The name’s Smasher. Mack Smasher. I’m a cop and I’m damn proud of it. You don’t like it? Well, nuts to you, palooka, because if there’s one thing that you, me and Mr. McGee are fully aware of it’s the indisputable fact that if a private citizen such as yourself were to ever strap on a badge and called upon to protect and serve for a single day, you’d be puking your guts out and crying for your mommy by lunchtime.
But that’s neither here nor there. There’s a million stories in the District of Columbia and this one is mine. It’s not the greatest story ever told. That’s the bible, pal, and don’t you forget it. It’s not the worst story either told. That’s Gigli, friend, and feel free to forget that one at any time. My story is somewhere in the middle. I’m not the first Tom, Dick, or Harry to dive head first into an ocean of shit without a snorkel, nor will I be the last. So, sit back, strap in, hold onto your asses and get ready for one hell of a ride. Or don’t. See if I care.
Speaking of shit, if there’s one thing that the people of this Godless, rat infested swamp love, it’s their bullshit. They don’t want it cold. They don’t want it hiding in a cupboard next to a six-month old stale bag of potato chips. No, they want their bullshit served up to them as entrée, piping hot with a French waiter there to pour the bullshit wine and say “Bon appetit.” Then they’ll chow down on a bullshit steak with a bullshit baked potato and polish it all off with a slab of bullshit cake. The entire time they’ll say it was the greatest meal they’ve ever eaten and yet, they’ll know, deep down, that it made them sick.
Enough allegories. The Capitol Building serves as a grand, sweeping monument to so-called democracy when in reality, Congressmen and women run around like filthy carnival barkers, selling off our rights and freedoms to the highest bidder. It’s a non-stop fire sale and everything and anything that makes our country good will go. What can you expect? When the hallowed halls of government were built by slaves, there can be no justice and no peace.
Oh, but our legislators try to make the world a better place, or at least they try really hard to convince you that they are. All day long, they pass laws. Laws, laws, and more laws. Laws against drugs. Laws against guns. Laws against sexual assault. Laws against murder. Laws against animal cruelty. Laws against every crime you could possibly imagine, large or small.
And the people? Oh, they all pretend to be good puritan folk. By day, they’ll cry and shout for more laws against drugs. More laws against murder. More laws against chickens. More laws against every crime you could possibly imagine, large or small.
Then when the day is down and night falls over our nation’s capitol, those same citizens who called for all those laws will transform into bloody hypocrites – snorting crank, shooting and raping each other to death then some Johnny Law schmuck like yours truly will be left to kick down their doors and haul them away just as they were about to molest a chicken.
It’s enough to make a lesser man sick. Luckily, I’ve got a cast iron stomach. You have to have one if you’re going to clean up the city’s scum for a living. Come to think of it, I was built like a brick shithouse. I’m 6’4” and 225, all solid muscle. Arms like cannons and the ladies are constantly begging for a ticket to the gun show but who has the time? Not this fella. Not when the city’s virtual jerkoff factory is humming along, constantly churning out new product.
Now, I know you didn’t come here to hear about me. You want the story, so let’s begin at the beginning. That’s the best place to begin, after all, and I’m not about to Tarantino this shit and start at the end. Fuck that noise.
It was noon on January 8. I strolled into the 7th precinct with my leather jacket on. Black hair perfectly coiffed. Mirrored shades hiding my disgust in humanity. I worked my way to one side of an interrogation room, where those two useless turds, Detectives Davis and Paulson were sitting on a broad. Not literally, mind you, but rather, they were on the shady side of a two-way mirror, looking in on a dame who was cooling her heels.
What a woman. She had a pair of getaway sticks that made you want to run all the way to New Jersey and an angelic face that looked so good that you knew she had to be bad. Her hair was flaxen gold and her lips, red like a couple of hot rubies pinched from the neighborhood jewelry store. A little black dress completed her ensemble and though no smoking was allowed, she used the hand that wasn’t cuffed to a metal bar to puff on a long, filtered cigarette.
“Smasher!” Davis barked. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“None of us are supposed to be here,” I replied. “We’re all just one great, big metaphysical mistake. Sentient meat puppets tricked into believing that the machinations of our maniacal minds actually matter when in reality, our existence is little more than a cruel parlor trick perpetrated by the unseen forces of the cosmos.”
Davis and Paulson traded blank looks, then focused on me. “Lieutenant Jeffries said no one is to speak to the suspect until he arrives,” Paulson said. “So, don’t even think about.”
I yanked a file out of Paulson’s hand. “It’s cool. I spoke to Jeffries. Everything’s copasetic, compadre, so dismount your high horse and go sing your sad cowboy song elsewhere.”
Paulson lunged for the file, but I backed away just in time. “Give me that!” he cried.
“Oh no!” Davis said. “We’re not falling for your any of your tricks, Smasher! Jeffries said you would say that you spoke to him and he specifically said to us that if you say you spoke to him, we shouldn’t believe it, because he would not have spoken to you about this.”
As I stood in the doorway that led to a dank a hall, I waved a pointer finger in the hair. “Aha! But what you’re missing is that I knew that Jeffries would tell you to not believe it when I say that I spoke to him because he wouldn’t have spoken to me and that’s why I made it a point to speak to him anyway and to get his full permission to speak to the suspect even though he, Jeffries, went out of his way to speak to you and tell you to not let me speak to the suspect.”
Davis and Paulson looked at each other.
“Shit,” Davis said.
“That checks out,” Paulson added.
The dicks followed me out into the hallway. I put my hand on the knob that lead to the suspect’s side of the room.
“Smasher,” Davis said. “Please. I’m begging you. You don’t have any idea how hard it was to make this collar. Don’t mess it up. The lieutenant will put our balls in a vice if you do. He’ll squeeze all the juice out of them, mix it in with his OJ and drink it for breakfast. He’ll then leave us to flop around on the floor and die, like two ball-less wonders without a place in this topsy-turvy world.”
I rested a hand on Davis’ shoulder. “Never fear, my friend. I would never put you or your partner’s balls in jeopardy. I just have to ask this floozy a few questions. Standard procedure. Nothing to see here.”
Davis made a V with his index and middle fingers, held them up to his eyes, then pointed one finger at me. “I’m watching you, Smasher.”
“Fine,” I replied.
“No, seriously,” Davis said. “I’m watching you the way a middle-aged, former high-school football star watches an NFL game. Sure, I’ll cheer you on and live vicariously through you if you do well, but the second you fumble, I’ll blame you for all my woes and sorrows and be all over you like one of those bitches on the View on a cherry peach cobbler.”
I opened the door to the room. “You do that.”