Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part three

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part three, Further Degeneration of a Drunken Degenerate
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Jail. It's been awhile since the last time you were a guest of the county. You'd briefly considered fleeing on foot but you knew they would get you eventually, the hotel manager saw you get into the car and even though you no longer resided at the address the DMV had on file, your current address was easily obtainable from the unemployment office.
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So instead of running, what you did was lock your door, flip the manager a bird, and reach into the ashtray for the half a joint you'd left in there the night before. No since letting it go to waste, as the police would almost certainly search your vehicle. Besides, nothing makes a difficult situation a little easier to bear than sweet Mary Jane. The dickhead manager was standing in front of the car, unaware of the fact that you're a sitting duck. He pulls out his cellphone, and dials a number. You can just make out his side of the conversation as you fire up the joint and take a long drag.
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"Hello? Yes, I'd like to report a theft please. My name is Roger Stanson, I'm the manager of the Holiday Inn down on Bradshaw Boulevard... A guy came in here this morning and stole a bunch of food from our complimentary breakfast bar. No, he's not a guest, I just told you, he was stealing!" A pause. "No, he tried to run, I'm standing in front of his car out in the parking lot right now, please send an officer immediately, I'm pretty sure he's smoking dope!" You smile and hold the joint out towards him, like you're offering him a toke. "Yes, I will, please hurry."
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He hangs up and returns the phone to his pocket. "You're in a lot of trouble now buddy!" he says, "The cops are on their way! Yes siree Bob, a LOT of trouble..." There's more, but you were tired of listening to his self righteous and sanctimonious bullshit, and turned on the radio to drown him out. The weed had started to do it's thing, and combined with the sounds of Miles Davis blasting out of your one working speaker, you felt pretty good, all things considered.
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You had enough time to finish the joint and two cigarettes before the law shows up. You're a bit surprised to see a state patrol car pull into the lot instead of the sheriff's cruiser you were expecting but a pig is a pig, in your humble opinion. You're tapping your fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music when the officer, after exchanging a few words with the manager, (who looks like he just received an unexpected and really good blow job) walks up to your window.
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"Get out of the car and put your hands on the hood!" he ordered. You chose to ignore him and turned the music up a little louder instead. It was your favorite Miles Davis tune, and you had no intention of exiting the vehicle until the songs completion. But the cop would have none of that. He drew his gun and said, "OUT! Now Asshole!" So you shrugged your shoulders and with a sigh, did as you were told. You were immediately cuffed and shoved into the back of the patrol car. After searching your car and coming up empty except for a nearly empty pack of rolling papers and an old issue of Barely Legal, which he kept, the pig took fuckhead Roger's statement and carted you off to jail.
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By the time you were finished with the usual rigamarole of the booking process, the strip search, fingerprinting, and paperwork, and were at last allowed your phone call, it was early afternoon. You called your father, and got as far as "I'm in jail, and..." before he slammed the phone down.
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So now here you are, in the grimy holding cell that reeks of piss, body odor, and cheap disinfectant cleanser. You've got the place all to yourself for the moment, it's just you, the stainless steel toilet/sink combo, standard issue inmate mat and scratchy and stained green blanket. There's a phone on the wall that only calls bailbondsmen, useless to you with no collateral of any kind and a negative bank balance. Your laptop is stolen and the title of your shitheap of a car you pawned last week for the price of a couple lapdances from your favorite stripper, Bliss, who refuses to fuck you for any price but will tolerate the occassional groping because she says you're a nice guy.
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The situation looks pretty bleak. You'll most likely be here until you go in front of the judge, who, at your last court appearance, promised to make an example out of you the next time you set foot in his courtroom for any reason. You figure it will be anywhere from three days to a week until your number comes up for court. Nothing to do but wait it out and hope like hell his honor dies from a stroke in the meantime. You lie down on the mat, balling up the filthy blanket for a pillow, breathing in the built-in smell of the countless farts of all the losers who came before you, and just as you begin to nod off the cell door opens and a voice calls out your name. "Get your ass out here, Detective Blake wants a word with you!"
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TO BE CONTINUED...