Idaho - Moon Madness: Tales Of A Street Cop

ISBN: 9781483500690

BEFORE WE START:

I guess, for the one of two people who actually will read this little collection of stories, some background information is needed. I have been in law enforcement all my adult life, working local, state, and finally federal. Before reaching that exalted state of being known as Special Agent, I was a working street cop for many years. The stories you are about to read come from street: raw and real.

All the incidents described in this book are based on actual events, However, the names and places have been changed to protect the innocent, the stupid, the depraved, the dead, and the ones still in uniform. In our legalistic society, every bullet fired from a gun and every word written on paper, comes with a lawyer attached. Hell, I even changed my own name, in case I woke up one morning wanting to sue myself.

Policing by its very nature is a regional affair. How cops would handle something in the mid west or on the west coast would be entirely different in the south, and, this is where these little stories come from, the Deep South.

Providing a grid locking population of over 6 million, this southern center is a Petri dish of humanity, each swimming in their own cultural juices: Whites in all shades, Blacks, Asians, Latinos, Arabs, Indians, and many of the Heinz 57 variety, in other words, a prime environment for human weirdness.

Now, if you are either sensitive, politically correct, or an employee of the U.S .State Department, you dont want to read this book. I cannot be responsible for your bruised feelings or shocked sensibilities. Over the years, I have thought long and hard about whether or not I am a racist, and, I have come to the conclusion that I am not, I just dont like most people.

We all have our prejudices; its just that most people lie about them and I dont. I could make you a laundry list of things I dont like, beginning with Nigerian cab drivers; I never met one who wasnt a world class, arrogant prick. Dont assume from what you read in these stories, there is a racist overtone, its just the south, and things are different there.

Now, if you are expecting to read a story about gunfights and naked women, you will be disappointed. I have focused on the funny, weird, and wacky nature of humanity, both civilians and cops. Leave the sexy gunfights to film and game producers, for, in real shootings, you are either dead, injured, or sued.

Throughout my career, I have found that people who work in the business of maintaining our societys values, (cops, fireman, nurses, paramedics, and teachers) will always have the greatest, weirdest, wackiest, sense of humor.

You have to develop this ability: or eat your gun, drown yourself in alcohol, or ingest enough Zanax to drop a water buffalo. This ability to cope will humanitys problems doesnt come quickly, but, like a fine aged wine; your ability to laugh comes with experience and seasoning.

Finally, you will notice that I will refer to myself as Grasshopper. This was a nickname given to me by my first Lieutenant, a grizzled veteran who was a fan of old TV show about a Kung-Fu master roaming the west in search of a higher meaning in life. Once he found out I was martial artist and being a skinny white boy in uniform, he never called me anything else, even in roll call.

OUR MOON IN ALL ITS POETIC GLORY:

The moon is Earths only natural satellite, its one and only baby, and how does it celebrate this relationship? Its trying like hell to run away from us. Because of a loss of orbital energy to gravity from the Earth, it is slowing moving away, possibly to plague some other alien cops.

In the early history of our planet, the moon looked about 3 times larger in the sky, because it was closer to Earth. God, I am so glad I wasnt a cop back then, 3 times bigger, means 3 times the trouble. Ever since the Assyrians shot their arrows into the sky and Galileo turned his beady eyes to the cosmos, the moon has been responsible for more chaos than a Middle East peace summit.

It has been a lofty witness to mankinds follies, from civilizations rising to their eventual destruction, our little floating ball of iron has seen it all, and God Forbid, lets not leave out the fact of worshiping the moon, from the creation of Werewolves to the Harlequin romance writers.

I mean, seriously, even I can write a few steamy lines like this, The pale shafts of moon light sliced through the old wooden window shutters, falling across her bare breasts, lighting up her swollen nipples with a pale glow..(mmmmmmm, well . )

But for street cops, the moon takes on a whole meaning, one in which we know those gravitational tides affect our denizens with a madness that runs unabated through their little used subconscious minds. Once it goes into its final phase of plump roundness, men and women start shedding their civilized skins, like a snake in the summer heat.

Couples, who have pledged life and honor until death, start really planning the death part. Mens balls start to grow as their minds shrink, women start down the path of a slow hormonal drift, either to kill, maim, or give birth under the roof of a squad car.

As a street cop you are right there, soaking up this residue of madness, trying to keep your walnut sized brain from overloading and turning you into some type of zombie: reeking of alcohol, and playing Halo 4.

Man, what the hell is going on?

I drove to the rear corner of the precinct parking lot around 10PM and stopped under a huge live oak tree that was old enough to have seen the rise and fall of the Confederacy. I liked the tree and counted on its presence every night to add some type of sanity and stability. Our precinct house squatted like a fat bullfrog on the edge of the old city zoo. Getting out of the truck, I was often assaulted by the screams of Howler monkeys and the cries of peacocks, always a reminder of the nights coming domestic fights.

Easing out of my truck, I gently closed the door and stood still for a few moments, soaking in the trees wisdom and hoping some pigeon wasnt going to shit on my uniform shirt. It was nice and quiet.

Well it was, until, I heard the rear precinct door creak open and someone bellow out Grasshopper, is that you? looking over the hood of my truck, I saw someone leaning his fat gut out the door. Christ, it was Sims. I have a hard time dealing with Sims, he was a 20 year veteran with the build of Porky Pig, the walk of Quasimodo, and the IQ of a crack baby, plus, he used enough Old Spice to repel mosquitoes.

(What the hell did he want?)

Grasshopper, he bellowed, is that you? by this time, I knew he was not going away, so I walked around the side of my truck and waved him a one fingered salute. In the dark, he couldnt see the finger, so, slamming the door with another bellow, he marched across the parking lot in that funny little mincing steps fat men use to follow their bellies around. He was breathing heavy by the time he arrived at the oak, and was not happy about his work out of the day.

God Damn! Grasshopper, cant you hear? What the fuck is wrong with you?

I was listening to the tree, its song of wisdom was singing louder than your cries for attention.

Titling my head, I looked up into the leaves and said, See its leaves are speaking to me, see how they twist and turn, dancing in the moons brilliant rays?

Sims actually looked up and squinted through his little piggy eyes. Damn, you are crazier than a sprayed roach, he said, but, thats not why I walked across this damn parking lot, Big Cynthia, told me to tell you to get your skinny white ass in her office, like now.

At the mention of Big Cynthias name, I felt my balls shrink and my heart thump with a shot of adrenaline. Big Cynthia was the end result of some black sailors Polynesian fantasy, ending with him skipping the island, cursory of the U.S. Navy. She was a 6 foot 3 in, 220 lbs of solid man hating muscle, more than willing to stomp some skinny white boys ass.