The Crazy Fuckin’ Running From The Cops Times
Editors: “Swift” Swervis Smith and “Leapin’ ” Lacy Buh Buh Buh Browder
AREA STONERS CHASED, BOWL CHUCKED
Sorry, Mike. Had to do it.
by Travis Smith and Lacy Browder
Upon arriving at 169 Wood Ave, resident Michael Chaplin was discovered to be napping. As he awoke, Chaplin groggily muttered incoherent phrases and then quickly returned to his slumber. Travis Barnabus Smith and Lacy Peterson Browder voiced their dismay over not being able to get the hook-up from Jam Master Jay Tate. Chaplin continued muttering at this point, but his words were still incomphrensible, but it was certain that he was awake, if only in a kind-of sense. Lisa and Travis were seated at the edge of the bed and couch, respectively, enjoying Britney & Justin: Love Chain, when Travis noticed Liza Minelli fondling the snuff can, frequently employed to disguise weed.
Smith’s interest was peaked, and soon Leesa Gibbons exposed the contents of the snuff can: about two thirds of a bowl pack. It was something to be excited about, but only partially, as the combined buzz was estimated to be shit. Then Lenny G revealed an added discovery: two roaches to add to their mounting bowl. The packing began.
They soon found themselves enroute to....DISASTER.
The silver Civic traipsed about the city, passing by The Temple for the third time of the night. As the vehicle careened between lanes, the two passed a fat ass bowl back and forth for at least half an hour.
Yeah, so then they drove through a bunch of fuckin places. One particular road on this journey was particularly photogenic and Smith and Particularly Peterson decided it would be the perfect opportunity to compose a beautiful image. As they tried to decide when to take a go at it, the pair saw Jay Tate wearing a trucker cap and riding in a ‘76 Impala. This was odd enough to prompt Scootie Butt to snag a hit off the bowl. As her finger struck the light, shooting flame into the air, a second pair of headlights shone down on the car, with Liza caught like a deer in uh ...headlights.
“Its a cop, dude! Its a fuckin cop, dude! Radical! Oh wait, totally not radical.....dude.” Alright alot of that wasn’t said, but you get the gist. Anywho, it was heart attack, fever pitch, feel your pulse pounding against your fuckin temples time. Nervous breakdowns for everyone. The cop car turned onto the photogenic street as the Civic darted towards an exit, any exit at all. Smith turned back to see where the squad car was headed, and noticed its brake lights flash on, as the vehicle came to a stop. This was enough to send a second, more painful stroke of fear through the Dynamic Duo, and they began a series of labryinthine, daring manuevers, there was no sign of the copper’s car. Travis began to get a sense of where they were, and as they let the hot boxin’ air out, they sailed through Grove Park.
Travis continued to turn back to check for the cop periodically. Just when they thought it was safe and Smith could enjoy a celebratory cigarette, he noticed the cop car PULLING ONTO THE STREET FROM THE SAME DIRECTION THEY HAD COME. bum bum bum. Travis began to panic, and started making wild threats about chucking the bowl if the danger became anymore severe. Not seeing what a huge loss it would be, and not realizing that the car would eventually escape the grasp of the snooping cop, he tossed Mike Chaplin’s yellow and black bowl into the yard of an unsuspecting family, who would one day strike the object with a lawn mower, and Jim Crawford would have to watch his wife die in front of him.
Lacy was outraged at this point by the brass tacks of one Mr. Will Smith. “What the fuck man, what was I supposed to do, nucca?” Smith demanded. For this, Lisa had no answer, except to park the car at an intersection and get her license-less ass to the passenger seat. Smith took the wheel and plowed a course for his domicile. Flying down South Main street at approximately one mile an hour over the speed limit, a traffic light clicked over to red, halted any and all escape. In the rear view mirror, Travis saw the one thing in the world he did not want to see.
“Oy my fucking goggles, its the cop car,” no one said. What actually transpired was more like a series of, “Is that a fuckin’ cop” “Fuck those are fuckin cop lights!” and “Check me out nigga! AAAAhHhhhh!”s. There was nothing more that they could do. They froze and tried to act cool and the car steadily approached. There was little doubt in Travie’s mind that this was in fact, it. Their luck had run out and soon Officer Dangle would be handing Travis a ticket for something or other and possibly searching the now bowl-less vehicle. But as the car came to a complete stop, they realized it was just Jay Tate in a trucker hat. No, not really, but it was like a what, uh, a Cadillac from about 1983 or something? Yeah, so not a cop. Good, very good. That celebratory cigarette was tasting mighty fine.
They came to a park on the opposite side of the street from Travis’s house. The pair just had to get off the road and retreat to a safe house, and this one was as good as any. Suddenly, Travis had some doubts. “Shouldn’t I just turn and park behind my diddy?” Smith wondered. Liza slowly agreed. He pushed the shifter back into drive and did a U-turn. The car came to a park in the six-foot wide river, and they prepared to exit, when all of a FUCKIN SUDDEN:
Sirens. Coming from South Main and West Main. The sirens were swiftly descending upon them.
“No, it can’t end like this. We’ve come so far!” Travis screamed at God. The sole siren slowed its rapid pace and completely stopped, casting a deadening silence, while still maintaining complete secrecy about its location. The fact was, though a siren could most certainly be heard approaching, there was no visual to give the pair any idea of how close the cop car was, due to a hill on Avondale Dr. They moved faster than before, Matrix fast, and Smith whipped out the house key and the pair bolted inside. Lisa hid next to the stairs, while Travis found refuge behind the front door. The siren began again and they closed their eyes, praying to Ra the Sun God for safety in their time of need. Fortunately, Ra answers prayers even while He’s casting light on the good people of Asia: the sirens belonged to a fire truck, which passed by the two. A celebratory shot of vodka was the only way to finish of this night, but fuck, why with grape fruit juice? I mean damn.