Duh...ope (#2)- Psychic Cop

           The car blew by at a staggering twenty-five miles per hour, the “thumps” of window vibrating bass disrupting the natural harmony of the Spring day's ambiance in its wake. Looking up from the arrest report I was cramming on before shift change, I leaned over in the passenger’s seat and double-checked the speed limit on the road sign to my right.

          55 mph… that’s what I thought.

          Well, now what? Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel I checked my watch, torn on what to do. Granted, there was a clear violation of the loud noise ordinance; then again there was no one else around, so technically there was nobody’s peace to be disturbed. Still, I was parked right out there in the open, so you’d think the driver would at least have the common courtesy to turn down the radio when he passed. 

          Then there was the issue of the speed in which the vehicle had passed. A bit slow to say the least. So slow in fact that, even while partaking in my inner dialogue on the particulars of my dilemma, the vehicle had not yet left my line of sight… more-so, I was parked in a curve. Maybe it was an older driver on their way to church for an afternoon of bingo? I shook my head, With the amount of “ho’s” and “bitches” accompanying the bass I doubted very seriously the driver was tuned into the oldies station.

          “Damn,” I muttered under my breath. Putting my car in drive, I flipped around to follow the vehicle. “I’ll just check it out”, I assured myself, knowing better.

          As I gained on him, I could see the driver’s head bobbing convulsively as his hands fluctuated between smacking the steering wheel and waving around the cab erratically. At first I believed him to be in the throes of some medical crisis, then I let loose one of my patented, knowing smirks; this dude was jamming for sure. I doubted very seriously if he had even seen me earlier.

          That theory was confirmed when the guy looked into his rear-view, I assume to admiringly stroke the beginnings of his scraggly power-stache, and did a wide-eyed double-take upon spotting my vehicle. He then slammed down hard on the breaks; which, due to his slow speed, caused him to come to a complete stop in the middle of the highway.

          Hmm, now let’s see; slow speed, distracted driving, over-reaction upon seeing the police, possible power-stache… shit, I had a live one here.

          Flipping on my top-lights, I “chirped” the siren once and got on the PA.

          “Move to the right,” I instructed and followed up with a double take of my own at seeing the driver shift his body towards the passenger seat. “The vehicle,” I added, “pull your vehicle to the right side of the road.”

          Oh man Graham… you just couldn’t let it go, could you?

          After radioing in the stop, I warily approached the side of the vehicle. The driver, sitting with clenched fists around the steering wheel, looked straight ahead, his eyes fixed in an anxious thousand-meter stare. He had still not turned down the music and, from the looks of it, did not plan on making any moves to do so. Sweat beading on his forehead, his eyes snapped shut and squeezed together as if he were silently wishing that I would just go away. 

          Tapping on the driver’s side window with one knuckle, I assured him that I had not. I then indicated with one rotating finger for him to roll the window down. Which he did, lowering the glass approximately one and a half inches.

          Sucking at my teeth, I shook my head, looked to the heavens for support and then tapped on the glass again. The driver turned his head towards me with bulging eyes, smiled uncomfortably and through the crack in the window said, “It won’t go down all the way.”

          “My ass,” I sighed to myself. I could already smell the odor of burnt marijuana emanating from the vehicle’s interior. Oh, well, in for a penny; et cetera, et cetera. “Sir, can you to step out of the vehicle?”

          Apparently, he had not thought far enough ahead in his scheme to consider this demand a viable counter to his attempts at subterfuge. I determined this through my keen investigative skills and the fact that he muttered “Oh fuck” before rolling his head down to look at his lap.

          (Fun fact- This is the point in an encounter where a cop usually starts to get that “feeling” that the parameters of an event are about to shift dramatically. The next few seconds, when all parties involved run a myriad of scenarios through their heads and decide on their next course of action, are some of the most dangerous/unpredictable moments a cop will face in his or her career, second only to domestic disturbances. Unlike serving arrest warrants or searching for an armed suspect where cops are prepared for violence; the uncertainty as to exactly who they are dealing with on a traffic stop, is what causes the cop that just pulled you over to have the so-called “attitude” they are known for. Food for thought the next time you start to get irate with your local trooper for being short with you. But, as usual, I digress.)

