It was only a matter of time before Young Shawn Matlock, Republican, was caught.  Yesterday was high day.  Bereft of his uniform of bow tie and sport coat, in the image of Tucker Carlson, Young Shawn looked like any other kid who wore his baseball cap askew.  To some, this is a sign of gang membership.  To others, an indication of a deeper, more insidious, problem.

As he pulled over with the police cruiser’s lights a’blazing, the officer could clearly see his hands in constant motion, as if concealing a weapon, or perhaps hundred of vials of crack, from view.  The cop knew this would be a tough one, the sort of stop that could mean that he might not be coming home for dinner that night. 

But he was a pro.  He kept his cool and knew what to do.  As he approached the driver’s side door, he stayed clear of the swing.  There was no way he would fall into that rookie trap just because this gang-banger was a white boy.  His weapon remained holstered, at least for the moment, but his worn, rubberized grip told the story of many hours on the range, making sure that his first shot would be the only one he needed.

In a firm but polite voice, he asked for the paperwork.  But his eyes scanned everything inside.  It only took half a second to see the opaque plastic bags, the type favored by couriers because they were free for the taking at any Lowes store.  It was time for back-up, and he knew that he had a good man nearby.

Back off for now, the cop told himself.  There will be time to make my play, and I’ll do it on my terms.  All the while, Young Shawn grew increasingly restless, agitated.  He’s probably hopped up on some of his own stuff, the cop thought to himself.  This crack-baby will be needing another fix any minute, and then he’ll lose his cool.

He went back to the RMP where he could keep an eye on his pigeon.  He let his mind wander to thoughts of overtime.  My wife will kill me if I don’t get home on time tonight, he thought to himself.  She’s having her folks over and she knows I’ll do anything to not be there.  But work is work, and I’m not letting baby-face Nelson get away.

His back up arrived, and it was time to make his move.  If this kid was faster than he thought, the last thing he wanted was to be lying on the ground bleeding and for no one to know.  If he was going to get a casket with a flag, the kid was going down with him.  It was a matter of dignity.  He was ready.

He approached the car cautiously, with his back-up going to the blind side.  With the car windows open, it was an invitation to take a free look and see the butt of the gun sticking out from under the seat.  Now there was time for more than a quick sweep, and he had no plans to let a kilo go unnoticed.

“Step out of the car.”  Okay, this was the first step in risky business.  Would he flee?  Would he fight?  We’ll see.  But the kid was docile.  He just did as he was told.  Maybe the kid was high on heroin, not crack?  “Mind if we take a look in the car?”  Let’s watch him squirm, ready to spring the “What do you have to hide?” follow up that makes them all collapse like quivering babies.

“What are you looking for?” Ah, a wise guy.  This punk is inches from belligerent behavior, and I’m just the guy to explain the facts of life to him.  C’mon, you little shit.  Give me a reason.  Any reason.  “Son, you made furtive movements, you’re in a drug prone location and you’re out of place here.”  Now you can either let me search or get a lesson in good manners.  Your choice.

“No, I do not consent to a search.”  Oh, I knew it.  This kids been lawyered up before.  Some mutt commie defense lawyer told him the drill.  But who’s going to know he said the magic words?  Am I gonna tell? 

Then I saw the fear in his eyes.  He looked like he was about to cry.  This kid wasn’t a gangster.  No, he’s just another dopey wannabe with the stupid hat and the white-boy swagger when he thinks he better than a cop.  Now that he’s about to get a licking, he’s ready to roll up in a little ball and hide under mommy’s skirt.

There’s nothing here.  False alarm.  If I hadn’t seen those tears welling up in his eyes, it might have been different.  But he’s got the stupid backward hat to pretend he’s a little tough guy when he’s just another puff ball.  We’ll just give him a ticket and let him go running back to mommy so he can tell the story of how he toughed it out with the cops. Heh, he just needs a little scare to remember who’s boss, and he’ll be licking cop shoes next time we see his ugly face around here.

And so, Young Shawn Matlock drove away, ticket in hand, toward the nearest Board of Elections office, where he was last seen filling out a form to change his voter registration to a new political party.  Or was this all a dream?

Addendum:  To avoid any confusion, the foregoing was a total figment of my furtile imagination and bears absolutely no semblence to reality.  Really.