The dead college student on his watch. The return of his ex-wife. The threat from the Mayor to do away with the Sitwell Police Department and now, the Mayor publicly accusing him on live, international television, of having a small penis. Cole couldn’t take it anymore.
In the parking lot of Freedom Firepower, Cole lost control and threw a massive temper tantrum. He screamed. He yelled. He hurled various obscenities. He pounded his fist into the passenger’s seat over a hundred times.
Finally, Cole wore himself out. He closed his eyes and tried to take a a nap, right there in his police cruiser. Unprofessional? Sure. Did he care? Absolutely not. He had reached his breaking point.
His slumber was cut short when his phone beeped. He flipped open the phone and learned that he had seven messages in total. Six were from Sharon:
9:00 a.m – Cole, it’s Sharon. Thought you’d be in the office by now. I’d like to run some things by you. Call me.
10:17 a.m. – Hey Cole? Sharon. Just…you know…I hope you don’t think what Rusty said last night was true. I’m not trying to run you off this investigation or anything. I could use your brains on this. We’ll talk more when you stop by the station.
11:45 p.m. – Real mature, Cole. Real mature. Fine. Be that way.
1:42 p.m. – Cole. Just saw that report on NN1. That was horrible. I hope you’re ok. We need to talk because I do not want you thinking that they got that information about your penis from me. OK. Bye.
1:47 p.m. – Cole, Sharon again. I just ran what I said on that last message in my head and I think I could have said that better. I’m not saying you have a small penis. I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t think I ran around telling people that you had a small penis or something.
1:51 p.m. – Cole, Sharon. Just to explain further, I would not run around telling people that you have a small penis because you don’t have a small penis. But I mean, even if you did, which you don’t, I wouldn’t run around telling people that because I’m not that kind of person. In conclusion, I am trying to establish that a) I never said anything about your penis to anyone, b) I wouldn’t tell people your penis is small because it’s a perfectly fine penis and c) even if it were small, which it isn’t, I don’t go around talking about people behind their backs like that.
The seventh message was from Rusty:
2:03 p.m. – Cole. The Cole-ster. Cole-o-rama. Coca-Cole-a. Cole-miner. Nat King Cole. It’s Rusty. Look man, we have got to get a tag team together and knock that bitch ex-wife of yours off this case. This is our case. Not her case. She should haul her ass back to Miami and investigate Countess Cucamonga and you and I should be all over this Chad Becker situation. You know she assigned me, a twenty-year veteran police officer, to stand guard over the crime scene? All day I’ve been holed up in this bathroom, Cole. All day. My talents are going to waste. And look, I’m sorry I called Sharon a bitch. I know you still love her and shit even though you won’t admit it but I knew what you were like before and after the divorce and what you are like now and there’s no question you were a much happier person before that bitch did what she did to you. Go on. Call her a bitch. You’ll feel better. Say it with me, Cole-Slaw, “Sharon is a bitch! Bitch, bitch, a-bitchitty bitch bitch ba bing bong bitchitty boo!”
Cole flipped his phone shut, then closed his eyes again. As he drifted off to sleep, the thought that Sharon was a bitch did cross his mind, as it had for many years, but in the decade since the divorce, he was never able to bring himself to say a nasty word about his beloved. Not a single one.
Meanwhile, the memories he had of the events that lead up to her departure were always on his mind.