Chapter 1 - Introduction
My name's William Carter Sikes. I was Billy when I was a little kid. You get to perhaps teenager? I got Bill a lot. Still Billy to older relatives, naturally. Yet a lot of peers started in with the Bill. Maybe that makes the other still young kids feel older, to call me Bill instead of Billy back then. Makes a bit of sense, perhaps.
Of course your mother, when she uses that voice. Its William. You can tell about how pissed your mom is, by how carefully she utters your name. And by how many of your birth certificate monikers she strings together. William in a firm voice? That's when you leave the empty milk carton in the refrigerator. William Sikes. That's a mom that's deciding between grounded and a routine lecture. Now of course, when a mom says William Carter Sikes, well. You know that goes straight to lecture and grounded. And the penultimate, William Carter Sikes, you get over here this instant.
Well. That's lecture, scrap that... prime lecture. Grounded off the top. And probably the obligatory family lecture and all that. Its all in your name. You're going down the street, you hear Billy. That's going to be a childhood friend notices you. They remember that juvenile version of your name. You hear excuse me, are you William Sikes? Something at least slightly official. Now, if I hear... hey, Sike? That's cool, that's a teenager friend.
The name they use and call you by, means a lot. I'm sitting here in a dive bar. Thinking. Killing time. My dad would have said... just sitting around waiting for trouble to happen and maybe find me. And that could be true. I'm something of a malcontent now. If a confrontation or a fight were to come up? Not something out of the ordinary here, nor something out of the ordinary for me these days. I don't start the fights. Never. I try to avoid them, honestly. I let the bullshit go, past the point most people would let it go, too. Just trying to avoid it. But... I won't leave, either. No. I just sit there. Unconcerned.
If the fight happens? Okay. If it doesn't happen, that's okay as well. If I get hurt some, or hurt the other guy a little. Those are all okay too. The fight, the confrontation itself. Kind of entertainment, sort of anyways. Something to do, something to take my mind off of... stuff.
A fine? A week or two in county, until a hearing and I get my most usual outcome from stuff like that... self defense. Whatever. The book cart rolls by every day at the usual time. The book cart worker? They always love to talk about what books they have, what kind of books you'd prefer. They have an almost encyclopedic memory of which cell has which book they know about. And who might be ahead of you in the unofficial who gets it next list. But then, a couple of saved desserts? You move right up that list. And the other guy, it was his turn next? He gets told the last guy, is still reading it.
Given enough time anywhere, everyone sooner or later figures out not to mess around with me. Simply not worth it. What I think of as actual tough guys? I like them the best, they're easier to deal with. A real tough guy, directly addresses the central issue. Hey! That's my buddy's seat, no one takes my buddy's seat. I shrug. Okay. And that's how actually dangerous people generally go. Physically dangerous, or what I call "work dangerous". Owners, big supervisors, important clients that swing a mean dick around the office.
Dangerous or actually important people? Have more important shit to worry about than sissy la la bullshit. Hey, this is the issue. You say okay. And that's it. Naturally, people low down the scale generally don't rock your wagon much. If they do? They're just trying to pick out someone that they figure will let them get away with a little bit of lip. You let them? They're actually all happy you let them make themselves feel slightly more important than they really are. So, they're easy too.
Its the wanna be tough guys, the wanna be important people. Those, are the ones that like to create problems for no reason. Just so everyone can see how cool they are the way they like to handle things. By acting like a complete ass, of course. I let them go. And go. And go... until its routine for them, before I act. And when I do act? Its always way past the point I should have acted. And, I overreact.
That way, they learn their lesson. Do it to someone else, I'm not worth the effort. You're playing the lottery, seeing if you're lucky customer number 20, and I pick you to make the example out of. So people above me aren't any kind of issue, people lower are fine, and the wanna be crowd? Well. At work or around low rent places like this... I play both styles of games. No one wins every fight, every time. I do put numbers up on the board though. And you'll get scheduled for a rematch and I didn't inform you it was on the calendar beforehand.
My set of rules, makes me appear unpredictable. It makes it seem as if I'm irrational. What will I do. How will I react. Will I do nothing, like usual. Or, will I do one of my now infamous overreactions. Why would I want to be predictable anyways. If everyone or even anyone could accurately guess or predict my response? That would be stupid of me. If people knew what and when I do my usual overlooking of everything, well... they would all take full advantage now, wouldn't they.
Do X to him, he won't react unless you do Y... its fine. Routine predictability makes you an easy target. After all, an enemy well prepared for, is an enemy already beaten. Now then. While I appear irrational and therefore somewhat crazy... am I really. I examined other people and their ways.
A lot of people, respond to a challenge. They have some or many abilities to handle situations. Their motto? You gotta be ready to fight. People have to know that. You can't be a pushover. And really, there's nothing wrong with that. To me though, its not optimum. If your personal code makes you usually respond? That's not good. The enemy is picking the time and the place. Its hard to make me fight most times. You have to be asking for it with me, practically begging.
