Bob Grimes’ wounds were gradually healing. He pulled through the night, despite plaguing headaches. He suffered minor bruises and that mystified doctors…considering that his recklessness has endangered the lives of two men.
Harry and Jonathan were comatose and showed no change.
Yet Bob was walking to the hospital bathroom, using it on his own as if he was never intoxicated.
He didn’t have a broken rib, a concussion or a fractured vertebrae.
How was that possible?
Tiredly, Bob sat up in a medical gown, cleansed. He slept for hours. He hasn’t slept that peacefully in years. He didn’t remember drinking or the accident.
He didn’t remember anything at all.
He didn’t even know that the media made him out to be a monster.
Cool air blew across the nape of his neck, but he wasn’t bothered. He loved cold air. He hated the heat. Summertime was the worst. He loved the winter.
It took a moment to realize there were two no-nonsense Caucasian cops, both undercover racists, standing at the foot of his hospital bed with grim expressions.
“Mr. Bob Grimes, welcome back to earth,” said Officer Huckleberry, a wise guy with a wicked grin and a smart ass mouth.
It took Bob a minute to find his voice. Once he did, he said, “Didn’t know I left earth, and who are you and what the hell do you both want?”
Officer Huckleberry said, “Do you now the world of crap you’re in, dude? Or are all your kind slower than turtle shit?”
“Who are you talking to? Don’t you have to uphold the law? Oh, I get it. Are you both here to shoot me in the head, blame it on me being non-compliant, even though I am defenseless in a hospital gown, so you can sit on your lazy asses and collect paid administrative leave for gunning down another unarmed nigger in the street? Is that it?”
“You have a smart little mouth, ey Darth Vader?” asked Huckleberry.
“Don’t think for one second that I don’t know that Obama signed martial law and Trump’s slow ass will initiate it into action. Are you here to become infamous? Do you think I’m going to play your little racial chess game?”
Bob’s words not only angered Officer Huckleberry, he hit a nerve. A major one. “Let me explain one thing to you, boi!”
Bob was defiantly rebellious. “Boi? Who the hell are you undercover prostitutes calling a boi? I don’t even know who you are or why you’re harassing me. I don’t know why I’m in the hospital. Everything is black.”
“You’re under arrest for the attempted murder of Harry and Jonathan.”
In flashes the accident came back to him with the force of a Tech 9, taking his breath away. And then the memory faded in an instant.
“You jumping at us, boi?” Officer Hicks asked, slowly approaching Bob, drawing his gun. He was unnaturally nervous.
Huckleberry grabbed Hicks’ upper arm in firm protest.
“You’re breaking policy,” Huckleberry warned. “He lost his breath for a second. That’s all. Put the gun away, now, Hicks!”
“I should do you in!” Hicks warned, aiming the weapon at his partner’s head. “Are you trying to save that drunk monkey? That waste of color ape flinched at us. Lost his breath my ass. I think that’s called resisting arrest. Not to mention all the shit he was talking to uniformed officers. I could kill him and use my white privilege, in the same fashion they use the race card for everything, even if it is the goddamned truth.”
Quietly, Huckleberry obliged, drawing his weapon as well, aiming at Bob’s head.
Bob was both taken by surprise and deeply confused. He lost his memory completely. He didn’t know his hands from his feet.
Why were guns drawn on him?
“Slowly, get on your knees with your hands in the air,” said Hicks.
Bob ignored them, staring off into the distance like his life wasn’t in jeopardy. He felt a cold chill crawl his spine.
“Are you ignoring us, dipshit?” asked Huckleberry, biting his bottom lip until the taste of blood energized him.
Bob was still unresponsive.
Hicks grunted. “Oh, the nigger can’t speak now. Cat has his tongue. It’s all good. Ain’t that how you coons talk? Ain’t? It’s all good? Is ‘ain’t’ even a fucking word?”
Huckleberry said, “Mentally challenged freak!”
Brutally, Hicks hit Bob across the head with his gun and Bob went into convulsions, scaring them half to death. Bob’s body was spasmodic. He fell on the tiled floor, his head hitting the wheel of the IV drip pole.
Huckleberry glared at Hicks.
“You done messed up now, dumb ass. You just had to be G.I. Joe, didn’t you? Show off! What have you done?”
Alarms were screeching, bright red lights flashing.
A couple nurses and doctor’s aide thundered into the room, trying to hold him down and restrain him, but he was six feet seven inches of muscle, he had the strength of an ox.
Huckleberry and Hicks used their white privilege and weren’t suspected of any wrong doing. They silently slipped out of the room.
A tall male nurse injected a drug into Bob’s arm that put him down instantly.
Drowsy, the last thing that Bob remembered was a strange looking woman with a cell phone in her hands…
And then all was peaceful in his world of drug induced blackness…