Perfect Playlist - Chapter 3 - Brutally Punctual

I'm not going to be late. That is unacceptable. You have to be punctual. You always have to be punctual. There is no excuse for being tardy, none at all. I would never be late to such an occasion as this. I am to be commended for my bravery and honored for my courage. My duty is fully rendered and then some.

A polite knock at the door, good very good. "Sir, here's the telephone records for that last drug den. I'm a bit bogged down with paper work, and I know you would probably want to look over them yourself anyway. By the way congratulations, have a nice retirement. A courteous knock to shove paperwork onto my workload. Johnson always was an ignorant lard, unfit for this work. A corpulent mass, a waste of time and space. His shirt isn't even tucked in and he sweats constantly. He disgusts me as do most people around here. They have no potential, no reason to be here. They are as classless as the filth in the jail cells. They just have a different disposition.

I put a file folder containing what would have been my next case into the outgoing bin. A family has decided to look for the boy they kicked out of the house for being gay. He's probably blended in with the homeless now, and I honestly don't care to take charge of a situation the parents created in the first place.

This will most likely be the last bit of pointless paperwork I will have to endure from this case. The valuable time and effort of the law enforcement community is being wasted on paperwork. We are the authority. Why must we verify our success with such a triviality as paperwork? We are the law. We should be on the streets eradicating the murderous wretches around every corner.

I have always pushed that apprehension, prosecution, and sentencing should be condensed into one responsibility placed upon the shoulders of law enforcement officers such as myself. Why waste money on sending something that barely qualifies as human to court. Tax payers dollars saved, more space in prisons. Respect and more importantly fear would be tagged along with law enforcement.

The list of incoming calls has the people I expected. Jamie Valrez, known importer, with an interesting scam of laundering money using the wills of deceased men with no next of kin. Two weeks and some signed confessions from some slightly coerced associates will have him in a prison cell near you. Ricky Moore is an orphan who became a pusher of any drug you can imagine. Thanks to my endeavors his funeral will not be open casket.

I'm glad to have been able to have a direct effect on making my son safe from such a crude existence. The boy has always needed guidance. He has to learn discipline. Yes, a lot of discipline, otherwise he'll become lazy and slovenly. Without the system of discipline I use he'll become another victim. He can't be a part of my struggle here. My battle. My war. This campaign I wage is for his own protection.

Normally there are no outgoing calls from drug dens during their use. This ensures that authorities can't trace their origin and show up in a room full of drugged up people. This lot was sloppy, letting one call through. Ignorant slobs. If you are going to get into life as a criminal at least be a good one. This error insults my intelligence and demeans my position.

I grab my phone and dial Johnson's phone number. It takes three rings for him to pick up the phone. Predictable of someone of Johnson's caliber. "Johnson, run me a trace on seven one three, four eight-- I hang up the phone with such force that it is now in two pieces. I let the now separated receiver land on the floor. In red bold print is my phone number, timed at the beginning of the preparation phase of our sting and ending right when I took the phone from that girls cold lifeless fingers.

At eleven forty five Elaine, my wife, was helping at church. Casey was supposed to be finishing his studies and in bed. That's what I scheduled for him. He signed his time sheets but he could have easily falsified them. I can verify Elaine's alibi but Casey does not have one, therefore I can assume that he is guilty. My own son, talking to that druggie whore! What a deceitful little bastard! The audacity to defy my rules and boundaries behind my back! He lacks respect for authority and himself. He must learn. Again a polite knock on the door. Johnson I presume, and of course I am right.

"Sir, they are ready when you are. By the way, is everything alright? That phone made an awful noise. I stand up, straighten my tie and put on my very convincing but false expression of happiness on my face. I pause as I walk past Johnson. I pose a question to him, that would seem hypothetical but is true in nature. "Johnson what would you do if a fellow officer was conspiring behind your back with a criminal? He doesn't even hesitate to answer. "I'd beat the living shit out of him sir. I concur, and I pat him on the chubby flab of his shoulder. It jiggles in response. "Wise man Johnson, a wise man. I walk down the hallway, a fluorescent light flickering. These carbon copy police stations are just as much a waste of time as paper work. Fake illumination coupled with false innocence makes me want to vomit in disgust.

My newly polished shoes make a delightful click with each step, and that's why I bought them. Without that click the silence would release my more suspicious, violent, and guarded tendencies. The results of me being subjected to silence can be¦fatal.

The various media personnel of the Philadelphia area have assembled right in the hallway of the station. There stands the mayor, a politically correct smile fastened on his face with such intensity it almost looks like he is pain. The medal will not lose its merit even though it's being given by such a corrupt and unjust cretin. I fix my pseudo smile upon my face as well and shake the mans hand. His hand is slightly limp, a gesture that almost made me lose my artificial happiness. This man does not know the heat of battle, the struggle and cost of what I have been through. He has had an easy going desk job, where he can be secretly involved in all the vices that I have seen fit to fight against. Drugs, prostitution, murder, whatever the evil you may dream up this man has most likely been apart of it. Yet he can still smile, as shall I.

