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February 8, 2010

Bring the Yellow Tape

Filed under: News — Jon @ 1:22 pm

I roll my eyes lazily around the speckled ceiling tiles, replaying the incident in the Mexican Grocers and Eateria earlier that day in my mind. A tie wrapped around a detective’s neck opens the door and walks in. The detective smiles genially.
“Mr. Cole?” I perk up to inform him that he has, in fact, wandered into the correct room. He motions for me to sit, but I am already sitting, and am slightly confused. He takes a chair himself and drops onto it.
“Thanks for coming in, we just need to quick get your official statement on what happened at the Eateria, and then you can head on out.” He takes out a tape recorder and ons it. “Oh, sure,” I respond, phlegmily, then clear my throat. “So I was buying a twenty pack of tortillas at the-”
He waves me down. “Sorry, can we get your full name and address for the…” he motions towards the recorder. I lean forward and nod.
“Howard Baxter Cole, uh, 3515 West Taft Rd.”
“Good, okay, please continue, Mr. Cole.”
“Okay. I was at the Mexican Grocers and Eateria on 5th street at around 11 this morning, and I was grabbing a twenty pack of tortilla shells to make some wraps, and then this dude with a ski mask came in with a shotgun and was like “ahhhh, give me your” my voice hushes, “fucking”, then back to normal “money” and stuff… and I was hiding underneath a shelf full of limes at that point, so I didn’t see him leave or anything. Apparently he got the money.”
The detective nods and scratches his elbow. “Can you describe the assailant, in as much detail as possible?”
I shrug. “I didn’t really see much of him. He was wearing a ski mask. I hit the floor pretty quick.”
The detective cocks an eyebrow and squints. “Would you mind going into greater detail?”
“I dunno, he was wearing a green jacket. Or gray. Green or gray.”
“Was it green or gray?”
“I dunno, green, I think.”
He purses his lips. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I assure you it is in your best interest to assist us fully, Mr. Cole.”
I am not entirely sure what is going on.
“What color was his hair?”
“I… I don’t know, he was wearing a ski mask.”
“I will ask you one more time, what color was his hair?”
“What? How am I supposed to know? He was wearing a ski-”
“I know what he was wearing, Mr. Cole. Is he someone you know? Is that why you’re protecting him?”
“I- I’m not protecting him, I-”
“Either you’re protecting him or I don’t know what the hell you are doing. Is this a joke to you? What the hell are you doing, Cole?”
“What? What? I don’t…”
The detective jumps up, rage pouring out of his eyeballs into my face.
“GODDAMN it, Cole, do you know how long an obstruction of justice can land you in a prison? And not a fag-boy wipe your ass on paper and sniff lollipops in jail cell, a real goddamn fucking exponentially doubling your bleeding anus’s circumference, for-life prison!”
I stand up suddenly at this unexpectedly explicit threat. “He… he had brown eyes, I think,” I stammer at the glistening detective’s beet red face.
“From this point ONWARD,” he hisses at my head. “We are TREATING you as a SUSPECT in this case as an ACCOMPLICE of the ASSAILANT.”
I continue to stammer, hoping that it will help. The detective reaches for me, and I leap backwards, toppling a stack of folders. I just need a second to formulate a response to stop whatever it is that is happening. The detective lunges for me and I smack his arm away. We both realize at the same time that this was a bad decision on my part. I frown as his fist swings towards my cheek, and am knocked into something hard. I blink rapidly and decide I have to get out of this situation, quickly, and do something rather silly.
However, the gun doesn’t come out of its holster as smoothly as I had been expecting. Instead it holds firm, and the detective and I look at each other for a moment that lasts far too long. My brain decides that panic is probably the best course of action, and I decide that it is probably correct. My legs run out the door, but my hands have already committed themselves to stealing a cop’s gun, so the detective hops/runs alongside me, attempting to wrestle away my grip and raining down blows on my crouched back and head.
I consider my present situation, and decide that I have, at some indeterminite point in the past, made a very poor decision.
We round a corner and four police officers turn to identify the source of the whimpering noises coming from my mouth. Luckily, the awkward silence resulting from the situation is halted when I receive a rather severe right hook to my jaw and am suddenly on the floor. Also on the floor, the detective’s gun in my hand.
“Hm,” I mumble, and maneuver myself onto my feet, pointing the gun at the fivesome of blue suits and 9mm Berettas aimed at my chest. They are shouting something, but I can’t really be sure of what it is other than there is a lot of the words “DOWN” and “SHOOT YOU”. I smile apologetically and run away.
There is a pop from behind me and something on a nearby wall explodes into plaster dust. I make a noise that sounds like “eep”. There are some more pops and I dive sideways into another hallway. I seem to be bleeding rather a lot from my upper right arm oh god right anyway onwards and upwards there is a staircase here and I scamper up it.
I am clasping the gun very tightly as blood trickles between my palm and the grip, and am in quite a lot of pain. However, I am on the roof, which is nice. A contrail slowly fades away in the distance. Cars pass on a road several floors below. I stumble over to the edge and peek down, leaving a trail of red spots.
My improvised doorjam of a paintbucket laid on its side does very little to impede the pursuing officers. They leap up the final set of stairs and I direct the nozzle of the gun towards them, attempting to make clear that I am not afraid to use it to barter passage to not-getting-shot-any-more. They do not seem to understand, so I fire off a single round. I am not sure where it hits, but it is certainly nowhere near any of the police. However, they take it as an invitation to shoot at me, and in a very short order I feel a very unpleasant thud in my chest and I fall backwards, off the top of the building.
I am not dead, but I am having a lot of trouble breathing and the flagpole I am hanging from doesn’t really seem to be able to support my weight. The police are peeking their heads over the edge. I fire at them, and they fire at me. I don’t think either of us hit each other with bullets. This is a bad place to be. I see a window several feet to my left, and begin swinging my legs to reach it. I can’t quite make it. I attempt to cross the last few inches by letting go of the flagpole and wallrunning to it. It works about as well as you’d expect.
I wake up several flows below on the sidewalk. Much to my surprise, nothing hurts at all. I stand up, feeling kind of numb and euphoric. I blink a lot of red stuff out of my eyes and hail down a cab, and get inside. I ask the driver to please take me to the hospital, but she just turns around and screams at me. I turn and see her two toddlers sitting in the back seat of the minivan I am bleeding into. She grabs them and I am left alone in the minivan. I look and see police milling out of the building. I cough up blood and drag myself to the drivers seat.
I pull away from the curb into a parked car.

3 Comments »

  1. The guy in this story sounds like a loveable scamp.

    Comment by San — February 10, 2010 @ 10:34 pm

  2. Great ending :D

    Comment by danineteen — February 14, 2010 @ 10:54 pm

  3. I noticed that you are placing plenty of efforts into your blog. Keep posting the great work.Some really helpful information in there. Bookmarked. Nice to see your site. Thanks!

    Comment by phlegm cough — November 12, 2011 @ 11:46 pm

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