Hash in the court house
So one day I had to go to the court house because of some bullshit little traffic violation. The day was a disaster, my car was completely illegal and I’m driving around down town. To top it all off my sister is visiting, for her once a year visit. I’m running from lawyer to lawyer, trying to track down this esoteric bureaucratic paper work. I was not thinking clearly and that’s when the fun began. I illegally park outside the court house leaving my sister in the car telling to her drive around the block if someone makes you move, I’ll be right back. Get into the court house, see the metal detectors and a sign that says no phones in the court house. So I run outside and stash my phone in a bush figuring I’ll be right back. I’m next in line at the metal detectors and as many do, I do the final sweep and a terrible realization hits me as soon as the bag hits my hand. I’m two seconds from a pat down in the fucking court house with seven, yes seven, grams of hash in my right cargo pocket. I had stopped and picked up just before the lawyers office. I could see it now, the big laugh the judge gets out of sentencing my dumb ass to butt fuck prison and my little tight ass is violated again and again as they shout is anything in your pockets. Abruptly, I’m detached from these troubling thoughts to a police officer saying “Next, next, come on you twitchy little kid.” The thought to flee instantly penetrates me. Ten yards to the revolving doors, three cameras out front covering all angles, my sister in the car, who does nothing illegal, this is not the time for a foot race. Also I smoke, I’m not getting far, in the capital of my state, I’m in the nerve center of police corruption. STOP BEATING UP OLD LADIES! I’m fucked. Come on kid walk through. Clips of my weeping sister, my dieing father, never to see me again before he dies as I’m taken away to jail. Me having a matrix style shoot out in this hall way. Except I’m in Tevas and have no guns, sunglasses, trench coat, or chick side kick who says dodge this. That plan wont work. Memories of the sex I had and horrors of the sex to come. I’ll never get another lap dance in my 20’s. God help me, or before you pull that lever sending me to hell, I’m hanging from your beard for a while and punching you in the balls. “Come on kid get through this machine your holding up the line.” A silent prayer laced with threats and I step forward. The buzz radiates to my soul raping me of what is left of my innocence. Its still gone. “Step forward and please lift your arms.” Betrayed by a belt buckle. Damn my natural showmanship. Pats the arms the stomach and gets to the pockets and time stood still. Do I nail this fucker in the face and run? Is assaulting an officer worst then possession? At least in jail I’d have more street cred. No, be calm, think strippers and sailing, this will be over soon. And it happens he touches the pocket. Now I’m not up on current law enforcement training, but I’ve lost my hash plenty of times and a pat from the outside, the distinct crumple it makes, is more then enough to obtain its location in my cargo pocket. He pats it, looks me in the eyes for what seemed an eternity. I knew I was fucked and only the unflinching kindest, pathetic puppy dog look could save me. I called upon all my bond movies and tried to look worthy of this complete strangers compassion except it was a 65 year old black man not some sexy Bond girl. He peered into my soul and with the most penetrating look discovered the inner me. Multiple felon perhaps, but with a heart of gold. The Hond Solo of crime and he said next.
Class check your fucking pockets before court learn from my inescapable stupidity. Really can you imagine. Mr Oceans you have been found with seven grams of hash in the city court house. How do you plea? Maybe insanity.
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