Prions - Chapter 15 Pigs

“Hello?!”

I’m awake. Why am I awake?

I was dreaming — a vivid dream about a man named Kevin and a woman named — What was her fucking name?

I can’t remember. Pigs. I was dreaming about pigs on the beach. The ability to manifest whatever you desire through your thought-forms. I was a different person in my dream. I was an adult named Kevin who I —

“Hello!” I hear a man’s voice coming from outside my tent, Fuck. A gruff voice with command authority — that’s definitely a cop; a cop woke me up from my dream. Pigs on the beach? That’s funny. A prescient metaphor. My dream-guide has a sense of humor. Pigs on the beach outside my tent, sounds like a nursery rhyme:

There’s pigs on the beach outside my tent,

Wish I was somewhere else,

but my money’s been spent —

It’s gotta be like midnight; fell asleep a few hours ago — left my battery-powered lantern on. Fuck.

A scolding voice inside my head says, ‘You idiot.’ I heard Ren’s voice from Ren and Stimpy. I’m at the ocean, laying in a tent, head propped up on my backpack for a pillow. I’m drenched with sweat — my sleeping bag is overkill for a summer night, but without any cover I’d be cold. Freeze or dehydrate? Those were my choices. I sleep in the nude, I’m vulnerable here —

“Hello! Police officer!”

“Just a minute Mahoney!”

“Who’s in there?!”

“It’s Evan from Cumby’s!”

“Shit Evan! What are you doing out here? You know you can’t camp on the beach, Jesus Christ! Open your tent slowly so I can see you. Anyone in there with you? Your girlfriend with you?”

“I’m alone. We just broke up. Give me a second OK?”

“Open up, now! But slowly! Hands where I can see ’em!”

Respectfully, and calmly I say, “Officer Mahoney, I’m not dressed. It’ll take a minute or two for me to correct that, since I’m in a confined space, is that acceptable?”

The police-flashlight is permeating my tent’s opaque door from an odd angle. I can feel there are several other officers with him out there; at least one gun is drawn, maybe several — for some reason. Why is a gun drawn in this small town? Why are these cops so on edge?

Hull Police are usually pretty easy-going if you live here — not always of course. In the summer time, they staff up for the influx of out-of-town drunks hitting the boardwalk bars, this always brings new graduates from the police academy — gung-ho New-World-Order-gestapo.

The police officers outside my tent are discussing whether to allow me to get dressed. It’s a big fucking decision I guess. After some back and forth of, I assume, hand-signals and head nods — a consensus has been reached. Officer Mahoney replies, “Put your pants on for Christ sakes; come out slowly, as soon as you’re able, with hands in sight at all times. This is not a joke. We’ll shoot you, if you make any one of us nervous.”

And since I’m white no one will care. I don’t say what I’m thinking, instead I answer respectfully, “OK sir.”

Five additional flashlights blind me as I jiggle the tent’s zipper. I’m attempting to open the single-flap orange-opaque door. Barefoot; wearing only jeans. I crawl out; six blinding flashlights aimed at my eyes; as I exit, they are all intimidated by my ripped, bulging muscles. They all tense up, then retreat five steps.

No. That’s not how I want them to behave; I decide to take a little more time — find my shirt, socks, and black steel-toe work boots. “I’m coming out now officers.”

It’s just as I envisioned a few seconds before, six flashlights, six drawn Glocks. I’m the mid-point at the base of a police-officer hexagon — but they made a mistake I didn’t foresee in simulation; a big one. One of the police officers is a yard too-close.

I’m on the balls of my toes, three-point football stance; a coiled spring. I release; a blur flying, sailing into the dark air towards the closest flashlight. My attack: faster than human reaction time; faster than their brains can signal to pull the trigger; now it’s too late. They’re all caught flat-footed — no pun intended.

My right-fist catches police officer 1 — the closest one — underneath his chin, right between the triangle of his arms. His left hand on his police flashlight, his right gripping his automatic pistol — a vicious, Mike-Tyson uppercut, using my legs for additional raw power. A lethal blow from a small man, but I’m not small. His head jerks up violently from the death blow — I spin — the back of my left elbow catches him in his temple — another lethal blow — my right arm over-hooks his right arm, which is still pointing his gun at my tent’s entrance.

A split second has past.

Meekly, the police officer tries to bearhug me from behind — he’s likely dead already, and this is probably just a reflex, but, taking no chances: the back of my skull becomes a rock, smashing his nose.

We’re on the ground now. I have his gun, his body is in front of me: a large human shield. The other officers on the scene can’t shoot me without hitting their comrade. They don’t know he’s dead, but I can kill them all, and I do. Two bullets into each of them, the last officer falls retreating the scene, I shoot him in the back —