Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part four

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part four, A Blast From The Past Comes Back To Bite You In The Ass
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The guard leads you down a hallway to an interrogation room, where he unlocks the door and unceremoniously shoves you in. A disgustingly obese man in a suit almost as bad as yours is sitting behind the table. He motions for you to sit down in the other chair across from him. "Detective Blake I presume?" You make no attempt to shake hands, and neither does he. "You mind telling what this about?" you ask, knowing there's no way in hell you're going to get a straight answer. It's much too early in the game.
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"How about if you tell me." Typical cop response, like you're just going to break down right there and confess to murder. Maybe tell him about all those bodies buried under your house. What a fucking joke this guy is. You decide you might as well try and have a little fun with him.
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"Well, it could be about a lot of shit, but I'm not about to just start spilling my guts to you. Shouldn't my lawyer be present for any questioning?" As if you have a lawyer. "Fuck your lawyer punk, when I get through with you, you're gonna need a fuckin priest." You say nothing, just stare blankly into his eyes. He drops his gaze first.
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"Fine" he says, switching tactics, "if that's how you wanna play it." He pulls a thick manila folder out of a scuffed leather briefcase. "You know what this is?" You have a pretty good idea, so you give him your most charming aren't-I-so-cute smile. "Pictures of that threesome I had with your wife and teenage daughter?"
"You just better watch that mouth Mr. Comedian, or it's gonna wind up missin a few teeth. It's your criminal record. Let's take a gander, shall we?" "Sure, I could use a few laughs right about now." He opens the folder and begins to read.
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"Drug possession, drug possession, drug possession, drunk and disorderly times five, public intoxication times eight, and drug possession with intent to distribute..." Your smile widens the tiniest bit. "What can I say, I like to party and I'm really good at it." "Sure ya are, you're a regular party boy ain't ya? Reckless endangerment..."
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"Hey" you say, losing the smile for now, feigning indignance, "they KNEW it was a fucking flamethrowing fire cannon, they should have stayed the fuck back like I told them to and they'd still have their eyebrows!" "Sure kid, whatever you say. What's the deal with this public nudity charge?" "If you could have seen that girl, you would have went skinny dipping with her too!" "I'm a happily married man amigo, and I don't fuck around on my wife, I'm not a piece of shit like you! Alright, let's move on." He shuffles some papers around, apparently looking for something in particular.
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"Bestiality? No shit? What kind of a sick fuck are you?" Remembering the incident, you can't help but smile again. "I was just messing around with my buddy's cat for a laugh while we were all drunk one night. How was I supposed to know those pictures would end up on Facebook? Those charges were eventually dropped, it should say so right there on that paper." You lean over the table a little to take a look and he moves the sheet of paper to the bottom of the pile and pushes you back down in the chair. "Sit your ass back down!"
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"Here's one that wasn't dropped. Assault and Battery. On a sixty-seven year old woman?" "Okay, that one I was in the wrong, my bad, but that old bitch was just begging to have her ass kicked, she's lucky all I did was backhand her. Just because you're old does NOT mean you can just do whatever the fuck you want! Anyway that got settled out of court." Your father had paid the old woman ten thousand dollars to testify at your trial on your behalf, since the District Attorney insisted on moving forward with prosecution.
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"Okay tough guy, last one. Explain this pimping and pandering charge." He looks oddly pleased with himself. "All I did was introduce my mom to a few lonely guys I know. I though they'd hit it off, my parent's divorce was really tough on her. If she made a few bucks, that's HER business. Too bad you're married, she's got a thing for fat slobs on a power trip..."
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The last part was a total lie, the pimping charge had been the real deal, just you and some morally challenged girls you knew trying to make a few extra bucks on Craigslist, but you're determined to get a rise out of this prick if it's the last thing you do.
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It works, the next thing you know you're lying on the cold vinyl flooring of the interrogation room, and blood is pouring out of your freshly broken nose.
TO BE CONTINUED...

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...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part one

It's sixteen minutes after three in the morning and you've just been thrown out of the bar after you realized that once again you have miscounted the number of beers you drank and now you don't have enough money to pay your tab. You apologized profusely and gave the cute blonde bartender all of the money in your wallet but it wasn't enough to prevent the meathead bouncer from blacking your eye before he threw you out the door and into the parking lot, where you landed in a cold puddle of muddy water and motor oil.
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Pissed off and hungry, you drive to the twenty-four hour Super Wal-Mart. Your intention is to shoplift something to eat, a deli sandwich, or maybe one of those really big microwaveable burritos, but your soggy and oil-stained clothes and your swollen purple shiner make this task exceptionally difficult, even at this late hour. You've drawn the attention of one of the stock boys, a pimply-faced young man who looks as if he's got something to prove to the world, or at least his shift manager. He's following you.
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You wander the aisles aimlessly in an attempt to lose him, but he stays right on your ass. You're beginning to think you might have to detour to the restrooms where you can put some cold paper towels on your eye and hopefully shake him off in the process, when you come upon the girl in the arts and crafts aisle.
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She's pretty, hot even, (at least by your minimal standards) and because she's looking at paint-by-number sets and velvet felt tip marker posters at just after four in the morning it's a safe bet she's tweaked out of her mind, which means you might be able to score in one way or the other.
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"How would you like to buy me a nice big Waffle House breakfast?" you ask her as you walk up. "I'll bet I'm a lot more fun than arts and crafts." "I doubt it." she replies, checking you out and taking in the whole picture. Your soiled clothes, black eye, and slightly nervous grin.
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Deciding you look relatively harmless she decides to toy with you a bit. "If I buy you breakfast, what are you gonna do for me, huh?" "I'm sure we can work something out." you say.
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Just then she notices the stock boy, who's been lurking at the end of the aisle, watching this pathetic scene unfold. "I gotta go." she says, suddenly uneasy. "What's the rush?" you ask. You reach out to stop her as she begins to quickly walk away and end up with a handful of her coat, which pulls back. A jumbo pack of markers and a few paintbrushes spill out and hit the floor.
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"I knew it!" cries the pimply-faced boy triumphantly, as if it was her he was after all along. He heads down the aisle towards the two of you, almost skipping in his exuberance. "Stay right there!" he orders in his best I'm-in-charge-here voice.
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Without thinking about what you're doing you give him a hard right hook to his greasy chin, with all your anger at the meathead bouncer (who was just too damn big to hit) behind it, and he goes down hard.
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"Run!" you yell, but she's already headed for the door.
TO BE CONTINUED...