Rogue Cop

I looked over at the bloody body lying in front of me, face up, eyes open. Obviously dead. Why did he have to do it? Why did he have to demand sex from me? Do I invite that sort of thing?

I had seen the officer as he parked his squad car in front of my house. He came to my front door, ostensibly to ask some questions concerning a reputed drug dealer in the neighborhood. How was I supposed to know about any dope pusher? I don't do drugs. Never have. I don't even drink. He asked to come inside to "have a look around". I knew he didn't have a warrant, but him being a police officer, and me having nothing to hide, I let him in. I asked if he'd like some coffee. He responded that he would, and as I turned to go to the kitchen, I felt his hand on my behind. I wheeled to face him, and I found myself looking into the barrel of an awfully big gun. I would have said a silent prayer at that moment, but I never was big on prayer. Christ, I was frightened.

He quietly but forcefully told me do get down on my knees. For a brief moment, I thought he was going to kill me, plain and simple. I looked up into his face, and I seemed to sense a blind rage. As I was looking into his eyes, which appeared to be a steely grey, I heard the unmistakable sound of the teeth of a zipper being released. It seemed deafening at the time. I saw him looking down at me with malicious intent, with a cruel half-smile on his face. I saw him retrieve his partially-erect member from his navy-blue uniform trousers, and after he holstered his gun, he put his hands in my hair, drawing my face toward him. I had no choice but to open my mouth. It was that or die. I opened my mouth, and I looked to see the intimation of a smile on his face before I closed mine.

'That prick', I thought, as I conceived of a plan. I had to do it quickly, or I'd wind up dead. I looked up into his eyes, and they were tightly shut as he thrust into my mouth. I made up my mind. I bit down. Hard. At the same time I grabbed his gun as he howled in tortured agony. Blood rushed from his severed member, and I decided to let him suffer from his indescribable pain for a few moments before I fired two shots at close range into his head. His big head. Then I spit the little one out. It landed on the hardwood floor with an almost imperceptible 'thwack'.

As I stood over the body, I was tempted to kick it in the head. Hard. But I didn't. Instead, I calmly called 911. I wasn't worried. I had it all on tape. I don't trust those fuckers.