Screwin' with the Wrong Dude...

Let me tell a little true story then - If you want to know a Worst Possible Outcome in the real-life realm of ‘Screwing With The Wrong Guy,’ this would be it…

When I was in Narcotics, we would buy and sell dope all the time, of course. If you were on the crew, one or two select folk would do the actual undercover work, while the rest would be perimeter surveillance or counter-surveillance folk…

So, one day, we’re goin’ downtown to sell dope at this nasty downtown bar, that is basically there to serve heroin addicts, sellers, and their associated hangers on… Now, these folk are actually very gentle – They’re not mean, violent, dangerous, or anything even close to that kinda crap – They’re usually musicians, vets, and other assorted ne’er do wells like me, who just got hooked on some powerful shit, truth be told.

So, this is gonna be a quiet, peaceful, routine morning with no bad craziness expected; or so I thought…

Now, for this show, I am perimeter – About as lax and easy going a job in this mien as you can have; I park about 3 blocks away, keep an eye on one side of a row of buildings, and monitor who comes this way and that during the proceedings. As fate would have it, I’m not even on the side upon which any of our players are expected to walk, so I am about as vanilla as a fella can be, right? Wrong…

I am sitting there in my non-descript Nissan SUV, listening and minding my own business when this crappy little sub-contact car pulls into the space beside me. I see two guys step out who immediately set off my Cop Radar and proximity alarms. As they get out, they are like, 100% focused on me, sitting there, hiding my radio under my thigh, wondering why these two hoods are zeroed in on me, right?

I sit there, not looking at them not acknowledging their presence, but they are laser focused on me, so…

Dude Number One comes to my window and knocks on it… I have, by this time, fairly surreptitiously picked up a cell phone and am pretending to be in mid-conversation, but Mr. Butthead ain’t havin’ any of that… I look annoyed as he knocks again, and I wave him away – I don’t know you, go away… It doesn’t work.

I roll down the window, doing my best to look like Mr. Anonymous Citizen, and say, “What do you want?” Mr. Dude No. 1 says, “What are you hiding under your leg?” Fuck me, he’s seen my radio! I think – What to say? “Hey, screw you – I don’t know you, mind your own business!” I try. He’s not buying that either. “Bullshit, motherfucker, you’re hiding something!” He points out, true enough as it is… Meanwhile, his partner has just tried the door behind me, which thankfully is locked.

Dope deal or not, this has just officially become A Bad Place To Be. I’m confused and scared. I don’t know who these dudes are, or why they’ve appeared and focused on me, but they have and they have and this is not good: Time to go. I start up the rig, roll up my window, and bug out. End of story, problem solved, right? We’re The Police, we’re in charge, and we’re workin’ here and… They’re following me.

Oh shit, I think, this has just become truly a not good thing… So what to do? I pull to a light and they pull beside me. So, I blow the light, waiting until oncoming traffic is almost fatally there, and then blowing it bigger than shit, and… They do the same. OK, now this is serious, so I get on the radio. “Zebra three, Zebra One…” “Zebra One.” “Ah, Sarge, I got a little problem here…” I explain the deal, and he goes ballistic. “Where are you right now?” I tell him, and he says, “Stay in front of them until you hear sirens.” Roger that!

I do just that, until, thank the Good Lord above, I see and hear Tim Ferguson burning up the road in a patrol car, heading straight for us. I wait until he tucks in behind them, and I tear a big left turn, swing 180 so I’m out of Tim’s line of fire and we have them in what you would call, in military terms, an enfilading fire; now they’re in a bad place to be…

I jump out of the rig, cross behind to the side away from them, gun and badge drawn, (.45 Sig-Sauer – Nasty weapon….), as Tim starts giving them instructions. If you’ve never seen r been in this position, (I hope and trust you’ve not), it’s called a Classic Felony Stop, and the drill is this: You’re gonna be given clear, simple instructions, and after that’s explained, the nice Officer says, “If you don’t do exactly what I tell you do, you will be shot!” Clear enough for ya?

So what do these yahoos do? They turn on me and start advancing, ignoring the patrol car… I point straight at the lead guy and say, “Two more steps and you’re a dead man…” God’s truth, those were my words; you think I’d forget anything about this? Anyway, Mr. Dude, being bore sited by a .45, with a totally pissed off and jacked up patrol cop, (Ex Narc) behind him, says, “You ain’t no cop, you’re a perpetrator!” Say what?! I swear to God, as He is my witness, this was my response – Yes, I know where it comes from: “I’m a real cop, this is a real badge, and this is a real fucking gun – one more step and you’re a dead sunufabitch!”

He stopped. Tim smeared the second guy all over the trunk of their car, I introduced Dude No. 1 to the pavement and that, as they say, was that…

Oh, and remember, true story – I got witnesses and one of ‘em is in town this weekend – They had five guns in their trunk; two rifle3s and three pistols. Well experienced felons, they had gotten out of prison the week before. After things were explained to them, they allowed that I “looked loaded” and they intended to rob me, and do what they had to do to make that happen.

True story. Now do you think God has a sense of humor? I do.

Oh, by the way, yes; I did also get to say, “OK, now you’ve gone and brought a knife to a gunfight,” but that’s another story…