Godplace/Mission238 forums

 You guys can thank Mel for this..... I was texting and this story was a little long to text so I figured I'd p.m. it. Then I decided I would inflict everyone with the pain and see what the reaction would be. It is all true....I actually thought about posting some of these stories, but have never gotten around to it, with the exception of an occasional reference in a post....I ain't Mini, so my writing is not as polished.. :smirk2:


"The arrest of the ancient one"

It was a dark and stormy night.... no, really, it was dark.... :laughhard: It was January 1st, 2006, at about 2 am in the morning. A short little police corporal in a small southern town was working the late shift, from 10 pm to 6 am, and wondering who he'd made mad to draw New Year's Eve duty for the third straight year. I'd, er, the corporal, had been running from one end of town to the other on calls  of "shots fired" which were invariably fireworks. ( "shots fired" calls get priority over pretty much every call, and gets ALL the Po-Po excited). 
  There was a lull in the action, and the policeman was beginning to think that he might have time to eat the remains of the burger he'd bought an hour earlier, before the idiot driver he'd wound up arresting for DWI stumbled in front of him. But, nay, it was not to be....

The radio crackled with the dispatcher's voice. "Dispatch, 113?". The officer noticed a little note of apology in her voice. "Go ahead". " 113, I need you to 10-96 to an address on South Brill. Complainant advises his wife is suicidal."  "Ten-four".

Great. Just what I wanted. A suicidal woman, a cold burger, and a four page report. Sometimes, every cop wishes they could just tell the suicidal individual to stop being dramatic, just end it. Less paperwork. But, no, most all officers are compassionate and will try to talk the morons from ending it all, even though often times it'd clear up criminal cases by the dozens.

The officer couldn't help but notice that this address was a little different. In a quiet area of town where mainly elderly retired folks lived, most of the calls they received in that neighborhood were that of the nature of a loose dog. How was he to know that the call he'd just taken would live for years in the court system and was just the beginning salvo in a war? A war that the young cop was now a figure in, unwillingly or not, and would be nicknamed "Days of our Lives, the Geriatric Version" by local cops....

 The young officer pulled to a stop in the driveway of a well kept two story home. A newer home he'd watched being built over the past couple of years, it was somewhat styled after a 1830's plantation home, with a detached garage. Very nice, and not the normal surroundings for him to be called to.
Being apprehensive about the idea of being at the wrong address at 2 in the morning, he radioed Dispatch. "Dispatch, just verifiying the address was _____ South Brill, 10-4?" The answer came back immediatly, with just a note of testiness in the Dispatcher's voice. "That's correct". How dare the officer question the Goddess of Dispatch?!?
  The officer advised he was on scene, and exited his patrol car. As he approached the house, he was met by a feeble little man of 75 years of age, who resembled for all the world the man who was the fake Wizard in "The Wizard of Oz". This little man was nowhere NEAR as innocent and unassuming as he first appeared.... :nono:
The Wizard proceeded to tell the officer that his wife, aged 70, was suicidal and sobbing. He said she was in the kitchen, and then offhandedly stated something that should've let the officer know that this was NOT an ordinary situation. "Officer, you need to know my wife is a BlackBelt in Karate, and shoots competion .45's. "  :o 

As Dave Barry says- I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP. Later the officer would discover, yes, the lady was a blackbelt- in three different styles of hand to hand combat- and shot Match Grade .45's, 1911 Kimbers to be exact. And apparently from the trophies on display that the officer would later see, she did these hobbies very, very, well.....

The officer entered the house and was confronted by the sight of a small built elderly lady, around 110 lbs, who was sitting at the kitchen table, sobbing her eyes out. Having always had a soft spot for the elderly, the officer's heart instantly went out to her. The burger forgotten, the officer approached the lady to try to help her get her life back together....

" Ma'am, I am Cpl______ with the ____Police Department. I'd like to talk with you, and see if there's something we can do to help."  The lady sobbed a little louder, then sat up. "Okay. But really, I just want to die.......". The last words of that sentence were just drawn out into a kinda wail.
The officer looked at the husband, who appeared helpless and at a loss. The officer would summerize that this home was probably one that was ran by the lady of the house in normal times. These were not normal times. The officer grabbed his professionalism and begain to talk to the lady. "Can you tell me what happened?" The story he got was the following:

The lady, who we will call Mrs. Jones, had been married to Mr Jones for fifty years. Theirs had been a happy life- she was employed by the state, he an independant contractor- lived mainly in a town about 55 miles from the town they were presently domiciled in.

According to her, they had made a trip through our little town and had fallen in love with it. They purchased a beautiful spot of land overlooking the river, and decided to build a home. They began immediately, working on weekends and after work. As Mr Jones had already retired,and Mrs. Jones had two more years to go, it was decided that when the house was far enough along, Mr. Jones would move in and live in it while working and Mrs Jones would come down of an evening and on weekends. This would ease the burden of travel on Mr. Jones and he could work at his own pace.
This worked swimmingly for a time. The neighborhood was nice, the views lovely, and the Jones' pictured themselves retiring peacefully and living happily ever after. I am sure they never dreamed what was about to take place....

   It became apparent that  the main problems for Mrs. Jones came from a direction she never imagined. Her husband, who had always been faithful to a fault, made a new friend. It started as a casual thing- Mr Jones busily working on the house,no one around  - then an active widow lady of 80 years of age began walking by the house.
   The lady- Mrs Smith- (and I know the names aren't creative, but I can keep track of them) had observed the progress on the house with much interest. She'd lived in the neighborhood for over 40 years, and didn't want any more issues in the area.
  There had already been an unfortunant time in which the nursing home down the street had closed. The closing did not bother Mrs Smith, but before she could find out what was going on, the building was sold and became a halfway house for addicts and mental patients. It had taken some time to straighten that out, and the halfway house was still there.

Mrs. Smith was not happy about it, and was determined that before anyone else came into HER neighborhood, they would be properly vetted. Therefore, she had began "exercising" by walking past the house numerous times a day, and had noticed that the house was apparently going to fit in. It had her tentative approval.
  After a couple of well timed walks, Mrs. Smith managed to meet both the Wizard and the lady of the house, whom she would later, in documents read to an open court and with photographic proof, she would call a female dog. This would be done in no where near the calm manner I typed and would rhyme with a female who rides a broom. Apt, really, since Mrs. Smith would later prove that she was quite the broom jockey herself....
Mrs Smith decided that to be neighborly, she would be pleased to have the Jones' to her home for dinner and drinks. This took place and it appeared to all involved that this was going to be a good retirement with good friends. As time passed, Mrs. Smith, who had been widowed for many, many years, formed the opinion that Mr. Jones was quite the witty, intellegent man. While the officer never really knew whether she had decided to take him from his wife or not, it became apparent that Mrs. Smith did not feel that Mrs. Jones was "Dear Freddy's" equal or perfect match. Presumably, she felt she and he were a much better fit....

:popcorn:


This is great. Real life is much better than fiction sometimes!

:popcorn:

 The friendship of Mr Jones and Mrs. Smith could have went on for years....or at least as long as two folks of their advanced years could reasonably plan to live, were it not for one fly in the ointment. Mrs. Jones. After a couple years of Mr. Jones finishing up work on his new home and wandering down the street to partake of evening drinks, the house was deemed finished and Mrs. Jones decided the time was ripe for her well deserved retirement. With her retirement, came a move to her new home. And with that move, came an end to the nightcaps at the neighbors.

Mrs. Smith, however, reasoned that "they were just friends" and didn't seem to care that Mrs Jones had met the Green Eyed Monster and invited him to live with her. She made it clear that she saw no need for Mr Jones to confine himself "in a loveless relationship with that old bag". And thus the war started.
 
The night that the poor innocent police corporal got drug into this, Mrs. Jones had discovered that Mr Jones and Mrs. Smith had been carrying on in the aforementioned manner for quite some time. Her first instinct, she told the officer, was to go to Mrs. Smith's house and "snatch that floozy bald." Fortunately for the floozie, it appeared she was out on the town- probably with another wife's husband, reasoned Mrs. Jones.
   
She returned to her home and had quite the discussion with her husband, then left in tears, driving aimlessly around. She told the officer that she had decided she wanted to die, but wanted it to look like an accident. She had lined up her car with a bridge pillar and punched the gas, but "chickened out". She then returned home, and collapsed sobbing, at which point Mr. Jones decided the odds were good that she might harm herself, or, more concerning from his point of view, him, and called the police.

After the officer heard this tale of woe, then heard Mrs. Jones declare emphatically that she was going to die this night, he felt he had no choice but to place the sobbing grandmother in handcuffs and transport her to the police department for her safety. Policy said that the officer was to do so, and call a counseler. The officer, not wanting to hear the next morning that the lady had killed three people, did so.

