Chapter 5:
No wonder they're called PIGS

As we drive off, the middle-aged (and that's being generous) cop turns toward me.  I find myself flinching over his mustache, which is curled up on each side; the true sign of a nefarious individual.  

The car grows hotter with each mile, and the country music is not only worsening my headache, but is giving me seizure activity from hell.  No one seems to take into account the epilepsy factor, even though I'm wearing one of those shiny medical alert bracelets indicating my condition.  The seatbelt is strapped over my neck and belly as if to strangle me, and the cuffs seem as though they were deliberately put on by vengeful cops trying to get back at me for threatening to sue them over the overly-tight cuffs they had put on me previously.  After staring at me through the protective "cage" for a good 30 seconds, putting both of our lives at risk, in this ice storm that we're driving through, the cop, whom I'll refer to as Boris Badenov, asks if I like country music.  I tell him, "not really," and he says "good" and turns it up.  Our taxes pay for these people?

I involuntarily smack my dry tongue against the roof of my mouth, trying to get some liquid into this fevered body.  Boris immediately picks up on this, and takes a big sip from his gigantic "Artic Freeze" cup filled with ice and some form of heavenly liquid.  I never knew we practiced Ancient Chinese Torture over here, in America, but, as I've said repeatedly, Small-Town America isn't America at all . . . it's Nazi Germany.  

On the exit to the highway two rednecks pull up beside us in a big, gas-guzzling truck (way to conserve, bubs!), and both of them point and laugh at me.  "Wouldn't 'a happened had ya behaved" says Boris, noticing their taunting.  I'm tempted to flick both of the inbred pricks off, but realize my cuffs won't allow my hands to reach far enough up to get that treasured middle-finger right in their faces, where I want it.  Why are people so cruel, anyway?  What do they know about the situation I'm in, or why I'm sitting in the back of a police car?  Humanity makes me sick.

We pull onto the icy (if only I could get out of the car and lick some of that ice) and leave the "brother-to-their-cousin, backwoods, sucking-on-cow's-titties, screwing-goats-to-get off," hicks behind.  I'm sure they're still talking about the "punker" in the leather jacket "gettin' what wuz comin' to 'im."  It was probably the highlight of their week.  Hell, it was probably the highlight of their month.  Maybe even their year.  Either that or watching Dale Earnhardt smash himself to death during the Daytona 500.  Sure, they feigned mourning over the old "intimidator," as best they could, probably with a few Buds and alcohol-inspired tears, but you don't watch professional racing because you enjoy the safety aspect.  

I'm jolted out of my redneck laden thoughts by a cell phone ringing.  Maybe it's not a cell phone.  The damn thing has a cord.  Cops always have been behind in the times.  They're probably still rushing home every Tuesday for the *new* episode of Chips.  Badenov begins talking.  He sounds just like the people in the movie Fargo.  "Ya, it's bin bad, but we'll get throoo."  *PAUSE*  "Coupl'a trucks in da ditch ways back."  *PAUSE* "Snort, snort, ya.  See ya."

What the hell was all that snorting about?  Is that really how cops laugh?  No wonder they're called pigs.  Who knows?  Maybe he just has clogged nostrils.  One can only hope. He is human, no matter what kind of God that foolish badge makes him think that he is.  I can only wish the best for the loser.  

Unlike the majority of cops that I've encountered, I believe that we're all in this together, and we are all here to help each other out.  Sure, this guy is such a mediocre cop that he's relegated to being the designated long-distance driver, taking "menaces to society" to fun places like insane-wards, but that doesn't make him a horrible person, does it?  He still goes home at night and leads a normal life.  At least I hope he does.  Actually, as he takes another big sip of that cool beverage, I hope he goes home at night and masturbates over videos of horses fucking minors, and then gets busted for possessing the videos, and has his name and face picked up by the Associated Press and plastered all over the front of newspapers across the country, but that's just me.  

I wish I could at least sit upfront.  Maybe get a sip of his soda, or whatever it is he's drinking (probably Long Island Ice Tea).  Something to take this fever down, and allow me to swallow without choking on the dryness of my own throat.  But, wishing is getting me nowhere, and I'm still stuck in the back seat.

"Make sure we get the back seat!" Says my friend, Scott.  "Your dad's car is the coolest!  We can sit in the back and the seat faces out to the street behind us, instead of forward to our boring parents!  We can watch drivers behind us picking their noses!"  It is a novel concept (the car, not the nose-picking), and I haven't seen it in a family car, diesel or not, since.  My brother Matt, my friend Scott, and Matt's friend Ryan are all cramped into the back seat.  None of us would settle for the drab middle section of the wagon.  We are on our way to Sleeping Beauty.  We have all decided that we must sit in the front seat, once at the theater, since the dragon will be so "scary" that close.  Our parents say it will give us a headache, but they are still enthused over how thrilled we are to scare ourselves silly with a Walt Disney film.  We've all seen it before, but we were young then.  This is the late 70's, and we're getting up there in the years.  All of us are approaching 6 or 7; I think Scott might be closing in on 8!  Nearly a decade old, now that's impressive!  We pull into the parking lot, hop out of the car, and run inside the theater.  There is just nothing I like better than going to a movie.  I can't wait.  I'll be doing this all of my life.  One thing people can't take away from me is my movies!

"We're approachin' yer place," says Boris Badenov, into his outdated cell phone contraption, obviously talking to someone at the institution where I am to spend the next 72 hours, "I'd'a get all the security you can gather," he tells the individual on the other line, "if'n I was you, and as many sedatives as you can grab..............ya, he's in da cuffs, but dis is a wild one."  

I'm a "wild one?"  I didn't even do anything.  My crime is liking movies.  My crime is liking good movies in a small-town that has only one theater run by a tasteless moron who hands out harassment orders to people he doesn't like as quickly as he dishes out cushy jobs at the movie theater to his teenage girls.

The gigantic hospital comes into view.  My heart begins racing.  I'll never think of the back seat the same way again.

Head to chapter six

2001 Alex Sandell [All Rights Reserved].  Copy this, without my permission, and you'll find out just why white rooms are to fancy diners as stinky shit is to pretty flowers!

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