Then really how "tough" are you, if you can't grin and bear it. Its good practice. Tough is a measure of how hard it is to break something and ruin it. Tough isn't a measure of how likely it is to hurt you or hurt you back. That's a separate measurement. I mean, take a rock for instance. A very, very tough thing. So yeah, I try to be as tough as I can, and all the way around. But the way most people use the word? Is simply wrong. Dangerous, is an object's ability to harm you.
A rock? Very tough, almost impossible to break it or ruin it. Yet harmless. It will just lay there. A large one in your path? Tough obstacle, yet you simply go around or over it. Now, a rattlesnake? Very dangerous indeed. Not a particularly tough opponent, though. You can actually kill a snake without realizing it, just by handling it wrong and not even being rough or trying. They have needle-like ribs, and they'll go off and die slowly, something punctured internally.
Almost all people misuse all these words and terms like I'm describing. They simply don't think about what the words really mean. For instance? A large, muscular, rough looking fellow who actually looks like he can handle himself. If he's a friendly guy, he'll say that he's peaceful. Or, under normal circumstances? I'm peaceful. Or... I'm as peaceful as people will allow me to be. And I know what people mean, even when they're unknowingly misusing words.
But a 99 year old nun, can barely walk? She's peaceful under that definition too. So. You got this big strong guy. That has every indication he can actually fight, and a lot of really big guys are useless in a fight. And this hunchbacked old lady in a black dress. The big tough guy. Hard to hurt. Dangerous. He's big and knows how to fight back and use that size and strength. He? Is actually peaceful. The nun? Isn't peaceful.
Hey. You. Reading this? You're still reading, even as I explain my word game to you. And that? Bores most people. They get bored to tears. But you still kept reading, huh? So you must be the curious type. Hey, I like that. I respect that. So, since you're so curious and I like curiosity and respect it, I'll tell you. You're wondering, how the old nun can't be considered peaceful. Because if you're not capable of inflicting great and terrible violence? You're not peaceful, you're simply harmless.
What about me then, you might well ask. Me? I'm extremely peaceful.
Its important in your environment to try to have the ability to figure things out. Take this little girl tending bar here in this dive. Cute but tiny thing, really. She seems like a harmless little thing. I know she has a little 25 automatic in her purse. Seen her checking its there before, when she thinks no one's noticing. She never admits to carrying a gun, nor to even owning one. She keeps it a big secret, and I let her think her secret is well kept.
There's not many people here this early. Its a Thursday, and its early. Place just opened up. Some friendly old man, I like talking to him. He's amusing and friendly. Retired guy, likes his cheap draft beers. The tiny cute bartender. Me of course. So, just for the sake of argument, and because we already established that you, you're the curious type. Lets analyze things. And lets what people call over-analyze it. To me? There's no such thing. What most people call over-thinking things? I call not thinking enough.
Really big guy. Tall. Really heavyset. Not all fat, either. Everything about him says... biker. I heard the Harley pulling in. No colors. He could pass for any big blue collar working guy. Mechanic, construction worker. But, he's either unemployed or under employed. Its Thursday and its before noon.
I excused myself because I "forgot my lighter" and went out to my pickup to get it. It was just an excuse. Out of state plates, and from several states away on that Harley. For whatever reason, he's likely visiting.
His hands are big, like the rest of him. Rough hands, he does some kind of real work. The slight dirt under the nails, says mechanic of some kind. Knuckles have that distinctive look of having seen use. He's decidedly right handed I've noticed, but the knuckles on the other hand are that way as well. He'll punch with either hand. That says boxer. The ring finger and pinkie knuckles look perfect and undamaged? That's definitely a boxer. You hit with the first two knuckles.
He hasn't done it in a while, or he'd be leaner. He might be surprisingly light on his feet for such a big guy though, I'd know to watch him. But he's going out of his way to be quiet and polite. To everyone. He's either a nice guy, or pretending for whatever reason and there could be plenty of explanations of that. His knuckles though. Some guys get tattoos on the knuckles. Love and Hate are popular. Not him. He's right handed, and his right knuckles? Bear the acronym G, F, O, D.
I just happen to know a little bit of trivia that tells me what that is. God forgives, outlaws don't. The "outlaws" are an outlaw motorcycle gang, and with a violent reputation at that. Yet, from several states away. GFOD is their official motto. You don't get a tattoo like that and display it, or someone would remove the tattoo after fucking you up. That's their brand.
He's probably sporting others, and it explains why his jacket is on indoors. Probably got the "OFFO" somewhere on an arm. Outlaws forever, forever outlaws. One of their codes is that you can get in, but not out. Rare to "retire" from them, without turning your colors in. Not just the jacket, they typically want the skin ink off too.
Not to mention, Dorothy is way out of Kansas. This whole state is undisputed home state turf of a different, and equally violent outlaw motorcycle gang. One that may, or may not... be on good terms with the outlaws in their home state far away. I wouldn't know the particulars of that. But he would probably want to keep a low profile, and not act up or brag about anything unless he had to.
A whore in a church, and a nun in a whorehouse. Both are equally uncomfortable and minding their P's and Q's.
