Words for My Enjoyment

Paul & Order

September 10th, 2005

The other potential titles for this entry included (but were not limited to): N.Y.P.auly.D., L.A.P.auly.D., and P.D. Hooker.

The funny play-on-words and the awesome photoshopping abilities are nothing compared to a hit and run accident, a chase through the city streets of Los Angeles, the escape of an oblivious suspect out of her mind on Meth, and the chase on foot that followed… They are nothing compared to the savior that lives inside of yours truly.

Hero, for a day.

It was like every other morning for the Pauly D — the stench of a new day snuck in through my nostrils as I walked out into the light for the first time in what seemed like weeks. I had things to do and people to see and my friends bicep #1 and calf #2 were lookin’ for some action. Oh, I could show them action. Action in the form of a room filled with mechanized health machines looking to give every inch of my body the beating it had hungered for.

I got into my black chariot and slid down into the leather seats, putting the key into the ignition and speeding off into the burgeoning day — I had a feeling about the day in question… Things were going to be good. Good, as in, relaxing. Good, as in, finally having some time to myself. Good, as in, good. But little did I know, mere seconds away I would find myself embroiled in an act so horrifying that it would shock me into the kind of action I only liked to be a part of when I was armed. Fully armed.

I pulled up to the corner at the end of the block, lighting my cigarette as the crash snapped me out of my morning complacency. Right there, mere feet away — a VW bug had slammed into the car in front of her. Smashing the whole front of her car, popping the two front tires — the car went up and over the front right of the truck, smashing it good (oh so good) and scratching the mini-van beside her. It was the kind of crash you hear in the movies… The kind of crash you expect was crafted on a soundstage…

But this crash was real.

For a moment, time stood still. The shock wafting across all three parties involved (including me). The woman driving the VW looked up — her nose was blood red… She wiped it, casually, as the two others lept from their cars with curiosity and shock. It was the moment that most suspects realize their day is done… That the end of the story was already written. But not this dame. Not the dame in the green VW bug. For her…this was just the beginning.

She was quick to flip a U, speeding away from the crime. The two she had hit, quickly got in their cars and followed. And what was a man like PD supposed to do? Work on his abs or make sure that the wrong-doer would see the inside of a jail cell?

I hit the gas, speeding after the three car monty.

Down streets, around corners — we whipped past onlookers as the three cars pursued the criminal on the run. I threw my cigarette out the window, concentrating on the road ahead as I picked up my phone and tapped into my friends at the 911. The license plate, the color, the make and model — she was on the run, but with me in pursuit she wasn’t going to get too far.

Nevertheless, the woman continued to flee. Around the back of the huge Sherman Oaks Galleria and up to Ventura Boulevard… she swerved and tried to escape the caravan of pursuers behind her. Down a street into a suburban neighborhood — her trip was cut short thanks to the quick thinking of the two drivers she’d hit.

The first car swerved in front of her, blocking any escape while the second car pulled behind her. The dame was blocked in. No escape. No dice. As I pulled closer, the two men got out of their cars, taking pictures and asking for more information. But this woman was out of it — on something it seemed, confused and oblivious and…looking for a way out.

She hit the gas, hitting the car in front of her. She backed up, smashing into the car behind her. People jumped back as this woman on the run pushed her way out of the trap and sped away down the street. Everyone stood there, wondering what to do…

Not me.

The pedal to the metal, I followed close behind — waving to those on the side of the road that everything was under control. The green VW sped away, reaching speeds so high for a residential area that it made my head spin. But I had learned the techniques from all my research (TV). I stayed back, allowing a sense of security to set in and around the fleeing suspect. I followed, still on the phone to my friends at 911 - who urged me to stop. “The police are on their way,” they said. “Don’t follow her anymore.”

It was too exciting to stop. The adrenaline pumping, I pressed on.

Up ahead, the woman stopped — crooked her head, spotting me in the rear. She panicked, unsure of what to do, as she had not fully escaped yet. A turn here, a U-ey there — before long she pulled her flat-tired, totally thrashed car to the side of the road where she looked around, got out, and abanonded the vehicle — walking down the street alone.

I crept up slowly - cautiously. Watching as she crossed the street and disappeared behind a house. And just like that, she was gone.

My buddies from the LAPD were there in minutes.

I showed them where’d she gone, I directed them to the car in question. I led them through, step by step, the entire process. It seemed after my license plate info to the guys at 911, they had pinpointed her home. It was right there, next door to the house she had disappeared behind. It seemed, like I had always expected (TV, again) — criminals always run home.

Within minutes there were ambulances and over 5 cop cars there on the scene, along with a fire engine. The suspect, who had broken into her neighbors’ garage to hide, was now in custody. And she was completely out of her mind. Meth, maybe. I’d seen this thing before. A fourty-four year old woman who looked like she was ninety.

Hours later, the drama was over — she had been carted away in an ambulance, her car towed away on a flatbed. I did my duty, offering up the story to my buddies at the force, and ensured them that if a case came out of the morning’s events, that I would be there to assist in the matter. Yes, the gym and my 750 calorie workout would have to wait.

But justice? Nay…justice had been served.

[Author's Note: I don't smoke, carry weapons or speak this way in person unless I'm wearing my black trench coat. And yes...this really happened.]

Posted under Cars, Crime, Los Angeles, Me. |