06-01-2017, 05:37 PM
“Dispatch to Car 22, Dispatch to Car 22, do you copy, over?”
The little radio hung in the center console of the police cruiser and squawked insistently; Sergeant John Estes, aka MAD BULL, grumpily muttered a reply in his sleep.
For two hours now, the sergeant and his new partner, Manny Pardo, had been parked outside Happy Harry’s Burger Flippin’ Drive-Thru enjoying an extra long lunch break on the taxpayer's dime. Sergeant Estes, often called “Sleepy” by his friends, was enjoying a healthy nap after a not so healthy bag of fried ‘taters and double cheeseburgers; his partner, on the other hand, sat uncomfortably in the driver’s side chair, coffee cup at his lips, impatient to know how much longer it'd be until all the supposed action would come around for the ostensible “Mad Bull.”
Manny took another sip from his wax paper cup filled with day-old Happy Harry coffee and wondered if the radio could manage to stir his new partner.
“Car 22! This is Dispatch! DO-YOU-COPY, over?!” the voice squawked again, this time more insistently.
Mad Bull woke up with a start, sat upright in his chair and banged his head on the roof of the cruiser. “GODDAMMIT!” he bellowed. The whole vehicle rattled with the impact, spilling a few droplets of stale coffee on Manny’s pant leg.
“See what they want already, I’m trying to get some shuteye!” Mad Bull exclaimed while rubbing the bruise at the top of his head.
With a smirk, Manny took the speaker in his hand and depressed the button. “This is Car 22, what's up Dispatch, over?”
“We got a report of a 273D in a block house on 5658 Wabansia Ave. Are you in the vicinity? Over!”
“Hey! Wake up Mad Bull!” Manny prodded the groggy sergeant. “I’m not from the 34th Precinct. Is that nearby or what?”
“Yeah, yeah, it's near enough. Code 273D, what is that, domestic battery?”
“You got it. Sounds like the commander wants us to check on some battered wife. What do you think, worth our time?”
“Could be,” Mad Bull replied.
“Dispatch, what's the apartment number on that report? Over!” Manny asked.
“4th floor, apartment 3B. A neighbor called it in, said he heard screaming and broken glass, over!”
“Copy that Dispatch, we’re in route, over and out!” Manny said with finality before flicking on the siren lights and rushing towards the 5600 block of Wabansia.
In five short minutes Mad Bull had directed Manny through a maze of side-streets and alleys that weren’t on the GPS. As the pair pulled up, they exited their cruiser and took a lay of the land. A dilapidated block house made from solid concrete rose 10 stories tall. It looked like the sort of poor tenement the local government would send the homeless or destitute to. The neighborhood was deserted, unless you count the bums and vagrants sleeping amongst the garbage that littered this ramshackle city block. With their feet now firmly planted on the pavement, both men stretched their limbs out and scanned their eyes for the third floor. Suddenly, they two heard the crash of glass and both instinctively ducked. A chair came flying out a third floor window and collided with the ground in a splintering thunk!
“Guess that's the place,” Mad Bull remarked with a grin.
“Yeah…” Manny replied, taking a final sip and draining his cup of coffee. He crinkled the wax paper cup and tossed it carelessly at the curb.
KAPAAH! KAPAAH! KAPAAH!
The sound of an automatic pistol firing suddenly rang out from the third floor window and both men could see the flash of the gun muzzle.
The time for joking had ended and both cops looked at each other seriously as they drew their weapons. Mad Bull opened the cylinder of his revolver, taking a careful look to insure all six .38 special bullets were ready to fire. Together, they crept towards the entrance of the block house shoulder to shoulder.
“You wanna take point, or should I?” Mad Bull asked with grim determination.
The little radio hung in the center console of the police cruiser and squawked insistently; Sergeant John Estes, aka MAD BULL, grumpily muttered a reply in his sleep.
For two hours now, the sergeant and his new partner, Manny Pardo, had been parked outside Happy Harry’s Burger Flippin’ Drive-Thru enjoying an extra long lunch break on the taxpayer's dime. Sergeant Estes, often called “Sleepy” by his friends, was enjoying a healthy nap after a not so healthy bag of fried ‘taters and double cheeseburgers; his partner, on the other hand, sat uncomfortably in the driver’s side chair, coffee cup at his lips, impatient to know how much longer it'd be until all the supposed action would come around for the ostensible “Mad Bull.”
Manny took another sip from his wax paper cup filled with day-old Happy Harry coffee and wondered if the radio could manage to stir his new partner.
“Car 22! This is Dispatch! DO-YOU-COPY, over?!” the voice squawked again, this time more insistently.
Mad Bull woke up with a start, sat upright in his chair and banged his head on the roof of the cruiser. “GODDAMMIT!” he bellowed. The whole vehicle rattled with the impact, spilling a few droplets of stale coffee on Manny’s pant leg.
“See what they want already, I’m trying to get some shuteye!” Mad Bull exclaimed while rubbing the bruise at the top of his head.
With a smirk, Manny took the speaker in his hand and depressed the button. “This is Car 22, what's up Dispatch, over?”
“We got a report of a 273D in a block house on 5658 Wabansia Ave. Are you in the vicinity? Over!”
“Hey! Wake up Mad Bull!” Manny prodded the groggy sergeant. “I’m not from the 34th Precinct. Is that nearby or what?”
“Yeah, yeah, it's near enough. Code 273D, what is that, domestic battery?”
“You got it. Sounds like the commander wants us to check on some battered wife. What do you think, worth our time?”
“Could be,” Mad Bull replied.
“Dispatch, what's the apartment number on that report? Over!” Manny asked.
“4th floor, apartment 3B. A neighbor called it in, said he heard screaming and broken glass, over!”
“Copy that Dispatch, we’re in route, over and out!” Manny said with finality before flicking on the siren lights and rushing towards the 5600 block of Wabansia.
In five short minutes Mad Bull had directed Manny through a maze of side-streets and alleys that weren’t on the GPS. As the pair pulled up, they exited their cruiser and took a lay of the land. A dilapidated block house made from solid concrete rose 10 stories tall. It looked like the sort of poor tenement the local government would send the homeless or destitute to. The neighborhood was deserted, unless you count the bums and vagrants sleeping amongst the garbage that littered this ramshackle city block. With their feet now firmly planted on the pavement, both men stretched their limbs out and scanned their eyes for the third floor. Suddenly, they two heard the crash of glass and both instinctively ducked. A chair came flying out a third floor window and collided with the ground in a splintering thunk!
“Guess that's the place,” Mad Bull remarked with a grin.
“Yeah…” Manny replied, taking a final sip and draining his cup of coffee. He crinkled the wax paper cup and tossed it carelessly at the curb.
KAPAAH! KAPAAH! KAPAAH!
The sound of an automatic pistol firing suddenly rang out from the third floor window and both men could see the flash of the gun muzzle.
The time for joking had ended and both cops looked at each other seriously as they drew their weapons. Mad Bull opened the cylinder of his revolver, taking a careful look to insure all six .38 special bullets were ready to fire. Together, they crept towards the entrance of the block house shoulder to shoulder.
“You wanna take point, or should I?” Mad Bull asked with grim determination.