That cute little barmaid? She has that secret little gun stashed away, but I notice she keeps her purse handy at all times, out of reach behind the bar. Lots of people don't mind you seeing their gun. Its their magic talisman, their deterrent. Can't keep trouble away if they don't see your magic talisman on you. But not her.
Its a secret for her. And she's careful, too. That damn purse will never be out of arm's reach. She can cover it by saying she had money and ID and credit cards. Cell phone. But I know. She's smart that way. A secret advantage. Only if she really needs it, though.
Could be because she's smart about it. Could even be because its illegal. Maybe she has a record and can't own or touch a gun legally under most circumstances. The gun could be stolen and the numbers filed off. If you used it because you had to? You could get rid of it easy. She's not mouthy, and a lot of these little barmaids in places like this run off with those little mouths. I know these people, I know those people. I can get this and that done. Their deterrent, that you should consider them a somewhat hardened target, so you think twice. Its usually claiming to be allies with the cops, or with criminals. Both organizations scare normal people.
This one doesn't. If that little 25 isn't illegal, then its reasonable to assume someone taught her the rules of engagement with guns. I know myself? I'm way less scared of the big loudmouths, always bragging and showing their gun off. If I wanted to? I can grab their wrist and keep their strong hand off their gun because they showed it off so much, I know where they carry it. If its where they can't reach their weak hand to reach it? Its now no longer a gunfight, temporarily. I can toss that gun and say now what you going to do. Or, get my hand on it and keep it rammed into the holster. Again, they gave me information and I'm using it to my best advantage.
But her? No. She's learned one of the golden rules. You keep your gun a secret. You're maintaining a big advantage over any possible opponent that might come along. If the situation calls for it? You suddenly and ruthlessly exploit that advantage. I'm fairly certain I recognized the gun make and model, too. I can't be sure, just those couple little glances I caught. I was curious and looked it up online, comparing. If its what I think it is? Its actually an expensive little 25. Really compact, but an expensive and well made 25, not some crappy little Saturday night special. Known for feeding reliably and not jamming, that's what you pay the extra money for if you insist on a small caliber. High capacity double stack magazine, too.
No, its too odd of a situation. She's uncharacteristically too quiet for a little barmaid in a place like this. Not that I mind that, and by far. Still out of place. If she knows how to use that little 25, and practiced with it? No telling on that count, and when it counted would be a very poor time to find out. Her willpower and willingness that once the situation started going down, would she commit quickly enough and fully enough to deliver the goods? Another thing where it would be a poor time to find that out.
She's not a dumb bunny. She's quiet but well spoken. Maybe she reads a lot of her favorite style of novels. Doesn't matter what subject she enjoys, readers have vocabulary and speak well if they want to. Not one tattoo on her, ever. If she has one? Its well hidden. She could be a cop for all I know.
Now the more I look at her, and think and wonder about it? She doesn't smoke. I never see her drunk behind the bar, when she could get free drinks. When she's on the other side of the bar, same thing. For as little as she is? She's light on her feet and has stamina. I'd bet she jogs from having seen her legs in her little shorts before.
So. Summing up. The big guy from out of town and out of state. He's out of his turf and on the turf of someone else. Not a good risk to carry a gun with out of state plates. Cops love to pull over out of state plates. You're not pissing off the locals if you want another routine ticket. If the gun is legal? Do you have a concealed carry permit. Is it in reciprocity to authorize and honor that carry permit, your state to this state.
And this guy is or was, an outlaw one percent-er. Odds of him being allowed to own a gun legally, much less get a concealed carry permit? Not huge. Good chance he's only armed with a knife or pepper spray, something normal.
So, between the big new guy, and the cute little girl serving at the bar? He's clearly tougher. But her? She's potentially very dangerous. Him, you'd already be watching if something went down. Her? You'd dismiss her as a threat. And if she is, that's another matter entirely.
If she was, then where did she come by all that. Me, I went through a weird period in my life and and got into things and studied things. There were reasons that accounted for my new found interest in certain subjects. Her? Anything's possible, but really the only thing that would make good statistical sense, would be cop. Then? Locals don't do undercover street dick games. Most likely candidate would be state police under cover unit. Or, county drug task force. County under-covers are kind of the amateurs.
County drug task force, they just run around asking where to score. I picked one or two out now and then. They get insistent. All gabby. Gab, gab, gab. I'm out, I keep to myself. I like to shoot pool, throw darts, bullshit a little. Don't really drink much when I go out. I'm minding my own business, smoking a joint in a dark corner around back by the dumpster.
Along happens some newcomer. Hey, I'm a local. Complete stranger, and they just immediately start trying to buy a bag of weed. Look lady, I don't sell weed. I do, however, smoke it. Here... handed her the second half of my joint. Took one hit, and just kept pestering me. Would not quit. Like that little rabbit in a battery commercial.
So annoying? I stubbed out the joint and just dropped it in her hand. Explained. I'm out to shoot pool, throw darts. Like to do it with a buzz. I don't sell drugs. Here, this will tide you over. She kept hanging around me all night. Didn't hit on me, just wanted to hang out. She really set my creepy meter off.
