All Cops are Bastards

“The sovereign is he who subscribes to premium.” – Carl Schmitt

You shouldn’t, generally speaking, try to reconnect with your exes. And you especially shouldn’t do it while you’re both trussed up with zip ties in the back of a patrol car. Am I a pathetic coward for hooking up with the girl who broke my heart, or am I chad for parlaying an awkward encounter into con-air style road head? This is a question that science can’t answer; it belongs more properly to the domain of metaphysics. Nobody pays me to untangle philosophical riddles—in fact, nobody pays anyone to do that kind of thing anymore. It’s 2030. A man does what he must, and disregards the rest.

If you’re still reading, you probably want to know how I got here, and how come my ex-girlfriend’s lips ended up around the tip of my cock while both of us were on our way down to central booking to be processed like a couple of criminals. I can give you the blow-by-blow, if you will, but what I cannot do is give you the why. The whole country gave up on solving the double-you aitch why question, probably as a collective psychological cope, about ten years ago. What I can do is provide a list of the relevant causal circumstances in chronological sequence. If you want to ascribe a big picture meaning at the end, well, woe is you.

It all started when everyone downloaded the software upgrade that let us beat the virus. Suddenly, nobody had to be locked inside anymore and that meant one thing: big cathartic Dionysian blowout. A Chinese firm had cracked the code first, which was pure coincidence. But once they figured out the electromagnetic frequency and amplitude required to disrupt viral reproduction, they sold the proprietary data to every major mobile phone company on planet earth, and within twenty-four hours we had COVID-29 kicked and we were back out on the streets.

And boy were we ever back out on the streets. Americans love to drink and fight—that’s all we’ve ever had, really—and six months of lockdown doesn’t allow nearly enough recreation. Personally, I was determined to profit from the situation, which is why instead of going straight to the liquor store like all of my neighbors, I applied for a job with Kopr. I have pretty good social credit, so I could be any type of independent contractor I wanted. But in the bloody summer after COVID-29, the Kopr business was booming.

So I’m cruising around the suburbs one afternoon when a routine notification comes in through the app interface: disorderly conduct, assault, and battery at a local bar. The address is 2371 Utah Avenue, which is Clancy’s Irish Pub, a cesspit of petty crime and a goldmine for Kopr drivers in this economy. Glancing at my screen, I can see that the pub’s shift manager called it in. He also filled out the “special instructions” field, so I receive the additional message that “DRUNK ASSHOLE BLUDGINNED ONE OF R CUSTOMERS WITH A Q-BALL.”

I decide it’s best to go in with my sidearm drawn. Using two-factor authentication to disengage the safety on my Ruger, I burst through the front doors hard, like Serpico. I’m screaming for everyone to get down on the motherfucking floor, I’ve got two hands on the grip, my eyes are narrowed and I’m cool as hell. It’s panty dropping time.

The assailant slouches in the back corner near the pool tables, making no effort to flee or conceal himself. In fact, he is still clutching the cue ball. The ball is stained red with blood, and there is blood running halfway up his forearm. He is upright with his back against the wall, so I seize him across the shoulder and throw him belly-down on the floor. His bones make a satisfying smack against the hardwood. The cue ball rolls out of his palm when he hits, and I straddle him and cuff his hands in one smooth motion.

The victim is laying nearby in a pool of his own fluid.

“Where the fuck are the medics,” I shout. I know some basic CPR, but the Kopr Independent Contractor Agreement clearly delineates party liability in first aid situations.

“Hey!” comes a muffled reply from behind the bar. “We’ve all been trying to call a Resuscitatr, but the app just released a software update and it’s taking forever to download.”

“Great,” I say.

I try to read the assailant his rights.

“According to the Terms of Service Agreement Version 12.1.7 at subsection C, your life matters,” I say.

But that’s as far as I get. The front door bangs open again, and in charges another Kopr patrolman with his handgun drawn. I still have my knee on the assailant’s spine, so I look at the other guy with a slightly confused expression and begin to explain.

“I got this handled man,” I tell him.

