Bad Boys, Bad Boys
by WHO on Apr-2-2001

For the past week or so, I’ve been helping out at a Taco Bell in a less than desirable area. We’ll call it ‘Oakridge.’ Oakridge and Cleveland are the only two places in Ohio where I feel the need to lock my car doors. No one works at this Taco Bell. Why? Because a police officer pulled in to get a taco one night and saw that the entire crew was smoking pot in the parking lot. He carted off the whole gang to jail. Of course, they all got fired the next day. Problem is, now they have to pull people from different stores to work there. And that’s where I come in. Basically, it’s up to me and two other people to ‘get the store back in shape.’

Too bad you can’t see me roll my eyes.

So one morning I’m scheduled to open along with one other manager (Justin) and one crew person (Kelvin). Kelvin and I show up first, so we open up the store and waltz in all blurry eyed and half asleep. While making coffee, I stop short and think, “Shit! I don’t have the code to disarm the alarm!”


Obviously, it was too late. The fucking thing was BLARING. Five minutes later, Justin showed up. Thankfully, he had the code to shut the goddamn thing off. I abandoned my coffee; I was wide-awake now.

“So,” Justin inquires, “What happens now?”

“Not much,” I shrug and say, “The cops will just show up and make sure we’re not being robbed. No big deal.”

“How long before they get here?”

“Couple of minutes….the police station is right down the street.”

Just then, the phone rings. It’s Devin, one of old store managers. He tells me that the alarm company just called him to notify him that someone tripped the alarm and that the police are on their way. I give Justin a look that basically said: I told you so.

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES later, I’m wondering to myself, what’s taking them so fucking long? Was there hold up at Krispy Cream or something? Hell, in the event of a REAL robbery, the perps would have been long gone by now. Considering that most pigs are mind reading little bastards, it was no surprise to me when there was a knock at the door as I was thinking this.

“Hey Justin! I think the cops are here!”

“It’s about fucking time! I’ll go let them in.”

So Justin disappears around the corner…and doesn’t come back. I had figured that they would want to speak to the one in charge (Moi), so I decided to go outside and see what was up.

I round the corner and come face to face with 3 little piggy’s wielding guns. And not just ordinary hand guns, either. Fucking swat team rifles with laser scopes. A little red laser was aimed in between my breasts.

The first thought that enters my mind is: ‘Please God, don’t let me die in my taco bell uniform.’

The second thought was: ‘Pussy wannabe hard ass bastards! We could have been robbed, raped, killed and shoved in the freezer to decompose while the criminals left the country with lifetime supply of free tacos by now! I mean, what took them so long? So much for Oakridge’s finest.’


I shrug my shoulders, and put my hands up. “Alright.”


“Just Kelvin. He’s not in uniform and he’s black (We all know how cops like to shoot black men first and ask questions later), but don’t shoot him. I need him to fry nacho chips.”

It didn’t seem as though the cops were enjoying my sense of humor. Kelvin rounds the corner with his hands in the air.

“Where’s Justin,” I ask, “You didn’t shoot him, did you? I’m not in the mood to hose blood and brains off the sidewalk.”

Apparently, they didn’t think that was very funny either. Piggy number four escorts Justin into the dining room in handcuffs. Evidently, when he went outside to let the cops in, he didn’t see anyone. As he turned around to re-enter the building, he heard a click and felt the cold steel of a handgun against the back of his head.

“Don’t move,” Bacon Bit says as he throws him down on the ground and cuffs him, “You are not under arrest.”

Justin says, “Well it seems that I am.

The poor boy looked terrified. I think he even started hyperventilating at one point. I had a mad urge to knock a pan on the ground to see if he’d piss himself. Instead I said, “Jesus, why did you have to CUFF him? What? Were you afraid he was going to take his nametag off and poke you in the eye with it?”

Strike three; I was out. They didn’t even crack a smile. I guess I’ll refrain from entering the world of comedy now.

They stuck around a couple of more minutes, asked a few insipid questions, and checked our driver’s licenses and left. On they’re way to pull random people over and harass a few skateboarders, no doubt. I still maintain that they’re worthless. Anyone that needs 45 minutes to drive two blocks would be better off riding the short bus to craft class, not upholding the law. It’s funny that I have more faith in my can of mase than I do the people who are supposed to ’serve and protect’ me.

Justin looks at me, shaking, and exclaims, “I need a cigarette!”

“Think of it this way, tough guy,” I reply, “at least you’ve got a cool story to tell your grandkids.”


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