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Parole Duty

A Short Story

By Shashi JosephPublished 6 years ago 6 min read
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Photo by Matt Popovich on Unsplash

The youth sat uncomfortably in the back of the police car. He reached down and stuck a finger under the band holding his tracking device to his ankle. It had not blown him up because his police escort, Officers Machowsky and Darell, had called in to say that he had been picked up for parole duty.

Parole duty, the only thing worse was being in prison with those criminals who would have done horrible things to him. This gig meant that he could stay at home and watch TV, maybe even run on a treadmill when he got really, really bored. He could eat normal food unlike whatever it was the prison cafeteria churned out. Plus he didn’t have to fear for his life every night. There weren’t a lot of things that could hurt him, but the few things that did frightened him.

Officer Machowsky caught a glimpse of the youth in his rear view mirror and his heart bled for the boy. He really wasn’t different from any other normal teenager, and he should know, he’s got kids around the same age. Sure what he did was wrong, but he really didn’t deserve to be locked up with those animals.

The officers were responding to a disturbance in at a local supermarket. A group of gangsters were creating a ruckus intimidating patrons and staff, taking items off the shelf without paying, messing up the store and even physically abusing the manager. The supermarket called for police assistance to help expel the unwanted guests.

When they finally reached their destination, the youth looked out and saw about ten burly gangsters outside with potato chip wrappers and beer cans strewn all over the floor around them. He noticed one of the gangsters standing next to an illegally parked motorcycle. He had heard of this gang, it seemed that even the police were scared of them. He saw the shopping center customers walking away quickly from the entrance not even making eye contact with the gang.

“Okay son,” said Officer Darell, “You know what to do right?”

The youth kept quiet.

“Everything alright son?” asked Officer Machowsky.

The youth looked back at him with big bright blue eyes staring through an auburn fringe, “I dunno, I mean this stuff got me locked up in the first place.”

Officer Machowsky looked at him and said, “Kiddo, I don’t blame you, you were just protecting your mom.”

“But they still locked me up,” said the youth, “People hate me because I’m different.”

The officers’ hearts bleed when they saw a tear run down his cheek.

“They don’t hate you, they’re scared of you,” said Officer Darell, “You’ve just gotta give them a reason not to.”

The youth looked at him quizzically. “How do I do that?” he asked

“Play by the book son,” said Officer Machowsky, “That’s what we’ve all done, when they see you do that, they will be less scared of you.”

The youth looked back at the gangsters outside; they were only doing what they were doing because no one had the guts to stop them. The youth felt a familiar rage come alight in his body, he hated bullies.

“If I go in there, it’ll get rough,” said the youth, “I don’t want to give Prosecutor Jensen another reason to lock me up. I can’t put my mom through that again.”

Officer Machowsky snorted. “Jensen’s a kiss-ass sucking up his way to the top. Don’t worry about him, we’ll back you up. He can’t do anything if you’re maintaining public safety.”

The youth kept quiet, Officer Darell spoke up and said, “Whatever happens kiddo, we got your back. So go out there and make us proud.”

The youth felt warm inside maybe it was because he didn’t have a father figure in his life that made the two officers endearing to him. He rubbed the tears off his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve and walked out of the vehicle confidently towards the gangsters.

The gangsters chuckled when they saw the youth. He was tall but he looked scrawny in his oversized police jacket that covered a bullet proof-vest.

The youth remembered Officer Machowsky’s words and started to play by the book. “I am a representative of the law,” said the youth, “You have been reported for making a disturbance, and you have illegally parked.” He gestured to the gangster who nearest to the offending bike. The gangsters chuckled again.

“I would like you please to move your vehicle and to cease your activities,” finished the youth. After a moment of silence one of the gangsters spat at the youth’s face and the rest erupted in laughter.

The youth wasn’t surprised, heck he felt like spitting on his own face for sounding like an ass but a lot of good people including Officers Darell and Machowsky fought to get him here, the least he could do is play by the book as they had asked.

“I am going to repeat myself,” he said confidently, “Move your vehicle, cease your activities and do not spit at me again.”

He was answered with another spit from the same gangster as the rest once again roared with laughter.

The youth walked up to the gangster that spat at him, fists balled so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “Go ahead, spit at me one more time,” he said quietly through gritted teeth. Sure enough he spat at the youth once more.

The youth decided that he had enough; he grabbed the illegally parked motorcycle and lifted it clear of the ground like it was made of Styrofoam. He flung the motorcycle across the carpark and it was destroyed upon impact. But no other property was damaged in the process.

As he turned around saw the gangsters charging at him, but his superhuman speed and reflexes made it look like someone had hit the slow-motion button on everything except him.

In a dazzling flurry of moves, he dislocated joints, cracked ribs and broke bones, anything that neutralised his opponents but nothing that a hospital couldn’t fix. But he had something special for the mongrel that spat at him. The youth walked up to the spitter with clenched his fists and hammered both sides of the spitter’s lower jaw and in the slow-motion it rippled like water.

When he was done, the slow-motion deactivated and his assailants dropped to the floor writhing in agony. Although he was in the most pain, the spitter could only produce muffled screams. His entire lower jaw had fractured into six pieces, it would take an entire team of emergency doctors and nurses to salvage what they could but he would have difficulty doing simple things like eating and speaking and would have to consume mostly liquid sustenance for the rest of his life. He will never spit at anyone again.

Officers Darell and Machowsky laughed inside their patrol car. This particular gang had vexed the police for a long time, now that was about to change.

“Man I love having a Super Hero on parole duty,” said Officer Machowsky

“Yeah,” replied Officer Darell, high-fiving his colleague

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