Mrs. Jones became somewhat animated to discover that she was under arrest, then submitted meekly. The counselor arrived, screened Mrs Jones, and privately told the officer that the odds were good that this lady was going to hurt someone. He admittted he felt it more likely that the floozy would be harmed, but stated that he would seek a bed at a mental health facilty. A short time later, panic broke out. No hospital would take Mrs. Jones because of her age. Elderly mental patients are to be segregated from younger and no one had a bed available.
  The corporal, feeling overwhelmed, called his sergeant. The sergeant and corporal talked with Mr. Jones, who, in a wise move, had taken advantage of Mrs Jones' absence to hide her favorite weapons. After Mrs. Jones solomely promised to not harm anyone, she was released for the night.
The corporal felt that this was over if they didn't get anymore calls the next morning reporting bodies....

 Boy, was the corporal wrong......time rocked on, and nothing was heard of the small drama taking place on Brill Street. That did not mean nothing was happening. Finally, officers started getting calls that there was harrassment in the neighborhood. The next time the corporal took the call, the report was that Mrs. Jones had ridden by Mrs Smith's house on a bicycle and yelled out at Mrs. Smith. When Mrs. Smith turned to look, Mrs. Jones " threw sign language at her". After recieving a rough imitation of the sign language, the officer, whose former girlfriend taught sign language and had taught him enough to flirt across the church with, verified that indeed the sign language was unkind and rude. A report was made.

This became a weekly event. Every officer had a Jones-Smith tale to tell. Finally Mrs. Jones got a warrant swore out for Mrs. Smith. This went through the court system until the judge issued a decree ordering them to literally drive the opposite directions from each others' house. Problem solved.

Then Mrs. Smith observed that Mrs. Jones was a creature of habit who went to Walmart every Sunday at approximately 7 am. Nothing would do, but that became HER time to shop at Walmart as well. Several skimirshes later, Walmart requested that the ladies either pick different times to shop, or find a new store. They did neither. Mrs. Smith decided that she would step up the battle a notch. After all, she had lived here for FORTY YEARS.

Remember the halfway house/ mental facility? Mrs. Smith befriended a resident. This resident had a fondness for alcohol, which was strictly forbidden. The administrator of the facility, who knew nothing of the drama two doors down, saw no harm in her patient sitting on the front porch with the "nice old lady" and drinking tea. The tea turned out to be rather heavily spiked. The administrator would later remark that the patient slept rather soundly after visiting with sweet Mrs. Smith....

After a few visits with Mrs. Smith, the patient learned that Mrs Jones drove a small car, the color and location of said car, and that Mrs. Jones was a female dog. With just a little persuasion, this word was carved in the side of said car in one foot tall letters. With what appeared to be battery acid.

Mrs. Smith denied any involvement, yet cackled when interveiwed, saying, "Well it's true, she is." After a little detective work, the patient was tracked down and admitted that Mrs Smith had paid him to do this and had given him alcohol as well. Charges were filed. Orders were issued, and in the midst of all the drama, Mr and Mrs Jones filed for divorce, which was granted.
It was all over. NOT. Mrs Jones, you see, was also an accomplished artist, and Mr Jones had built her an apartment studio over the garage. On the same side of the house  that Mrs. Smith's house was on. That is where Mrs. Jones moved.  :o It continued to flare up weekly.

It all came to a head that fateful sunday morning when both ladies went to Walmart. Mr Jones, who had somewhat reconciled with Mrs Jones and decided that Mrs Smith was "fruit bat crazy", had gone with Mrs. Jones. While in the dairy aisle, Mrs. Smith began yelling at Mrs. Jones, who, according to the camera system of the store attempted to walk by Mrs. Smith. Having been told by her lawyer to film anything that was done by Mrs. Smith, she snuck her phone out of her pocket and began filming. This enraged Mrs. Smith, who in an episode of "aisle rage" rammed Mrs. Jones' buggy, causing her phone to fall. Then, Mrs. Smith decided to slap Mrs. Jones in the face.

This, friends, was the wrong thing to do. Of the three types of hand to hand combat Mrs. Jones knew, she used 47. She whupped that "floozy" like a red headed stepchild, and managed to leave not a single mark. The officer later commented to other officers that he wish Mrs. Jones gave lessons.... the store personnel called the police, and pulled them apart.

 When the corporal, who by this time had became a Sergeant, arrived at Walmart, he was totally unprepared to find the Jones-Smith feud. He quickly dispatched an officer to deal with Mrs. Smith, who had decided that the Sergeant saw her as a huge problem. She was completely right. The Sergeant then approached Mrs. Jones and discovered clear as day, a handprint on her left cheek. The Sergeant took statements, and made a decision that later proved popular with everyone involved except Mrs. Smith.
He placed her under arrest for violation of Arkansas law, namely, 3rd degree battery. Out of respect for her advanced age, the Sergeant had one of his patrolmen park his police car and ride back to the police department with Mrs. Smith. Mrs Smith immediately took this as a sign of weakness.
Upon arrival at the police department, the book in process was started. The Sergeant had already decided that it would be counter productive to actually jail Mrs. Smith, and his intention was to book her in, cite her, and release her. Mrs. Smith became downright irritable and combative with the "whippersnapper" sergeant, and refused to have her picture taken, stating that she " had not had her picture in a jail in 81 years and it wasn't gonna happen now."

The sergeant lost it. Completely. Very loudly, he informed Mrs Smith that he had went out of his way to show respect and kindness to an elder. He informed her that it was kindness, not weakness she had been seeing, and it was over. She had two choices. Take the picture as requested or he would "throw her decrepit old butt so deep into the jail they would have to pump sunshine to her old butt."
Mrs. Smith, who observed that the sergeant was serious when he grabbed the jail keys, and that all other officers had vacated the area, decided she would take the picture after all. The rest of the incident was rather uneventful, with the exception of the judge calling the sergeant personally and asking what in the blazes was going on....

At the last report, both parties have mutually agreed to not look at each other and it has been peaceful for a couple of years. After all the drama, the officer had opportunity to ask Mr. Jones if he was indeed "seeing" Mrs. Smith. Mr Jones told me "Son, some things don't work like they usta, so no.....thirty years ago, though...." He concluded by saying he had no idea Mrs. Smith was that crazy, and Mrs. Jones was that jealous. At last report, the jones had remarried and are now an active part of the community's high society. Mrs. Smith sulks with her dog named Bob- I'm not sure if that was his name or it was changed in honor of the sergeant.

The officer still gets a twinge when he drives down that street, remembering the 70 year old blackbelt who loves guns...... And that is how the Sergeant became a legend for arresting the oldest person the police department had ever booked in.... :thumbsup2:

BOL! Nice!

As one with experience dealing with elders (my aunt is activities director in a nursing home, and I have taken part in a fair number of their activities) I can testify that age does not in any way temper some people's tempers.   :-\

 :laughhard:

That's pure gold right there.  Readers Digest worthy!  Loved it, thank you for sharing.

Oh. My. Word.

:laughhard:

:beret:

:grin:

 Not near as funny, but an incident that really touched me and proved that God can use anyone, even a half-backslidden cop, to reach someone.


  A few years ago while working patrol, there was a time that I was all but backslidden. Due to my work schedule, I had to miss alot of church. That, coupled with a stressful job that would drive a saint to sin, had caused me to get cold and all but backslid. I say this not to brag, other than on my God, who was merciful enough to give me, and another person, a second chance. I would try to live right, but as anyone who has been forced to miss chuch knows, the longer you are away from nourishment and fellowship, the further you slide.

On the particular night in question, I was working third shift- again- and was burned out. To explain a little better- in Arkansas, we have "wet" counties and "dry" counties. In the dry counties it is illegal to sell any kind of alcoholic beverage, unless the business is a "supper club" and these are strictly limited to a few drinks with dinner. In a wet county, there's a beer joint or liquor store on every corner. Every county surrounding the one I worked in were dry. Bone dry. My county, however, was gloriously soaking sopping, wet. Drenched even. Heck, a person could nearly buy a beer at the bank.

Needless to say, we were a popular place of a evening or a weekend, and I thrived on handing out DWI (Driving While Intoxicated or Impaired) tickets. Truthfully, there's nothing as funny as a happy drunk.

   Back to the story....There was in my city, located across from a liquor store AND a nightclub, a KOA campground. Not only did the campground rent camping spots they rented spaces for mobile homes as well. From time to time, officers had reason to go into this place, usually to retrieve some wayward soul. This night would be no different.

It was in the early hours of the morning when the call came out. There was an altercation at one of the mobile homes. A man was threatening his exgirlfriend, and was trying to kick down the door. Dispatch advised the caller to stay inside her bedroom , and got us (the police) rolling at a high rate of speed. While enroute Dispatch advised officers that the man was unarmed, had been drinking, and was probably driving an older model Ford truck.

