eats bacon.”
“How can we start a riot with no riot squad,” another said.
“Careful, Scott, he’s not just a pig, he’s a wild boar, you dig?” said the mini-skirt who was standing behind the kids.
“Maybe
you
could use a little bore, sweetheart, maybe that’s your trouble,” I said, looking at the guy in the headband, and two of the kids chuckled.
“You seem to be the only Establishment representative we have at the moment, maybe you’d like to rap with us,” said Scott, a tall kid with a scrubbed-looking face and a mop of blond hair. He had a cute little baby hanging on his arm and she seemed amused.
“Sure, just fire away,” I said, still leaning back, acting relaxed as I puffed. I was actually beginning to
want
to rap with them. One time when I asked some young sergeant if I could take a shot at the “Policeman Bill” program and go talk to a class of high-school kids, he shined me on with a bunch of crap, and I realized then that they wanted these flat-stomached, clear-eyed, handsome young recruiting-poster cops for these jobs. I had my chance now and I liked the idea.
“What’s your first name, Officer Morgan?” asked Scott, looking at my nameplate, “and what do you think of street demonstrations?”
Scott was smiling and I could hardly hear him over the yelling as the ring of marchers moved twenty feet closer to us to block the entrance more effectively after the fat bitch in yellow directed them to do it. Several kids mugged at the cameraman and waved “V” signs at him and me. One asshole, older than the others, flipped me the bone and then scowled into the camera.
“That’s it, smile and say pig, you pukepot,” I mumbled, noticing the two black cossacks were at the other end of the line of marchers talking to purple legs. Then I turned to Scott. “To answer your question, my name’s Bumper Morgan and I don’t mind demonstrations except that they take us cops away from our beats, and believe me we can’t spare the time. Everybody loses when we’re not on patrol.”
“What do you patrol, the fucking barnyard?” said one little shitbird wearing shades and carrying a poster that showed a white army officer telephoning a black mother about her son being killed in Vietnam. She was shown in a corner of the poster and there was a big white cop clubbing her with an oversized baton.
“That poster doesn’t make sense,” I said. “It’s awful damn lame. You might as well label it, ‘Killed by the running dogs of imperialism!’ I could do a lot better than that.”
“Man, that’s
exactly
what I told him,” Scott laughed, and offered me a cigarette.
“No thanks,” I said, as he and his baby doll lit one. “Now that one’s sort of clever,” I said, pointing to a sign which said “Today’s pigs are tomorrow’s porkchops.”
None of the other kids had anything to say yet, except the shithead with the poster, who yelled, “Like, what’re we doing talking to this fucking fascist lackey?”
“Look,” I said, “I ain’t gonna lay down and play dead just because you can say ‘fuck’ pretty good. I mean nobody’s shocked by that cheap shit anymore, so why don’t we just talk quiet to each other. I wanna hear what you guys got to say.”
“Good idea,” said another kid, a black, with a wild natural, wire-rim glasses, and a tiger tooth necklace, who almost had to shout because of the noise. “Tell us why a man would want to be a cop. I mean really. I’m not putting you on, I want to know.”
He was woofing me, because he winked at the blond kid, but I thought I’d
tell
them what I liked about it. What the hell, I liked having all these kids crowded around listening to me. Somebody then moved the marchers’ line a little north again and I could almost talk in a normal voice.
“Well, I like to take lawbreakers off the street,” I began.
“Just a minute,” said the black kid, pushing his wire-rims up on his nose. “Please, Officer, no euphemisms. I’m
“How can we start a riot with no riot squad,” another said.
“Careful, Scott, he’s not just a pig, he’s a wild boar, you dig?” said the mini-skirt who was standing behind the kids.
“Maybe
you
could use a little bore, sweetheart, maybe that’s your trouble,” I said, looking at the guy in the headband, and two of the kids chuckled.
“You seem to be the only Establishment representative we have at the moment, maybe you’d like to rap with us,” said Scott, a tall kid with a scrubbed-looking face and a mop of blond hair. He had a cute little baby hanging on his arm and she seemed amused.
“Sure, just fire away,” I said, still leaning back, acting relaxed as I puffed. I was actually beginning to
want
to rap with them. One time when I asked some young sergeant if I could take a shot at the “Policeman Bill” program and go talk to a class of high-school kids, he shined me on with a bunch of crap, and I realized then that they wanted these flat-stomached, clear-eyed, handsome young recruiting-poster cops for these jobs. I had my chance now and I liked the idea.
“What’s your first name, Officer Morgan?” asked Scott, looking at my nameplate, “and what do you think of street demonstrations?”
Scott was smiling and I could hardly hear him over the yelling as the ring of marchers moved twenty feet closer to us to block the entrance more effectively after the fat bitch in yellow directed them to do it. Several kids mugged at the cameraman and waved “V” signs at him and me. One asshole, older than the others, flipped me the bone and then scowled into the camera.
“That’s it, smile and say pig, you pukepot,” I mumbled, noticing the two black cossacks were at the other end of the line of marchers talking to purple legs. Then I turned to Scott. “To answer your question, my name’s Bumper Morgan and I don’t mind demonstrations except that they take us cops away from our beats, and believe me we can’t spare the time. Everybody loses when we’re not on patrol.”
“What do you patrol, the fucking barnyard?” said one little shitbird wearing shades and carrying a poster that showed a white army officer telephoning a black mother about her son being killed in Vietnam. She was shown in a corner of the poster and there was a big white cop clubbing her with an oversized baton.
“That poster doesn’t make sense,” I said. “It’s awful damn lame. You might as well label it, ‘Killed by the running dogs of imperialism!’ I could do a lot better than that.”
“Man, that’s
exactly
what I told him,” Scott laughed, and offered me a cigarette.
“No thanks,” I said, as he and his baby doll lit one. “Now that one’s sort of clever,” I said, pointing to a sign which said “Today’s pigs are tomorrow’s porkchops.”
None of the other kids had anything to say yet, except the shithead with the poster, who yelled, “Like, what’re we doing talking to this fucking fascist lackey?”
“Look,” I said, “I ain’t gonna lay down and play dead just because you can say ‘fuck’ pretty good. I mean nobody’s shocked by that cheap shit anymore, so why don’t we just talk quiet to each other. I wanna hear what you guys got to say.”
“Good idea,” said another kid, a black, with a wild natural, wire-rim glasses, and a tiger tooth necklace, who almost had to shout because of the noise. “Tell us why a man would want to be a cop. I mean really. I’m not putting you on, I want to know.”
He was woofing me, because he winked at the blond kid, but I thought I’d
tell
them what I liked about it. What the hell, I liked having all these kids crowded around listening to me. Somebody then moved the marchers’ line a little north again and I could almost talk in a normal voice.
“Well, I like to take lawbreakers off the street,” I began.
“Just a minute,” said the black kid, pushing his wire-rims up on his nose. “Please, Officer, no euphemisms. I’m
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