Will
The term five-o, yeah, I fucking know it well. A lot of my, uh, colleagues...no, that term sounds wrong for who they are—who we are, who I am...no, associates—fuck, that’s fucking better. Associates.
Those motherfuckers think it’s from hip-hop that it originated there along with po-po and such...wait, where did po-po start?
I’m getting off track, and there’s a fucking five-o approaching the vehicle—a term those 5-0 motherfuckers use—and it’s not a vehicle that I fuckin’ know. But I digress, so I’m driving the speed limit like a decent fucking citizen down a road that I know is always quiet cause that’s the way I like it these days, and there’s one of those big five-o motherfuckers.
Damn, either I’m getting old—hell, I know I’m getting old—but either my age is showing its ugly fucking head or my past decisions are catching up with me. Either way, to finish what I was saying about that five-o term, I remember Hawaii 5-0, at least the reruns; I know where that shit comes from.
Anyway, I’m driving the old Continental, ‘cause what else would a motherfucker like me drive? I’m going as slow as I goddamn want to when I see one of those new-ass squad cars—the kind us honest fucking citizens have to foot the bill for, and with my past, I cannot not take notice of those fucking things wherever I see them.
And it’s fucking parked. Great.
But now, I see your stereotypical officer of the law just waddling away from his taxpayer-funded vehicle. Now, allow me to expand on what I mean by stereotypical in this particular fucking instance: this stereotype is the kind born in the heads of hacky-sacking college smoke hounds who think that cops do nothing but sit in donut shops all day.
This officer of the law likely visits his share of donut shops. But to be fair, in my world of endless white flour-based delicacies with the requisite cannoli—that’s plural, the singular is cannolo—and Italian cookies for dessert, a lot of my associates make this blue uniform-wearing dude look like Christian Bale in the fucking Machinist.
This poor guy is still bursting out of his blues, which, to be fair, were probably fitted a few dozen Boston creams ago. I slow down even more to watch him wobble to a car that looks too old and rundown for anyone to fucking care about.
At first, those 5-0 po-po mobiles gave me an instinctual pause. In my line of work, a job of any size can be grounded to a halt, along with your whole motherfucking life, by some nosy beat cop just looking to fill his fucking parking ticket quota.
The bit of pause, even in this law-abiding section of my life story, is now giving way to amusement with a bit of pity for the poor po-po...fuck, when would I ever feel that for a dude like this?
Anyway, I’m thinking that this lumbering officer of the law better hope that it’s some scared shitless high schooler with a learner’s permit or a sweet old Sunday-driver grandma who just happens to be out in the middle of the week getting fucking oranges or rolls or whatever.
Because if there’s any shit of any kind that’s about to go down, there can be no doubt that it’s gonna go down hard on the Stay Puft fucking Marshmallow officer. And when it goes down hard, it might not be too bad to have a front-row seat, maybe while enjoying one or two of those fresh zeppolas riding in the shotgun seat next to me.
Now, a motherfucker such as myself would generally be wise to avoid such situations, but as a current model citizen, one who enjoys a good fucking show, I don’t see the harm in maybe pulling over and putting the Continental in park.
As I do just that, I keep a close eye on Mr. 5-0. Some fucking cop. The dude doesn’t even notice me pulling over, or at least he’s pretending not to.
I’m on the other side of the road, and I can get a good look at his face.
Damn, that motherfucker looks excited. I could swear that he’s drooling, approaching the vehicle like some sort of determined law-enforcement zombie...or like there are a few boxes of chocolate-glazed donuts waiting for him in the backseat.
No, fuck it, I can’t judge the 5-0 man for that. He’s drooling, maybe literally, over whatever shit’s about to happen. I may be getting a little drooly myself now.
I’m glad I stopped and just happened to be making my way this way, because this has got to be good.
I turn off the loud-as-fuck ignition of the Continental—does that motherfucker really not notice?—and I lean over to roll down the window.
Sometimes these old-ass manual cars with no power fucking windows come in handy, but whatever that po-po dude is headed toward has him distracted good and proper.
I may as well just fucking get out and watch.
I undo my seatbelt, pull up the driver’s side lock, and step out of my own fucking vehicle. I take a quick glance at the glove box first.
You don’t think I go anywhere without my .38, do you? I know I’m crowing about being law-abiding and all that, but a motherfucker like me, with the life built around me, can’t be that fucking stupid.
It ain’t registered, not that that matters. I’m leaving it there for now.
The 5-0 man doesn’t register the Continental door slamming. He doesn’t see me peering over the top of the sedan like a prairie dog either.
Fuck, what’s that?
I hear the sound coming from the vehicle that the officer of the law is apprehending.
It sounds like...yeah, a chick laughing, and then moaning. Now there’s a guy moaning, too.
The cop doesn’t notice me, and the happy couple is yet to notice Mr. Officer staring at them.
The thing is, this particular officer of the law doesn’t look ready to cite these lovebirds for indecent exposure or some shit. He looks ready to fucking join in.
I don’t think I’ve ever used this word in my fucking life, but gross.
This is some weird shit. What the hell do I do now?