          Seeing the driver’s hesitation, I felt it best to assist him with opening the door before stepping back to a point of cover at the rear of the vehicle; my right hand hovering expectantly near my holstered weapon. He was a big guy, probably a good four inches taller than me and just as wide. He was also wearing the universal uniform of a wanna-be thug; sagging jeans, sports jersey and a red bandanna stuffed in his back pocket. However, having said all that; I didn’t get a “bad-vibe” as he stood there looking at the ground with slumped shoulders, the smell of burnt Marijuana rolling out of the vehicle behind him.

          “How we doing today?” I asked in my most conversational tone, while eyeing him skeptically from behind my sunglasses.

          The big guy shrugged once and looked up at me with blood-shot eyes.

          “You, uh, headed somewhere special?” I asked.

          Again he shrugged.

          This wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought; so I tried a different approach.

          “Been smoking a little weed today?” I asked.

          That got his attention. His head went straight up and back in such a way that I half expected to hear the snapping of vertebrae. His face screwed up in a look that spoke volumes. But instead of aggression, what I saw on his face was pure, unadulterated “Duh”.

          More than likely you’ve witnessed this expression at least once. For you parents out there, it’s when your kid (or room-mate for you unmarried types) is searching for an answer to your, “Did you eat the last of the Oreo’s?” question. They know that if they answer “yes” they’re probably in trouble; but answering “no” means they’re lying and the thought of getting caught in a fib is even worse. But for whatever reason, the temptation of possibly getting-over on you causes their logic to fly out the window and they lie anyway…through chocolate cookie coated teeth.

          That’s the “duh”. 

          The driver was still staring at me in full on “duh” mode when I said, “I’ll make it easy on you my man. I smell it coming out of the car.”

          This caused him to slump again and I almost felt sorry for him when he said, “Yeah,” in a deep baritone.

          “So, I guess this is kind of a buzz-kill huh?” I asked with a little chuckle.

          His head nodded between his slouched shoulders.

          “Look,” I began, “As long as you’re straight up with me, I’m willing to work with you on this. But I've got to ask; you don’t have any more Marijuana, do you?”

          In response to my inquiry, the driver mumbled, “Nuh-uh”, while shifting his weight onto his right foot, raising his left slightly and looking down at the raised member as he gave it a little shake. Hmm, that was odd, he answered negatively, but his actions indicated something else… Ah.

          They say that the subconscious mind can’t lie. The theory being that when we do attempt to deceive, our conscious, intellect and physical elements end up getting into a three way tug-o-war; the ticks, twitches and involuntary spasms resulting from that inner struggle are what “tells on us”. There are several schools out there that teach kinesiology to cops for just that reason, but, in the case of the stoned driver I was interviewing, a blind man could have seen the signs.

          Trying to hide the smile I asked, “Let’s try this again. Weed, you got any?”

          Once again my suspect shifted his weight to his right foot, raised his left slightly and looked at the raised member as he gave it a little shake.

          Oh my God… he didn’t just really do that did he?  I considered moving to another investigative techniques to corroborate my suspicions…  Oh, what the Hell, there was no doubt this guy had dope on him; and he was blasted to boot.

          Which meant, it was now play time for me.

          I shook my head like I was suddenly disoriented and took on a wide stance, raising my hands up in front of me in a startled gesture before pressing the fingertips of my left hand against my temple. “Hold on,” I said aloud, “I’m getting a vision.”

          This declaration had an even more unnerving effect on the driver than our initial meeting. “W-w-what?” he asked.

          Exaggerating an exhale, I shook my head again and said, “Yeah, it’s weird. I never know when they’re going to happen. It’s like everything’s cool one minute then BANG! It’s like someone’s in my head telling me stuff,” At the word “BANG!” the driver jumped back about a foot.

          “Hold on a second,” I said, taking a step towards him and pressing my hand to my forehead, “I’m having another one… my God, make it stop.”

          “Are you Okay?” the driver asked with actual concern as he moved in to support me by the arm.

          “Ignoring” him, I tapped into my high-school drama class experience and emoted even further, sounding, in my opinion, a little more like Captain Kirk than Othello, “It… it’s saying that…you have something hidden in your right…no, your left shoe…no, your sock.” I looked up into his face and with a mixture of disappointment and startled realization said, “You have marijuana hidden in your left sock.”

          “How…I mean…what,” the driver stammered. He then clamped his mouth shut and nodded in agreement.

