I'm closer to thinking this is a good way to go, but still not 100%...this continues from yesterday's post.
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“What the fuck, Chet!?!” was all he could think to say.
Chet? Holy fuckin’ shit, I’d hit the jackpot of dumbassery.
“The son-of-a-bitch grabbed me,” Chet snarled.
“What you talkin’ 'bout?” I yelled, trying to add some fear to my voice. “I was gettin’ out of the car when you yanked at me, and slipped. It’s my fault you can’t stand up straight?”
“Motherfucking cocksuckin’ faggot son-of-a-bitch!” Chet bolted to his feet and kicked me in the side.
It hurt, but I really played it up with a scream and howl and cry of, “Why're you doin’?! What’d I do?!”
“I’m gonna cut your fuckin’ balls off, motherfucker! Fuckin' faggots!”
He kicked me, again. I coughed and choked, and didn’t need to play that one up; I think he broke a rib. He was going to kick me again, thinking he was going to make me fight back, but I'd been through crap like this in prison, so I knew how to stand for a nasty beating. That's when Roy shoved Chet back.
“Hey, hey, HEY!” Roy barked, his voice an octave higher.
“What the fuck is -- ?!” Then his voice cut off. I heard some rustling behind me, and a second later my phone was shoved in front of my face by sausage-like fingers, with Chet growling, “You were on the phone?”
The call was ende, so I let all the fake crap leave my voice and I growled, “To my boyfriend, motherfucker. I got his voicemail. This is gonna be some message he finds.”
Chet's mouth dropped open, working like it wanted to close but couldn't figure out how. He rose, and a second later, Roy straddled my butt, ground me against the asphalt like he was trying to fuck my ass, and pulled my hands behind me to whip a strap-cuff around my wrists. I couldn’t help but cry out from the pain, especially when he forced me to my feet by yanking my hands up. The whole time he was snarling, “You’re under arrest for assaulting a police officer. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law -- .”
“Good,” I croaked. “It'll be fun breakin' you queens up.”
Chet howled and grabbed me and slammed me on the cruiser’s hood, face up, his blood slapping against me, and he punched me in the gut, twice.
“Fuckin’ coward,” I muttered, trying not to hurl.
He was aiming to smash me, again, when Roy stopped him with, “Chet! Don’t.”
I finally got a good look at Chet. He was a serious side of beef well into his thirties, and had the puffy jowls, bad skin, and thin hair that goes with the juicer-culture of bodybuilders. What's worse, his torso barely fit into his extra-extra large uniform shirt while his legs all but vanished inside his trousers. No wonder he toppled so easy.
Roy was Laurel to his Hardy, but looked more like a cop ought to look, right down to the white t-shirt under his uniform and the oh-so-earnest expression countering the five o’clock shadow on his long face. His hair was thick and dark, like his eyebrows, and he probably had zero percent body fat. The one imperfection I found on him was the nails of his long lean fingers were bitten to the nubs. I only noticed because his hand held Chet back. He knew they were in deep shit.
“C’mon,” he said, his voice wavering a little, “it’s gonna be hard enough to explain this, as it is.”
“Who’s gonna take the word of a fag against two cops?”
“Your words, asshole,” I choked. “Not mine.” A fight’s no fun when you can’t fight back.
"Illegally recorded," said Roy, without conviction.
"We'll see," I growled back.
They jammed me into the rear of the cruiser and called in a tow truck. It arrived two minutes later, like it was locked and loaded. Man, when I saw the character driving it, I was glad I'd taken the extra insurance. They handed over the keys and I was driven to the jail in Indio to be booked for assault on a cop and resisting arrest. Silence all the way.
We stopped at the back door of a blank, low-slung jail, construction finishing up around its sides. An expansion. Of course. Plenty of money for prisons and none for education.
I got printed, mug shot, personal effects taken, and slapped into an orange jumpsuit within ten minutes of Chet and Roy dragging me in. During the whole process, I croaked, over and over, "I need to see a doctor. Please. I need to see a doctor." I never heard a word in response, so I figured I'd have a long nasty night of it.
Finally, I was taken into a small holding cell that had nothing but a bench attached to the wall. I couldn’t find a non-painful way to sit or lie on it, so I used the floor...and the hell with how nasty it was.
