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The A b _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ part 2 of 11

The Arrest (the action)

The police decided to bust into my house at about 4 a.m. without any warning, planning on catching me off-guard.  It worked,  and I was pretty disoriented seeing three guns pointed at me after I just woke up, while squinting because some pricks came crashing through my front door and yelling that I am under arrest while they turn the accursed bedroom light on.

“Let me get my glasses, at least guys.”  I said.

“Do it slow motherfucker!”  the closest officer yelled at me.

I complied.  I found my glasses on the floor on the other side of my bed, and also grabbed the knotted rope, pulling it up slowly with my glasses also in my hand.  The rope trailed through a hole in the floor, through metal guide rings and attached to a latch, the latch was holding a wooden hinged shelf that the bottom would drop out.  As the bottom dropped out of the shelf, sixteen hammers swung down simultaneously on each side of the basement walls, four of them taking out the old single-pane basement windows, the other ten smashing open a dozen giant-size iced tea jars full of gasoline all over the paper files and shelves of dry medical supplies that were stacked around the cement block walls.

“What the f—”  the cop started.

While the hammers dropped, there was also a thin rope attached to the shelf that gave way, leading through a pulley mounted to the bottom of a floor joist in the basement.  It pulled a wooden box upward, which released a simple toy that then motored across the basement floor — shooting sparks, a tiny red classic wind up Godzilla monster.


A fireball belched out of the basement as a few stray, flaming papers fluttered out of the doorway into the kitchen.  There were even a couple of them that sailed around the corner into the bedroom behind the bewildered police officers who had hit the deck.

“Fuck!” was the general expression all around, and even I hadn’t expected such a crazy display of pyrotechnics.  Quite a few other curse words were being shouted over the crackling of fire underneath us.  Then my elation was cut short as the frigid butt of an assault rifle was jabbed violently into my stomach and I was dragged from the house.

You would not believe how difficult it is to laugh your ass off with your lungs partially full smoke, after just having received a nasty rug burn, while your ears are ringing, and having just had the breath completely knocked out of you…  but somehow I managed a few croaking chuckles.  My house and the business I’d devoted myself to were going up in flames.  The only thing I had to look forward to was my trial.  In these sort of moments, I’ve found it helps to take humor where you can find it, especially in dealing with the police.