          He looked faint at that point, so I assisted him to the shoulder of the road where he sat down and I recovered the small baggie of Marijuana from his left sock. After finding he had no criminal history, I didn’t have the heart to take him to jail. So, I wrote him a misdemeanor summons and, even though he was in his early twenties, allowed him to call his “momma” to come pick him and his car up. Which, after reading "momma’s" not so subtle body language, was probably the most unkind thing I could have done.

Duh...ope (1 of several)- The Alibi

          The slapping of footsteps splashing through filthy puddles accompanied the gasps of raspy breath echoing through the dark alleyway. In the shadows of the narrow passage, a gaunt figure slowed to a stop, leaned against an overflowing garbage can and looked over his shoulder, gulping in the cool night air as he scanned the darkness for his pursuers.

          Fumbling in his pockets, the dark-clad figure removed a fistful of plastic baggies containing off-white rocks of crack-cocaine and tightly packaged bundles of Marijuana before flinging them into the surrounding debris. From his waistband he produced a small caliber pistol, its handle wrapped in black electrical tape and, this too, he tossed into the trash heap.

          As the lights of a vehicle washed over the alleyway behind him, the figure turned and ran for the rusted chain link fence at the end of the alley, barely pausing to turn his body as he slipped through the gap. Once clear of the cloth snatching claws of the damaged chain links and safely on the street he turned to run…and was promptly tackled by a burly man, similarly clad in dark clothing. The difference being that this newcomer was equipped with a thigh holster and the shining badge of a policeman dangling around his neck from a chain.

          That’s about the time I arrived; wheezing from the effort of having run the half block pursuit and nearly faint from exhaustion. After purging my late night dinner of waffles and eggs (and a portion of my stomach lining) in a nearby rosebush, I wiped the muck from my bearded chin with the back of my hand and approached the supine suspect that the younger, and much more athletic, Street Crimes guy had been so kind to leave handcuffed on the ground.

          Rolling the thug onto his back with the toe of my boot, I squatted and pulled him up by the collar of his hooded pullover. Drawing his face close to mine I detected the tell-tale reek of “Purple-weed” on his person, and, in turn, gave him a good whiff of the lingering odor of my own gastrointestinal emanations as I snarled at him with one curled lip.

          “I…hate…running,” I informed the suspect before gently slamming him back onto the concrete. “Search him,” I instructed whoever was listening before I went back to grabbing my knees in an attempt to catch my breath.

          “We got dope,” I heard one of my fellow Narcs say as he pulled two baggies and a wad of currency from the suspect’s pocket. “And cash.”

         “Got a lot more and a gun back here,” another member of our team advised from the other side of the fence.

       “Nice,” I said with relief. The modest bust having made all the running worthwhile… well, almost.

         “You’re screwed Demarius,” I told the suspect, “What’s that, three? Four dope arrests?”

          “And a gun.” Detective "Larry" said as he appeared, almost wraith-like, from the shadows over my shoulder.

     “And a gun,” I added, with a nod towards my sneaky compadres.

          “M-man, I-I-I…” began our suspect.

         Here it comes, I thought as I shook my head. The standard string of lame-brained excuses and alibis, the likes of which we’d all heard many times over. Let’s see what this genius had to say.

          “That ain’t my gun,” Demarius advised, “and these ain’t my pants.”

         “You know how many times I’ve heard…” I stopped myself short. It seemed that I had, up until that point, really not heard “them all”. Playing it over again in my head, I confirmed with a look towards my partners that what I though I had heard about the pants, currently sagging around our suspect’s bony ass, not being his was what I had indeed heard. Seeing their grins, I knew that it was so.

          “Really?” I asked incredulously, “Well then, who’s pants are they?”

          “M-my brother’s,” Demarius stammered.

          “Your brother’s?” I asked, trying to wrap my mind around his logic.

          “Yeah, I musta put his on instead of mine.”

         “I see. Soooo…you’re saying is that your brother regularly keeps crack cocaine in his pockets?”

          “Man, I don’t know what he does, brah,” Demarius answered.

          “What about the money?” I asked. “Is that your brother’s too?”

          “No,” said Demarius, “I put that in there. But they got deep pockets.”

          “Deep enough,” Larry cut in, “that you didn't feel the thirty bags of dope and a gun in the pockets of a pair of pants that you put on, but again, aren't yours?”

