Officer’s Collins and Smith were waiting at a red light at the start of their shift. Collins was having a bad week at work and a worse one at home. Just a bad week, at least things could only improve. He was saying,
“So after that incident, they’ve got me seeing some shrink ass-hole. Like I’ve got some anger issues or summin’. And to make shit worse, Maggie’s got me speaking like some retarded fag, changing my cuss words for “something less abusive,” her words.” He made imaginary quote signs with his fingers.
Smith was making like he was interested but was sick listening to the same crap every day. He’d heard this shit a thousand times, Maggie says this, Maggie says that, Maggie says don’t swear no more. Maggie says shit. He felt like replying, “Fuck Maggie I say. Maggie needs a kick in the balls she’s clearly carrying. Your balls.” but gave his usual.
“Yeah, she says I swear too much and it makes me angry and abusive and that I scare her, now I’ve got this piss annoying habit of saying somethin’ pansy-ass instead.”
“I thought you were starting to sound a bit funny, man.”
Smith was looking out his window and tapping his fingers on it, drumming along to a song only he was hearing. Led Zeppelin's Ramble On. His drum beat sounded the part to him but it irritated the hell out of Collins. It was then that he noticed the two men bursting out of the shop across the street, carrying a bag full of something’s. Smith used all of his 20 years’ experience on the force and combining that with his gut instinct, he deduced that it was a robbery in progress. What a fucking cop.
“We got a 10-30, Collins.” Smith said. 10-30 being police code for the aforementioned robbery in progress.
Collins and Smith were out of their car and in pursuit of the suspects in two seconds flat and when the two men turned into a blocked alley, they knew they had them. Smith tackled the first perp to the ground and Collins cornered the other. The man had nowhere to go and Collins shouted.
“Don’t move ya little funk.” Pulling his gun on the man.
The man turned around and Collins could see that he was unarmed but kept his gun on him anyway. He liked the power he felt when he saw the fear in their eyes. The man seemed unfazed by the gun aimed at him and asked.
“What did you just say?”
“I said, don’t move and put your hands in the air. Get down on the ground.”
“No, before that. Did you call me a little funk?”
“I don’t know what the funk you’re on about.” Collins was saying. “Now get down on the ground, I ain’t telling you again.”
“There, you just said it again, you said funk. Why are you using the word funk as a profanity?”
Collins was starting to feel his blood boil. Smith was busy cuffing the other suspect and this thick shit wouldn’t shut up with the questions. Collins clenched his fists like he usually does, digging his nails into the palm of his hands, trying to keep his cool. Only this time he forgot about the gun he was aiming at the suspect and fired two rounds before he knew what had happened.
“Ahh, shit. What happened?” Smith asked
“Shit, man. I just shot him in the throat and the face.”
“Why in the fuck did you do that, Collins?”
“I dunno. It was just an accident.”
Collins’ bad week didn’t improve after all. Things just got worse.
© Copyright 2016 John Chukowski. All rights reserved.
Poem / Poetry
Short Story / Flash Fiction
Short Story / Flash Fiction
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