Laza Dun

Cruising along the palm tree guarded freeway with a police badge on my shirt and $5,000 worth of stolen drug money in my trunk, I realise I've made some odd life decisions.

 

'Good morning Laza Dun!' blasts the host on my car radio. 'I am Clarence Right and you are listening to Right's fireside chat, my very own news show located on the only pirate radio station worth listening to on this sunny little island of ours: Blast 799 FM . It is 9am, and there is not a cloud is to be seen in the sky!' .

 

My name is Tigress, and unlike everyone else who insists on going by an alias usually reserved for an exotic animal, I've eaten my namesake for breakfast.

 

'You know, people in the so called civilised world like to say crime doesn't pay, but I think you and I know better, right buddy?'

 

You said it Clarence, if being an LDPD cop for the last five years has taught me anything: it's that crime pays big time, the only counter is whether you can get away with it or not.

 

'News just coming in that mid town has suffered yet another gang shoot out between the American Bullet Men and the Cambodian Tauk Teips, once again proving my point that multiculturalism in a overpopulated urban environment, simply does not work. As usual LDPD have refused to comment on the matter, keeping up their stellar record of inadequacy.'

 

Fuck you, asshole. How about you try and police a tropical island smack bang in the middle of the Atlantic ocean with a constant influx of filth from every angle. See if you can stop every crime. Pissed, I turn the radio off and promise myself I'll never tune into his show again. It's a promise I know I can't keep, Clarence's three hour bit is the only half decent news show on air. He's brutally honest, but as a cop, sometimes that rubs me the wrong way.

 

Feeling like letting off some steam, I scan the road for any law breakers and spy some jackoff with a busted tail light. Putting on my shades, I turn on the sirens. To my disappointment he actually pulls over, forcing me to get out of the car. The long curving road is right beside the beach, the sea air wafting into the fishing town beyond. I hardly see any action here, it's further in city that things start to get dirty. Never the less, trouble can be found anywhere in Laza Dun, you just have to know how to look.

 

I waltz over to the driver's lowered window and lean in. I've hit the jack pot, this guy is so messed up on coke he can't even look me in the eye without getting the shakes.

'Is there a problem, officer?' he asks, trying his best to conceal the fact that his stick thin body is practically overflowing with white powder.

I shrug and play it nice. 'Not at all, just figured we could have a friendly chat. Tell me, how many ounces of rock have you got stored in that glove compartment there? Must be at least four going by the state of your nose.'

He looks to the compartment, then to the road ahead. 'I don't, I uh...I mean...I didn't know...'

'Really? So it's an unmentioned bonus that came with the car huh?'

'Well... I mean it, it can't...' he stutters, his eyes darting this way and that.

I chew my lip. 'You keep looking where I'm not, sir. You wouldn't be thinking of just driving away now, would you?'

'No, of course not.' he protests with all the sincerity his amateur acting can muster.

'Good. That could be pretty dangerous considering your busted tail light and all,.... but if we consider the situation hypothetically, and only hypothetically you understand: I'd say your Honda could outrun my Chysler, given enough motivation on your part.'

'Y-you do?' he wheezes.

'Yeah.' I take out my side arm from its holster and rest it on the window. 'See this? This is an 1863 model LeMat Revolver, basically: a shotgun pistol. It fires a 20 gauge shell with 40 yards of effective range and a one shot a minute rate of fire. It's banned in most police departments around the world due to its impracticality and excessive lethality, but it holds a very special place in my heart as the weapon I used when I first killed a man.' I take off my sunglasses. 'In a few seconds I'm going to get back in my car and start my engine, at that time you are going to drive off as fast as you can, and we're going to have a car chase. If I catch you, I'm going to blow your brains all over the road with this thing, if you lose me: you get to live. How's that for motivation?'

 

Having stunned the guy into silence, I start walking to my car. He drives off before I even reach the door. Show time. I throw myself in, turn on the sirens and put in Kavinsky's Testarossa Autodrive into my stereo, because half the fun of a car chase is the soundtrack.

 

Before long I'm speeding at fifth gear to catch up to the spooked soon-to-be perp, the junkie is dodging between cars on both sides of the road like a madman, I love it. With a heavy drift to avoid a misdirected truck I weave in and out of the frenzied vehicles' way without scraping the paint once. In regular day to day life I'm just another beat cop working her rounds, but in this space, at this time, right here, right now, I'm an artist at work. Having closed the distance on my adversary, the guy panics and begins to swerve right in front of approaching rides to lead me into crashing into them. Nice try chuck, but I'm too good for that. I stay on his tail at every swerve before the road clears for a stretch, then I smash into his rear, breaking his other tail light.

 

The road ahead turns away from the beach and onto the highway leading into the city, if he makes it that far, I'll lose him. Having given the sap no choice but to power forward, I get up beside him, and after getting some distance, ram him sideways through the wooden barrier and onto the beach. His car takes a tumble while mine comes spinning to a halt on the road, and after turning the music off, I get out to claim my prize.

 

This part of the beach being so close to the jungle, I'm not surprised to find my favourite pair of native Laza Dunians resting by the water with a few baskets full of fish. The two bronze skinned brothers: Maji and Urda look to the toppled car with mild interest. I wave to the 13 and 9 year old kids as I take off my shoes and step onto the warm sand, the bloodied car chase loser groaning all the while.

'Morning boys, catch anything good?'

'Nah, just mackerel. You?' Maji replies, nodding to the criminal I'm dragging out of the upside down Honda.

'Nope, just some coke head.' I say as I turn him over and level my revolver to his head, the guy blubbering pleads for mercy as I do.

Having grown new found interest in the scene, Urda scrunches up his face. 'You're not supposed to do that.'

I look to him innocently. 'Do what?'
'That, you're not supposed to shoot him, you're supposed to arrest him.' he says in a matter of fact tone as he shakes the water out of a fish.

I look to Maji, then the coke fiend, then back to Urda, and cock my head. 'Huh, I suppose your right there love, how forgetful of me.'

Amidst moans of joint outrage and exaltation I handcuff the bloke and give $5 each to the boys. 'Here, go buy a pair of baby sharks from down the road, and tell your mother thanks for the dinner the other day.'

'Thanks Tigress.' the boys say, and I push the perpetrator back up the beach towards the car, chucking his cocaine packs into my trunk when I get there.

 

After getting him locked up in the back and adding the monetary contents of his wallet to my pocket, I adjust the rear view mirror and catch a glimpse of myself. 21 years old, light brown skin: the result of being a Laza Dunian-English half cast, long salamander orange dyed hair that shows lines of my natural chestnut brown tone in places, tiger fur style, with a body, so I'm told, that 'can wind a grown man in both respects.'

Looking through my passenger's cards, I see that MR. FRED H. SANDS arrived on the island fairly recently.

'Says here you only got here two weeks ago.' I mention. He nods miserably, I restart the car: 'Welcome to Laza Dun.'