Page 78 of Dick

TWENTY-THREE

Jess

I wasn’t hurt at all, but tried to act like I was half-dead. Two men from the carriage hopped out and ran toward me.

“Don’t fucking move,” one of the cops yelled.

I wasn’t going anywhere. I was too drunk, and kind of sore. “I’m not,” I murmured.

“I said don’t fucking move,” he yelled again.

Apparently, he was talking to the fifty-year-old dude with the red hair who was walking over to see if I was hurt.

“I’ll shoot your dumb ass where you stand, Motherfucker.”

I looked toward the cop.

Oh. My. God.

His lip was covered in an award-winning porno ‘stache. I almost barfed.

I glanced toward the two men from the carriage.

“Lower your fahkin’ weapon,” the red-haired man said. “Ian Earling, I’m an ambassador...”

“Keep your hands where I can see them.” The cop interrupted.

“Fahk off,” his partner shouted. “I’ll have yahr fahkin’ job.”

“Ambassador?” the cop asked. “Did you say you’re an ambassador?”

“You’re fahking right. Republic of Ireland.”

“You have papers?”

“You’ll see ‘em when I see yer badge.”

I glanced at the mustache toting cop. Another cop was standing to the side, hiding behind the cover of the car with his gun drawn as well.

Holy shit.

Badges and diplomatic immunity paperwork were exchanged. Apologies were given, and weren’t necessarily accepted. I wondered if I could leave. No one seemed to be paying attention to me. I pressed my palms into the wet street, raised myself from the ground, and attempted to stand.

The cop at the car yelled for me to get on the ground.

“You, in the dress, don’t fucking move!”

Jesus.

My knees ached. Other than that I was a little wet, but unharmed. I stood as still as I could.

“Get on the ground.”

“I just got up.”

“Get on the fucking ground,” he barked.

I pressed my hands to my hips. “Are you fucking kidding me?”