I'm noticing her. She doesn't drink much. In fact, she buys more drinks, than she drinks. Leaves them lay around. No one would notice, but I'm watching her now. I've become some sort of touchstone for her. Yeah. I know him. We smoked a joint. And she doesn't know a single other person here. She's going around trying to score a bag of weed. Not drinking, trying to look like she's drinking.
Now that I'm paranoid about her? Her whole act seems sort of fake. Like... someone trying too hard to fit in. Honestly? If she'd just shut the fuck up and go about her business... I know for a fact there's at least two people here, armed and ready with bags of weed for sale. This place is crowded, its the weekend and early yet, place is in full swing. I like it because they got rows of pool tables and dart machines, to cater to that crowd. Which is me.
Place is packed? And I can pick out a bunch of faces I know by name. Or, I recognize them. Seen them around before. Familiar. If I don't know someone? I know someone they're with. Or recognize them. And she just drops my name every two seconds, or points at me. I'm her cover now. She can pass off with knowing a local. And hey, she smoked weed out back with me, right? Hmm.
Finally, a younger guy I know came up to me. Bee. His first and last name both start with the letter B. As a kid, he was Bee Bee. It became just... Bee. So, Bee asks what the story was with my "little girlfriend". I'm shooting pool. I let anyone hear my conversation, too.
"Bee? We know each other. We're cool, right."
"Yeah."
"Ain't my girlfriend. I didn't bring her. I ain't trying to pick her up. She's fucking annoying is what she is, and even if I wanted to try to get laid? Which I ain't. She ain't my type."
"You smoked a joint with her, right?"
"You know how it is here. You go out back, by the dumpster. Everyone pretends they don't know. Owner just don't want the hassle of everyone blazing up in the bathroom. Dumpster, or in the parking lot. I mean, ain't that the rules here?"
"Yeah."
"Told her. I smoke. I don't sell. She took one hit, wouldn't take any more. I gave her the second half of my joint, she's killing my buzz pestering me to sell her a bag, after I failed to get across to her... I don't sell the shit, I smoke the shit."
He's quiet. He's getting my point.
"I don't know her, from the man in the moon."
"She keeps dropping your name, and talking about how she smokes with you."
"Bee?"
"Yeah."
"Look around you. You know everyone?"
"Not every single person, but..."
"If you don't know them? You know someone they're with. If you ask around? Its a small town. Won't take but ten seconds to find someone that knows them."
"And?"
"All I'm saying. Everyone here? You either know or can find out quick who they know. Her? Well... you're here, checking her out. Because you can't find a single person that ever saw her annoying face before."
"More or less."
"So like I said. I don't speak for her. Never met her. Gave her a hit to shut her up and get her away from me."
Now he's eyeing her up like I am.
"The only way you, or that other guy selling dime bags is gonna sell to her? Is if she knows someone. That will speak for her."
Bee laughed.
"Like that's going to happen now."
"I know, right? I got a crystal ball, Bee. The future... its coming to me, its getting clearer... oh, there we are. Won't take long, she's gonna be a bug up my ass again, and now she's gonna try to sweet talk me into scoring her a bag of weed. I bet? She starts hanging all over me, talking like we're going to go out, and I'm getting lucky. But... I ain't that dumb."
"She's still fucking my shit up."
"We should have some fun with her."
"How. Sell her a big bag of oregano?"
I chuckled.
"No. They shut that fun game down years ago. They bust you for what they call... sales in lieu of."
"Really?"
"Yeah. If they have you on wire, claiming weed is oregano, or whatever. They charge you just like it is what you claim it is."
"That's too bad. So. Not much we can do. Just pass the word around."
I shrugged, shooting pool by myself, practicing for the night's games coming up.
"Well. Its me, Bee. We should try to have at least some fun with it."
"Why. What do you have in mind."
"Tell you what. Sneak out a side door. Don't let her see you do it. Stay out of sight of the parking lot. I'll meet you back there."
"What do you have in mind..."
"Just do it. If this is like I'm thinking? You'll see."
We met up out of sight behind the place. The annoying girl? Only knows about the dumpster. We know an employee or two here, we can sit at their picnic table they smoke cigarettes on break at. We actually caught a pin joint, bullshitting. While I explained my plan.
This place is on a big hill, with underbrush all around. You pull up a big long ramp gravel driveway, to a fairly big gravel parking lot. I had explained to him. If she is a cop? She's not very good at her job. Plus, she's on dime bag detail anyways. He asked how I know so much about county drug task force and undercover stings anyways. I teased him about he got paranoid smoking a joint, then explained my reasoning.
Pretend you, are them. New girl. Would you send the cherry with no experience out, around actually dangerous cocaine sales where people can get killed over a kilo? No. You'd start the new kid out on what she's doing. Safe kiddie shit. So she can learn the ropes, or show she has a knack for this. He agreed, that did sound reasonable.