          “Yeah,” Demarius began, “If…” but we were on a roll, so his rationalization was lost under the knobby tires of our collective, investigative machine.

          Larry continued, “Hold on a second. So, the first thing you did upon realizing the pants contained illegal narcotics was to automatically assume that the pants and the drugs..."
            "And the gun," I supplied.
           "And the gun," added Larry, "belonged to your brother? And that's why you ran and tried to get rid of the shit?”

            Demarius nodded, believing that he now had us all against the ropes.

          One of the Street Crime guys jumped in as if on cue and said, “It's probably none of my business, but that tells me your brother must keep dope in his pockets an awful lot. That about right?”

           “Well…I mean, I…” Demarius babbled.

          “Very good point,” I complimented my fellow officer, “And based on that, we can then assume that you, Demarius, are aware that your brother has a readily available supply of cocaine. Which, to some, might be misconstrued as your admitting involvement in a conspiracy to sell narcotics. Is it just me or is that what you guys got out of it?” Everybody but Demarius nodded in unison.

          The wheels were spinning and I detected a whiff of already burnt brain cells smoldering in Demarius’ head as he answered, “I…guess, I mean…I don’t…”

          “Shit,” the last member of our group and fellow Narcotics officer leaned in close enough so that Demarius could clearly see the evil gleam in his eyes, “With an eye-witness account like that, we might even have enough to get a judge to sign off on a search warrant.”
          "So what do you say Demarius, should we take a ride over to your house?"

          “My house?” Demarius asked.

          “Well yeah,” I said, “I mean if you accidentally put on your brother’s pants, I think it’s fair to assume you share a room with him.”

          That’s when Demarius laughed in our faces, “Man, you is some stupid cops. My brother lives over by my grandma's house.”

          Ah yes, Demarius; we is indeed the stupid ones.

Skerd- a psycho illogical look into the minds behind the badge

  Over the years, I had the privilege of escorting my beloved wife to several corporate shindigs in the course of her trip up the express elevator to the top floor of an illustrious career. In the beginning, as a newly appointed and clean-cut patrolman, I was always on my best behavior and together the two of us presented a stunning image of a happy, successful couple wherein both parties were obviously dedicated to their respective careers. But it was during my “modified grooming standards” period as a Narc, where my true self, repressed by years of military training, began to emerge and things became a little different. So, dressed to the nines in my best Armani knock off and tackiest Jerry Garcia tie, I'd pull back my “do” into a ponytail and comb the twigs and glazed donut particles from my unruly facial manscape in a feeble attempt to appear more "presentable" and less like a last minute econo-escort my wife had been forced to scoop out of the local soup kitchen.

    Arriving at these "functions", the typical introductions were made and more often than not, a few eyebrows would raise at the Sasquatch in fine couture accompanying my wife. After being assured that I was who "I was", it never failed that someone would ask, “I thought you were a cop?” It was then I was forced to come clean and explain that I worked in Investigations.

       Of course, there were always a few half-hearted laughs and questions as to whether or not I was “packing” to which my canned answer was “I don’t know. Am I?”. Oftentimes, witticisms about “grams and grahams” followed, along with speculations about how my parents must have known what I was going to be when I “grew up”. My standard response to these bits of joviality involved my glaring at them and saying nothing; which achieved my desired result of creating a long, awkward silences.

      But, as I'm sure you can probably imagine, the topic of my chosen profession would lead some people to believe that it was OK to follow up with a “I bet you have some good stories” comment. Not really knowing the folks inquiring, I did what most cops under the circumstances would do and said, “Yep”, leaving it at that.

        After a few drinks I would relax a bit, observing the crowd from my spot in the corner, albeit with only one eye, while trying to keep my professional suspicions about their private lives to myself. Unfortunately, my secluded location added to the “mystery” which in turn drew more attention and unwanted company my way.

       But hey, these were parties right? I was supposed to be “social” and at least pretend to play nice with the other kids. The problem being that “social” usually involves inane chit-chat which, because of my love of all things most consider offensive, I’ve never been good at. Oh well, I do kind of enjoy making people uncomfortable.

