DEFUND THE POLICE!!!

3

Just looking down at Ray made Officer Apples irritated. The kid was such a waste. The kid was tall, had a sturdy, athletic build, had hands the size of hams. He could have been a football or basketball player. Could have gone into combat sports. This kid could have done a lot of things, Officer Apples lamented.

Besides, just the way the kid dressed was upsetting, the kid in electric-green skinny jeans and an ugly, matching tank top. Not to mention the puffy, bubble-gum-pink basketball shoes he’d had on earlier.

Officer Apples snarled and ruminated.

The kid is something between Gumby, Lebron, and a crack baby.

A storm brewing between his ears, the officer’s inner rage began to boil over, like a kettle left too long on a stovetop, and he ground his teeth and clucked loud as a cicada.

Officer Apples crept closer, leaned in toward Ray. The cop’s face so close that Ray could feel the bristles of the copper’s bushy mustache tickling at his earlobe. Warm pulses of the officer’s breath burbled at Ray’s jowls.

“Ray Ray, a cashier at Nordstrom had her engagement ring stolen. Ripped right off her finger…” Officer Apples seethed and paused, thinking of that sad-eyed kid with the horrible haircut, the one looking like a rainbow-colored animal had plopped down and died on his skull, the kid who’d literally snatched the ring off the poor girl’s trembling hand.

Looking away for a split second, before swinging his gaze back to meet Ray’s, the officer bellowed, “What is the NAME of the kid who took it?!” and specks of spittle exploded from the officer’s mouth, hitting Ray’s cheeks, like the first raindrops of a violent thunderstorm.

Ray’s eyes darkened as he kept counting ghosts. Then he whimpered, shook his head, and repeated, his voice breaking, “I ain’t do nothing, sir!”

Sometimes suspects attempted verbal jujitsu with the officers. Some cursed. One even spit in Officer Apples’ face. But this kid… This kid had purpose. Not even this cold shower of verbal abuse could loosen his lips…

Officer Apples had had enough. He had the evidence. The camera stills. The videos. The social media posts. He had Ray leading the flash mob. He had Ray with a baseball bat. He had Ray bashing in storefront doors and display windows, swarming in force with his posse, like a furious cloud of murder hornets. He had Ray ransacking, snatching handfuls of gold necklaces, stacks of designer shirts, pricey basketball shoes. Probably the same hideous pink pair the kid had on before…

Ugh… This motherless fuck… This kid is a disgrace…

What a pile of fucking horseshit… Total and utter horseshit…

Officer Apples clucked once more and flared his nostrils.

“Hitting a ‘lick,’ right?” Officer Apples whispered, sardonically, into Ray’s ear. Officer Apples was close as a drill sergeant, only an inch or so from Ray’s face. Ray crinkled his nose at the heavy mist of Officer Apples’ aftershave, his garlicky breath.

But Ray remained steadfast. Remained silent.

Officer Apples groaned in exasperation. “Ray Ray, I can either be a good friend or an awful enemy. Which would you prefer?”

Ray sat still as ice; his mouth twisted shut.

“Hmm, so you’re not like that gangster rapper, ‘Teriyaki Six Nine?’ You’re not a snitch, huh?” Officer Apples murmured, “not a… rat…”

Ray sighed, then squinted his eyes, hung his head low and stared down at the buttery shine of the linoleum floor. His expression soured. Instantly he appeared incensed.

“No I ain’t,” was all Ray said, in a calm but menacing tone.

Officer Apples guffawed. A dry, spiteful laugh. Then his smile again died on his lips.

This… This fucking horseshit…

This wasn’t getting anywhere.

Officer Apples again thought of the terrified cashier, the pretty young girl, with those rosy cheeks and ringlets of gold hair, the girl who’d had her engagement ring snatched off her finger, and the girl’s tearful description of the events… Then he thought of the jewelry store’s owner, the Afghan refugee, who’d hidden in a storeroom and watched helplessly as streams of armed thieves poured in, raided and plundered his store, made a mockery of his American Dream.

And all for what? Why would these kids even be doing this? They were citizens of the greatest country the world had ever known. Where the hell were their parents? Where were their fathers?

What happened to allowances? Chores? Couldn’t these kids have just mowed lawns to get some pocket cash? Taken a part-time job flipping burgers? What the hell were the schools teaching these kids these days? Critical Race Theory crap instead of Civics?

Anger swept over Officer Apples like fire through dry grass; his ruminations running hotter than hunger.

What happened to the kids in America? What happened to going out to rock concerts in the warm breath of summer? What happened to headbanging, mosh pits as a panacea for teenage angst?

What the hell happened to rock and roll? Nowadays the kids don’t even sing or play instruments. They just lip sync to hip hop Billie Eyelash mumble-shit music and do dumb 10-second twerking videos on their stupid fucking phones. And Pokémon? Headphone parties? Those lame rave DJs in mouse costumes, pumping their fists like Arsenio Hall… Ugh…

What a bunch of horseshit.

What a bunch of fucking horseshit…

Anger, like a cobra, coiled inside Officer Apples. Then his rage shifted to revulsion. Officer Apples was aghast, disgusted. Disgusted with this kid, disgusted with everything.

This fucking animal… This flippant, motherless fuck…

Officer Apples turned his gaze, took two steps away from the chained prisoner. Then Officer Apples swung back around. His eyes lighting up like hot coals.

In his mind, he pictured it, saw it transpiring. Just if he were hammering a nail, Officer Apples was raising his nightstick high and bringing it down with a savage, perfect precision. Rapping the cudgel right across Ray’s hands. The violent blow landing on the kid’s knuckles, with a hard crack, a sound akin to a heavy piece of splintered wood being snapped in two.

He could hear Ray unloosing a wailing squeal of pain, almost a horrible impression of a coyote. He could see Ray instinctively attempting to clutch and nurse his battered hands but being arrested in motion. The young thug then folding his frame over the table, pressing his eyes shut, and growling to strangle back the burn.

Officer Apples’ mind raced and his rheumy eyes bulged big as boiled eggs. His face contorted into a horrific, malicious mask. Hovering over Ray, like an apparition, the officer started to slowly lift his nightstick into the air, which caused Ray to flinch, and a tiny whimper burst from the kid’s lips.

Then Officer Apples froze for a split second, lowered the cudgel, and casually holstered it. Then a devious smile broke over the cop’s face, and he unloosed a tremulous laugh, turned on his heel, and padded out of the interrogation room, clucked again and muttered something about “smash and grab!”