Nestle Quick
A true story of a call downtown told to me from a friend of mine. His story, of course, was much better.
The Denver Police finally wrangled this evil, sweaty, eluding, metho-felon in his cutoff jeans. Why he was running or what he was doing, I don't exactly know. All I do know is that he was evil. Used car salesman evil. He was one of those guys that made you check to see if your wallet was still there after unfortunately encountering him. The kind of guy you wanted to walk away from backwards, facing him, and like the Terminator, always scanning the room for the closest emergency exit.
As he sat steaming up the windows in the back of the cramped police car, he continued to glow in sweat. Not because he was in the back of a police car, but because of the meth screaming through his brittle veins. The cops aren't stupid. They didn't know exactly what was going on with him, but they realized that since he was carrying on a conversation with the graffitied Plexiglas in the back, a very intense conversation at that, that they should call the paramedics. And on a side note, how does that Plexiglas become graffitied? Aren't they always in handcuffs?
Screaming around the corner and skidding to a stop, the medics arrived. One seasoned medic that has been worked in this system for many years, the medic that makes your ten hour day feel like two. And one, although seasoned as well, that has never been introduced to the dark side of this urban city. One that doesn't realize that even grandma will lie to you and can pull a knife out her crochet bag and try to stab you with it.
They approach the all white police car that has just successfully sought an opportunity to serve. In the back, debating like a prom king trying to get his date out of her dress, he sat soaked in his own sweat. Meth rotting his teeth as he sat there screaming into the cloudy night sky. My friend begins talking to him and the metho-crazed felon answers, but completely inappropriately. I imagine something like this.
"What's your name?" the question is posed.
"Purple".
They finally get him out of the cramped police car and shuffle him to the ambulance bed where his wrists are velcroed to the handrails, being as that he is still under arrest and a threat to their safety. The clear, kitchen-sized zip-lock bag of felonious evidence is placed on his lap, below his quivering knees. In that bag are the usual suspects. Lighters -a lot of them, combs -always more than one and always apparently never used, and crumpled receipts from the local mom and pop liquor store for the numerous bottles of Night Train and grape Mad Dog 50/50. And finally, somewhere in that clear little suitcase of crime scene goodness, is his sealed bottle of much anticipated Nestle Quick.
In his maze of mumbled language a question is posed, "Can I have my Nestle Quick?"
The answer, self-evident to all, is a silent no. The ambulance gears clank into D and the rear wheels slip on the ice as they leave the scene for the local county hospital.
The cogs begin to turn, the wheels spin and the police-evading-metho-felon begins to silently become angry. No chocolate milk? How could someone not allow him to enjoy his recently acquired fresh bottle of chocolate milk? In a fit of fury that would make the Hulk proud, the crazed addict in need of more than meth. violently rips the restraints off the bed. Crazed, he stares at the medic and with no words threatens the safety the man in the white shirt holds dear. The ambulance already at a stop and the other medic rushing back to help, the rear doors of the ambulance bust open and he flees with the fury of a trapped animal.
A chase ensues and finally the men in blue's K-9 apprehend the patient / escapee / felon in the back of some unknowing citizen's snow-packed yard. He's cuffed and escorted back to the ambulance where the medic is awaiting in the back.
As the metho-felon forfeits all his dignity and silently bows in defeat, he asks one question.
"Can I have my Nestle Quick now?"
The Denver Police finally wrangled this evil, sweaty, eluding, metho-felon in his cutoff jeans. Why he was running or what he was doing, I don't exactly know. All I do know is that he was evil. Used car salesman evil. He was one of those guys that made you check to see if your wallet was still there after unfortunately encountering him. The kind of guy you wanted to walk away from backwards, facing him, and like the Terminator, always scanning the room for the closest emergency exit.
As he sat steaming up the windows in the back of the cramped police car, he continued to glow in sweat. Not because he was in the back of a police car, but because of the meth screaming through his brittle veins. The cops aren't stupid. They didn't know exactly what was going on with him, but they realized that since he was carrying on a conversation with the graffitied Plexiglas in the back, a very intense conversation at that, that they should call the paramedics. And on a side note, how does that Plexiglas become graffitied? Aren't they always in handcuffs?
Screaming around the corner and skidding to a stop, the medics arrived. One seasoned medic that has been worked in this system for many years, the medic that makes your ten hour day feel like two. And one, although seasoned as well, that has never been introduced to the dark side of this urban city. One that doesn't realize that even grandma will lie to you and can pull a knife out her crochet bag and try to stab you with it.
They approach the all white police car that has just successfully sought an opportunity to serve. In the back, debating like a prom king trying to get his date out of her dress, he sat soaked in his own sweat. Meth rotting his teeth as he sat there screaming into the cloudy night sky. My friend begins talking to him and the metho-crazed felon answers, but completely inappropriately. I imagine something like this.
"What's your name?" the question is posed.
"Purple".
They finally get him out of the cramped police car and shuffle him to the ambulance bed where his wrists are velcroed to the handrails, being as that he is still under arrest and a threat to their safety. The clear, kitchen-sized zip-lock bag of felonious evidence is placed on his lap, below his quivering knees. In that bag are the usual suspects. Lighters -a lot of them, combs -always more than one and always apparently never used, and crumpled receipts from the local mom and pop liquor store for the numerous bottles of Night Train and grape Mad Dog 50/50. And finally, somewhere in that clear little suitcase of crime scene goodness, is his sealed bottle of much anticipated Nestle Quick.
In his maze of mumbled language a question is posed, "Can I have my Nestle Quick?"
The answer, self-evident to all, is a silent no. The ambulance gears clank into D and the rear wheels slip on the ice as they leave the scene for the local county hospital.
The cogs begin to turn, the wheels spin and the police-evading-metho-felon begins to silently become angry. No chocolate milk? How could someone not allow him to enjoy his recently acquired fresh bottle of chocolate milk? In a fit of fury that would make the Hulk proud, the crazed addict in need of more than meth. violently rips the restraints off the bed. Crazed, he stares at the medic and with no words threatens the safety the man in the white shirt holds dear. The ambulance already at a stop and the other medic rushing back to help, the rear doors of the ambulance bust open and he flees with the fury of a trapped animal.
A chase ensues and finally the men in blue's K-9 apprehend the patient / escapee / felon in the back of some unknowing citizen's snow-packed yard. He's cuffed and escorted back to the ambulance where the medic is awaiting in the back.
As the metho-felon forfeits all his dignity and silently bows in defeat, he asks one question.
"Can I have my Nestle Quick now?"
Comments
Frogger