  As luck- and God- would have it, I was the first officer on scene. As there was only one way into and out of the park, I met the suspect. I flipped around on him, hit my blue lights and made the traffic stop. Sure enough, it was the man we were going to remove from the front porch of the trailer. And he was definately soused. As usual, I had him perform the stupid human tricks, scored him, and "hooked him up". I put him in my police car and waited patiently for the tow truck, while my other officers went to talk with the complainant.

Now, drunks talk and say funny things in a police car.  As Music soothes the savage beast,  I'd been listening to the "Hinson's LIVE" album.  Even when I was away from God, Kenny Hinson singing "Two Winning Hands" made my night better. I turned down the music and listened to my catch.

"Please don't tell my Mama." OOOOOKKKKAAAAY. Dude, you are 45 years old. I've never met you, and I don't even know your Mama. Why would I tell your Mama? I said as much, and Mr Young began to sob. Genuine, gut wrenching sobs.

"You don't understand, Officer. My Mama is a One God Holy Rolling, Tongue Talking Pentecostal. I was raised that way. I know better than this." I felt like I'd been goosed with a cattle prod. God began screaming at me to say something. No matter how cold I was, I'd never failed to hear God speak to me and never outran the calling He'd laid on me at twelve years old. "Mr. Young, you had no way of knowing this, but you have been arrested by the only On God, Jesus Name Pentecostal in law enforcement in this area."

The sobs really picked up then. To this day, I couldn't tell you what all was said that night. He and I talked until the wrecker arrived, then I transported him to the jail. After all the paperwork was done, I locked Mr Young down for the night. Before leaving his cell, when it was just he and I, I told him I'd be praying for him and told him it was time to stop running from God and turn back to Him. I seem to recall Mr. Young telling me God wouldn't forgive him, but God gave me the words to say.  I spent a good portion of the remainder of that night driving around dark neighborhoods, crying from my own conviction, listening to the Hinsons sing. The whole time, I was praying for a man I'd just arrested. A man who needed God- but then again so did I. Feelings that I'd been a hypocrite crept in to keep me company....

The next day, Mr Young was out of jail before I came in. When the court date arrived, he came in and pled guilty without me ever seeing him. I forgot Mr Young. Just another chance encounter with someone I would never see again.

Several months later I was working day shift when dispatch called me on the radio. They told me that there was someone there needing to speak to me. I sent one of the officers working with me, but Dispatch cancelled that and advised me that they had asked for me personally.

When I arrived at the police department, I saw an elderly lady with a "Pentecostal hive" Hairdo and obviously Godly dress.This little lady looked like a dear old saint of God that flat knew how to pray. You could tell by looking at her that her knees had saw many hours of a rough old floor while she communed with God. I was intimidated just looking at her.

At her side stood an tall clean shaven man. "Officer, you don't remember me do you?" I thought carefully- "No sir, I don't. I'm sorry. Should I?". " You arrested me a few months back. I'm John Young."

Wait- what?!? You had a pony tail to your waist and a beard to match. You cussed every other word. Not like this- you look like a preacher. That was what I thought. I concealed my surprise. "Man, you look great!" I said.

"I just had to come tell you sir. After you arrested me that night, God kept working on me. I called my Mama and began going to church with her. I prayed back through and God filled me with the Holy Ghost. I've been in church for three months now and it is because of you. What you said hit home when no one else's words did." Mr Young wiped a tear, then shook my hand.

The saintly little lady walked over and bearhugged me, crying, telling me thank you for listening to God. This made me more than a little uncomfortable, as I was no where near where I needed to be. I thanked her, and she assured me that she would be in much prayer for me. I excused myself to keep from bawling.

   A couple of years later, I happened to read an obituary in the state paper. There was Mr. Young's picture. He had passed away. He was listed as a member of the local apostolic church. Now, I don't know his spiritual condition at his passing, but I would hope that he made it, in part because of God using me. God had given him one last chance before calling his number.

This incident worked on me heavily, with me feeling that God was showing me that he could use me, regardless of my faults, if I'd let Him. Moral of the story- you never know who God will send to you, and you may never know what an impact you make. I was fortunant. I got to see what God did with my loaves and fishes...

Such an awesome, powerful story Roscoe!! Thank you for sharing

Man...I cried.  Thanks for sharing.

Love it.

:beret:

Next please!

 Along the same lines as the last story,except this one hasn't had the end written yet. If you read this, pray for the man in this story. Mini has met him, I believe, and I can tell you that he is still being worked on by God.


      I was about as far out of church as I could be and still attend (occasionally) , and was working third shift.  As you can see from the last stories, most of the best things happen in those wee hours of the morning...."Bill" was the cook at the local Waffle House. He was a big guy, about 6'6" and well over 400 lbs. Looked kinda like Shrek. Well, what Shrek would've looked like if he was a lumberjack.
Bald on top, he had a beard and mustache.... He was friendly and talked with the cops alot. I'd made no secret about my beliefs to my fellow cops, and didn't call attention to it, since I was cussing and carrying on with the rest of them. After several months of this, talk turned to church one night at about 3 am.

One of the cops, a Baptist, asked me what the pentecostals would think about some hypothetical situation. I saw the big man's head whipped around and he listened kinda close. I gave the answer and changed the subject away from church and God..

  After the conversation moved on, we ate our dinner and soon it was time to return to work. As we all walked out, Bill followed me outside to smoke. In just a few, when it was just me and him, he began to talk to me about pentecost. He asked if I was oneness, then asked some more questions. I began to suspect he knew more than he was letting on.

Finally, he looked at me with tears streaming and said " Bobby, I was a United Pentecostal evangelist for five years. I've been raised in church my whole life. I came here to get away from God and church, and here you are."  He told me that he'd came to my town soley because he didn't see a Pentecostal church to bother him.  Conviction hit ME, and I began to cry, thinking of all of the ways I'd acted and things I'd said in front of him. I pleaded with him, "Please don't judge my church by me. I'm not where I should be." He assured me that he knew the feeling. He agreed to go to church with me. Somehow, he managed to put it off, but every time I came in to the Waffle House, Bill would manage to bring up church.

As time went on, I got back closer with God and closer with Bill and we became close friends. I admitted to Bill that I was running from a call to preach and he told me that he'd known that since he had met me. Bill finally came to church with me several times. The first time he stepped into the church, he was crying before the first song ended. He continued to come sporadically, always feeling God, always crying and praying, but never pushing through.  The first message I preached, he sat in the back pew and cried all the way through it.

One night, he asked my pastor, who he loved the minute he met him, if he could sing in church one night. Bro. Wilson, sensing something, allowed him to, the first time I've ever saw someone out of church take the platform. He sang an old Hinson family song, "Two Winning Hands". The church exploded and you could see God's annointing pouring off of him. He just held onto the pulpit, shaking and crying.

For some reason, though, he couldn't get past the hurt that had taken him out. He won't to this day tell me the complete story, but from what I gathered, he was jilted at the altar by a minister's daughter, and some hurtful things were said. He simply walked away.
In the ensuing years, bill told me he'd done "a bit of it all" from selling cars to cooking as a short order cook, always careful to stay away from anything that resembled church. Now, though, he comes to church occasionally, if rarely. He works weekends as a local bouncer at a bar and through the week for a trucking company in the gas field. There but for the grace of God, go I.

I preach to Bill nearly every time we meet. I  pour my heart out, he crys, we go on our ways. I vow to not let him be a Trophy of Hell.  He's became quite the crusade for me. I know if he ever gets back where he needs to be, God will use him again. He has a huge network of people that he could influence mightily. He is one of those people that never makes an enemy and never meets a stranger..
Ninety percent of the time, if you get in Bill's truck, he's listening to the hinsons or the like, or good apostolic preaching. I'm still believing that someday, I'll see him back where he should be, in the house of God.
If you get a chance, mention him in your prayers.  God will know who he is...There but for the grace of God, go I.


I wonder how many "Bill"' s exist, that we meet every day without knowing their past? How many of them know us and what we should be, and are we showing them the light that we are supposed to?

I remember meeting Bill.  If I remember right, Roscoe introduced me as "...that preacher I've been telling you about."  Bill said "I knew that as soon as I saw him get out of the truck."  Still sends shivers down my spine...

Quote from: Roscoe on July 08, 2012, 01:35:25 PM
I wonder how many "Bill"' s exist, that we meet every day without knowing their past? How many of them know us and what we should be, and are we showing them the light that we are supposed to?

Amen, and amen.

 Another quick story..

