A short story by J.B. Stevens
I squeeze the wheel and look over. Smitty’s pupils are dilated.
“Turn that down.” Master of Puppets. “That the guy?”
Smitty nods, he’s scared. Me too, but no one knows. I got that Aurelius face. Also, I don’t care if I die — that helps.
“Fuck that guy.”
I check my seat-belt and mash the pedal to the floor. I hear a pop and see glass-snowflakes, the bandit dropped his gun. Smoke and steam rise from a crumpled blue hood and it smells sweet, antifreeze. James Hetfield roars.
“We’ve got a runner!” I’m out and on top. I get the cuffs on and curse words stream out. So many body cameras, zero force… other than the car thing. I’m gentle.
“Holy shit that was cool.”
“Normal day at the office.” I’m so full of shit. I’ve never done that before, life isn’t a movie. “I’m going to knock out paperwork. Can you talk to the reporters?”
I cry in my car, I miss my wife and I miss my daughter and I miss my dog and why the fuck did I trade them for a stupid fucking job that pays shit?
Smitty gives me a thumbs up. I smile and return it, wave him off.
I check my phone, there are no missed calls, no texts. I should have died in Baghdad — maybe I did die in Baghdad. God, I wish I died in Baghdad.
Got a murderer today.