the interior, personally buying a case of armor all once a week, to slather on his dashboard, seats, and tires.

He was neatness freak, not allowing any food or drinks in the roll call room (By God, you ate in the break room or not at all, clear?).You had to shine your boots so bright; they could be used as an emergency mirror. He would make random inspections at 0300 am in the morning, checking officer’s cars for contraband, dirt, and used condoms.

All, while constantly carrying a non-department approved .30 caliber carbine. The small rifle was his constant companion; so much so, that I thought he didn’t have a dick, and needed a large phallic symbol to match his reputation. It was like being a paleontologist and meeting a live T-REX, teeth up close and personal.

(Damn, what a way to start the night)

Once again, I found myself standing outside an office waiting to face the executioner, (Christ, this is like judgment day at the French Revolution, except it would be my professional balls chopped off,(although Big Cynthia would probably enjoy an actual beheading). Except this time the door was closed, and I paused a few moments to study the brass name plate screwed into the door. Major Max Maxwell was scratched into the flimsy metal. I silently read the name, and then looking closer, noticed that it was slightly off center, just like the major, I thought, leaning a little to the left and fucked up.

As I composed my internal state to a serious don’t fuck with me look, I tried to recall if I had ever seen the major up close and personal. No, it had always been from a distance, walking around and eyeballing his vehicle, checking for squirrel and pigeon shit. He didn’t make it one of his life’s goals to check on my health and happiness.

Oh, well, time to do it suck it up, and quit acting like a virgin in a brothel. I knocked on the door and waited to hear a command to enter, what I heard was something between a grunt and a growl.

I entered the office and said, Grasshopper reporting as ordered, sir

It’s hard for me to describe my first impression of the physical appearance of the Major, because I had about three movie scenes flash through my subconscious: the original STAR WARS bar scene, Hans Solo talking to Jabba- the- Hut on the revised addition, and the alien customs entry port from MEN IN BLACK.

He was squatted behind his desk, with his massive, mottled, bald head, scrunched between his shoulders. H e had arms too long for his short, thick torso:, covered in reddish hair, thick as an animal pelt, but, it was his eye brows and mouth that set him apart from the local Neanderthals. Those eyebrows were long, thick, tangled, and seemed to crawl up his forehead, and, God Forbid, the ends looked waxed!, while his mouth was long and curved, appearing to split his reptilian face in two, like the hash marks on a landing strip.

(No, I thought, it’s not those graphics, not something from the movies, but, it was there, I could sense it like a burp building up pressure.

What the hell was it? And then it hit me like a like a shot of meth: he looked just like that Brazilian Horned Frog from my latest issue of National Geographic. Damn, this boy was ugly, and the more I studied him, the more he morphed into a fat river frog).

I stood in the doorway and waited for those massive eyebrows to slowly reveal his eyes. They finally reached the top and he studied me like a frog watching a fly.

Come in and sit down.

I took the offer of a chair and sat up straight, like a little kid in front of the principal (caught without a hall pass again, little skinny boy?)

With a mental jolt, I recognized the RED file under his hairy paw, damn; Big Cynthia had already given it him. Christ!

With a baleful look, he opened the file and said I see you are one of Martin’s rejects, you know that wimp dumps all his problem children off on me. The brass loves to hear him whine and bitch about manpower, but, he can’t handle what he’s got and that’s why I got you.

(I was wondering where this was going, so I just kept quiet, besides, I was still fascinated by those creepy eyebrows).

"Martin says, in red ink, by the way, that you are , and I am reading directly