The Case of the Clobbered Cobbler

    It was a pleasant Friday evening in my little town, and I was working my favorite shift, from 2pm to 10 pm. I loved this shift because there was always something interesting going on, and I still got home early enough to get to bed at a decent hour and have all morning to do whatever I wished. Perfect. My perfect day had became even more so when my sergeant, with whom I was good friends off the clock, informed me that his wife had made me a present.

Now, his wife was a paramedic that worked for our local ambulance service, and I had recently helped her with a less than ideal medical call. She was a sweetheart who loved to bake almost as much as I loved to eat- a little fact that was well known. Mrs. Sergeant, then, had whipped up one of her super-duper homemade peach cobblers and sent the whole thing to me. She had told Sergeant the rest of the guys could fend for themselves.  :lol:

Sergeant had presented me with the cobbler in front of the entire shift, who all looked like a bunch of begging puppies trying to get a piece of MY cobbler. Not gonna happen. If I let those wolfhounds get a whiff of it, they'd hog the whole thing. Besides, where were they when I was sweating my heavy little self down a flight of stairs, holding up one side of a cot on which a lady that weighed approximately 500 lbs lay moaning on?   Well, I'll tell you, they weren't there helping, that's for sure. And they weren't gonna be eating my cobbler, either.  I said as much, and pranced out the door with my cobbler.

  This little bit of greed would later be my undoing. As I got into my sleek police cruiser and set the cobbler down in the passenger seat, I couldn't help but tastes just a bit of the crust- golden, flakey, liberally sprinkled with cinnamon....MMMM. I decided I would lock it up in my personal vehicle where the vultures would be unable to get to it, and enjoy it after work, with a tall glass of milk...

Unfortunately for me, that little taste was the only sample I would get of that cobbler. Fate conspired with my coworkers to deprive me of my rightful reward...
As I pulled to the parking lot, Dispatch radioed me. "113, I need you to go to Walmart and make contact with the service manager. She advises the sooner the better."  "Ten-four". Crud. That means they need an officer now. Probably a shoplifter. But, the service manager in question was likely my wife, so away I go, a knight in shining armour... no time to put the cobbler in the car. Besides, one of the greedy dogs had been watching me, no doubt trying to see what I'd done with the baked goodie. Mrs. Sergeant's cobblers were a rare commodity that were not to be missed, even if one had to appropriate it from its rightful owner... :noo: And those clowns were accomplished, by reason of their job, in unlocking locked cars. They even had the tools for doing so...

As I headed for Walmart with my cobbler riding shotgun, my dispatcher called me on the phone. She advised that the call I was headed to was a local well known crackhead/shoplifter, who'd been banned fom Walmart, trying to return stolen goods. In addition, Lady Crackhead had approximately $6,000 worth of warrants. As my monthly activity sheet was looking kind sparse, being able to claim an arrest and all those warrants served sounded good. It'd look good to the Lt, who judged how well a job you were doing by the number of arrests you made. I quickened the pace, never thinking there might be a reason all of the rest of the shift had suddenly found important police business to attend to..

When I arrived, there indeed, was my catch. A black lady of around thirty who looked sixty, "Rose" was well known in the department. She knew us by name. Rose enjoyed dressing ghetto fabulous. Sequined shirts in loud colors, skintight jeans, usually neon green or red, always stained- ick-  and her fingernails. Oh lord, the fingernails....She would grow her own nails out, then would glue garishly painted and sequined fake nails on top of them. This day, they were red, and approximately nine inches long.

" Now, Rose, you know you ain't supposed to be here", I said. "Yes, sir, I knows, but I had to return this stuff..." She looked around. Having dealt with her before, I knew what she was thinking. She was getting ready to move out, without me... I moved to intercept her. Her way of escape cut off, she looked over at the small child, a boy of around 6, that was with her. " Let me step out to the front of the store and get his sister to watch him. She's in a car there by the door."

Not wanting to arrest her in front of her child, I walked with her to the front of the store, where suddenly the car came up missing. Surprise, surprise. At this, Rose decided to go back inside. As we walked back into the store, I took hold of her arm, explaining she was going to have to go with me. We'd deal with the child at the police department. Evidently, I touched the "Run like Hades" button on her arm, and she took off like a rocket bound for Mars.

I wasn't about to let this happen. I took it kinda personal when someone didn't like talking to me to the point of running from me. Not only that, wasn't no way I was gonna let it get back to the police department that I'd been outran by Rose. I took off after her, blasting through a crowded Walmart, in front of half the town. Did I mention it was Friday? You know, the day EVERYBODY gets paid and goes to Walmart?

I caught her by the jewelry rack. Over the countertop we went, taking a display stand of watches and earring with us. Rose had suddenly decided to use her claws, literally, and was scratching the fire out of me. After a brief skirmish, myself and two store employees got her cuffed. Out the door we marched, with the customers cheering. Cheering for me, I assumed, although they may have been for her. At any rate, I was boiling. (I have quite the temper that I struggle with)

I threw her into the back of my car with her cussing loudly and slammed the door. I told the store employees I'd be back to gather information in a bit, and climbed into my patrol car with Rose, who was NOT going into that dark night quietly. After loudly declaring that I was an illegitimate son of a dog, among other things, Rose emphasized her statement by kicking the back of the car seat in front of her, with a kick that would've made a Missouri mule envious.

This kick was the worst possible thing that she could've done, from my standpoint. It caused my beloved, deserved and as yet virign cobbler to do a swan's dive into the floorboard. The dive it took would've made an Olympic swimmer proud. It did somersaults and triple twists. Unfortunantly, it blew the landing. Suddenly there was cobbler from one end of my cruiser to the other, and I was so mad I was nearly speechless. I roared like an angry grizzly and my blood pressure went through the roof. Into the station we went, with Rose in a full head of steam and me matching her, bellow for bellow.

My sergeant came out of the dispatch center to see what was going on. Taking in the sight- 1) Long nailed crackhead with torn clothes cursing 2) one short cop boiling mad and nearly cursing, with a huge scratch on his neck and what appeared to be cobbler on his uniform.

Sarge correctly deduced this was not a good thing, since his officer, who he'd bragged on for not loosing his cool in most any situation, was screaming at the top of his voice that this stupid crackhead had spilt his cobbler..... Sarge calmly took the suspect from me and locked her in a holding cell...then turned around, laughing so hard he was crying.

The trustee cleaned up the cobbler. Rose was charged with every charge I could locate in the law book and locked down. The entire shift sympathized to my face over my lost cobbler, but amongst themselves considered it poetic justice. As for me- everytime I saw Rose, I tried to find a reason to arrest her legitimately. Years later, she asked me why I hated her. I explained I didn't. She thought for a moment and said- "I'm sorry about the cobbler." I nearly lost it all over again.......... :laughhard:

 :laughhard:

:beret:

ROFLOL

Dear Lord. Lol

Roscoe's Great Bear Hunt


To be continued...

What a tease you are.

Quote from: MelodyB on July 23, 2012, 04:47:14 PM
What a tease you are.

:P

 It was a normal, nice, quiet summer night, and I was on the shift that always had the craziest things happen- third shift. I was enjoying riding around with the windows down, listening to good music and looking to see if any thing new had happened in my little town. I'd made all the rounds of the local car lots, and had enjoyed a conversation with a retired cop friend that walked every night. In short- a normal boring relaxing third shift weeknight.

Suddenly, the silence and my peace was shattered by Dispatch. ""Officers, we have a burglary alarm and 2445 Highway 9, motion." Hmm. I think I know that address....."Dispatch, is that the beer distribution center?" "Ten-four". that told me all I needed to know. As I've said before, our county was wet. Very wet. Flooded in fact. This caused an enterprising soul to decided that there was money to be made in sin.
 
Said soul had opened up a beer distribution center that had been the target of a plot of every redblooded redneck for three counties, at least in their minds. The plot being, how to liberate all those golden suds to their custody? Fortunately, no one had suceeded as of yet. However, it was always one of those places I suspected would be hit eventually. The last true attempt anyone had made was several years prior, when a couple of enterprising Bubbas had tied a chain to their bumper, the other end to the gate, and tried to pull the gate down. It didn't work like they planned. They'd yanked the bumper off of their truck, got scared and drove away.

Finding them was very hard. We had to run the license plate that was attached to the bumper, which was still chained to the gate, and drive to the address on the plate return and arrest them. Einstine was obviously not their close relation... :P

 I headed  for the center, which had been locked up for several hours. The location of this warehouse was ideally located for an attempt. Lying just on the outer edge of town, in a dimmly lit area, surrounded by pine trees, if anyone had saw a vehicle around they'd probably figure it was an employee.
As I arrived, my sergeant did as well. We walked around the outside and saw no sign of forced entry, but one of the doors was unlocked.  Dispatch advised us that the owner was enroute with a key to the building. Sarge and I decided to wait and speak with him.

