Alone now in the wilds of suburban Connecticut, you ditch your weapons and vest in a nearby dumpster and run. You only make it a few blocks before a police car nails you with a searchlight.

“STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE!” the police car PA screeches. You freeze in place.

“Put your hands up!” the driver says, getting out.

“Down on the ground!” his partner says.

You raise your hands and start to lower yourself to the sidewalk.

“I SAID GET YOUR HANDS UP!” the officer yells.

“AND I SAID GET ON THE GROUND!” the other one says.

“My hands are up!” you blurt.

“GET YOUR HANDS UP!”

“FACE DOWN ON THE GROUND!”

“It’s physically impossible to do both,” you say.

“Smartass, huh?”

“One of them ANTIBLMFA rioters, probably.”

“DOWN ON GROUND!” cop one says, reversing his previous order.

“HANDS IN THE AIR!” cop two says, also reversing himself.

“One of them Proud Boys, maybe.”

“You feel proud, boy?”

You fall onto your back from your kneeling position and holding your hands straight up like prone Frankenstein. Behind you, the actinic flash of light from the airstrike lights up the street.

“What the fuck was that?” cop one asks.

“I told you, I told you he was an arsonist. He walks just like an arsonist!”

“How does an arsonist walk?”

“Just like that little shit there!” cop two says jabbing his gun toward you. He fires his gun and the sidewalk between your feet explodes.

“Dammit!” cop one yells.

“The weapon done have discharged a projectile!” cop two says.

“Did the theoretical projectile impact the subject at excessive speed?”

“I don’t see any suspect fluid involuntary release.”

Cop one slaps his hand over his bodycam. “That’s for when you beat ‘em until they piss themselves.”

Cop two slaps his hands on his bodycam. “Then what’s bleeding from a gunshot?”

“Vascular discharge from exterior penetration at speed,” cop one says.

“That one’s hard to remember.” They both take their hands off their bodycams.

“Dispatch,” one says into his handset, “We need fire and EMS.”

“To your location?” you hear the tiny speaker crackle.

“I think it’s the old haunted sorting facility. Big fire. Not even the hose monkeys can miss it.”

“Copy. Over,” comes the reply.

“What are we going to do with Mr. Proud BLM Antifa Defund The Police Boy tuff guy arsonist, here?” cop one asks.

“The Baltimore Shake and Bake?”

“No, too obvious.”

“The St. Louis gape?”

“I had a loose meat sandwich for dinner. Ain’t interested in seeing it again.”

“Well, then you suggest something.”

“Can I put my arms down?” you ask.

“Shut up!” cop one growls and puts a steel-toe shoe into your ribs. He thinks for a moment and then kicks you again. “I got it!” he says. “Let’s go throw him in the fire he set!”

“Capital idea,” cop two says and stomps on your ankle. “Roll over,” he orders. “And put your hands behind your head.”

You do and they finally handcuff you and pick you up off the ground. After bouncing you off the hood a few times, they frisk you, giving your testicles a hard squeeze that almost makes you throw up again. They laugh at that until they are almost vomiting themselves.

They put you in the back seat and get in themselves.

“We’re going to have a good old fashion commie roast!” cop two says, giggling, as the car pulls away.

“I am not BLM,” you say. “Or Antifa or a communist.”

“This is going to be good,” cop one says.

“I was sent here on a mission by the President of the United States,” you say calmly. Their laughter is deafening, bubbling up from some dead part inside of them.

“If you take me to the White House, he will confirm my identity and mission,” you shout.

They somehow laugh harder, theatrically holding their sides and wiping away tears. The driver pulls the car into a dark alley.

“Hey,” cop two says, “The fire’s over there.”

“We can’t burn a headcase,” cop one says.

“Why not?”

“Because he’s a headcase. Only rich people are headcases. What if he has a family that’ll come after us.”

“The President of the United States will confirm my identity,” you try again. You decide to lean into the insanity defense “He’s been friends with my family for decades.”

“Uh-huh,” the cops say together.

“Woop!” you add and roll your eyes up in your head until the whites show.

“OK, fine,” cop one says, a disgusted look on his face. “You’re going to the asylum.”

“I heard the President taking a huge shit,” you mutter.

“Yeah, yeah, kid,” cop two says.

The driver backs the car out of the alley and it is hit by a fire engine, flipping the car twice and causing it to explode dramatically. You do not survive.

 

GAME OVER, MAN. GAME OVER

 

(START OVER?)