Leader Of The Pack

He sat in front of his computer, trying to unwind after another day of infernal hellish warehouse work. 3 AM, no one up except the crazy desert girl in Arizona and the coffee slinger in Grandville. He read his ex's blog; hmmm, she was at her father's house in Rochester. His sister was also in Rochester, participating in a Christian dance troupe, whatever the hell that was. He wondered if his sister would go kick her ass if he gave her the address. Heh.

Suddenly there was a screeching crash out his window. A motorcycle, going too fast on the rain-slick trailer park streets, had wiped out immediately in front of his home. There's karma for you. The man stood up, swayed uncertainly, and walked to his front door, spotting the only illuminated home on the block. He pounded on the door.

"Can I help you?"

"Yeah, where's your boy Chico? Tell him I crashed, will ya?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know anyone named Chico. Are you all right? Do you want me to call somebody?"

"Naw, naw, just tell Chico I'm here. Haven't I seen you at the liquor store?"

"Um, no, I don't think so. I think you have the wrong house."

The man accepted this, got the name of the neighbors next door, and lurched off into the night, his motorcycle still lying on its side in the center of the street. He sat back at the computer, rather rattled.

Ten minutes later, BAM BAM BAM. "Hey, let me in! This is my house, god damn it, let me in!"

"You're mistaken, sir, this is my house, I live here alone!"

"Fuck you! Get out of my house now, fucker! Lemme in!"

At this point he had no choice but to call the police. He did so, and told the man outside that he was. The guy stood on the steps hurling insults for a few minutes, then stumbled away again.

A police car, Grand Valley PD, came rolling up. The cop asked him some questions, eyeballing the bike in the street and waiting for backup, which arrived in the form of a county mountie. They parked abreast on either side of the bike, effectively cutting off the back end of the trailer park from civilization. In the middle of asking him questions, the other cop shone a flashlight into his yard and spotted the guy behind some bushes. They both took off running, yelling "Get down on the ground! Stop NOW!"

A few minutes later all three came into his view from where he peered out between his front curtains. The man was in handcuffs, belligerent, bloody where he hit the pavement, swaying and cussing with delinquent drunkenness. One cop held him by the back of his wife-beater while the other one shone his flashlight at the guy's teeth for some reason. An ambulance rolled up, as well as a tow truck. The street was filled with vehicles and flashing lights, but still no neighbors were visibly roused; only he was awake to see this redneck tableaux.

The man was wrestled onto a gurney and hauled off in the ambulance. The bike was winched up, none too gently, to the back of the tow truck. The college cop came back up, got a written statement from him, and mentioned that with his two prior felonies, this guy wouldn't be getting out of jail any time soon, and by the way you might be called upon to testify. Oh joy. The last thing he wanted was for this friend of Chico to lay eyeballs on him while sober.