Next? She has to be wired. You can grab a guy up in the bathroom, and have your buddies hold him while you look for a wire. If you don't rough him up or threaten him if you find one? You haven't broken the law. She needs some record of the sale. Or any shit free legal aid attorney can get it reduced to nothing. Why, how do we know? She just takes a bag of pot the cops have, and she can point at anyone and claim they sold it to her. Why, she could do this to any member of the jury, or even to you, your honor. Where's the proof? So... she needs to be wearing a wire.
Again, he agreed.
Next up. Can't go grabbing a girl up and searching her. Probably another reason they use girls so much for this work. In addition, because they're a lot more non threatening looking. Little cute girls don't look like cops look. The more most male cops try to blend in and act cool? The more they stick out like a sore thumb. But I explained. A tiny hard to find wire? Also doesn't transmit very far. Its a trade off. Everyone knows I do electrical and electronics. I'm the guy that fixes a guitar amp acting up. So? They're close by.
Again? He agreed.
I had him pretend me and him were doing this. We'd be close by, and listening. If the little girl got into any trouble? I'd want two big strong men to come barging in to spring her. Maybe three or four. I explained. Transmitting from inside a building? Less signal. Cuts distance down. In fact, this big crowded parking lot. I bet they're here.
So we end up finishing the pin joint, and creeping along in the underbrush. Seeing if we can find a car that's got a couple guys in it. Back out of the way. Guys that might look like a couple of cops in plainclothes, thinking how cool they are because its just like TV, they're on a real stake out, trying to catch... ooh, oh my... real drug dealers. I mean, dime bags? Give me a break. If you don't dot the arresting officer's eye? Wow. Released in the morning, probably let go right from the station, county's overcrowded. 30 days probation, a fine. Whoop Dee Do, thanks for coming out.
The county will waste millions of tax dollars on an "operation" like this. Those "undercover" cops? Get paid well. A car load of four of them? Close to 400,000 dollars a year right there, not counting their benefits. They need expensive equipment, they need buy money, they get outrageous overtime too. You could burn through a million dollars a year on a kiddie dime bag operation like this, and what do you have to show for it at the end of the year? Diddly shit. Some teenagers pay a fine and have to watch their act for a month or three. Like I said. Whoop Dee Do, thanks for coming out. Thanks for pissing a million dollars of my tax money away on this useless effort.
We had trouble not making noise laughing. There they were. Two guys, with the cop hair cut. One had that patented cop mustache, always looks like a 70's porn mustache. They even got the little white earpieces in their ear, paying close attention to every sound coming across the annoying girl's transmitter.
We sneaked back around and I told him my plan. He agreed this would be hysterical. Sure enough, here she comes. She has to come up to me, and start trying to sweet talk me into getting her a sack. Like her whole act? Pestering, trying to corner you in conversation. And you know, its just fine. Why, I already know she's okay, after all... we already smoked a joint by the dumpster. Then? Arm around me. Hanging on me. Flirting. Shamelessly dropping hints? But coy. Don't grab my ass, don't feel my tits up. I'm not that kind of girl.
Me? I'm having fun now. Well, that's the kind of girl I like to go out with. Who wants a girlfriend that you're not allowed to smack that ass, feel them titties, you know? I figure this is a great show for her male partners back in the car.
I told her I'd think about it, but she seemed cool. Let me finish practicing pool, I'll see what I can do for her. Now? She's all happy. I got Bee to get his friend working here? To go on break, and go fetch us something. I pitched in 20 bucks, and he pitched in 20 bucks. So its worth the kid's while, to drive 5 minutes to the doughnut shop. Get one of those fold out cardboard carriers. Two extra large coffees, bag of a half dozen donuts.
Phase I complete. Target is unaware, bait the hook.
Next? Hey, I like this girl. We're going out later. We're gonna party, we're gonna smoke some weed. I'm buying her shots. And I ain't letting her weasel out of dumping her drinks. Mind you, half this place is slowly in on this by now. We're both doing top shelf vodka shots? Barmaid is in on this practical joke. I'm doing expensive shots of water. She? Is doing 100 proof shots of expensive boutique vodka. Barmaid? Is getting half of every two expensive shots, for her tip. Me and Bee are going in half on this. This young little thing? Don't weigh much. I've got her drunk now. I'm sober as a judge.
Phase II complete. Intoxicate the prey, and have fun on the wire.
Another fun show for her male backup buddies out in the car. I can hear the booze in her voice. Now. I've now got her comfortable with me patting her on the back, arm around her shoulders. Hand on her back she'll tolerate as long as I quit grabbing at her ass and tits.
Next thing you know? I got a piece of duct tape, rolled into a little cylinder. Stuck on the back of a piece of paper. Just like the famous "kick me" sign trick in grade school? She's now slightly tipsy, wearing a paper sign duct taped to her back that reads in felt tip marker, plain as day in large block letters.
"I'm a cop. Don't sell me any weed."
Like I said, half the place is in on this by now. Everyone is getting cellphone videos of this girl and her funny "kick me" sign. Everyone has her face on pictures and video. She's worthless as an undercover worker now, unless they move her out of the area. People can now put her video and pictures of her face on social media. This is a cop, don't sell this annoying girl any drugs.
