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Authors: Ryan David Jahn
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out into the street and continues on.
11
Inside his police cruiser, Officer Alan Kees makes a left onto Austin Street and continues on at about fifteen miles per hour. He glances toward a parking lot as he drives and sees a pretty brunette woman just getting out of her Studebaker. He considers having a little fun with her – your left brake light’s out, ma’am; normally I’d have to write up a ticket, but I think we might be able to work something else out – but decides against it. He’s got business to attend to elsewhere, and besides, she looks like a fighter, which always turns ugly.
He drives by without giving her another thought.
When Alan Kees joined the police force five years ago, at the ripe old age of twenty-two, he actually had an idea that he might be able to do a little good – protect the citizenry, keep them safe – but within six months, the idea seemed nothing but a quaint concept for a more innocent time. He realized quickly that there are two kinds of people in the city: cops and everyone else. And everyone else just can’t be trusted. Cops might lie, they might steal, but they’ve got your back. If you get put into a corner, there will be another cop there with a sledge hammer, banging an escape hole through the lath and plaster – and ten times out of ten it’s a civilian that gets you backed into that corner in the first place, not another cop. It ain’t just the criminals, either. Those asshole civil libertarians (commies, more like it, if we’re gonna call a spade a spade) at the ACLU and other organizations with their screeches and cries about rights and police abuse and other nonsense are just as bad. They’re worse. You can at least understand your criminal. Their motives are clear and obvious. They live in a hard world where you grab what you can and you hold on to it as long as you can, and if someone tries to take it away, you view that as a threat to your life and you go at them red in tooth and claw and you don’t stop when they’re down – no fucking way, pal – you only stop when they’re no longer capable of getting back up, you only stop when they’re down for good, even if that means putting them under a half ton of moist soil.
Think of God’s red right hand.
That’s what Detective Sampson told Alan five years ago when he first entered the force, and when he asked Sampson what that was supposed to mean, Sampson said, ‘It’s from Milton. He calls the vengeful hand of God His red right hand. Well, if God’s right hand is red, is violent, is vengeful,’ he slurred here, a little drunk, always a little drunk, ‘then those who grab the most power through violence are closest to God, aren’t they? Remember that. The criminal is closer to God than any of those goddamn pacifists will ever be – than they’ll ever understand. Respect the criminal enough to kill him, Alan, because if you don’t, he’ll kill you. He’ll kill you and he’ll be the one standing at God’s side when it all comes down. Read the Old Testament. God respects nothing so much as violence.’ He stared off at the corner for a minute here. ‘Read the Old Testament,’ he said again, and then took a hard swallow from his flask, his throat making a clicking sound as he did.
Alan nodded, but he didn’t really understand.
He understands now, though.
Alan pulls his police cruiser to the curb behind a Ford F-100 ambulance which is already parked in front of Al’s Coffee Shop. The driver sits waiting for his coffee and donuts, looking at himself in his sideview mirror, picking at his teeth with a match book. Probably sent his partner in for the goodies. One of the benefits of being the driver on an ambulance team. That and the extra few cents an hour.
Alan pushes his door open and steps from the car.
He walks by the ambulance and its driver, who’s still picking away at his goddamn teeth.
‘Keep up the good work,’ Alan says as he walks by.
The driver gives him an ironic
11
Inside his police cruiser, Officer Alan Kees makes a left onto Austin Street and continues on at about fifteen miles per hour. He glances toward a parking lot as he drives and sees a pretty brunette woman just getting out of her Studebaker. He considers having a little fun with her – your left brake light’s out, ma’am; normally I’d have to write up a ticket, but I think we might be able to work something else out – but decides against it. He’s got business to attend to elsewhere, and besides, she looks like a fighter, which always turns ugly.
He drives by without giving her another thought.
When Alan Kees joined the police force five years ago, at the ripe old age of twenty-two, he actually had an idea that he might be able to do a little good – protect the citizenry, keep them safe – but within six months, the idea seemed nothing but a quaint concept for a more innocent time. He realized quickly that there are two kinds of people in the city: cops and everyone else. And everyone else just can’t be trusted. Cops might lie, they might steal, but they’ve got your back. If you get put into a corner, there will be another cop there with a sledge hammer, banging an escape hole through the lath and plaster – and ten times out of ten it’s a civilian that gets you backed into that corner in the first place, not another cop. It ain’t just the criminals, either. Those asshole civil libertarians (commies, more like it, if we’re gonna call a spade a spade) at the ACLU and other organizations with their screeches and cries about rights and police abuse and other nonsense are just as bad. They’re worse. You can at least understand your criminal. Their motives are clear and obvious. They live in a hard world where you grab what you can and you hold on to it as long as you can, and if someone tries to take it away, you view that as a threat to your life and you go at them red in tooth and claw and you don’t stop when they’re down – no fucking way, pal – you only stop when they’re no longer capable of getting back up, you only stop when they’re down for good, even if that means putting them under a half ton of moist soil.
Think of God’s red right hand.
That’s what Detective Sampson told Alan five years ago when he first entered the force, and when he asked Sampson what that was supposed to mean, Sampson said, ‘It’s from Milton. He calls the vengeful hand of God His red right hand. Well, if God’s right hand is red, is violent, is vengeful,’ he slurred here, a little drunk, always a little drunk, ‘then those who grab the most power through violence are closest to God, aren’t they? Remember that. The criminal is closer to God than any of those goddamn pacifists will ever be – than they’ll ever understand. Respect the criminal enough to kill him, Alan, because if you don’t, he’ll kill you. He’ll kill you and he’ll be the one standing at God’s side when it all comes down. Read the Old Testament. God respects nothing so much as violence.’ He stared off at the corner for a minute here. ‘Read the Old Testament,’ he said again, and then took a hard swallow from his flask, his throat making a clicking sound as he did.
Alan nodded, but he didn’t really understand.
He understands now, though.
Alan pulls his police cruiser to the curb behind a Ford F-100 ambulance which is already parked in front of Al’s Coffee Shop. The driver sits waiting for his coffee and donuts, looking at himself in his sideview mirror, picking at his teeth with a match book. Probably sent his partner in for the goodies. One of the benefits of being the driver on an ambulance team. That and the extra few cents an hour.
Alan pushes his door open and steps from the car.
He walks by the ambulance and its driver, who’s still picking away at his goddamn teeth.
‘Keep up the good work,’ Alan says as he walks by.
The driver gives him an ironic
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