“Fuck tha police,” screamed Rage Against The Machine frontman Zack de la Rocha over Tom Morello’s guitar.
What a bad, bad thing to say in this situation, I thought, glancing again out the window into the courtyard of my Del Playa apartment building. A cop flashed his light in through my living room window, looking pissy. I smiled and waved. I can’t say that I entirely agree with Mr. de la Rocha’s sentiments in this song, but at the moment, I bet the folks getting tickets did.
“What’s the body count?” I asked the guy living on my couch.
“There’s three down on the side of the building and another seven or so in the courtyard.”
“Poor bastards.” I shook my head and looked at what, until the keepers of the peace arrived, was a pretty weak, but loud, party.
The people on the ground wrapped their arms around their knees and got comfortable. I guess they were going to decorate my backyard like depressing little lawn gnomes for a while yet.
“Fuck that shit cuz I ain’t the one for a punk motha fucka with a badge and a gun,” continued the speakers, and I had to smile again because the fools on the ground were starting to laugh a little bit.
If I didn’t turn it down, I might become the Five-O’s target in their mission to protect us from ourselves. I guess if they tried, I’d just tell them, “No thanks, I’ll make sure I don’t hurt myself on my own this time, guys; why don’t y’all take care of some real crime instead of harassing drunks?”
When the fuzz showed up, there couldn’t have been more than 20 people out there. On the first Saturday since classes in I.V., that’s nothing. No common walkways were being crowded, everybody who wanted it had breathing room, and people were just having fun.
“Do you think they’re having a contest or something? I mean, it’s only ten o’clock and they’re already playing gangbusters. Maybe it’s a race.”
“Some sort of macabre scavenger hunt, you mean?”
“Do you think they’re going for different offenses or sheer numbers?”
“Oh no, they’re after certain sorts of people, I’m sure. Like someone with blonde dreads, and a girl that has no exposed cleavage. A little hard to find, y’know?”
“Yeah, I guess the suspects they rounded up out there are of many and varying types,” I said, peering out at the victims.
It was looking like they were wrapping up, which meant that I could leave soon. Being a minor who had already consumed a good deal, I was effectively under siege as long as these hooligans were hanging around my door.
I made a few phone calls and warned all to whom I spoke that the cops were out for blood tonight. I heard the sad stories of two or three more of these apparent pre-emptive strikes on parties that could get out of control after a few hours.
“Maybe it’s like that movie, “Minority Report” and they by some means know which parties are gonna cause the most havoc and are going around busting them up two hours before that could even happen,” couch guy said.
“Lord have mercy on us all.” I looked again at the cops’ victims, wondering what horrific things they might’ve done if they hadn’t been pre-apprehended. Then again, probably not.
Now there were only four or five people left on the ground, and seven or eight cops standing around them. These tipsy kids did look kinda dangerous, I guess.
Now Jerry Garcia was lamenting out of my stereo, “I fought the law and the law won.”
Daily Nexus assistant Opinion editor Cory Anthony is trying his best not to fight the law, because around here, they always win.