Phase III, is another success. Now, all "phase assholes" always have a four phase plan. Its a cheap trick to appear like you have this master plan. Consultants that overcharge businesses, always have a four phase plan. It sounds better, and you'll pay more for their "expertise".
Now? Its time for... Phase IV.
We get a worker to make a delivery, to the car in the back end of the parking lot. For a twenty dollar tip? Just walk out, and hand the cardboard carry out box loaded with two extra large coffees, and the half dozen donuts to the cops. Tell them when they ask? Oh, some cops called here, and said to give you guys a snack. They said you're on stakeout or something. Already paid for, here.
Written on the sides of both Styrofoam cups?
"You just been made", again in big felt tip marker.
By now? Me and Bee and a couple other locals are hiding in the underbrush, trying not to laugh. These guys get out, and are looking around. Finally one of them fingers a cellphone. Must have texted her inside, to come out. Out she comes. Next thing you know, they're all three arguing, and the girl is a little tipsy if you remember. There's swearing, pushing and shoving. Tempers are flaring because they're highly agitated now all of them. The one guy rips the sign off her back, and now the fur really starts flying.
They're still screaming at each other, the three of them. As they spray gravel sideways, and go flying down the long gravel drive. This place used to be a tiny mom and pop drive in movie way back in the day. The big parking lot, and they just built a block building for the club. We could hear tires screeching as they pulled out in traffic. Honking horns, sounded like they almost wrecked pulling out mad while arguing, real professional guys.
We're in the underbrush laughing so hard, we can barely walk upright.
The social media posts started not a half hour later. The barmaid that made the coffee donuts delivery? Snapped a cell phone picture of the two occupants before running back inside. We got posts being traded around, its the high entertainment for the night. Making fun of the car cops, too. The one with the mustache? Porn actor jokes.
The word got spread around. You'll probably get emails, phone calls. Threatening you to take down the post off of your social media? Or risk getting charged with "interfering". No problem, as long as you take it down. Pass it on to the next person. Everyone can do it once, then listen to the poison pen email and laugh about it.
If you're really that inept at your job. If you're going to burn through the tax dollars a million at a time and not even take the care to see you're running some kind of real operation instead of a clown act like this one? You deserve what you get.
I have more, too. Remember. I'm the electronics guy. I have a little care kit in the tool box of my pickup truck. Soldering iron, some solder, kit of stuff for little things. I do among other things? Side work for local musicians. Your amp is buzzing, or needs a new tube? I'm your guy. Some replacement filter capacitors, old amps need them replaced once in a while. Some filter chokes and coils, to "catch" and drag the power line hum to ground to keep the guitar noise figure low.
I also just happen to have a frequency counter. If you for instance key up a CB? It locks on strongest local transmitting frequency, so I can see my HAM radio rig is spot on. Useful for the wireless microphones and the wireless guitar transmitters all the musicians have nowadays. I can put a guitar on channel, and separate different wireless microphones from interfering.
So, unbeknownst to everyone else? I just happen to have the exact frequency and mode of transmission the county drug task force is operating on. Now that I know that? I know to look above and below that frequency, to find others. These aren't HAM radio buffs. We laugh at "channels", that's sissy la la shit for the great unwashed masses. The action can happen on any frequency in the band. You get on HAM 2 meter relays and start talking about "channels"? We know you're a clueless newbie, just a CB owner that stepped up and got their first HAM ticket. Just what the HAM world needed, another "appliance operator".
CB for instance. Everyone thinks of 40 "channels". That's just something for the public to make it easy for them. To HAM radio guys? CB band, is in fact the "11 meter band". It used to be one of the many HAM bands we were given by the FCC. We gave up the 11 meter band to make CB for the public, and the rest of the 11 meter band got chopped up for among other things? Some radio control frequencies, annoyingly right in the middle of the CB band.
Noisy god damn poorly constructed and filtered radio control modules? Screw several channels up regularly. I can tune in and hear them working, between assigned CB "channels". If they piss me off? I can tune onto the "illegal" to transmit voice on missing "channels". I can key up with a strong signal, and... the annoying plane or copter drone quits listening, and flies off and out of range until it crashes.
You buzz a pool party having fun with me there too many times? I'll crash your drone, kids. If they try to keep it up, and really piss me off? I can figure out what frequency they're on, and get my own radio control transmitter. That I "fix up" with a much stronger and technically illegal level of power. I simply override their signal, and take over control. Fly it down into traffic and laugh as their toy gets smashed.
So. Knowing one frequency and mode of transmission of the drug task force channels? I'll locate the others above and below as I ride around and find signals. Once I calculate the difference between the frequencies of a few of their "channels"? I can make a list of the channels and the frequencies. The distance between adjacent channels, tells me the rest of the channels. What I call channel 3, might in actuality be their channel 7? Doesn't matter in practice.
I can even have real fun with them. Transmitting on their frequency. Or broadcasting a tone, shutting down their "channel". A nine volt battery powered square wave generator would cost me all of a couple dollars out the door, and a weekend to get working. I could make 20 more for almost nothing, once I get one tested and working. I could drop a jammer nearby a location. They would lose communications. Their receivers would lock onto the strong local signal.