Now, at this point, I had been working for this particular police department about six months. My coworkers and my sergeant took particular pleasure in tormenting me to no end. As a result, I'd been the butt of many jokes and pranks. Little did I suspect that fate had set them up with a terrific opportunity....

Mr Coors arrived with the key. He talked with us, and stated that he figured that there was no one inside. However, he stated that he would appreciate us "clearing the building" and ensuring it was empty. Okay, that's our job. No prob. What I did not know was-1) Mr Coors was quite the prankster himself 2) he instantly took me for fresh meat and 3) he and my sergeant shared a wink as we started into the building.
Oblivious to this, I entered the building and in my best police tactics, proceeded to go through the warehouse inch by inch. Pallets and cases of every type of beer known to man were stack floor to ceiling and the dimly lit warhouse offered tons of hiding places.... After Sergeant and I cleared the warehouse finding no one there, we entered the offices and cleared them. No one.

I began to relax. There was one office left. Mr. Coors' private office suite.  I should've been suspicious when my normally take charge sergeant stepped back to allow me to enter first. The light switch for the office was on the other side of the room, near Mr. Coor's private entrance.
Therefore, I began clearing the room by flashlight. I was soon to discover another interesting tidbit about Mr. Coors.  As I made the corner of the building with my gun drawn, nerves already on edge and jacked up with adrenaling flowing, I was savagely attacked by a huge beast!
Okay, it didn't attack me, but I sure nearly wet my pants. I was staring face to face, or actually face to waist, with a nine foot tall Grizzly bear in full attack posture, with teeth glinting. I screamed like a little girl, jumped back, and nearly shot the bear before I realized that the sergeant and Mr. Coors were on the ground laughing, having a fine time. I then realized that grizzlys are not native to this area, and even if they were there would be no reason for one to be in a warehouse..  :laughhard:

Mr Coors told me that he was a big game hunter and had taken the bear a couple of years prior on an Alaskan hunting trip. It was such a prize he decided to have it stuffed and mounted in an attack posture in his office. He and the sergeant could not resist seeing my reaction. Mr. Coors' poor grizzly nearly was shot repeatedly this night..... Needless to say, I never trusted Mr. Coors or Sergeant again..... Nor have I ever had the desire to hunt a bear. I did however, have the desire to stalk and hunt Mr. Coors and my dear Sergeant..... :laughhard:

Nice!

I kinda thought it would be a story about you taking on the highway patrol. ;)

I'm getting sleepy.

 Roscoe's Rapid Retreat

It was a pleasant sunny day in my small town and life was going grand for the little police officer. Despite all of my shortcomings....I was working on second shift, from two to ten pm, which was my favorite shift. I'd recently put in for the available Sergeant's postition, and had been promoted. I was wearing my shiny new Sergeant emblems for the very first time, and I swear I grew six inches taller every time someone called me "Sarge".
Best of all, I didn't have to leave MY shift, which meant that my friends would remain working with me. As an added benefit, especially after the late cobbler crash and their phony sympathy, I would have the ability to grant or deny them any time off. BwaaaaHaaaHa! I was God. Or at least a very evil short version of Him, according to the men who had spent the last several years harassing and heckling me while I worked my way to the top.  :laughhard:
Obviously cream rises to the top, and now I had power... Ah, but life was good.  :hypocrite:

Then we got THE CALL. " Dispatch to 105." "Go ahead." "Sarge"- ah, I loved the sound of that- " We need you to go to the middle school. Mrs. Rains has a small problem she would like to speak to you about." "Ten-Four."  I hung up the mic and went to see what Sergeant Bob could do for the school teacher.
Had I not been so drunk on success, I might have noticed that Dispatch was awful guarded in their information on the nature of the call. Had I noticed, or been a more experienced sergeant, I would've played it safe and sent one of my boys. Sadly, none of this came into play.

When I arrived, I spoke with Mrs Rains, who appeared both sheepish and concerned. "Sergeant, my car wouldn't start this morning and my husband was gone so I drove one of the farm trucks in. I think I have a problem." As we began walking towards the old Chevrolet one ton in the parking lot, I fully expected that it wouldn't start or something of that matter. Being the ever faithful public servant, I was eager to assist.
"As I got in the truck this evening, a snake fell out from under the dash. It went back under the seat, and I don't want to drive it until the snake is gone." This was said so sweetly and quietly I missed the meaning of the words at first. "No problem, Mrs. Rains. We'll have you on your- WHAT?!? A snake!?!?" I jumped away from the half open door liked I'd been bit. "Did you say a snake?" "Yes. I told the dispatcher".

Now there were two things everyone knew about me. 1) I didn't go to any call involving me being near a dead body and 2) Snakes are of the devil. I shall not be anywhere near them. Point a gun at me or wave a snake at me. You've a better chance of living pointing the gun. In fact, I had told more than one person who mentioned "snakehandling Pentecostals" that the day we took up snakes would be the day I would become the world's first One God, Jesus Name, Tongue Talking Holy Rolling Baptist. In short, I am deathly afraid of snakes. Crying, screaming, hysterical schoolgirl-on-top-of-the-table scared. And I ain't ashamed of it.
My dispatch had purposfully set me up, the wretched wenchs..........

I calmly stepped back and called for one of my boys to come assist me.  We weren't busy, and one of the guys would surely be able to help me look for the evil beast. Besides, once some other officer was there, I could break away on important sergeantly matters and place myself a safe distance from any potential snake- like across town.

The officer that showed up was Clint. This young man had became one of my closest friends during his time on our reserve program, and had become somewhat like a brother to me. He and his wife were my wife and my closest friends, and frequently ate out together and even vacation together when time allowed. Yes, he knew of my snake phobia.
  Complicating matters of the Great Snake Chase was the fact that the truck was twenty years old. It had apparently never been cleaned. There were feed sacks, McDonald's sack, oil cans- you name it, level with the bench seat that Sir Snake had supposedly hidden under.
I directed Clint to began searching where the snake was last saw. After all, I knew him to be a better shot than I, and if someone got bit, SOMEBODY would have to be in charge of the paperwork and important supervisory things. Clint couldn't do that. :hypocrite:

On the other hand, it was apparent that we were drawing a crowd and that I had to do more than talk. I went to the opposite side of the truck, extended my police issue baton to its full length of three feet, and began poking around through the trash. After several minutes, I became sure that there was no snake on MY side of the truck and ensured that he would not want to be there by making noise. Alot of it.
I was so hung up in my search, and trying to look busy, that I turned my attention from my friend, who was searching the other side of the truck with apparent reckless abandon, like he was hunting for gold... Big Mistake.  As I bent down to closer see a piece of paper, something long and black, much resembling a snake, flew at me, striking me on the shoulder and cheek.
I screamed, jumped ten feet back and twelve feet up, ran smooth over the top of the school resource officer, who was just as afraid of snakes as I was. The four and a half foot tall Philippino Resource Officer got up and PASSED me, screaming even louder. We were later told we could work part time as tornado sirens.
I looked back with gun drawn to see where the evil beast that had attacked us was. Instead of the hissing python, I saw Clint. Laughing so hard he had tears running down his face.
He'd found a broke fan belt the farmer had left in the truck and had thrown it on me to see my reaction. I nearly shot the truck, my best friend, and a fan belt.....
The School Resource officer and I began to plot revenge.  First, I refused to speak to Clint. This made him VERY concerned, since he had never saw me mad at anyone other than the thugs we dealt with daily.

Then the SRO got with his friend the principal of the middle school. She, after knowing this was a prank, wrote out a letter of complaint for the "chief" on offical letterhead, deploring "the prank that showed such unprofessionalism of your department" and hinting that she would be speaking with her neighbor the Police Commissioner about this issue.

I then got the letter, called Clint aside, and read him the riot act. I wrote him up, gave him a copy of the letter and chewed on him until he was literally in tears. Then- just when I had him believing that he was about to lose his job, I informed him that his friend and sergeant knew a thing or two about playing pranks. The whole write up was fake. Just like his snake. The snake, incidently, was never found... I am still somewhat wary of white Chevrolet farm trucks. And Clint has never again threw anything resembling a snake at me.

Bawahahahahaha!

:rofl:

Snake handling WHAT?!  I never voted on that in any General Conference I've ever been to.  And if I see it appear in the manual I'll be the second one God, Jesus name, etc. Baptist.  You and I can start a church.  You be the pastor, I'll run the sound booth.

I don't do snakes. Brandon bought me a machete so I can chop em if 1 shows up at his house. That or I'll be dancing on the roof of my SUV....

Roscoe and the Gravel-voiced Ghost

It was yet another dark night in the hot Arkansas summer, approaching midnight in the small town I worked in. We had a typical summer storm blowing in, it appeared. Hot, muggy with humidity, and lots of lightning meant there was a chance of flooding, fires, and tornados, with a high chance that I would wind up wet.
  Seems like bad weather caused drunks and bad drivers to come out in droves, and they always managed to damage someone's property to the point that I'd have to stand out in the weather and direct traffic or something equally unpleasant.

