Skotison

Skotison (sko’-ti-son): Purposeful obscurity.

I was going for all the right reasons. I could could not do otherwise. I had to go. I grabbed a spray can and sprayed. They crashed to the floor. I put my head down and ran for the door. They grouped front me blocking my way. I called 911, but all I heard was a whining sound—like a hint pitched squeal. Then, Lt. Brockwart broke through. “What have you done now jingle-bell brains? Spagworth, you are a blot on the human race, not to mention the entire universe. I . . .” The whiny sounds increased. I could hear Lt. Brockwart alternately laughing and choking.

I wondered how he came to the conclusion that I have a “jingle-bell” brain. I envisioned my brain “dashing through the snow, laughing all the way.“ What was wrong with that? I was starting to think that Lt. Brockwart did not like me. There may be a few things in the past that I did that irked him. But, they were no big deal—he is a pimple on my ass. The things I did wouldn’t even be noticed by a truckload of blue-hairs.

He walked out of CVS completely intact. The girl be hind the counter had been tickling him and he had choked on cupcake he was eating (that he had been comped at the high school swim team’s fundraiser).

He has constructed the entire police force as a SWAT team. All the cops wear helmets and Kevlar every day, all the time. They all carry MAC-10’s all the time along with two canisters of bear repellant 9mm Berettas, and Kershhaw OTC automatic knives. They wear fancy black tactical pants and black steel-toed Justin Ropers. With all that gear, all they do is write fu*king parking tickets. What a joke!

Some of them have motorcycles—black and white Harleys. Our town’s Main Street is about two football fields long, they patrol it day and all night, making a racket and taking turns and going up and down the street every 15 minutes. The foot patrols were pretty much the same. Lt. Brockwart called it a deterrent. A deterrent? A deterrent to what? Common sense?. Everybody called it called it a joke. I called it a trigger—it kicked in my PTSD. I had learned coping mechanisms and they helped a little bit. But always lurking under the surface were memories of being attacked by the motorcycle gang “Death’s Door” and a failed rescue attempt by the police who took their coffee and donut break just as Death’s Door was closing in on me. They said they’d be right back, but that was a lie. They never came back. I was found a week later.

I’m going to run for Mayor so, among other things, I can turn the police force into a police force. I will put Brockwart in charge of watering the plant baskets hanging from the town’s light poles, and also, checking them for vandalism or if they’re being used as under cover marajuana planters or clandestine webcam mounts. In winter, he’ll guard the town Christmas tree, and also, supervise snow removal from the police station’s sidewalk and parking lot.

The rest of the police force will get a new wardrobe. wish me luck!