Home base might be using 100 watts of power? But signal strength is funny that way. A 100 milliwatt local signal, if close, will actually be stronger to their local receiver. Yes kids, one tenth of one watt close by? Is "stronger" to your receiver than 1000 watts located farther way. HAM radio buffs like me know all this, if we're not just "appliance operators" that buy and talk on expensive rigs. What we call "real" HAM operators? Make and modify their own equipment.
Now, if you were to try to do this to me? I'm a real HAM guy. I can get direction of an annoying signal. Easily. I take a direction reading from any two points and mark it on GPS. Where those bearings intersect? I know to within yards the location of the annoying signal. Its a "foxhunt" fun game to HAM radio guys. But the clueless keystone cops? They have to shut the operation down immediately, abandon operations. Now call in a very expensive radio communications consulting company. Who will send out two units, who will coordinate their own "foxhunt".
This, is expensive as all holy hell. I do it several times? I can burn them through untold thousands of dollars. I could follow them around by directional readings of their communications I monitor. Cops, if you didn't know it? Piss their panties like scared schoolgirls when their communications suddenly don't work.
Without a good reason to get nasty, I'll be happy to do nothing except draw up their "channel plan" and monitor them for fun. But like I said earlier. I'm one of the last people on earth you'd ever want to piss off.
I try to keep things light, but... don't push it. A certain local cop once, was giving me the shits. I guess I once argued over a parking space, with another king asshole. One of his neighbor's young relatives. Apparently I have to give him my parking space? Because his dad is butt buddies with the neighbor, some young local asshole with a badge. I get pulled over, threatened, the whole nine yards.
I waited. I followed. I watched. You managed to piss me off, asshole. Doesn't take long. Cops? Have cop cars. Small local town? Lucky to have a couple units. I waited until I knew what cop car he was always in, without fail. When that cop car ended up at the local tire shop overnight? I was ready.
12 volt GPS transponder. Two mile range. Cost me 20 bucks in kit form off of an electronics site online. Thanks, China. Love your cheap stuff that used to be expensive. Also? One rear light assembly for the exact year and model of the cop car. LED was standard. Never burns out for the life of the car.
I went for a late night walk. Dark sweatpants, dark hoodie pulled around my face. With gloves on? I slipped under that cop car sitting in the back end of the fenced in lot at the tire and repair shop. Went over a chain link fence and belly crawled to the cop car's spot. I was ready. I swapped out the one rear turn signal plastic case the brake and turn signal lights are in.
The running lights? Constant 12 volt power source. I used a smash connector to make a good solid jump to the power and ground lines inside the replacement light assembly I had bought. I split the case, and epoxied it carefully back together. Then, anytime the cop car had the ignition on? I get a GPS signal broadcast good for two miles give or take, around his assigned car.
A free cellphone "app", for electronics guys? Will put a GPS signal local, if you assign it a frequency, onto a map. Any map. Naturally, I selected a local map of my home town. Now, until he gets a new cop car? I can watch a cellphone on my dash anytime I'm driving. I get a blinking red dot on the map, if he's within range. I can route around coming home or leaving home? And easily avoid him.
My talents aren't just limited to being a bright malcontent, either. I've given myself quite a range of little "hobbies" and things I work on with myself over the years. Firearms and fighting among them. Do I hold myself to be some kind of comic book cape wearing hero? Not at all. Still though, it surprises someone if they aren't expecting it. But definitely, being tough and dangerous strictly physically? Its to me, a somewhat limited set of skills and possible responses you can utilize.
Hey, when all you have in your tool box is a hammer? Everything looks like a nail. My brain and my curious and inquisitive nature? Give me a much larger tool box to paw through if I feel a need or desire to.
There's basically three different main routes from where I live, to make the drive to the city. I used to work at my professional job in the city after graduating from my university with my college degrees. I prefer to take what I would call route A. If traffic is okay, if you catch all the green lights on the main highway north into and south back out of the city? You're actually there in record time.
Route B is totally different and takes longer, with no chance to streamline and start catching lights. Route C is a little longer than Route A, but not nearly as long as Route B can get. But Route C is dependable for time. Medium length trip, you can count on it and leave for work knowing you're going to be on time. Leaving an hour earlier than you have to is for the birds.
One fine day, I was taking Route A for the hell of it. Early just in case. I wanted to stop off for a certain place for breakfast on the way, a thing not offered on routes B or C. After breakfast stopping, I ended up behind an ambulance making a beeline straight for downtown. Man. That last ten miles, was a fun ride.
The whole left "hammer lane" got into the right lane, to let this hauling ass lights and sirens going ambulance have a shot at saving the life in the back. Huh. On a whim? I followed a couple hundred yards back. My work car I decided on long ago? Best way to avoid tickets is to drive a civilian model cop car. I got a beater used, and had it painted for a couple hundred bucks over some quick putty and sanding. Nothing professional, the putty and sanding for the rust or the paint job either one. But at a glance? Looks just like an unmarked cop car.