The one thing I knew I could count on would be numerous alarm calls. Most of the businesses in the old downtown area were housed in old building with glass fronts, and due to a large amount of break-ins, most of the businesses had installed glass breakage alarms. The sensors for these systems attached to the glass and measured vibration. A loud clap of thunder would viberate the old windows to the point that the alarm system would think it was breaking glass, and the dispatch would be swamped with calls.
This meant I would be running from one end of town to the other.....
Sure enough, Dispatch soon ruined my evening. I had purposefully headed to the most distant part of town I could find and still be in the city limits. I'd gone to the neighborhood of the Jones-Smith feud, figuring it would be somewhat calm. Most of their issues had became daytime issues, with the elderly participants sleeping at night, so I'd decided it was safe to venture over.

However- just a few short blocks away from their neighborhood was one of my small town's landmarks. The "old hospital". This giant four story building was a legend in our town. It had been built sometime around the turn of the century, and had been shut down in favor of the new hospital several years before I was born. Perched at the very top of a huge hill, after being boarded up for so many years, it had of course became haunted.

  The fact that, as a hospital, people had undoubtably died there just added to the stories. As kids, especially around Halloween, it was popular to sneak into the old building and tell ghost stories. Local kids, outta town kids- at one point it was even on the internet as a haunted place.  Even the local police had been known to add to the mystique by hiding inside the building at Halloween to scare the bejabbers outta the delinquents sneaking inside. This, however, was long before I became a cop.

I never really thought myself superstitious,but I never really like the dark either. And I was sure there were spirits, and I had no intention of letting one near me unless I knew it was holy. And holy spirits didn't hang out in abandonded buildings- thus, neither did I.

Now, just a few months prior to the call I am about to tell you about, the town had been surprised with some good news. An out of town partnership had saw potential in the handsome old building and had bought it. They set about converting it into an apartment building for the elderly.
I knew they'd been working on it, but had never found a reason or need to go up and check it out, even in the daytime. They might've disturbed a spirit or two....no need to take chances.
Anyway....Dispatch radioed all units- " We have an alarm at the old hospital. Shows glass breakage." Crud. I was, literally, a block away. No one else was near. There were just three of us that night and one was booking in a drunk and I had thoughtfully sent the other to a downed power line so I wouldn't get wet. Once again, karma kicks my tail....

I picked up the mic and advised Dispatch I was enroute. Surely I could drive around the building, shine my spotlight a bit- with my doors securely locked- and go back in service quickly. We all knew it was the storm....nonetheless, it HAD to be check out.
  I turned the corner a block away and instantly got a bad feeling. The alarm system that had been installed was of the type that had flashing strobes. When the alarm was tripped, these things came on at approximately one trillion candlepower and flashed none stop. Four floors, with around twenty windows per floor visible from the front...all with flashing strobes.
  So- let's recap.
1) Haunted Building perched on a hill- FACT
2) Pitch Black Night- FACT
3) Lightening Bolts- FACT
4) Flashing Strobes to set the ambiance- CHECK
5) One uneasy cop- Yeah, we DEFINATELY got that.

All I needed was Mary Shelley's monster with bolts in his neck to come stumbling out. At this point I was ready to desert the scene if so much as a mouse moved...
I checked out with Dispatch so they would know where to find my body when the ghosts attacked me, checked my flashlight- common knowledge spooks didn't like light- made sure I had my gun, and got out of my car. One wrong move by the wind, even, and I'd be gone quicker than a set of rims at a PuffDaddy concert....

 I walked to the front of the old building, only having the urge to run screaming back to the car twice, once by stepping on a stick,  and once when what *might* have been an owl swooped over my head. Either that or my overactive imagination. I KNEW I should not have read so many books when I was younger. Every one I read that started like this ended with a dismemeberment....

Fortunantly, the front door was locked and the new windows that had been recently installed were unbroken. Good. Now to walk around back and check it out, then get the heck outta Dodge before the spirits attacked.
I strolled semi-confidently around the back of the building, having somewhat successfully convinced myself I was being silly and there was no problem here, supernatural or otherwise.

I checked the first door- no problem. I headed for the second door, by now well out of the lights of my patrol car and relying only on the flashlight. About the time I approached the second door, I saw something move. I instantly became convinced of spirits all over again. Then the blasted stray cat darted for the bushes, with me nearly joining it.
One more door, then I could leave. This door used to lead to the old laundry room. It, too,  was tightly locked. Then- standing there in the semi darkness, with lightening flashing, and nerves on end- it happened.

"Don't know what happened, son." A gravelly voice pierced the night, accompanied by my scream. I jumped nearly out of my skin, pawing at my gun and just generally losing my mind. Oh Lord. I'm dead. He's got me. I turned my light in the direction of the voice, hoping to at least stall the spirit.

Sweet Jesus, the voice had came from by the door I'd forgotten about. The door that had led to the morgue. This just keeps getting better. The light illuminated a man that was a hundred if he were a day, sitting there so serenly in a wheelchair.  Evidently, he had good night vision. Most ghosts do. "Calm down, son, don't shoot me. I'm still alive. And I'd like to stay that way a bit longer."
   I regained some of my professionalism.  I was able to, with the help of the darkness, conceal the puddle that was not rainwater suspiciously around my feet, and get my voice back to a normal range. Now if I could just stop the flashlight from shaking....
After a brief conversation with the Gravelly Voiced Ghost, I determined that he was still alive- barely. He'd been allowed to move into one of the two apartments completed a bit early because of housing issues. No one had saw fit to let the police know that he was living there. We determined that there was no problem, and the alarm reset itself.
     Mr. GVG and I had quite the talk. Turns out, many, many days ago, he'd carried a badge and gun for a living.  He told me a few tales from days of old.  As I was leaving he said," I have one question, son....Why'd ya draw your gun when I first spoke?" Uhhh... "You thought I was a ghost, didn't ya?"
  The old man began to cackle. " I ain't yet, son. And by the way, far as I know, those bullets only stop flesh, not ghosts." He cackled even louder. Then he thanked me. Not only had he got to talk to someone, he'd gotten the "best laugh in fifty years" out of the deal.
Me? I politely told the cantankerous old codger that I had to go, and walked away hearing the laughter of a ghost......all the way to my car.
NO- I didn't tell my dispatch. Or anyone else. And a couple of weeks later, the old building was full of tenants. Of course I went there in the daytime. Never saw the old codger. Was he real? Was he a ghost? I know not. One thing I do know- he WAS the cause of my wet pants that night. :laughhard:

Wow. That one was the best one yet! You had me at "morgue"!

;)

"I'd be gone quicker than a set of rims at a PuffDaddy concert...."
Classic.  Hope you don't have a copyright on this one. 

"I KNEW I should not have read so many books when I was younger. Every one I read that started like this ended with a dismemeberment...."
Yeah, that's why I don't read horror stories.  :P

Quote from: Psalm_97 on September 08, 2012, 04:13:47 PM
"I'd be gone quicker than a set of rims at a PuffDaddy concert...."
Classic.  Hope you don't have a copyright on this one. 

I must confess to hearing that expression on a comedy routine years ago...maybe Larry the Cable Guy? I just liked it.... :laughhard:

That was funny.  Not sure you should admit that one part of the story. ;)

Oh my word.  I wish I had read this before our trip to RKansas...  That old hospital would have made me ROAR with laughter instead of asking what was so funny.  Oh.  My.  :spitlaugh:

And... "I'm sorry about the cobbler" made me just crack up.

As I've been absent for so long from GP, I hadn't read any of these stories.  I just sat here and read them ALL, and laughed out loud until my husbandn wondered what on EARTH was so funny.

Mrs. Jones moved into an apartment over the garage...  *shaking my head*  Oh my.

I needed those laughs tonight.  I just did.


:spitlaugh:

Now life would be great right now if I didn't have this overhwleming craving for a donut and a piece of peach cobbler!

Sad part is, my dear clown friend- every blasted one of those stories are true. I lived through each of 'em.... :laughhard:

Some day, these and others may make it into a book, written just so Chey knows what kinda goofy stuff happened to her poor unsuspecting daddy.. :roll:

I think we need a new installment. :)

Quote from: The Purple Fuzzy on November 29, 2012, 09:07:57 PM
I think we need a new installment. :)

I shall think about it. Sadly, many of my police adventures were not near as funny or are, um, off color and not fit to share...:blush:
If I think of a good one I shall post it..