"John R. Diedrich, I present you with this medal to award your bravery throughout your career in law enforcement. Congratulations on your retirement, this city is going to miss one of its best. At least his speech was well done. I respond to him quite plainly and still smiling. "Thank you sir, I am sad to be leaving my post here. I hope that my actions have helped ensure the safety of some in this city.

At that everyone clapped, not because they want to but because they have to. None of them understand, they are just spectators in a sport they can't imagine. The mayor shook my hand limply one last time and then walked into the media frenzy. Just like that my actions are forgotten. In about thirty seconds of television broadcast twenty years of hard work has gone completely unknown to the public. My son will remember. He will remember it along with all the discipline I'll give him. His scars will remind him of what a good man I am. His blurred sight reminding him that I am a man of vision. His broken bones showing him the ways of the brutal war I waged. He will know the good work I have done in his name. I must go to remind him of this, but after a few short errands.

I head back through the same hallway to the armory. Memories of some of my more exceptional fellow officers come to mind. Every time I went on a takedown we would leave letters meant for our families to the one person told to stay behind as a contact. I still have the letter in my inner jacket pocket. It was right in front of the armory door that we would give the assigned person the letters. I stand here and I can feel the energy the spot still contains. I turn from this spot and open the door to the armory.

A man hunched over the counter half asleep behind metal bars stirs with my entrance. I can't walk five feet without meeting another lazy disillusioned fool. I walk to the deposit bin and slam it hard. I recognize the bum behind the bars in charge of weapons clearance for the day.

"Earl, here is gods left hand. Take good care of it. I have always referred to my piece as the left hand of god. I do gods bidding through this gun. I hand him the police issue pistol, and then I take out its sister. I look at the silver colt .45 with its black hilt, and I feel a loss. All the people that have met their maker due to this pistol go through my mind.

Such lovely memories, my glory days. During my recollection Earl has been looking at me odd. He doesn't know the weight and importance of this weapon. He is undeserving of that sibling I turned in. I turn and walk out without a word. I can't say good bye to my piece with Earl around. I turn outside the doorway and have a moment of silence for my beloved bearer of justice.

I walk to the small underground parking garage of this ratty precinct and then I peel out. I am free and homebound. I drive a Ford F-150 pickup, because I believe in the preservation of the American dream and American industry. It's my small way of fighting against a global society.

That is the last thing our country needs. The blurring of borderlines. The crossover of enemies to allies. Where would I fit in a world of peace? Luckily the human species has such a defeatist way of working that I don't have to worry about losing my purpose. What would we do with unity? Nothing, and that's fine by me. No unity means war. War means that I will have something to fight for.

Peace makes you weak. It makes you into a philosopher preaching and dreaming of the middle path and enlightenment. I prefer the path of the warrior scholar. An intelligent foe who can best you in battle. That is my arena. That is the arena of our world, and that is how it will remain. If my son knew peace he would be weak. A lazy slug moving about with an air of ignorance and stupidity. That is why I discipline him, to make him a better man.

For the few hours it takes to drive home I think of what I will say to the boy. Not that I will be speaking much. For humans most of our communication comes through body language. Therefore my right fist, that of wisdom, and my left fist, that of virtue, will teach my son a lesson. I see that my wife's Jetta, in need of repair, is parked in the driveway next to the remnants of an old shed that was the previous owners. Before I exit the vehicle I open the glove compartment. The tiny little light bulb shows a hard cast piece of brass, glinting under the illumination. Brass knuckles will have to do tonight, otherwise I fear my message wouldn't get across.

I walk up the porch steps slowly and I open the front door. I put my keys down on the small table by the door and hang my gray trench coat up. My wife is directly ahead sitting at the kitchen table. She's reading the newspaper and drinking out of my coffee cup. Poor dear, she has forgotten herself. "My dear, what are you doing? I say as I approach slowly. "I'm reading the paper honey. Why is something wrong? I head to one of the kitchen cabinets and grab the cup she is assigned to. I then head to the table and pour her coffee into it and put my cup in the sink and turn the faucet on.

"That was one thing dear, and the other is did you know who our son was talking to last night? I wash the cup vigorously. As I do I look towards my wife. "No dear, who was Casey talking to? She says this without even looking up from her paper. How can she sit so calmly? She should be observing me and my actions not that filthy rag she is reading.

I take my freshly cleaned cup and smash it onto the kitchen table, pieces of it flying everywhere. "He was talking to that druggie bitch in my last takedown!! Did you know that Casey was on drugs?! She isn't even startled. She just keeps reading. I guess after years of my interrogation tactics she has become quite used to them. What I just said has seemed to settle in. Her draw drops a little and she looks at me. "I had no clue honey, and I know what we have to do. We can't let him destroy everything we've tried to make him. I knew he would screw up. He can't think for himself.

She eyes the brass knuckles in my hand and she looks up to me and smiles. "Honey wouldn't you rather use the old table leg? I think this is a situation in which we can put it to use effectively. I smile back at her. This is why I love my wife. She understands me so well. I lean forward and kiss her on the cheek. "Sure, I'll get Casey first. Where is he anyway? I ask this quite calmly. Now that I know the means of his discipline and having the approval of my wife. "He's in his room. Good luck with him, I'll grab some towels.