          So, as my night of suffering one particular Christmas party   wore on, my wife made the rounds and mingled with the honchos, while I found myself stuck with a group of people doomed to sitting at my assigned table. The more I imbibed in the nectar of an open bar, the more my inner Viking Skald emerged and I boisterously waggled my tongue towards whoever was within earshot. Fueled by a combination of ego and the free, high-octane, jet-fuel I  swilled down my gullet, my bravado sky-rocketed as I dazzled my listeners with epic tales of heroics and feats of daring-do carried out by myself and those of my ilk; feeding off the attentions given me by my private audience of holster sniffers, the likes of which I now held rapt.

          As was the norm, one would be badge-polisher asked, “Don’t you get scared?” .

          “Shure…” I slurred over my fifteenth tumbler of Canadian whiskey, “Anyboody… cop shays… they ain’t never… skerd ist a liar.”

          “Really?” she asked, her big blue eyes suddenly reminding me of the sanitation cookie in the urinal I desperately needed to visit. “What scares you?”

         Looking around conspiratorially, I pushed aside the fronds of the potted palm next to me, peering deep into its container and searching for possible eavesdroppers. Satisfied that the indigenous flora of the banquet hall held no hidden dangers I turned back to my bevy of (but only after several drinks) beauties and beckoned them closer with a flopping hand.

          “Roashes…” I mumbled before my head bounced off a bouquet of poinsettia, festively adorning the tabletop…

          It’s true. And by that, I mean roaches scare the Hell out of me. To this day, if I see one, I will jump up on the closest piece of furniture and squeal until Anita, armed with what must be some ancient artifact fashioned from a piece of magical toilet-tissue, kills and picks up the horrid creature to dispose of properly. Granted, she chases me around the house with it for about an hour forcing me to promise to never again get drunk and flirt with her co-workers, but that’s beside the point. The thing is, I’m not alone when it comes to this particular phobia.

      Case in point. While executing a search warrant at a particularly repulsive residence, I, along with another officer who just so happened to share my fear of the devil’s land-shrimp, had the privilege of clearing out a water damaged closet full of mildewed clothing. Peeling back the top layer of clothing from a pile, we were both horrified to see approximately one billion, three foot long German (probably Nazi) cockroaches with huge fangs. As the roaches launched an aggressive counterassault against us, I was overcome and fainted in fear, but not before seeing my fellow officer point his M-4 assault rifle at the floor, screaming in an octave far beyond that which I would have imagined him capable… Due to my feeble condition however, I can neither confirm nor deny that said officer may have even popped off a few rounds into the tenement building floor.

          Thankfully, at least for the purpose of this story, roaches are not the only monsters lurking in the dark and unexplored recesses of your average cop’s mind. You’d be surprised what some guys are afraid of. There’s the standard Acro and Hydro phobias that many people experience. A few of the superstitious ones have Phasmophobia while those prone to playing the numbers suffering from Triskaidekaphobia. One clean freak I knew suffered from Mysophobia. And of course there’s the Homophobia that many of those too-tight shirt wearing cops who doth protest a little too much, exhibit…and you know who you are (wink!).

          Take, for example, one of my old law enforcement buddies who suffers from an debilitating fear of reptiles; which, living in Louisiana, you might suspect is somewhat of an predicament. In a place where a good portion of our reptiles grow upwards to ten feet, it’s a safe bet to assume that one might encounter at least a smaller variation thereof at least once in one’s life. And if you take into consideration the physical size and renown bravery of this particular cop, it makes for two, very funny stories. The first of which goes a little something like this (more or less):

          I was a bright eyed rookie, just cut loose from my training officer and willing to do whatever it took to prove my mettle to my fellow officers. No crime was too petty as I considered dealing with the simplest of violations to be but added fuel for the forge of justice that burned beneath my badge. Armed with an education from the prestigious LSU law enforcement academy and a newly purchased utility belt from which hung a collection of the latest and greatest, crime-fighting accessories known to man (sans a grapnel-hook), I was ready for anything and everything. I thought.

          One afternoon I was parked in an open lot, struggling to figure out how to operate a ten year old patrol car with my bright and shiny, four-foot long Monadnock baton shoved through its holster across my midsection, when the call came in from my patrol sergeant. Battling to remove the handle of my nightstick from where it had wedged between the spokes of the steering wheel, I grappled with my lapel microphone, entangling myself in its cord but eventually managed to key up to answer in an anxious tone.

