Hang ‘Em High

 

Hang ‘Em High

1/25/2016

 

He comes from nowhere and he turns on his own

Late for the hangin’, yes he’s headed for the moon

And hang ‘em high. ---Van Halen. Hang ‘Em High.

 

           

            I was the Sherriff in the city of Denver, Colorado, a few years ago. My name is Deputy Jissoseph Dunbar. I was relatively new to the city and to the profession. I was highly motivated to make my way up the ranks, I didn’t care who I had to shoot in the process.

            My partner, Gerard Davenport, was sitting in our squad car one lovely night in the magnificent town of Montebello, Colorado. We were working the night heat. By that I mean to say to you that our shift started at 6:00pm and we worked until long after the drunks were hitting the highways, trying to out-maneuver us through the city’s highways and byways.

            “Hey Jissoseph, let’s go towards the gas station near 44^th and Peoria. There’s always some good thuggin’ and hookin’ going on over yonder. I was just tellin’ me dear old wife not too long ago that if she ever decided to leave me and take my pension with her, I would easily find me a special gal on that there block over in the projects.” My partner, Gerard, told me. You see, we like dealing with the under-bellies of society. We like to show our power to the powerless. We like to both figuratively and literally put our boots on the necks of the marginalized.

            “Well let’s get r’ goin’, partner” at that moment I closed the laptop in the front dashboard. I put in my tinted glasses; you could easily clean the grit out of yer teeth by looking in the reflection of these glasses. Most of the people in this bad part of the city didn’t have much teeth or wits about them, but I was prepared in case they did.

            Just as I was fixing to put the stick in drive from park, a Harley Davidson motorcycle drove past us. There was definitely no harm in that, but something took me by surprise. The driver of this motorcycle had a passenger. She was not one of those hogs that looked like she had been kidnapped, overfed, over exposed to the sunlight, and under classed. She was actually a very attractive lady. She wore a dress, heels, and she wore her hair up in a bun the color of sapphire.

            There was no way this outlaw would have anything to do with a woman that was not as ugly as sin. I hit the light, turned on the siren, and proceeded to make the stop. At least that was my attempt. The driver didn’t stop. We were going southbound on Chamber’s Boulevard, just north of Interstate 70.

            With the lights a blarin, we made our pursuit. He entered the onramp towards eastbound I-70.

            “Dispatch, this is car 6969, he have a driver with a rider on a Harley Davidson make motorcycle, going eastbound on I-70, just leaving Chambers. License plate is 5150VH. Over” I waited for my response. I looked in my rear-view mirror to see how much of a bad ass I am with my glasses on my face and my baton in my hand. I was typing things on the laptop to show my partner that I was in charge and making reports.

            “Car 6969, yes we ran the plates, the vehicle is not stolen. The owner is registered to an address in the Highlands area. Please make sure this driver has seen your attempts to pull him over. He could just be a lawyer or an Accountant and does not realize that he is breaking the law, over” Shelly was a fine dispatcher. She grew up in trailer park that I had once grown up in. I respected her word as I’m sure her reputation was respected in the trailer park.

            I pulled up to the left side of the Harley driver. I had my highly esteemed partner roll down his window and we motioned for him to pull over. He wasn’t having it. I thought at first he was flipping me the bird. I soon realized that he was in fact giving me the “Van Halen” hand symbols with both his hands. WTF, this is no time to determine who was the better lead singer; David Lee Roth or Sammy Hagar. It was time to pull your vehicle over.

            By this point we were approaching the Brighton Blvd exit. The driver used his turn signal, and exited the highway. With my lights on as before, I ever so gently reared my police squad car off the highway and continued my pursuit. Without stopping, the driver blew through the red light, through oncoming traffic, and made a left towards the Pepsi Center.

            The driver was able to cut lanes, so he had an advantage on us. By the time we pulled up behind his Harley, he was running with that beautiful girl, to the front gate of the Pepsi Center. Me and Davenport soon turned this car chase into a foot chase.

            When we got to the ticket checker guy, we showed him our badges. We could see the driver making his way up the escalator. That poor girl. She was too damn pretty to be on the run with such an outlaw biker. She was pretty enough that I might even tell the prosecutor to go easy on her. She was frail and beautiful while this biker was twice her size, probably smelled horribly, and was meaner that a one-eyed honey-badger.

            We got through the gate. Through the crowds I could see the biker and his kidnapped girl, running up closer and closer to the stage. And there they were; David Lee Roth, Eddie Van Halen, Alex Van Halen, and the great Michael Alex. I was witnessing the best band ever play music right here in Denver, while I pursued the suspects.

            The biker and the girl ran up on stage, gave Eddie Van Halen a high five. After that they ran backstage. It was my turn to get onstage. As I got on stage, security guards started punching me and kicking me. I pulled out my baton and started fighting back. I said I was after a dangerous couple. They let go of their grips and I started walking the stage, right in the middle of Van Halen playing the song, Hang ‘Em High.

            There were bras everywhere. Eddie Van Halen was playing epic guitar solos while bras of every color and size were being tossed at him from the crowd. I realized then that I hated my life. I was lucky to get one fat hog to like me for even a few minutes, and here you have this very creative artist who has woman from everywhere trying to get him to taste their boob sweat.

            As I was fixated on this, I was soon tackled to the ground by five much bigger security guards than me. Davenport was making out with two ladies in the crowd. He fell victim to the hedonism of the show.

            The guard beat me and kept beating me. The rolled me on my stomach and then used some of the bras on the stage to hog-tie me with. They then brought me back-stage. They questioned the hell out of me and asked me why I was such a loser.

            I gave no replies, only a defiant reluctance to see things their way. All of a sudden, that biker was there questioning me. It turns out that he was the band’s major accountant and finance manager. He was late for the show and he thought that I was his escort through traffic to get him backstage.

            When asked by the security guards what they should do with me, he only had three words to say: “Hang him high!”

            And so they did; with some of the hundreds of bras that were on stage. They didn’t mean to kill me, but only to humiliate me. Later I got to hang out backstage with the band. I apologized for being such a party pooper. I met some of the groupies. I left my ugly girlfriend for her.

 

The End………..