If the cop pulled me over I’d have to kill him.

At 800 miles an hour, I doubted he had the grunt to catch up. But he did, and now he was closing fast, making me uncomfortable. I geared the Lambo down with a flick of my wrist so the cop, who was now getting way too wide in the mirrors, wouldn’t see my arm move. The brake lights were pulled . He had no way of knowing what I was about to do.

I don’t like cops. I don’t hate them. I just don’t like what they do to make a living. And what they do is make people miserable while taking money from their wallets at gunpoint. “Follow me sir. I’ll hold your license until you take care of your fine at the courthouse. ”

Blow me. Follow me to hell you revenue robbing legalized thief. I’ve no time for the prissy morality of the phony bunch of mixed-up blue boys that fill America’s ranks of law enforcement. Who the fuck wants to grow up and make peoples lives miserable? Can’t cops realize the twisted predicament of protecting the rich and screwing those unable to afford bail? And let your fucking hair fill that shaved fascist patch that bares the sides and the naked backs of your skulls. What the fuck is that supposed to do besides make me laugh. Do all cops get their virality roll on with early 17th century Mohican haircuts?

But it was time to get busy. I needed fuel and I has less than 45 minutes to meet the Turk who took the kid. I didn’t need some local Boy Scout with a badge to fuck it all up.

And then the lights lit up on the top of the Lone Ranger’s full dress cruiser.

I stabbed the expensive platinum accelerator into the curve of the firewall. The fat black Italian race car squatted into the shimmering heat rising from the blacktop . Power roared from the four custom exhaust pipes. Sparks flashed . Chrome plating ripped apart the asphalt.

The cop evaporated from the race car’s too tiny rear view mirror. He vanished as suddenly as he had appeared. Ghostly and odd.

I slowed to a buck and a half making sure Do-right was off the radar. Cops don’t like coming after me because when I’m in the middle of a gig, I don’t care. Even If i’m not doing a gig I probably won’t comply. It all depends on how many pills I’ve had and how many spliffs I’ve smoked . If I feel like it, I’ll play tag. If not, I don’t worry.

Somewhere back there John Law Jr. was on the Motorola screaming into the hand mike. If more cops get in the way, more cops will die. What I do is definitely not on the seat of the swingset in the backyard where these assholes grew up. Cops need to spend time protecting elderly taxpayers from assault, patrolling beneath the nation’s streetlights on dark summer nights. Not coming down on me. Not while I was in the middle of a gig.

This entry was posted on Friday, October 19th, 2007 at 7:20 pm and is filed under Stuff I know. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.