Roscoe's first traffic stop

There comes a time in every young cop's life that he waits anxiously on.....the day that he is deemed to be well enough trained to be allowed to go drive around and enforce the law on his own. To patrol. To protect and serve.
The day that he is given this responsibility is a great day and usually has some strings attached. As in being told not to make traffic stops, just learn the streets...or if you do make a traffic stop, make it simple. No vehicle license or something.

  That day came for me in the fall of 2001. I'd hired in as a reserve police officer for the tiny town of Menifee, Arkansas (population 485) and, being single and without a life, had been spending every minute I wasn't at my full time job in uniform. The power was intoxicating. And I looked good in the uniform, too, at least in my mind. ( I would later use the whole uniform/badge/ hero thing to my advantage in persuading a beautiful young lady that I was, in fact, a hero and to marry me) Yes, life was good.  :hypocrite:

On the day in question, I'd came in to work with my Chief, a retired Airforce Master Sergeant. One of the first things he said to me when I got in the car was " I hope you don't mind smoke." Of course I did, but I wasn't about to tell him this. He then fired up one of the foulest smelling cigars in existance and laughed at me turning green. We rode around the tiny town a bit, then recieved a call. The town was having new vinyl stripes put on the cars to freshen them up and make them seem more offical, as they couldn't afford new cars.
  My trusting chief had me take him by the fire department, where the striper was working his magic on the chief's car. Deciding that he needed to oversee the job on his car, he turned to me and said " Go patrol. And don't get into anything!" Alright! This is what I had been waiting for!

I pulled responsibily away from the fire department. Beware malefactors....Roscoe's on patrol. Make my day, park in that handicapped spot. I'll have you towed so quick, your head will spin...Bwaaahhaaaa! Power was mine! I drove around the little town of approximately two miles square. With only one main road coming through the town, we focused our activities on speeders. Unfortunantly, I had yet to be trained on radar and therefore could only bark at the violators. Kinda like a toothless old hound. I drove around, with visions of violators in my head, daydreaming about stopping a pair of bank robbers and becoming a hero.

When suddenly- I spotted it. A white Chrysler pulling out of a side road. Did you just roll past that stop sign?!? And oh boy, NO LICENSE PLATES. A law I could enforce. Not on my watch, you criminal!  :nono: And thus began my first solo law enforcement action....

I hit the gas on the tired old Chevy Lumina patrol car. Now, you should really know a little more about this car. There are cars that are especially designed by their manufactures for police service, with bigger brakes, alternaters, and more horsepower. This car was not one of these. The police chief had, a couple years prior, hit a deer at speed in the department's also non police package Taurus. The deer and the Taurus passed from this world.The mayor had gone to the nearest city, drove around until he found a cheap white four door car on a used lot and bought it. Thus, the lumina.

Back to the stop- as I hit the gas, the squirrel under the hood squealed angrily, and I began to gain on the criminal. I activated my blue lights to make the stop, and the suspect vehicle turned into the parking lot of a saw mill. Considerate, I thought, trying to ensure neither of us would be hit by traffic.Maybe I'd only write him a ticket and not give him jail time.  :hypocrite:

Oh no, what is this clown doing?!? The vehicle drove around the parking lot aimlessly, with me behind him with my blue lights flashing. Did he not see them? Okay, I'll step it up. I hit the siren momentarily to make sure the driver knew I was there, and radioed in to dispatch a traffic stop.

The siren had the exact opposite effect from what I was looking for.  :o The suspect suddenly accelerated and tore out of the parking lot and onto the highway, with me in HOT PURSUIT! Uh....what was that about not getting into anything? Oh well. Evil must be stopped. I grabbed the radio mic, yelling excitedly that I had one running!
  Suddenly, I was King of the Airwaves. And the Road. I attempted to give directions, but just a block away from the beginning of my Great Pursuit, the car turned abruptly into a driveway- or tried to. The driver lost control and nailed a large corner fence post made of railroad crossties. That car was going nowhere again. I excitedly jabbered into the radio that the suspect had wrecked out, and bailed out of my car, feeling very much like a car chasing dog who had no clue what to do with what he'd caught.....

I rushed torwards the suspect vehicle, with my hand on my gun. The drivers' door opened- and the biggest black man I had ever saw began to emerge. I swear, he got out of that car for a week.  :o  At the time, I was 5'6" or 7" and maybe 190 lbs...this dude was 6'8" and 350 lbs. And none of it appeared to be fat. And he was obviously not pleased about the way his day was going. :mad:

Suddenly, neither was I. And this job ain't near as fun as it'd seemed a few short minutes ago. I began to yell at him to put his hands on the car and stay still, while listening for the calvary that was enroute to me. Thankfully he obeyed. And then I heard the voice of God- or at least it could've been- assuring everyone that he was on scene, and we had the situation under control. It was my chief, who had comandeered the city's water department truck and rushed to help me.  :laughhard:

"Eddie, what in the heck are you doing?" Chief addressed the giant, who now looked sheepish. " I don't know, chief. It's my girlfriends car and I aint got no insurance or license." Cheif had me hancuff the giant, who had to sit sideways in the back seat of the car to fit. A tow truck was called, and we went to jail, where the giant apologized to me.
As we were leaving, the chief looked at me and said "Don't get into anything?!?" Then he busted out laughing. "If you could've just saw your face. You looked like you thought he was going to use you for a Thanksgiving turkey."
Indeed, that thought had crossed my mind.

As a post script, I went back to work at my factory job that Monday. A huge black guy that looked much like my suspect rumbled over from an adjacent line. "You arrested my brother this weekend". Oh Lord, I'm dead- again. " He give you any problems?" I explained the matter. "He'll plead guilty and won't give you anymore problems. That was dumb on his part." And he did just that.
That's how my first solo traffic stop became my first pursuit and first arrest...what a way to start a career. :laughhard:

Thank you Lord for criminals who aren't criminals.   :cool:

   Police work has sometimes been described as hours of sheer boredom punctuated by moment of sheer terror. I must agree with that assessment, as I have experienced both. With the boredom, especially late night on third shift, when nothing is stirring but the police, an officer can plan out every crime ever committed, diagnoise where the criminal went wrong, and design a plan to commit the same crime and get away with it. Truely there is nothing more dangerous than a bored cop.  :smirk2:

   After all, the best cop is one that is just a couple of decisions away from being a crook.....because to catch them you have to somewhat think like them. I will never forget hearing a colleague discuss a study he had read while studying for his degree. The study revealed that cops and serial killers had many of the same traits and habits. As a civilian (non police), sometime the things we find funny you would find appalling. More than one officer has been discplined over a snide comment or wisecrack on the scene of a death. The average person thinks " That's cold hearted". We consider it a coping mechanism, because if we take everything seriously, the things we see would drive us insane within a year.

Another of our coping mechanisms is playing pranks on one another. Since I have several good pranks that we've pulled that were laugh worthy, but not story length, I thought I'd string a few together here for you to read and see the twistedness and the behind the scenes joking that keeps the thin blue line together and capable of going. Some of these involved me, some did not...

  1)  One that comes to mind was when our criminal investigator came to work one day with a coonskin hat. He'd bought it for his son, and it was a little different from the normal coonskin cap. This one was basically a complete coonskin, with the head and all. After showing it off to the members of the shift, he laid it on the counter, where it promply scared the bejabbers out of a dispatcher, who declared war upon all who laughed.  :o

Seeing her panic and hearing her scream caused the remaining police to realize that here was the opportunity to create pandomanium and laughter at someone else's expense. The first thought was to plant it near someone's car, but that seemed too tame. What if we could make it move?  :freaky2:

An officer who lived in the city and had a small son was sent home to raid the toybox. He returned with a foot long r/c car that would flat move......with just a little time, the coonskin hat was secured to the r/c car. It was a more than passible appearance of a coon, especially in the dark and with it moving.

The door that officers used to enter the police department was a bay door, into which an officer would pull his car to transport a prisioner inside. He would exit the car and walk up a ramp, into the station. When not in use the door was left open- indeed, in seven years of working there, I never saw the door closed. The "coon" was placed against the back wall in the darkness, waiting........ :P

Shortly, third shift came in. The sergeant on this shift was a veteran officer who loved jokes, loved shooting, and had an interesting trait for a cop. When excited, he sounded like Mickey Mouse on helium.  :o Wild, really, since he was as mean as a snake when the situation demanded it, could fight better than 90% of the men I ever met, and was quite the ladies' man. My dear friend, the aforementioned sergeant , also had the tendacy of arriving at the last minute and rushing in. Tonight was no different.

