Actual conversation:
Butter: "So dispatch sent Hicks to get the sweater."
Hervey: "Hicks?'
Butter: "Yeah, it was Hicks."
Brainy: "Man, I am sorry, Hicks is bat-shit crazy."
Butter: "Man, this is going to get bad."
Hervey: "No worries, I got this handled."
We look at Hervey as we drink the coffee.
Hicks arrives. He is the quintessential gungho cop. He lives for copping.
In he struts, full on cop swagger. One hand on his pistol grip, the other on the radio clipped to his shirt. Mustache, sunglasses up above his eyes, hat peaked back to show his salt and pepper brown hair, lanky body pounding out the beat in his too shiny clackity clacking cop boots.
"Dispatch, this is Hicks. I'm at the ML to pick up the evidence."
"Roger that."
Hicks waits. He does a pretty good Jim Carrey badass cop schtick- I mean if he knew who Jim Carrey was, of course. He leans his head to look at his radio and waits.
Nothing happens.
"Amateurs!" he loudly whispers.
He looks around, adjusts his glasses, looks at us sitting at our station, coffee in hand, makes a face then stomps up.
"You penguins are a disgrace to the force," he snarls cocking out a hip.
"Look at that Hick's blew us a cherry," I say.
"I did no goddamn thing!"
"Geez Mike, I said I'd handle it," Hervey says.
"Where the hell is the Ev-id-ence?" Hicks demands.
"Right here sir," Hervey says, snaps to attention and then hands over the garbage bag.
"That's more like it," Hicks says taking the bag. "This ain't a regulation evidence packet."
"No sir," Hervey says and pops a perfect salute,
Hicks opens the bag and sticks his head down to peer in it.
Hicks then drops the bag, looks around desperately and runs for the Public bathroom.
Time passes.
We wait.
Hervey ties up the Garbage bag.
Time passes.
We get more coffee.
Hicks saunters out, glares at each one of us. picks up the bag, turns to go then stops.
"If I hear one word about this to anyone outside this shithole then I am going to take your number down, you hear me you fuckups?"
"My number is 13," I say.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He growls.
"I like thirteen."
"Well smartass, I got my eye on you."
Then Hicks sticks the bag out as far from his body as possible and marches out of the library quickly.
We hear his siren shortly thereafter.
"Man, that dude is Bat-shit crazy." Butter says.
Hervey loses it.
Butter: "So dispatch sent Hicks to get the sweater."
Hervey: "Hicks?'
Butter: "Yeah, it was Hicks."
Brainy: "Man, I am sorry, Hicks is bat-shit crazy."
Butter: "Man, this is going to get bad."
Hervey: "No worries, I got this handled."
We look at Hervey as we drink the coffee.
Hicks arrives. He is the quintessential gungho cop. He lives for copping.
In he struts, full on cop swagger. One hand on his pistol grip, the other on the radio clipped to his shirt. Mustache, sunglasses up above his eyes, hat peaked back to show his salt and pepper brown hair, lanky body pounding out the beat in his too shiny clackity clacking cop boots.
"Dispatch, this is Hicks. I'm at the ML to pick up the evidence."
"Roger that."
Hicks waits. He does a pretty good Jim Carrey badass cop schtick- I mean if he knew who Jim Carrey was, of course. He leans his head to look at his radio and waits.
Nothing happens.
"Amateurs!" he loudly whispers.
He looks around, adjusts his glasses, looks at us sitting at our station, coffee in hand, makes a face then stomps up.
"You penguins are a disgrace to the force," he snarls cocking out a hip.
"Look at that Hick's blew us a cherry," I say.
"I did no goddamn thing!"
"Geez Mike, I said I'd handle it," Hervey says.
"Where the hell is the Ev-id-ence?" Hicks demands.
"Right here sir," Hervey says, snaps to attention and then hands over the garbage bag.
"That's more like it," Hicks says taking the bag. "This ain't a regulation evidence packet."
"No sir," Hervey says and pops a perfect salute,
Hicks opens the bag and sticks his head down to peer in it.
Hicks then drops the bag, looks around desperately and runs for the Public bathroom.
Time passes.
We wait.
Hervey ties up the Garbage bag.
Time passes.
We get more coffee.
Hicks saunters out, glares at each one of us. picks up the bag, turns to go then stops.
"If I hear one word about this to anyone outside this shithole then I am going to take your number down, you hear me you fuckups?"
"My number is 13," I say.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He growls.
"I like thirteen."
"Well smartass, I got my eye on you."
Then Hicks sticks the bag out as far from his body as possible and marches out of the library quickly.
We hear his siren shortly thereafter.
"Man, that dude is Bat-shit crazy." Butter says.
Hervey loses it.
