Nobody's Hero: Oppressive Force(Snippet)

Note: This is a work of fiction I have been writing entitled, Nobody's Hero. This is in the first chapter of the story, and the main character has been drinking and is now walking back home from his neighborhood bar. The character is being confronted by law enforcement officers in this scene. It is directly following the post "No Way Out", posted earlier on this blog. I posted this as a way of getting back into the grooved of creative writing, and eventually finishing this project.

“How’s it goin’ tonight?” Asked the officer in the passenger side of the vehicle; his tone was half-excitable and half-patronizing, knowing exactly how my night was going since they pulled up on the side of me. The cops in this city usually have a lot to contend with because there is a lot of crime going on, but on the rare slow nights they look for trouble before it starts. In other words, they harass the general populace when out of real crime to thwart.

“Have you been drinking this evening, sir?” The officer’s lips curled into a fake smile as he readied his flashlight to shine into my retinas. His partner hung back by the car with one hand on the door and the other at his waist, glaring intently as if to assume the absolute worst-case scenario was going to occur any moment.

“Yeah, I’ve been drinking. Decided I should walk it off instead of taking my chances behind the wheel.”

“It’s dangerous out here alone, especially in a dark alleyway. What are you doing in there anyway?” He readied his weapon as he neared me, coiling and uncoiling his fingertips next to the handle of his state-issued pistol like a snake preparing to strike its prey. “Are you carrying any weapons or illegal drugs?”

“No weapons or illegal drugs. I usually save those for special occasions.” I inched my hands above my head and interlocked them, surrendering all rights for a moment of oppressive force in the hopes to end it quickly. My only intention was to sate the egos of the overly-authoritative officers.

“Looks like he’s done this before,” His partner shouted from the police cruiser’s door. They share a chuckle as if they were making a huge drug bust on a kingpin dealer instead of harassing a drunk. The cop circled behind my back and gripped my wrists with the force of a vice. He then leaned into to my ear, his voice dripping with malicious intent as he hissed into my ear canal.

“You should have resisted. It would have been more fun that way.” He tore my arms down and nearly out of their sockets as he ratcheted the handcuffs onto my wrists, the icy steel slicing into my flesh. He gave me a hard shove, which was enough to send me sprawling onto the concrete. I apparently lost my footing on some black ice, and my inebriated state did not help my stability whatsoever. There was a loud thwack when my face kissed the pavement, and I could feel the warmth of the blood as it spilled out of my mouth. I was only beginning to recover from the wind being knocked out of me before the officer that pushed me down gingerly walked over to my fallen body and kicked me in my ribs. If I was sober, I might have felt the bone crack inside of my ribcage, but as I was it was just the sensation of extreme pain throbbing through the right side of my body.

“This is why drunks shouldn’t walk alone. They can fall down and hurt themselves, isn’t that right, Stanley Miller?” He yanked me up as if he didn’t just boot me in the abdomen or shove me face first into the concrete, and pulled me towards the squad car. After all he had done so far, apparently he hadn’t had enough abuse to satisfy his lust for violence. He forcefully bounced my head against the fiberglass hood and my skull bounded back up like a basketball. “Filth like you in my city makes me sick. I should do the world a favor and blow your head clean off your shoulders.” His bones crackled and popped at the prospect of murder, as if they played some sinister tune as his hand slithered down to his gun holster. Disorientation begins to settle in, and my head start swimming in the alcohol and the blunt-force trauma. He kicks me down to my knees with minimal effort, capitalizing on my weakened stake with predatorily precision. As I feel the metal pressed against the back of my neck, it was surprisingly warm to the touch. It was not the first time he fired this gun tonight nor would it be the last it seemed, as the skin on my neck contoured to the shape of the searing barrel. Around us the snow slowed to a feathery float, while his synapses flared with lethal intention as his finger slid inside the trigger. I was almost at the acceptance of my fate, when it interjected and made it intentions known.