EAD, I AM BEYOND LIES AND TRUTH, illusion and reality, I have nothing to lose but oblivion.
My first achievements were becoming a Cub Scout Webolos, then an Eagle Boy Scout. But I wanted to become a cop, a base one if it came to that. I desired shaking off the All-American Boy image. My father was a cop, as was my grandfather. I tried getting a business degree, but sleeping with nightmare monsters, a series of numbers on their faces, spooked me, so I stopped the accounting courses, going to police academy, then joining Rottown’s force.
He ordered a machete from Amazon, thinking it would solve his Alphonse problem, with the goal of maiming, mutilating or killing me. I heard his bombast. Talk was cheap.
Growing up, friends liked me, as did my family, Dad especially, but all told me to my face or through gossip, Alphonse had a cruel streak running down his back, like the time I hid clothes of swimmers, boys and girls, enjoying a break from the heat, having to walk naked to a pay phone, calling their parents. Sergeant Krip, my dad, arrested the underage children for indecent exposure. Another time I shot a chimpanzee at the town’s zoo, just to see it die. I would drop dates off on the city’s outskirts after sex, stranding them. But sometimes I read to old people at a retirement home, they pleased, I then walking off with a wristwatch or earrings, loose change, if possible.
Taking business courses, before I quit, I found the address of one professor, tossing a dead skunk into his yard, then phoned his residence, a woman answered, and I dirty-talked her, saying I wanted to stick a police baton up her rear end, I invulnerable, too cagey getting found out. Dad would quash investigations, his influence so great, he having Rottown in his bowels, able to shit the law into a toilet when it suited him.
Though I wanted to distinguish myself, the job grew tiresome, I just another blue uniform, nabbing parole violators, pot growers, arresting drunks, pulling over suspicious looking vehicles. On my own, I would pull a known dealer aside, patting him down, snatching his dope, threatening him with prison if he did not turn informer, then having the poor bastard set up a meeting with a big time buyer. In plainclothes, I raised my 9mm automatic, stealing thousands of dollars, telling the scum I wanted names.
When I had them, I continued my entrepreneurship, rousting as many I could without detection from my comrades or pushers out to kill me. A one-man operator, the Chief commended me for that. Eventually, one dealer, a woman, told the Chief about how I raped her, taking tainted money from her. Cashiered from the force, kicked out of my home since birth, I lived on purloined money.
I needed work, but a stronger drive forced me to strike back at Rottown, the FBI posting me to spy on a weak link, the tenant living next door to me, I using Wi-Fi and iPhone, hearing everything he said, seeing his every move. I had a retainer as a FBI informant. His name was Sebastian, a loser, a man crippled, hunchbacked, having multiple sclerosis ( I knew a nurse at a clinic ). I would stand by the common wall, listening, observing him through voodoo technology, then purposely made noises, scratching the wall with my nails, then with a chisel, my laptop, a heavier sound, I hearing him call me pimp. “Hey, Pimp, you’ll get yours someday. Watch out.” That was nonsense, BS, Sebastian so feeble that he could never carry out the threat.
The more time I spent against the wall, scraping a garden rake upon it, Sebastian yelling, his mouth inches from where I stood, “Stay the hell away, Pimp. You’ll get what’s coming to you sometime,” he hollered.” Empty threats. I received many as a cop, voices on phones saying they would harm my kid, the one I had screwing that drug dealer, she now ghosted after so much meth, turning into ugly, weak idiocy. I loved poking wounds, Sebastian’s being addicted to online pornography, I watching him masturbate, timing my banging, making him soft, driving home the point he was a sex offender. My job was making him get so frustrated that he would break, I envisioning him smashing furniture, windows, lamps, break the monitor, the seat of his passion, his lust, his diversion from cruelty. Sebastian’s conscious mind reflecting back on itself constituted cruelty, I feeling proud as if gaining the highest civilian honor, the Medal of Freedom.
He ordered a machete from Amazon, thinking it would solve his Alphonse problem, with the goal of maiming, mutilating or killing me. I heard his bombast. Talk was cheap. I would ride my bike past his windows to make a report to the FBI, getting a weekly stipend from them.
History of a Dead Man continues...