“The hell you do,” he says, pointing his pistol at me. “Get on the motherfucking floor,” he tells me, and I can see his trigger finger slipping under the guard.

“Okay, okay,” I say. He has the drop on me, so I have no choice. I climb down onto the grimy surface. “But you got it all wrong. I’ve got the perp halfway booked already. He clubbed the victim with a cue ball. It’s open and shut, man.”

“The perp?” he says. “No. That’s my client you’re attacking. You’re under arrest for assault and battery.”

“What!” I shout. “The blood-stained cue ball was in his blood-stained hand when I showed up!”

“Keep talking and I’ll add ‘slander’ to the list of charges,” says the second patrolman. Then he kicks my Ruger aside, mounts me, and zip ties my hands behind my back.

“I don’t understand,” I say.

“Tough luck,” says the second patrolman. “Whoever called you here used the free version of Kopr with in-app purchases. My client subscribes to Kopr Plus. If you check the Terms of Service, you’ll note that Kopr Plus users have priority arrest privileges.” He frees the assailant, who then thanks the second patrolman, gives me a firm kick in the ribs, and staggers out of Clancy’s unscathed.

“This is bullshit,” I cough.

“According to the Terms of Service Agreement Version 12.1.7 at subsection C, your life matters,” the second patrolman says, grinding his knee between my shoulders and shouting directly into my ear. “Kopr is a subsidiary of Amazon.com, Inc. Anything you say can be used to tailor your ad experience during your stay in custody. You have the right to a Lawyr. If you cannot afford Lawyr Premium, your arbitration proceedings may be periodically interrupted by ninety second advertisements.”

The second patrolman dumps me into the back bench of his car, which smells pleasantly minty and already contains my ex-girlfriend. It’s been three years since I’ve seen her, and she still looks great. We stare at each other then start laughing. Her breath smells like tequila and her hair is a mess. The patrolman slams the door shut behind me and marches back toward Clancy’s to finish filing his report with the help of the manager. I’m hoping the manager will put in a good word for me, especially since he was too cheap to subscribe to Premium and it’s basically his fault I’m getting booked and brought down to the warehouse for no good reason.

“What did you do?” she asks me.

“Just my job,” I say. “What did you do?”

“Drunk in public, natch,” she says. “This guy is a real hard-ass.” She rolls her eyes toward Clancy’s.

“How have you been?” I ask. “God it feels like forever,” I add, in spite of myself. It feels like the first time in sixth months that I’ve had an interaction unmediated by written terms and conditions; the sensation tingles pleasantly.

“I know,” she says, smiling. “And good. I’ve been good. I’m a paralegal now, finally got out of bartending. We’ll see how long that lasts. What about you? You’re a Kopr now?”

“Well yeah,” I say a little sheepishly. “The world went completely crazy, so I thought the best way to get ahead was in private security. Just now I’m beginning to think maybe I made the wrong decision. I’m not like, a business guy, you know? Or honestly much of a cop, it turns out, I guess.”

“More of a lover than a fighter,” she says, wiggling closer to me with that insane look in her eye.

“Yeah,” I say, eternally unable to think of appropriate one-liners.

We kiss. It’s not romantic; it’s a sloppy, thirsty attack with lots of tongue.

“Hey, look,” I say, pulling myself away after a moment. “These zip ties are pieces of shit. You can break out of them if you know what you’re doing.”

I lean forward and lift my wrists, slamming them hard against my tailbone. They bounce off painfully, with the zip ties still intact. She laughs at me.

The third attempt is a success however, and I quickly pull the hidden switchblade out of my boot and cut her free as well. I can tell she’s impressed, and we use our newfound freedom to fondle each other for old time’s sake. By now the patrolman is returning to the car, so we pin our arms behind ourselves and lean back in our seats, silent and obedient behind the plexiglass partition as he heaves himself into the driver’s seat and starts the engine.

As we roll along the highway, she leans down into my lap and draws my cock out of my fly.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

She nods slightly. “I have Lawyr Premium Max Plus,” she says. “Best decision of my life.”