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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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The Predicament
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A work of Fiction
I was out of munchies. Goddamn, I hate being out of munchies. I work at
home as a mechanical engineer. It's just me, my CATIA workstation, and
the junk food. Except, of course, that there was no junk food left. It
was late at night, but it was still warm outside, so I decided to take the
Jeep down to 7-11 to get some grub.
As I pulled up, I saw that there was some entertainment at 7-11 tonight.
Around the side of the building, behind the payphones, these two fellows
were fighting. Well, one of them was fighting. One of them was just
getting the hell beaten out of him.
I removed the clip from my Glock and put the Glock in the glove
compartment while placing the clip underneath the seat. This didn't look
like anything I couldn't handle, and I really didn't need any legal
trouble.
As I walked over to take advantage of this combat opportunity, I caught
enough of the conversation to make out what was going on. The smaller
fellow on the ground was a drug dealer; the large fellow kicking him in
the abdomen was one of his customers. It seemed the larger fellow wanted
some merchandise, but owed his supplier money. The dealer wouldn't give
the fellow any more merchandise until he was paid. The customer decided
to take a short cut to his particular high by beating a supply out of his
dealer. None of this meant anything to me; this was just an opportunity
to beat the hell out of someone without any real fear of legal
prosecution.
The dealer was up on his knees and the thief was on one leg, the other leg
moving quickly towards the dealers unprotected face. This all ended when
I swept the thief's leg out from underneath him. The dumb bastard ended
up on the concrete staring up at me like a wounded puppy.
Soon enough he was whining at me, wanting to know what the hell I had done
that for. I came for adrenaline, not dialog, so I explained it to him by
saying "Shut up" using the same voice that works so well on my doberman
pinscher. The junkie did shut up, but he also attempted to stand up. One
good kick to his right temple and the junkie was back on the ground
grasping the side of his head in agony. I clarified my position for his
benefit by yelling "Shut up and stay down."
The dealer started babbling what I believe were his thanks, to which I
politely responded "Shut the fuck up." It was then that I was saved from
further dialog with these degenerate desperadoes by the sight of flashing
red and blue lights approaching me from behind.
The officers politely explained to me that I should "Get my fucking hands
in the fucking air right fucking now" and I complied gracefully.
Then the bullshit began. The officers, now in four squad cards plus a
roving patrol vehicle, took both of the others aside and questioned them.
No one was questioning me, so I listened intently to the two other
conversations. They weren't exactly quiet.
And this is where the story gets good. It turns out that the merchandise
was dropped on the ground sometime during the altercation. Probably the
dealer threw it away it an attempt to avoid being caught with it. The
police had found the merchandise and they knew immediately that this was a
drug deal gone wrong. The thief was claiming that he owed the dealer some
money, and the dealer had attempted to muscle it out of him. The police,
not oblivious to the fact that he outweighed the other guy by a good fifty
pounds, were not buying it.
What makes this a good story is the dealer. The dealer immediately
parroted the thief's story. He claimed that the thief, not he, was the
dealer. He claimed that he was only a buyer, and the other fellow was the
dealer. He claimed that the other fellow assaulted him when he couldn't
pay for the merchandise.
Buying is a petty offense. The fool who was nailed for buying wasn't
likely to do any time. The fool who ended up being convicted for dealing
was facing several years in federal prison.
It turns out I was saved by the clerk, who had seen me before and had
called the police. He told the police my involvement was only in breaking
up the fight. The police didn't have the least bit of interest in me,
except as a witness.
Then the time came for my questioning. They had just one question:
"Which one is the dealer?"
I am always careful when speaking with police officers. It was nothing
more than good habits learned from years on the street which kept me from
replying immediately. But then I stopped to think.
I held a great deal of power at that point. In the next few moments, I
was most likely going to sentence one man to probation and another to
prison.
One of these men was a drug addict with so little control of his desires
he was willing to resort to violence to feed his chemical dependency. The
other man was a drug dealer, the sort of man who preys upon the weaknesses
of others.
Then it all snapped into place. One of these men was a businessman. He
was selling a product. He did not force the other man to purchase his
product. He did not commit assault on the other man. He did nothing at
all to anyone without their consent. The other man was a thief. He
knowingly and carelessly violated the rights of the other man. That man
was an animal. Discipline is what makes us human. Disciplined control
over our own selves. This addict was not capable of such discipline; he
had given control of his life over to the drugs.
I am a businessman. I sell the designs that I produce. I do not force
anyone to buy my products. If one of my customers attempted to take my
product by force, I would stop them by any means necessary. The drug
dealer and I, we are the same in many ways. It is simply that CATIA is
legal and cocaine isn't. One day, mechanical engineering may be illegal.
That doesn't mean it will then be okay for a customer to attempt to beat
designs out of me at some 7-11 in the middle of the fucking night.
So, I lied. The police officer took my statement and everything was
settled. The dealer was charged with attempting to purchase a controlled
substance. The thief was charged with assault and attempting to sell a
controlled substance.
Was what I did wrong? I don't think so. I believe the end justified the
means. The thief committed acts that were inherently wrong, while the
dealer committed acts that were simply illegal.
Would I do it again? Yes.
Am I worried? I may be called to testify, and if so I will stick to my
story. I am an upstanding citizen. Who are they going to believe, me or
the drug addict? Am I worried about recriminations from the drug addict?
Well, that would make another fine opportunity for entertainment. It is
difficult for me to be scared of someone who can't even control the needs
of his own body.
The one thing I do wonder about is what the hell the real drug dealer
thought when he heard me lie to save his neck. I don't imagine drug
dealers are accustomed to random acts of kindness from strangers. I just
hope he doesn't want to repay his debt. Friends like that, I do not need.
-- Thom Hobbes
by
Voyager[TNO]
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