Sirens

This entry is part 2 of 7 in the series Halloween in Montreal

I complied with the police officer’s instructions and knelt on the ground with my hands behind my head.  I remained there for what seemed like an eternity as one of the cops cautiously walked around me, a pair of handcuffs in his hands.  I tried to ask him what this was all about, which he ignored, and instead told me to lay down on the ground.  I remarked that it would be difficult for me to do so with both my hands behind my head, a witty remark that obviously wasn’t appreciated.

Within a matter of seconds I was pushed to the ground, my skull cracking while it struggled to survive the impact.  As the taste of blood slowly filled my mouth, sharp pains flooded my nose, and I wondered if it had just been ripped off by the force of the hit.  The officer was soon on top of me, grabbing my hands, putting on the handcuffs and pulling me up to my feet.

I was greeted by a small crowd of onlookers, some taking pictures and videos with their cellphones: I’d probably end up a YouTube sensation by the time the night was up.  I decided to lay it on thick and spat out a tooth as blood dribbled down my chin. The crowd had obviously surprised the cop, who’se name tag read “Officer Murray”, as he smiled and politely told me to watch my head as I entered the back seat of a cop car that was parked on the side of the street.  Obviously nervous, he then quickly closed the door and ran around to the driver’s seat, got in, started the sirens and drove away, honking at some onlookers that were standing in the street.  I turned to look at the crowd and noticed the backseat door wasn’t properly closed, but with my tooth lying back there on the road somewhere, I decided it best to keep my mouth shut.

The car sped through a couple of red lights and eventually made it onto the highway.  We headed east, towards downtown, all the while Officer Murray taunting me, calling me things like child molester, kidnapper and baby killer.  I hadn’t done anything wrong, and didn’t dignify Murray’s insults with a response, which in turn just made him talk more.  He began talking about prison, reminding me of how many years I would be stuck behind bars, and how a big guy named Bubba would undoubtedly make me his bitch.

“Hope you packed some Vaseline!” he said with a loud, exaggerated laugh.

I ignored him and kept an eye on the car door.  It was holding, but obviously wasn’t very sturdy.  As the car sped down l’Autoroute Ville-Marie, I saw the door pop in and out, prompting me to scuttle over to the middle of the backseat.  From there I could see the car’s dashboard, and sure enough the open door sign was on.  Apparently Murray was too busy musing about unavoidable sodomy, and didn’t pay attention to the flashing light.

After about three minutes, during which I came close to telling the Murray to shut up twice, a call came up on the police radio.  Something was going down at the National Bank near Beri-UQAM Metro Station, and all available cop cars were ordered to assist.  Being in the vicinity, our car was also asked to show up, something Murray obviously didn’t care for.  He pompously called in, stated he was carrying a dangerous offender, and said he was continuing to the station.  The voice on the other line quickly scoffed at his remarks and ordered him to head to the National Bank.  I guess I wasn’t the only one who found he took his job too seriously.

Suddenly the car lunged forward, and I instinctively kept an eye on the half open door.  Murray hadn’t tied up my seatbelt when he’d so politely sat me in the car, and with my hands in cuffs, I wasn’t able to do anything about it.  As the car moved from lane to lane, I slid from side to side, cringing each time I slid towards the passenger door for fear that it would open and I would fly out into traffic.  We moved left to right for what seemed like an eternity, and it wasn’t long before a wave of nausea came over me.  I gagged as the contents of my stomach flew out and covered most of the driver’s side of the backseat, Murray swearing at the mess I’d just made.  I smiled, realizing that even with a good clean, the smell would easily stay in the car for a couple of weeks.

We soon arrived at the National Bank, parking behind the other cop cars that had arrived on the scene.  Frustrated and unable to cope with the smell of my lunch any longer, Murray opened the door and walked out, joining his fellow officers who were all standing around a broken window.  From what I could see, it looked like someone had broken into the bank and stolen some cash.  The cops had come to the same conclusion and were getting ready to close down the surrounding streets and begin searching for a suspect.

With the car empty, and the smell of vomit filling my senses, I turned sideways and began to push the passenger door with my feet.  It buckled but remained closed, so I gave it a light kick and it swung open.  I quietly rolled out of the car and walked away trying to look as casual as I could with a pair of handcuffs tied behind my back.  I had almost made it down to the next block when I heard a shout from behind.  I turned to find Murray staring at me from beside the barf-filled cruiser.  I turned and quickly ran as he pulled out his gun and fired a shot.

“Crazy asshole!” I murmured to myself, running as fast as I could while bystanders ran fearing for their lives.

I ran down another street and quickly found a Beri-UQAM Metro Station entrance.  I figured if anything it would be difficult to find me in the Metropole’s busiest station so I plowed through the doors and ran down into Montreal’s  underbelly.  I heard shouts as I ungraciously jumped over the ticket booths, falling to the other side.  A chubby Metro worker came out and tried to grab me, but I got up, slipped through his fingers and easily outran him.

I hid in the immense sea of commuters and slowly made my way down to the yellow line, the lowest platform in the three line station.  I hid in a corner, as far away from all the commuters as I could, and let out a sigh of relief.  I had made it: all I needed now was to hop on the next metro train and I would be free.  I wrestled with my handcuffs, trying to pull them off, but it was no use, they were on to stay.  It was no problem though, I would find someone to help me latter, once I got off the train.

“You need help with that?” A heavy voice asked from behind.

I turned, expecting a security guard to grab me and bring me back up to the police.  Instead, I saw the last person I expected to see.

“Steve?!” I said, surprised.

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