If you're going 90 on the beltway, and you rip through a speed trap in this thing? They don't pull out. At highway speeds in heavy traffic, you might be a cop car and they don't wanna go through the wasted chase. There's a thousand other people going 90 MPH as well as you, they'll just get the next one. I admit it, I got a little lazy abusing this "feature". I made sure I got online and bought those patented chrome hubcaps the undercover cars all sport, too. My HAM radio shit all over my dash, the couple of antennas I naturally have going? Really completes the "look" when driving fast enough getting pulled over would cost me my license if the cop didn't drop the speed to under 30 miles per hour over the limit.
At 85 and up in a 55 zone? You lose the license as soon as the paperwork goes through if you can't finagle a squirm out at a magistrate hearing.
So, pacing the ambulance a couple hundred yards back? Even more safe than anyone else doing it. I realized something else, too. It was like god himself was watching over the ambulance. Lights were going green, one after another up the congested and nearly gridlocked and overwhelmed highway. I just had to find out why.
Ambulances and other emergency vehicles, have a device wired into the lights. If the lights get power? It activates the device. Took me a while searching to discover it as an electronics article. A simple high power LED is flashing and a surprisingly simple signal is being transmitted. The lights on highways and many intersections? The traffic cameras are equipped with sensors such that when this signal hits a threshold, it looks for the pulsing of infrared. If the signal is present, and the pulsing infrared is the right frequency? It goes to green until the signal fades.
You use a remote control from a TV, increase LED choice under the cover and increase the power to it some, and voila. You wire in what's known as a "single state multi-vibrator". Basically just a fancy name for an on-off switch, opening and closing at just the right speed. The green lights come like magic on your drive to work now. You can only use it in heavy traffic, from far enough back its just a infrared blinking blob on the traffic cameras. For fun and informational use only, do not use this device to break any laws in your state. Or else. Want to guess how this went, curious reader? Uh huh.
I now drive, in my civilian cop car. Speeding my heart's content out. Right through speed traps without a care in the world. Traffic lights up ahead in heavy traffic? Magically going green on cue as I speed in the hammer lane anyways.
That's just who I am.
My 2 meter HAM rig in my car? I have the export version. HAM license holders are allowed to buy export radios and are trusted to know how to use them legally. I lock out transmission on the cop portion of the 2 meter band all the local cops use in all the small towns around where I live and many surrounding areas too. They separate by sub-audible CTSS codes, so they don't "step" on each other. Nice system though, because 911 central dispatch? Can, in an emergency, talk to all cops in their area at once. Simply by dropping the CTSS codes and transmitting naked on the same frequency they all share.
One time the locals were having trouble finding this one impossible address to find. I just happened to know that what looked like a driveway, was actually a "road" that dumped out into a couple of houses and driveways off the main drag. When you're looking for a "3rd street" address? And for whatever reason its a patch of driveways a mile and a half up 7th St and out the extension with another whole road name? In the 1700 block mind you. You're expected to just "know" there's a tiny landlocked patch of 300 block of Third St there? And 3rd St proper ends at the 200 block, almost two miles back and a couple streets over.
I felt bad, hearing both local units buzzing around frantic, can't get to what was coming over the radio as a "bad domestic" situation, and updates were calling for an ambulance. The two cop cars, which is the entire "fleet" on any one shift? Were out. They're unit 31 and 32 on the radio.
I flicked off transmission lockout. Disguised my voice by deepening it.
"33 here."
911 came right back to me, in this heated cross-talk mess. Two cop cars gabbing, 911 addressing both.
"Go ahead, 33."
"I happen to know that address. Its a bitch to locate. Tell 31 and 32, its in the 1700 block of 7th St, past the extension. 1700 block, right hand side going up, left hand side coming back down. Looks like a gravel one lane driveway, through a yard. Trust me, its one of the couple houses back in there. Over."
"33? Thank you..."
911 then gave coordinated instructions to 31 and 32, had them there in seconds flat. I heard the ambulance going through the same nightmare.
When things calmed down somewhat and 31 and 32 were on scene, 911 started calling out to 33. I'm not dumb enough to respond, beyond one final brief key up.
"33. Merry Christmas, dispatch. Over and out."
There is no unit 33.
I re-engaged transmit lockout on the frequency upper and lower range I had set by punching a button and that was that. 911 tried to get "33" to come back every once in a while then gave up. Hey. I doubt it, but you never know. I might have saved a life, who knows.
Some drinking weekends around here? Place is like a fucking zoo. I feel bad for the cops that have to try to ride herd on a bad night. These small towns can get like a troop of drunken chimpanzees escaped from the circus and are running around raising all manner of hell.
My point is this. I'm not the bad guy. I'm not the bad guy out there, you've got to watch out for. I'm a good guy. I would rather good things happened for everyone, and bad things only happened to bad people that deserved it. But I know the world never was a perfect place, and that not only will it never be perfect, it gets a little less "perfect" with seemingly every passing year.
Its just the simple reality of it all, and this is the world I live in. I'm fairly well read, was it Sartre that was once quoted famously?
"... in this world, the best of all possible worlds."