True Story: The Beat Down, Part 2

[Editor's Note: Jack Grisham is an author, hypnotherapist, T.S.O.L. front man and all-around troublemaker. This column, True Story, may or may not be factual, with characters who may or may not be real.]

When he rolled onto the scene, the “perp” was out of his car, arguing with a female officer–Frank knew her, O'Connor. She was all right, good in a pinch, but in this case, the drunk had what looked to be a few hundred pounds on her, and he wasn't going quietly. Frank parked his cruiser in front of the man's vehicle–blocking him in, taking the automotive weapon away from him, and in a way disarming the suspect.

The drunk was loud, leaning forward, aggressive. Frank jumped from the cruiser and unholstered his baton. A few passersby had stopped to watch. Frank approached the man.
“I'm going to need you to lie down on the ground,” Frank said. He was firm, no nonsense. The drunk swung his head around, his eyes rolling into focus a moment or two after the turn. He smiled at Frank.

“I'm gonna need you to FUCK OFF!” He spat as he yelled.

Officer O'Connor took a step toward the man.

“I said, go down,” Frank repeated. “Palms flat on the ground.”


The drunk turned toward Frank, staggering. O'Connor advanced from behind.
“Drop to your knees!” Frank yelled.

The drunk refused. Officer O'Connor moved to within striking range, but then, quick as a lightening flash, the drunken man uncoiled and swung violently behind him–a solid hammer fist catching O'Connor across the bridge of her nose, breaking it and sending the officer to the ground, unconscious.

Frank instinctively raised his baton and brought it down on the drunken man's head, the skull cracking, blood rising in a vicious wave into the air. The drunk did not go down. He stared at Frank, unfazed by the thin, alcohol-laden blood that now ran in torrents down his body.

“Fucking faggot,” the drunk slurred. He kicked at the unconscious O'Connor.
Frank swung again. This time, a blow that caught the drunk on the left shoulder and was deflected, the baton sliding on blood. The drunk reached for Frank, both arms extended, a monster imitating horror movies with inebriated precision. Frank took a quick step back, and then kicked with his steel-toed boot–a shot to the groin that finally dropped the man to his knees.

“Lay down!” Frank screamed. The man refused to comply, he tried to rise. “Lay down,” Frank repeated, “palms on the ground!”

The drunk raised his head and faced Frank. The words bitch and loser and divorcé and scum flashed from the drunk's eyes as if they were screamed from his mouth.

Frank was stunned into inaction and silence. Here they were: his failures, his depression, his anger–the stench of the world displayed like a neon liquor-store sign overhead.
The drunk conceded and dropped, palms down, to the pavement. O'Connor rose from the ground, steadied herself, and then came toward Frank. He clenched his baton with both hands, paused for a moment, and then Frank brought it life-endingly down upon the surrendered man's face.

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