          “Go with 411's traffic.”

          “411, meet me on the river road in front of the grain elevator. I’ve got something to show you.” my sergeant advised.

          “Roger that Sergeant,” I replied, grateful to be personally acknowledged my supervisor. “I’m en route to you sir and might I say that I look forward to working with you, sir.”

          That sounded smooth right?

          “Just get over here Rook,” Sarge said. “And don’t run code either,” he added just as my hand reached to activate my lights and siren.

          Aw man…

          Three heart-beats later, after power-sliding into a spot behind Sarge’s vehicle, I fell out of my vehicle after tripping over the six D-cell flashlight still securely fastened in its belt ring on my side. Adjusting myself, I stood tall before my supervisor and awaited his orders.

          His eyes immediately went to the array of gadgets I proudly wore around my waist.

        “You know, you can take those things out when you’re driv… never mind,” he said with a shake of his head as he closed his eyes. “Look, I’ve got a special assignment for you Rook.”

        A special assignment? For me? Oh man, this was what I’d been waiting for. What could it be? Maybe we were about to serve an arrest warrant for a dangerous fugitive. Or maybe…just maybe, we had some “grey” assignment where we had to take out an untouchable kingpin in a plan that only certain officers would be privy to and only the most trusted men could be depended upon to carry out.

          “Yes sir, Sergeant sir. You can count on me for whatever the mission at hand might entail,” I said with a shrewd wink. “Whatever, it might entail.” I added and winked again just to be sure he saw it.

          “Y-y-y-eah, right,” Sarge said with a sideways glance at me. Turning away he walked up the side of the levee and stopped about ten feet from the top. “You ever seen one of these?” he asked as I got closer.

          “One of these” was a four and a half foot long alligator.

      “Yes sir,” I replied, “That would be Reptillia Crocodyllia Alligatoridae of the Mississippiensis family, or as it’s more commonly known, an alligator. Granted, I‘m not up to speed on any particular legal statues surrounding the species, but I have seen Animal Planet a time or two.”

       Sarge blinked and shook his head again. Apparently he suffered from dry eye syndrome or some other optical aggravation and I considered offering him some Visine. But before I could, he jutted his chin towards the reptile and said, “HQ is still trying to get a hold of Animal Control but so far they haven’t had any luck. Being that its so close to the dock’s access ramp we’re gonna catch him.”

          Now it was my turn to blink at him. “Um, okay. How are we going to do that?”

          I can’t be sure, but at the time I could have sworn I saw the hint of a twinkle in Ol’ Sarge’s dry eyes when he said, “I’m glad you asked.”

          He then went on to explain that he would get the alligator’s attention using an old Cajun trick that had been passed down through his family for generations. (When I asked what the trick was he explained that I was a Yankee, so I wouldn't understand.) Once Sarge had the Gator’s interest, I was to jump on it’s back, slap down on it’s snout using an open palm strike (for my fingers’ sake) and grab it by its “beak” so that he could tape its mouth shut.

          “You think you can handle that Rook?” he asked.

        Wait a second… I might have been a rookie, but I wasn’t stupid. So I asked, “Without trying to sound insubordinate sir, but due to your experience in these matters, why I can’t tape it’s mouth shut after you grab it?”

          Sarge looked back at me and said, “Because it’s my tape.”

          Hmm, that was logic I couldn't argue with. So I said, “Okay.”

          “Okay?” Sarge asked, one eyebrow raising.

          “Yeah, okay. I’ll do it.”

         “Really?” Sarge looked me over. “I mean, I’ll go get the tape.”

          Sarge walked down to his patrol car leaving me to stare into the black eyes of one of God’s most ancient creatures. As I looked into those onyx orbs I searched for a mental connection to the prehistoric beast and projected what I hoped was a non-threatening intent into its brain.

          When Sarge returned he spun a roll of duct-tape on one finger and positioned himself in the alligator’s line of sight. “No turning back now,” he said, “You’re sure you’re ready to do this?”

          Taking a deep breath I psyched myself up and then bobbed my head. “Yep, let’s do it.”

          “You’re sure you’re ready?” he repeated.

          Again I nodded my willingness.

