No writing prompt this week. This week I'm going with something else I'm working on and I thought I'd give you a taste.
Like a dealer.
First taste is free. You want more, you come ask and maybe we work something out.
What follows fell from my brain to my fingers one night in anticipation of grand designs and
delusions of grandeur future success. It is saved on my computer as simply "Prologue". I've quite a few ideas like this one packed away in the cluttered closet of my imagination and I'm nervous anxious to get them on paper and in someone else's hands.
With that in mind, I sincerely hope you enjoy today's Fiction Friday. I give you "Prologue".
I'm going to die. I've always wondered if, when a person's time was near, they could somehow sense it. Don't get me wrong, I haven't seen a seven-foot tall man clad in oversized black robes with extraordinarily bony hands clutching a scythe. It isn't as esoteric as all that.
I have that feeling though. Call it a sixth sense. Call it premonition. Call it what you will. Cops call it that hinky feeling. When you walk into a situation and something just feels “off”. I've had that feeling more times than I can remember. It comes when you walk into that domestic call. It comes when you walk up to that car. Cops can smell trouble a mile away. Forewarned is forearmed, they say. At least we have a sense of it before we stumble blindly into it.
This car stop is like that. I can see his jittery eyes in the rearview before I even get off my motor. It took him longer to stop his car than most. Just enough to get my hackles up. Something in my psyche tells me not to stop this car. It's too late, though. My ego and my training over-rule the voice of warning in my head.
I reach across my body with my left hand and grab the right handlebar. I support my weight on my right foot and kick my left over the motorcycle seat and put it down on the ground. My body is angled toward the car I stopped for speeding. I've made this stop thousands of times. I don't even think about the mechanics of it anymore. It's so second nature that it's nearly first.
“Two-Mary One, Eleven Ninety-five,” I relay my traffic stop to my radio dispatcher.
“Two-Mary One, go ahead,” she parrots back.
“Six Lincoln Charles Four Seven Two Eight. I'm at Mine and Teak.” I've lost count of the number of plates I've run and the locations of my traffic stops. I used to wait until dispatch came back to me with the registration info for the car, but when you make hundreds of traffic stops each month, you get impatient. Not to mention, dispatchers get busy. They handle a ton of units at any given time. Hell, sometimes they simply forget.
I still have that hinky feeling as I'm walking up to the driver's side window. I rock the first level of retention on my holster forward. My thumb is on the second level release and I apply just a touch of downward pressure in guarded anticipation of having to draw my gun. That may sound paranoid...and I don't disagree, but I do it subconsciously as the voice in my head grows steadily from a whisper to a scream.
I'm just about to the driver's side window when two things happen.
First, dispatch comes over the air with, “Two-Mary One, copy Ten Thirty-six.” Ten code for confidential information. This code is commonly used when there is either a warrant associated with the car or the car is stolen. As I reach with my left hand to grab my lapel mic to acknowledge dispatch, I stop walking. I'm caught in no-man's land between my bike and the car I've stopped.
Then, the second thing happens. The driver throws his door open and time slows down. The driver, a white kid in his early 20's, puts both feet on the ground outside the car. He's wearing a Golden State Warriors ball cap cocked sideways on his greasy, brown hair. I can see the gold sticker listing the size of his hat still on the bill of the cap. Seems his head is a solid 7 3/8”. His left hand grabs the armrest of the driver's door to help him pull his 200 pound frame out of the driver's seat. He wears no ring on his left hand, but I can see a silver watch. I can see his face. He's got the stubble of a man who wishes he could grow facial hair, but will forever fall short. His mouth is turned sideways into a sneer.
He crouches forward to use his legs to push his body up and out of his car. He begins to turn counter-clockwise toward me. I see his right hand. He's holding a pistol similar to mine. I see the muzzle turn to get its bearing on me as I pull my own pistol.
Shots ring out.
I'm going to die.
As always, constructive criticism, unbridled praise, and/or editorial commentary (The Keynyn Premise) are welcome.
Image courtesy of Flickr and SoulRider.222