The steps creak with each move I make. The brass knuckles strip the wood of the hand rail as I go up. There are many scratch marks from me walking up the steps with my tool. As I reach the top of the steps I head for my bedroom and grab the table leg out of the closet. It is slightly stained red. I hear a door open and then shut quickly. I smile and think that he must know I'm coming. I then proceed to the end of the hall. The floor still creaks, almost in apprehension as to what's coming. That is another reason I bought this house, all the creaking. It breaks the god damned severity of the silence. I like the disciplinary system I use because it also breaks the silences. The yells before the first hit, the begging. I even like the thud of my fist against flesh. It has a perfect sonic resonance for me.

I open his door slowly and I call for him. I survey his room quickly. His walls are dripping with black paint. There are a few razorblades on the floor. A spilled bucket of paint is on the floor next to a used roller. Even the windows are painted over. On the other wall painted in giant red letters is the word victim. All of this is here, but no Casey. There is some crunching of gravel outside but I don't pay attention to it. The neighbors let their damned dog outside again.

I walk in and look around, then closely scrutinize the razor blades. They, like my table leg, are already stained red. I stagger backwards out of the room. Why did he paint everything black? Why are there bloody razor blades on the floor? Why is my son suddenly playing the victim? I practically jump down the steps and run towards my wife frantically.

"Honey he's not here, and have you seen his room? I say this quickly and out of breath. I think I am having a panic attack. We didn't raise him like this. He's interfering with the future we are building for him. She responds, her eyes still on the newspaper. "He's not here? I just talked to him about five minutes ago, and he went upstairs right before you came in. I realize what's going on now.

I should have realized it when I heard the crunching gravel. Casey was waiting for me to come home to sneak out and use the truck. The Jetta is out of commission, so he waited for my arrival. He probably climbed out the window, shut it, and climbed down the lattice as I entered the house. The door I heard was the front door opening and him grabbing the keys. The gravel crunching was him driving away in the truck. He is as stealthy and sneaky as one of those damned druggies I've been taking out over the years. I don't care where he has gone, but I'll be here when he comes back.

I pick up an antique rocking chair from the living room and place it by the steps near the door. I then walk outside and take down the lattice. I walk back inside and lock all the windows and doors in the house except the front. Every door in the house has a dead bolt that can't be operated from the outside. My own idea and security measure. In my line of work security is essential. I sit and wait in an almost meditative state. I rock back and forth waiting for my target, eyes closed. Time does not seem to move or stand still. My anger doesn't seem to weaken or strengthen. My fury is thick with the sting of Casey's action. My passionate rage is almost tangible.

A few hours may have passed, but that doesn't matter. If Casey had been gone for a minute he would have received the same beating. I see the front door open slowly, and a hand creeps in slowly to turn the light on. That is my signal. I run and smash into the door with all my weight and all my strength. I hear Casey scream and a quick snap. I've broken his arm. I open the door and push him down the steps. He bounces violently down them on his side and rolls on the stone path below. He tries to get up. I walk slowly down the steps.

"Casey, I trusted you so much. You had more loyalty from me then I give to those I've spent my whole life with. You've broken this trust, and there is only one way you can learn not to throw it away. I grab him the by the hair with my left hand and smack him in the stomach with the table leg four or five times. I let go of his hair and let him fall on the ground. I look to see his expression. I want him to be angry at me. I want him to fight back and stop being a pathetic little worm. That or I want him in the highest agony, and regretting the moment he ever went for drugs or took my truck.

He doesn't seem to display either. He is just laying there, reaching for something in his pocket. I stand to observe what he is doing, the house lights beaming over my shoulder, making my shadow fall upon him.

In the darkness of my shadow I see a flame and then a small elliptical shape of orange embers. He's smoking a cigarette. "You finished yet. he says quite calmly and sedate. I start kicking him in the stomach and then I grab him by the shoulders and lift him up. I walk him over to the truck and slam him into the side facing the door. I start punching him in the back with the brass knuckles, grunting each time as I do. I turn him around and he chuckles a little.

What the hell is the matter with him, why isn't he fearful? Why isn't he angry or in pain? He takes a long drag off his cigarette and blows the smoke in my face. "I guess you found out who that bitch was talking to huh? he says with a smirk that dissolves into sadness. I cough at the smoke and the rage takes full control of me instead of me controlling it.

I punch him full force a few more times in the stomach and then I slam is head into the car door a few times. He falls down unconscious. I yell for my wife. "Elaine, we better get to an emergency room, he's taking a nap right now. I hear her yell her reply. "Alright dear, just let me finish this column and we'll get going. I walk inside, planning on grabbing a cup of coffee and washing up a bit. We'll invent a happening that caused his injuries. Between a cop and a doctor, my wife and I could probably come up with an ironclad one. It's not like Casey could dispute it, he's unconscious. As I go up the steps to take a quick shower I yell down the steps to my wife. "Cream, two sugars please dear.