After about a year and a half, they started implementing dress-codes, and talking of drug testing. Needless to say; they lost about three quarters of their volunteers for one reason or another. If they had brought a drug dog to one of those earlier meetings they would have had to arrest over half of their members. I dropped out of the program because they told me that I had to lose my earrings and cut my hair, but I still volunteered at the haunted house.
I panicked. All these big guys around me slamming into each other and getting thrown around. I wanted nothing more in the world than to get out of there. As I was leaving the center of the pit, a guy almost a foot taller than me came running at me. I panicked again. I stepped out of his way, kicked him in the shins and as he was tripping and falling on his face, I punched him in the head once for good measure to insure that he would be down long enough for me to get away. I started walking again, but faster, when another guy came running at me. My heart was racing, my asthma was starting to choke me, and my adrenaline gland was desperately wringing the last drops of its secretions into my blood. So, I didn't think twice when I stepped out of his way and punched him in the face. I was within reach of the mosh-pit's border, the fear was taking hold as tunnelvision settled in. I was almost there when this really fat fuck came running at me. When I saw how fast he was coming I knew that I wouldn't be able to dodge this gelatinous bastard, so I decided to take it like a man. I braced myself, set my feet, and delivered the best uppercut that I could manage, striking the man in the chin.
In my adrenaline-rushed, tunnel-visioned state; I didn't see the big leather belt, or the holstered .45 semi-automatic, or the bright, shiny badge that identified this bulbous bitch as a police officer. What I did see however, was the big forearm that was roughly the size of my thigh, and the elbow that was attached to it as it struck me in the forehead, and the collapsible night-stick that his partner whacked me with to get me to stay down.
Our blows caught eachother as we collided, and I went down, hard. If my uppercut phased him at all, he didn't show it as he picked me up by the seat of my pants and hurled me out of the pit to his waiting partner. The heavy blow to the head staggered me, and made my ears ring. I tried standing up but the second officer hit me in the shoulder with her night-stick. She said something to me as she hit me but I was confused and my ears were still ringing. I tried getting up once or twice more before I figured out that she was telling me to stay down everytime she hit me. After a few minutes, me and a few other people were escorted off the property for getting too rough.
After this incident I vowed to myself that I wouldbe as uncivil towards police that were bothering me as I possibly could without being arrested.
Tell them the truth. They won't expect that. He came to my window and asked for my license and I gave it to him. He asked if I knew that I was out past curfew, and I told him yes, but that I was going home from work. Another officer spotted us and pulled over to help me out. He asked me some of the same questions.
"Does your know that you're out this late?" he asked.
"I doubt it, she lives in florida. I live with my grandmother, and seeing as how I work seven days a week and give a few of my friends a ride home from work after we get off at midnight, I usually get home well after curfew." I answered.
"Don't be a smart-ass" he said.
After this they proceeded to search my truck, without my permission.
"Do you have any weapons?," they asked.
"Yeah," I answered, "I've got a lock-blade on the dash, a swiss army knife on the floor-board, a couple of throwing knives behind the seat, along with a small lead pipe, crowbar, hand-axe, razor-blades and maybe a few other blunt weapons in the toolbox."
At this point, I think my honesty went a little too far, because they gave me a sobriety test.
"Why do you have these?," they asked as they pulled out my ephidrine tablets.
"Well," I pointed out, "it says right there on the bottle that they're for bronchial asthma, which I have. You'll notice that you picked them up from nest to my inhaler."
"and what about these?" he asked holding up a bottle of aspirin.
"I take those for migraines" I answered.
"What are the other pills in there?"
"If you'ld read the little red letters there it says "Tylonol". I alternate the aspirin and the tylonol so that I don't overdose and die."
When they had figured that I didn't have any drugs, they brought their attention to the CD-changer on the seat.
"Where did you get this?" he asked, with an attittude.
"From Baber's Leasing, like it says on the back in white paint." I answered.
"Why do have it with you?"
"Because I was having it repaired and I didn't have enough time to drop it off at home before I went to work."
They ran the serial numbers and decided that I had been enough of a headache, so they let me go after they had a long discussion with me about calling them sir, and after this little gay huddle thing where I overheard them say that I was "not rocket-scientist material" before they wrote me a ticket for running a stop sign.
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a magician. The key to all magic tricks is misdirection. When they should have been checking my inspection sticker, which was a year out of date, I gave them a long explaination of why my mother didn't know that I was out past curfew. When each of them was in a position that they might notice that I didn't have any seatbelts, I listed all my weapons and got a sobriety test. And when they should have noticed that I was missing a headlight, I baited them into an arguement about why I should call policemen "sir".
I may not be "rocket-scientist material", but I'm not so easily distracted by a 17-year-old with a stutter.
To the officer that gave me the background information for Roberts; Thank you also, it made this piece more interesting and gave it a sense of closure
To anyone reading this; Yes, it's all true, it's one of the few things on my site that isn't embellished or completely fabricated.
To Officer Roberts; Fuck you... You deserve any bad luck that comes your way for trampling on viable computer hardware like that.
Also, it may be known that I am friends with a number of policemen, and on occasion, they fuck with me as much as I fuck with them. They give me sobriety tests, hand-cuff me for no reason other than to see me squirm on the ground mostly helpless, but most notably when about a month and a half ago when one of the officers that works security at Funtime followed me home and pulled me over halfway there on a rainy night with three other police cars and a K-9 unit. Devine Retribution....