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ELANEY WAS SO FAR-GONE HE DIDN’T KNOW what his crime was. Nor did he care. But they were treating him so carefully he imagined it must have been something serious. So he’d decided that a mellow attitude would be the way to go.
“Don’t be your usual crazy self, Delaney,” said one of the cops – the young one about his age – on the perp walk to the wagon that would take him to the state lock-up from his temporary digs in county.
Although he’d only known him for about 10 minutes he hated the cop’s guts, and a voice inside said “If I knew what was going on I would do serious harm to this jerk without a second thought.”
“What’s up, Delaney-boy? Is something funny?” asked the cop, surprising his bound and chained charge who was unaware he’d registered some perceived amusement.
“Ease up Bardo,” said the older cop, the one in charge of the left half of the prisoner, as he firmly, not painfully…in an almost fatherly way, Delaney imagined, held his arm, guiding him to the nondescript vehicle that they would share on a joyless ride to the prisoner’s new home.
“It’s all right,” thought Delaney, not because he knew it was, but because he sensed that there was no harm in store for him. He’d known that undefined feeling of safety and now it was coming through to him stronger than ever before. But he smelled some other violence, unrelated to him, whispering along with the light breeze as it cleansed his forehead of the dirty sweat that had festooned there in a watery tattoo of fear that he’d worn like a crown of thorns since entering the jail. It was good to be out in the air, he thought, but he knew something was wrong.
He looked around for the sight he didn’t want to see and sadly, yet unsurprisingly, he found it: Another transfer in progress, but suddenly going all wrong as another set of clone-ish cops lost control of their prisoner.
As he saw the prisoner run Delaney felt his own catharsis beginning inside, a cheap-thrill sort of pleasure he usually took from scenes like this. He didn’t feel guilty about it – after all, blood lust had been around at least since the Romans. It was normal.
“Dammit, stop, Jaime,” he said silently, hoping desperately his brief companion might pick up his telegraphed thoughts. “You don’t have to die. Throw you self on the ground… Now!”
Three shots blasted the sultry air and before Jaime hit the ground – with less cranium than he had possessed moments earlier – six more were fired before the job was considered done.
“Whoa, boy would you look at that!” shouted Bardo from his place on the ground next to Delaney and the other cop, all now where they’d thrown themselves to “hit the dirt” when the bullets started flying.
“Now you’ve seen what happens if you’re not ‘nice.’ Hear me Delaneyboy?”
The prisoner’s silence was nearly as deep as his late friend Smith’s, his response as unobtainable. But Bardo wanted some groveling as a dessert to the main course of execution he had just enjoyed.
“I said, ‘Hear me Delaney-boy?’” he snarled.
The cop on Delaney’s other side spoke: “Ease up some Bardo; there’s nothin’ wrong here.”
“That’s right.” Delaney spoke his first words since leaving his cell.
“Nothin’ at all.”
The next thing he did was spit in Bardo’s face.
“Don’t be your usual crazy self, Delaney,” said one of the cops – the young one about his age – on the perp walk to the wagon that would take him to the state lock-up from his temporary digs in county.
But he smelled some other violence, unrelated to him, whispering along with the light breeze...
Although he’d only known him for about 10 minutes he hated the cop’s guts, and a voice inside said “If I knew what was going on I would do serious harm to this jerk without a second thought.”
“What’s up, Delaney-boy? Is something funny?” asked the cop, surprising his bound and chained charge who was unaware he’d registered some perceived amusement.
“Ease up Bardo,” said the older cop, the one in charge of the left half of the prisoner, as he firmly, not painfully…in an almost fatherly way, Delaney imagined, held his arm, guiding him to the nondescript vehicle that they would share on a joyless ride to the prisoner’s new home.
“It’s all right,” thought Delaney, not because he knew it was, but because he sensed that there was no harm in store for him. He’d known that undefined feeling of safety and now it was coming through to him stronger than ever before. But he smelled some other violence, unrelated to him, whispering along with the light breeze as it cleansed his forehead of the dirty sweat that had festooned there in a watery tattoo of fear that he’d worn like a crown of thorns since entering the jail. It was good to be out in the air, he thought, but he knew something was wrong.
He looked around for the sight he didn’t want to see and sadly, yet unsurprisingly, he found it: Another transfer in progress, but suddenly going all wrong as another set of clone-ish cops lost control of their prisoner.
As he saw the prisoner run Delaney felt his own catharsis beginning inside, a cheap-thrill sort of pleasure he usually took from scenes like this. He didn’t feel guilty about it – after all, blood lust had been around at least since the Romans. It was normal.
Three shots blasted the sultry air and before Jaime hit the ground – with less cranium than he had possessed moments earlier – six more were fired before the job was considered done.
For some reason Delaney now prayed for the interruption of some sort of deus-ex-machina to prevent the coming tragedy. He couldn’t help but watch his acquaintance – and the term could only be used lightly as they’d only passed a few words between them in the holding cell; just enough though to make them brothers – Jaime Collins Smith, who was making a break and running across the small spartanly landscaped park that was the front yard of the county jail.“Dammit, stop, Jaime,” he said silently, hoping desperately his brief companion might pick up his telegraphed thoughts. “You don’t have to die. Throw you self on the ground… Now!”
Three shots blasted the sultry air and before Jaime hit the ground – with less cranium than he had possessed moments earlier – six more were fired before the job was considered done.
“Whoa, boy would you look at that!” shouted Bardo from his place on the ground next to Delaney and the other cop, all now where they’d thrown themselves to “hit the dirt” when the bullets started flying.
“Now you’ve seen what happens if you’re not ‘nice.’ Hear me Delaneyboy?”
The prisoner’s silence was nearly as deep as his late friend Smith’s, his response as unobtainable. But Bardo wanted some groveling as a dessert to the main course of execution he had just enjoyed.
“I said, ‘Hear me Delaney-boy?’” he snarled.
The cop on Delaney’s other side spoke: “Ease up some Bardo; there’s nothin’ wrong here.”
“That’s right.” Delaney spoke his first words since leaving his cell.
“Nothin’ at all.”
The next thing he did was spit in Bardo’s face.
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About J.D. Finch
J.D. Finch has worked for weekly U.S. east coast newspapers as a columnist, reporter and photographer. He's written on film for magazines like Cinefantastique and Fa... <read more>
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