  As the unsuspecting Sergeant bailed out of his car to rush into the station, the cop with the remote who was hiding in the jail and looking out the door of the jail hit the "go" button. The "coon" rushed at the sergeant, who nearly had a stroke. For once, he seemed indecisive. He clawed for his gun, began screaming at the top of his voice, and climbed UP the handrailing. It sounded like a Disney convention in the bay...albeit an adult version. I now know what Mickey Mouse would sound like if he cussed every other breath.We were able to keep him from shooting the "coon" by making it disappear  under his car. :biglaugh:
He soon forgot about that target and began plotting revenge on the rest of us, who were laughing so hard we were crying. The coon was used numerous times, and became a part of police department legend.

   2) Some of the best pranks are those pulled on ourselves...we had a "swat" team in our town, comprised of city and county officers. While not as big and organized as a large city's, it was adequate. One evening, the decision was made to serve a search warrant on a local drug dealer. Due to the times the dealer kept, the decision was made to do the deed right at dusk for officer's safety. The raid went flawlessly- the door was breached, announcements were made, and the front room occupants secured and placed in cuffs on the couch.

  As the first two officers in the string watched them and cuffed them, the rest peeled off to search the rest of the home.  The last room entered was by a burly, loud cop who had boasted many times of being scared of nothing.
He rounded the corner with the lights off in the house- they'd cut the power off and were using the house as a flop house- with only his gun and a flashlight. Then came the screaming...."Drop the gun! Drop it now! Drop it or I will shoot you!" This, of course alarmed everyone in the house- the police, obviously, but also the occupants who knew no one else was there.  :o

Another officer, who had walked past that room while clearing another room and had determined that it was empty, got to the burly cop first. With the second flashlight, it became clear that there was, indeed, a threat. There WAS what appeared to be a man pointing a gun back at the officer....the officer scared of nothing had just scared himself slap into oblivion and nearly shot- a full length mirror, which had projected HIS image, gun and all, back to him. :laughhard:

Some of those mirrors can be downright deadly, especially if you're gaining weight and are in denial about it. 

Not that I would know, of course.  I'm still as sleek and svelte as ever.   :hypocrite:

Oh lands...I laughed at both of those...especially the part about you being 5' 6" or so.  You aint a lick over 4' 9".

:ugly:

Quote from: minnesota68 on December 16, 2012, 03:30:14 AM
Oh lands...I laughed at both of those...especially the part about you being 5' 6" or so.  You aint a lick over 4' 9".

:ugly:

:fire:

Oh my.  I needed that laugh tonight.  :-)  A bit late on catching up, but glad I found this.

 I haven't jotted any of these down in quite sometime, partially because the majority of the police stories I have are somewhat dark or not really fit to tell, and sometimes the humor doesn't come through...but I think I'll try one more, although it is not funny... just a window into police work.
It was a hot summer night- the type that everything you wear sticks to you, and there's not a dry thread. In addition, the 35 pound vest that we were required to wear kept the heat in, and made for uncomfortable policemen. And, if the policeman in question was me, uncomfortable meant ill tempered. And short tempered....
I'd been an officer for several years, and although I had not yet been promoted to sergeant, I was pretty confident of my abilities to read folks. Unfortunately, this was also the time period I have discussed earlier, a time period in which I was not really in church and was pretty much a heathen.  This night, my people reading abilities and my heathen-ness would both be displayed. :smirk2:
The night started normal, somewhat. Myself and my sergeant, a twenty plus year vet, and a small town on a weekday night. Normally, this would mean a couple of minor calls in which we would straighten other people's issues out, throw a silver bullet down, and call it done, then try to stay awake while doing property checks. I usually spent my time snooping for antique cars in people's yards and planning what I would do if I happened to win the lottery that I never played.
However, this was a rare night for me. I'd ran into an old high school friend a week or so before, and he'd asked what I was doing for a living. When I had told him, he asked if he could ride along sometime, as he had been laid off and was considering police work for a career. I'd cleared it with the boss, and my friend was riding with me. We were enjoying catching up on twenty years' memories when the call came in.
A domestic disturbance- in the section of town known as crack alley. Now, domestics are some of the most dangerous calls a cop can go on. You never know what is going on until you get there, and most often it is caused by 1)  something so silly you struggle to keep from laughing or 2) by drunk folks. Every once in a while it is a fight that is neither dangerous or funny, and the best thing to do is separate the parties for the evening.
This time, my sergeant beat me to it. An irate female, a seemingly calm but angry male, and some minor marks and scratches on both parties. The law indicated we COULD arrest both of them, due to the marks, but truthfully I really didn't want to do three hours of paperwork accompanying arrest. But- I looked at the guy, and something told me that this dude was worthy of an Oscar. In addition to resembling Will Smith- a lot- he was acting.
   He was being very polite and compliant- but my Spidey sense was telling me this dude would have eagerly beat everyone here in the ground if he thought he could get away with it.  On top of that, he'd obviously laid hands on the female. While she wasn't beat, she had received some force, and I can't stand a man that lays hands on a female. But before I could follow my gut feelings and place cuffs on him, my sergeant appeared and decreed that the man would be allowed to leave. In fact, Sarge told me that I should take the gentleman across town to his Auntie's place for the night. Sergeants being one step below God in the policing universe meant an instant compliance. We patted Dude down, placed him in the car and away we went....
All the way across town Dude talked and joked with me, but I couldn't shake the idea that something wasn't right. But I dropped him at auntie's and returned to patrol.
Within thirty minutes the call came- a 911 call, from the same residence. Actor Boy had returned, climbed through the window, and beat the female to the point of hospitalization. Once again, Sarge beat me there, and soon radioed that the suspect had left in his Auntie's car.
Almost instantly, I saw the vehicle in front of me. I radioed dispatch, lit it up and proceeded to come boiling out of my car. I was a whole new level of mad, and halfway sure this idiot was going to run or fight. I was also very much away from God, I am ashamed to admit.  :sadbounce:
I took the gentleman out at gunpoint, loudly proclaiming my profane thoughts of him, and his personage, and his family tree. Idiot decided that I was apparently not to be trifled with, and complied completely, much to my disappointment. I really wanted him to resist, and told him so. :mad:
I placed him in the car, and looked at my high school friend, who was sitting open mouthed.  See, he knew the me that was in church and never said anything improper. He knew me and my beliefs well, as he was a Pentecostal Holiness boy- believed much of the same as we did, except he counted to three when discussing the Godhead, and I did not. He had just heard things a Navy Chief would've been shocked by, coming from me, the boy who used to carry a Bible around in his pocket in school.  A twinge hit me, but I still had work to do.
I headed back to the stopped car. Auntie was sitting in the driver's seat. I took stock. License plate frame "Follow me to Bethel Baptist". Back seat- one bible. And playing on the radio- black gospel choir music. Oh lord. I KNEW what I'd just said, and NONE of it was what I wanted a church going lady to hear. Looking at the little grey haired black lady of 70-ish, I knew I was done. Not only was I feeling conviction over my dirty mouth, I knew I was fixing to deservedly receive a complaint for my filthy mouth.
" I am sorry ma'am. I should not have talked like that, especially not with you here. I was a little upset from the beating that your nephew apparently gave his girlfriend. I still should not have said the things I did." I was nearly groveling for forgiveness. The choir sang on, pouring salt in my wounds, and the gold cross dangling from the mirror reflected by blue lights, reminding me that I had just crucified the Savior again. Then the Auntie began to speak. I braced myself for this saintly lady to admonish me. But I heard: " Officer, don't apologize. I's mad at the ************* (bad,bad,bad words) myself! You shoulda beat his thug (bad words, bad words)  down." Then the sweet little foul mouthed Auntie told me to tell her nephew to never come back to her house- and drove off into the night.
Talk about conflicted- I still felt convicted and terrible for my actions, but apparently I didn't have to worry about the complaint. I believe Auntie would've beat him down if I hadn't been there. I may have saved his life.
Later, as I spoke with my friend, I realized just how far I had strayed. And weirdly, I had no idea how or when it had happened. Just a bad word here, a missed service there, and I was waaaay away from what I knew to be right.
My friend didn't think less of me he said, and promised to pray for me. He wound up coming to work with me, and was promoted eventually to a sergeant's spot himself after I left the department. I had warned him, with tears, not to come into police work, or if he did, to please stay closer to God than I had.
I won't judge him now. But I know from speaking with him recently, he's been through that same battle. He told me last week that he knew what I had been dealing with. All I could do was tell him that the job, while fun, isn't worth losing God for. Then- I looked into the eyes of my friend. I saw me from several years ago- the haunted emptiness, the hurt, the disillusionment- it was all there. Gripping his hand, I said- "Brother- I'm praying for you. I know what you are dealing with. I'm praying."
As I walked away, I thanked God for His delivering power- and I begged Him to move for my friend. And I still beg Him to move for my friend. Without my friend, and his shocked look that night, I might have continued down a dark path instead of being dealt with by God. Carry on brother....I can't back you up physically now- but I am spiritually.

I just saw this. Thanks for sharing.