          “I’m serious, I’m going to get his attention now,“ Sarge said and I could hear the uneasiness in his voice which I assumed had something to do with him preparing to invoke some voodoo ritual used to tap into some cosmic force… after all, those types of things are not to be taken lightly. But for the life of me, when he began moving side to side in front of the alligator’s face, I don’t recall hearing any chanting and I don’t remember seeing anything that looked particularly mystical or voo-dooie at all. In fact, he just seemed to be hopping from foot to foot and waving his arms.

          Hell, I could of done that.

          But whatever it was Sarge did must have worked because the alligator spun around in true alligator fashion to follow his movements. The Gator hissed as his mouth opened wide to reveal a soft-white palate and rows of equally white, but not quite so soft looking, teeth.

       Seizing the opportunity, I leapt onto the Gator’s back, slamming my palm down onto its snout as Sarge had showed me while squeezing the lizard’s lips closed with all my might.

          “What the fuck are you doing?!?” Sarge screamed at the top of his lungs.

          “Tape…” I yelled back as the gator flailed and lashed the inside of my legs with its tail, “Use.. tape!”

          Sarge, now fully roused from his voodoo trance, slid across the grass on one hip and ended up next to me, ripping a strip of tape off the roll which he then used to secure the Gator’s mouth. Once that was done, we pulled all four of its legs back and secured them so that he looked like a scaly, apprehended suspect.

          Sarge rolled over onto his back, looked up at me and said, “I didn’t think you were really going to do it.”

          “What?!?” I asked. “But you said we had to catch it.”

          Sarge then led me down the side of the levee to the trunk of his car where he produced a long piece of PVC pipe through which ran a length of rope with a loop in it. Essentially a home-made version of those things a dog catcher uses when, say, he doesn’t want to get bit. The rope was long enough so that when the alligator started his roll, whoever was holding the device could let out slack, allowing the alligator to wrap itself up in a nice, tight little bundle. Needless to say, I acquired one of my own soon thereafter.

          “So why the Hell didn’t we use that?” I asked, all etiquette now officially out the window.

          “I planned to. But, like I said, I didn’t think you’d actually jump on the damn thing. You are one crazy son-of-a-bitch, Saturley.”

          It took everything I had not to punch him in the mouth.

         But this post is supposed to be about what scares us, so here’s the part about phobias. As we struggled to carry the Gator down the levee, I spotted another patrol car pull in behind mine. It belonged to one of three officers in our department with whom I was truly impressed; “Larry”, from my earlier piece “Rougarou in Boots”.

          “Larry” unfolded his huge frame from his vehicle and looked over the roof at us. “What are you guys working?” he asked.

          Being the fact that “Larry” is a big guy and due to the weight and violent movements of our bound Gator-friend, I figured I’d recruit him to help me get the overgrown lizard into the trunk. But when “Larry” stepped around the side of the my car and saw me holding the Gator, his face turned white and, doing a perfect about-face, he spun on one heel, slid back into his car and sped away without another word.

          But it wasn’t until after this next incident that I understood why.

         A few years later, “Larry” (okay, I’m done with the quotation marks) and I were working together on the rural side of the Parish which meant we had a bunch of free time on our hands. We spent most of the day patrolling our respective sides of the district but regularly met up for lunch and a little, unsanctioned, target practice.

          The location of our picnics and improvised shooting range was an illegal dumping ground at the end of an old country road. You know the type of location I’m talking about, the kind of place where neon-green liquid oozes from strangely marked barrels and runs off into ditches and creeks. The type of place where people go in the dead of night to toss out lice infested mattresses, burn stolen cars or drop off old refrigerators with body parts inside. In other words, the perfect place for the local fuzz to pop off a few caps on a slow day.

          So there we were, loading magazine after magazine of rounds; flipping paint cans into the air, key holing shots into rusted Amana logos and seeing which propane tanks or gas cans we might make blow up. (Can you believe we actually got paid for this shit?). The contest was neck and neck, for Larry was as good a shot as anybody I’d ever met and eerily calm under pressure. After a particularly heated competition where we did our best to recreate the events surrounding the 1934 massacre of Bonnie and Clyde on an old panel van, I turned to my trunk and prepared to reload another mag.

          That’s when I saw what I, at first, believed to be a tree branch, devoid of leaves and which, interestingly enough, seemed to be undulating across the road. Upon closer inspection I realized that it was, in fact, a very, very long snake about the thickness of my wrist and nearly spanning the entire width of the dirt road. At seeing its size, my first thought was that there might actually be some validity to the rumors of nuclear waste being dumped at the site. My second and what I, at the time, considered to be a far more rational thought was to catch it; so I went in search for something to pin it with.