----------------------
“What the fuck, Chet!?!” was all he could think to say.
Chet? Holy fuckin’ shit, I’d hit the jackpot of dumbassery.
“The son-of-a-bitch grabbed me,” Chet snarled.
“What you talkin’ 'bout?” I yelled, trying to add some fear to my voice. “I was gettin’ out of the car when you yanked at me, and slipped. It’s my fault you can’t stand up straight?”
“Motherfucking cocksuckin’ faggot son-of-a-bitch!” Chet bolted to his feet and kicked me in the side.
It hurt, but I really played it up with a scream and howl and cry of, “Why're you doin’?! What’d I do?!”
“I’m gonna cut your fuckin’ balls off, motherfucker! Fuckin' faggots!”
He kicked me, again. I coughed and choked, and didn’t need to play that one up; I think he broke a rib. He was going to kick me again, thinking he was going to make me fight back, but I'd been through crap like this in prison, so I knew how to stand for a nasty beating. That's when Roy shoved Chet back.
“Hey, hey, HEY!” Roy barked, his voice an octave higher.
“What the fuck is -- ?!” Then his voice cut off. I heard some rustling behind me, and a second later my phone was shoved in front of my face by sausage-like fingers, with Chet growling, “You were on the phone?”
The call was ende, so I let all the fake crap leave my voice and I growled, “To my boyfriend, motherfucker. I got his voicemail. This is gonna be some message he finds.”
Chet's mouth dropped open, working like it wanted to close but couldn't figure out how. He rose, and a second later, Roy straddled my butt, ground me against the asphalt like he was trying to fuck my ass, and pulled my hands behind me to whip a strap-cuff around my wrists. I couldn’t help but cry out from the pain, especially when he forced me to my feet by yanking my hands up. The whole time he was snarling, “You’re under arrest for assaulting a police officer. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law -- .”
“Good,” I croaked. “It'll be fun breakin' you queens up.”
Chet howled and grabbed me and slammed me on the cruiser’s hood, face up, his blood slapping against me, and he punched me in the gut, twice.
“Fuckin’ coward,” I muttered, trying not to hurl.
He was aiming to smash me, again, when Roy stopped him with, “Chet! Don’t.”
I finally got a good look at Chet. He was a serious side of beef well into his thirties, and had the puffy jowls, bad skin, and thin hair that goes with the juicer-culture of bodybuilders. What's worse, his torso barely fit into his extra-extra large uniform shirt while his legs all but vanished inside his trousers. No wonder he toppled so easy.
Roy was Laurel to his Hardy, but looked more like a cop ought to look, right down to the white t-shirt under his uniform and the oh-so-earnest expression countering the five o’clock shadow on his long face. His hair was thick and dark, like his eyebrows, and he probably had zero percent body fat. The one imperfection I found on him was the nails of his long lean fingers were bitten to the nubs. I only noticed because his hand held Chet back. He knew they were in deep shit.
“C’mon,” he said, his voice wavering a little, “it’s gonna be hard enough to explain this, as it is.”
“Who’s gonna take the word of a fag against two cops?”
“Your words, asshole,” I choked. “Not mine.” A fight’s no fun when you can’t fight back.
"Illegally recorded," said Roy, without conviction.
"We'll see," I growled back.
They jammed me into the rear of the cruiser and called in a tow truck. It arrived two minutes later, like it was locked and loaded. Man, when I saw the character driving it, I was glad I'd taken the extra insurance. They handed over the keys and I was driven to the jail in Indio to be booked for assault on a cop and resisting arrest. Silence all the way.
We stopped at the back door of a blank, low-slung jail, construction finishing up around its sides. An expansion. Of course. Plenty of money for prisons and none for education.
I got printed, mug shot, personal effects taken, and slapped into an orange jumpsuit within ten minutes of Chet and Roy dragging me in. During the whole process, I croaked, over and over, "I need to see a doctor. Please. I need to see a doctor." I never heard a word in response, so I figured I'd have a long nasty night of it.
Finally, I was taken into a small holding cell that had nothing but a bench attached to the wall. I couldn’t find a non-painful way to sit or lie on it, so I used the floor...and the hell with how nasty it was.
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