It all started when I was three or four, still frequenting my grandparents’ place, still young enough to find myself lost in the local park, still being picked up by the cops in the parking lot like a rampaging toddler. But for me – it’s been a little more long–standing and doesn’t just stem from my undying love of 90’s hip hop anthems like “Fuck Tha Police.” Not having faith in the justice system is such a stereotype these days that it might as well be synonymous with saying that air is breathable or that apartments are nice. The thing about cops is that I don’t really care about cops – or rather, what they stand for, or at least are supposed to stand for. What we typically don’t do, however, is get called off the train by some cowboy cops – too hyped up on their authority to even consider listening to the other side. Drink your money like it’s worth nothing and then take the railroad home like a man with too much time to burn and no good way to use it. Go out to a bar, club, or other social establishment. It was just like any other weekend night, really. Ask and you shall receive, right? At least in the case of property that belongs to you that was stolen after a night to remember. They weren’t in the system, but they sure as hell were behind the desk. So therefore, as far as they were concerned, they did not exist. You see, they weren’t on the list of confiscated items. Specifically, my cell phone, my phone charger, my car key and my house key. You should have paid the fine,” said the desk sergeant, an arrogant sneer perched across his face as naturally as a mother bird might warm her eggs.Ĭontext: I was collecting my things.

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The following is a reprint from Unwinnable Weekly Issue Forty-Eight.

Halt right there criminal scum