          About that time, Larry had ceased-fire and turned around to see where I had wandered off to. Seeing me dragging a stick out of the brush he asked what I was doing.

          “Getting a stick,” I replied.

          Larry, in turn, indicated that he could see that much. He then inquired as to why I sought the aforementioned stick. To which I replied, “To catch that,” and pointed at the anaconda crossing the road, I assume, in search of the proverbial chicken.

          The color drained from Larry’s face, but I shrugged it off thinking it simply radiation sickness from the toxic dump; besides, I had much more pressing business to attend to. As I neared the serpent, my branch stretched out before me, I asked, “Any idea what kind it is?”

         “I don’t know. And I don’t care,” was Larry’s stern response. “Just kill the damn thing.”

          Hearing this, my curiosity was piqued. Forgetting the snake a moment I turned and asked, “Why’s that?”

          Larry did not respond. He didn’t have to, for I could tell by the way he was gripping his rifle that he was not, in the least bit, comfortable with the situation. Then it dawned on me. It seemed that, quite by accident, I had stumbled upon the chink in Robocop’s armor, the kryptonite for this particular Superman, the… well, you get the gist.

           And that gist was downright wonderful.

          “You’re afraid of it,” the magnitude of the situation turning my question into an awed statement.

          “I’m not afraid of shit,” Larry responded a little too heatedly.

          “You are, you’re scared of that snake,” I stated now as a matter of fact. Turning back to the reptile I ensured that it had not slithered off too far and then turned back to my partner.

          “Oh Larrrry,” I said, feeling my diabolical amusement rising in crescendo, “If I catch it, do you want it?”

          “I you catch it, I will shoot you,” Larry stated evenly.

          From the tone of his voice I could tell that he meant it, but at this point I was willing to take the hit just to watch him squirm. I took another step closer to the snake, trying to get a better look at it’s head to determine if it was a viper or not.

          “Do you think it’s poisonous?” I asked over my shoulder. Oh, I was loving this.

          “Dude,” Larry began, as he inserted a fresh magazine and chambered a round, “seriously. If you get any closer to that snake I will shoot you.”

          “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I said as I inched the tip of my stick closer to my prey. Because of the way the shadows of the trees lining the dirt road moved,  I couldn’t see any distinguishable marks on it and I couldn’t really tell if it had a triangular head. I was captivated by the size of the thing and my heart pounded with the knowledge that I now had live ammunition to use against my friend and with my own uncertainty as to whether or not the thing I planned to grab hold of was deadly.

          The tip of my stick quivered as it drew nearer to the snake, closer, closer…and then the slithering monstrosity spun on itself in a flash, and its head grew to the size of a dragon’s as it reared back to display two sharp teeth and a cotton white mouth. I jerked back as quick as I could, but I knew this was going to end up being one of those “oh shit” moments of which I was so familiar with.

          But at the exact same time that the snake attacked, a shot rang out and I felt the bullet whiz past my left leg, right before the snake’s head blew apart. At hearing the second shot I figured I might have pushed Larry a bit too far and he went ahead with his threat to shoot me just for good measure. After bracing myself for the inevitable pain of a bullet smacking into my ass, I felt another round zip past and was relieved to see that, once again, the shot struck the snake; cutting it in half as it was curling upon itself in its serpentine death throes.

         “Humph, guess I just saved your life again,” Larry said in his usual emotionless voice while flipping his weapon onto safe and walking towards the rear of his vehicle. 

          I tried to say “thanks” but all that came out was a haggard “whew”. I was definitely going to have to check the contents of my pants the first chance I got, but I couldn’t let Larry know that. Looking back towards our earlier makeshift targets, I whipped up one of my customary, flippant comments, “Good thing it wasn’t a paint-can attacking me.”

          Larry returned his rifle to the trunk and closed the lid. “Who said I was aiming for the snake?” he asked as he opened his car door and slid behind the wheel.

          I initially scoffed in my assumption that he was simply delivering a snappy comeback; but, and with a sudden chill that ran up my spine, I realized he had been grinning as he spoke and that grin was enough to scare the hell out of me.